‘That’s not what I mean.’ He is actually blushing.
She takes a sip of coffee and regards him with new interest.
‘I called her because I suddenly realised, if her family and the Amats exchanged houses, she must know the address of her family’s previous home – where at least one of the Amats might still be living.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know why I did not think of that at her house yesterday afternoon.’ Ruben shakes his head.
‘You were probably just looking for an excuse to see her again,’ she persists.
‘No, it is not …’ He breaks off mid-sentence, takes a mouthful of rice, chews calmly while she waits. Deliberately slowly. To punish her, of course, for her impertinent teasing. ‘She said she will give me the address if I come for dinner. And she will do her best to help me find the people in that house.’
‘And?’
‘She cooked delicious food.’ His dark eyes are twinkling and she wonders if she is now the one being teased. His plate is almost empty, but it is evident that he is not yet done with this breakfast. He takes a bite of the slice of bread with cheese on his side plate and washes it down with coffee. ‘And she did not give me just the address; she called an old friend that lives in the same neighbourhood, and this woman told her that Ramira Amat’s youngest daughter still lives there. Clara Duarte Amat.’
‘Clara,’ Theresa says. ‘Like her grandmother.’
Ruben raises his eyebrows, surprised that she remembers the grandmother’s name.
But she took pictures of the family’s gravestones, and, last night, when she couldn’t sleep, she lay staring at the pictures on her cellphone screen.
Somewhat despondently, because she was starting to fear that Mercedes Perez Amat’s trail would end right there in the graveyard in Cienfuegos.
‘She is apparently a nursery school teacher, at home in the afternoon usually, so we can visit this afternoon.’
‘This afternoon?’ It’s an exclamation rather than a question, a startled sound that rises above the clatter of cutlery and the chatter at the other tables.
‘Yes, she lives in Trinidad. It is close enough that we can spend the day there and come back here to sleep tonight.’
‘What would I have done without you, Ruben?’
‘You should thank actually Benita.’ Now his eyes are definitely full of mischief. ‘What would we have done without her?’
‘Well. I suspect you have already thanked her in an appropriate manner,’ she says with a suppressed grin. ‘And if we get any new information today, then you can thank her again tonight?’
It’s a pity that big white smile in his grey-flecked beard is so rare, because it makes him look so much younger and lighter and happier.
Trinidad should be on the itinerary of any visitor to this country anyway, Ruben informed her on the way there. She wasn’t just ‘any visitor’, she wanted to remind him, but the refrain was starting to sound a bit hollow even to her own ears, so she just nodded and asked more questions. The town was founded by Velázquez in the early sixteenth century, Ruben said behind the wheel of the Plymouth, and was today considered a treasure of colonial architecture and protected by Unesco.
And now that she is finally standing on the Plaza Mayor, she can see why. Wide, light-toned cobblestone streets lined with buildings painted in pastel shades, light blue and spring green, duckling yellow and cherry-blossom pink, some with window frames and doors in unexpectedly contrasting colours. Bright yellow shutters against a fading pink wall. The overall impression is of a cheerfully decorated infant nursery or a toddler’s birthday party.
Theresa knows all about toddler parties. She had to attend her nieces’ and nephews’ birthday parties for years – the childless aunt among all the fertile mommies – and although she usually arrived grudgingly, she invariably allowed herself to be carried away by the exuberance. That is exactly how Trinidad is making her feel, inclined to behave like all the other tourists. She even takes out her cellphone to take a few pictures while she and Ruben stroll past the colourful market stalls on the streets.
He has assured her that they have plenty of time to play tourist; they can only see Clara Duarte Amat after three o’clock this afternoon anyway. Benita had called Ruben while they were still on the way to Trinidad and proudly announced that her friend had gone to knock on Clara’s door before work this morning. Just to make sure that Clara would be home this afternoon. Ruben had thanked her heartily, his deep voice warmer than usual.
‘She’s not giving up the chase, is she?’ Theresa observed, amused.
He shrugged, his eyes still on the road. ‘A man has to do what a man has to do, right?’ But a few moments later he looked at her with concern. ‘And if this Clara cannot help us any more?’
‘I don’t know, Ruben. Then I guess we’ll have to go back to Havana tomorrow. Perhaps I can still find out something more there …’
But she knew she was trying to fool herself. If Clara couldn’t provide any new clues today, then the trail of the Cuban soldier’s daughter indeed would have reached a dead end.
‘When do you fly back?’
‘Five days from now.’
‘Do not lose hope,’ Ruben said, with a comforting squeeze of her hand. ‘Anything can happen in five days.’
She looked down, surprised at the enormous hand dwarfing hers. She didn’t know whether he’d registered her surprise, but the next instant both his bands were back on the steering wheel.
‘I hope you’re right,’ she said, unconvinced.
Ruben leads her to a bar where tourists can taste different kinds of rum while a local band plays traditional music. At the entrance she hesitates and shakes her head, uncertain. The mood inside is festive and the twilit room is temptingly cool in contrast to the bright sunlight reflecting off the white cobblestones outside. She knows his intention is to make her forget about the undelivered letter in her handbag for a while, about the search that may lead nowhere, but she hesitates all the same.
‘What about you?’ she asks. ‘You don’t drink rum?’
‘I have drunk more than enough rum in my lifetime.’ He sounds almost nostalgic. ‘I know what it tastes like.’
‘But don’t you find it … frustrating to sit and watch a bunch of people get drunk around you?’
‘I work part-time in a bar,’ he reminds her with a wry smile.
‘Exactly. Here you don’t have to.’
‘I want to do it, Theresa.’
He places a hand on her back to nudge her forwards, until she steps over the threshold, laughing. ‘I love the way you say my name.’
He frowns under the brim of the panama hat, embarrassed. ‘Sorry, I know my English pronunciation is not great—’
‘No, I was saying that I like it! Besides, I can barely say three sentences in Spanish, so I am completely at the mercy of your English – which I must say is improving every day.’
‘What can you say in Spanish?’ he asks as they push their way through the tourists to the bar counter.
‘Una copa de vino blanco, por favor.’ The memory hits her in the back of her knees, makes her stumble against the counter. The start of her and Theo’s relationship. A single sentence in a foreign language that changed everything.
‘We don’t have wine here,’ the young barman behind the counter answers in good English. ‘This is a rum joint.’
‘He understood me,’ she gasps.
‘It may be time for you to learn a few more Spanish phrases,’ Ruben observes drily.
On the way back to the street where they left the Plymouth, they walk past a house with an open front door that stops her in her tracks. The front room is both spotlessly clean and bare – no furniture, no ornaments, just a single chair on which a doll in an extravagant outfit of gleaming yellow satin is displayed. The doll is the size of a baby, but not at all dressed like one. Her satin gown reaches down to the floor and a kind of turban is draped around her head. It is such a bizarre pictu
re that at first Theresa wonders if she might have tasted too much rum.
‘It is a casa de santos,’ Ruben explains. ‘A home temple where a Santeria priest lives. You have never heard of Santeria?’ he asks when she continues to stare at him uncomprehendingly.
‘I seem to remember seeing something about it in my guidebook. It’s a kind of sect that emerged here among the black slaves? Like voodoo?’
‘A mix of West African, ah, rituals and Roman Catholic influences.’
‘But what is that strange doll doing on that chair?’
‘It is an altar, like in the Catholic Church. The doll is the picture of a saint. That yellow one is Ochún, I think, patron saint of Cuba. Goddess of love and beauty and water and I do not know what else. But the Santeria saints are much less saintly than the Catholic ones. Or maybe just less, how do you say, hipócrita?’ he adds when they walk on.
‘Why do you say that?’ She watches him from the corner of her eye.
He isn’t a professional guide like Oreste, who is constantly dispensing superfluous information; he just scatters a few crumbs for her to follow where they lead. The very reason why she appreciates these crumbs more than dear Oreste’s torrent of facts.
‘Well, it is said that Ochún was a voluptuous young virgin that liked to dance naked. Very sensual. Must have made the poor men crazy. And after her marriage she was unfaithful, they say, because her husband did not satisfy her sexually.’
‘Well how about that.’ Theresa can’t help smiling. ‘It sounds as if the Santeria religion allowed women more freedom than any Christian religion I can think of.’
‘The rituals do also have many macho rules. Things that only men are allowed to do.’
‘Still. A voluptuous female saint who dances naked and likes sex? Do you have any idea how much more liberated women all over the world would have been if we had more saints like her?’
His laughter takes her by surprise, a rumble coming from deep inside his chest, even deeper than his voice.
‘Now I understand why Cuban women have a worldwide reputation for sensuality.’
‘They do?’ he asks, with mock surprise.
‘Just think of Benita Madrigal Rosabal!’ she says, laughing.
‘I am trying very hard not to think of her,’ he says and sighs.
She can’t tell if he is serious or joking.
Clara Duarte Amat is a short, compact woman with soft curves and an open, childlike face – wide brown eyes, a button nose, rosy round cheeks and short curly hair worn in an unfussy, informal style. She is wearing no make-up, and is dressed in jeans and a loose shirt, with slip-slops on her feet.
No-nonsense is the phrase that springs to mind as they shake hands on the veranda outside her house.
Her opening sentence knocks the wind right out of Theresa’s sails. She has no contact with her cousin Mercedes, she says, nor the faintest idea of what might have become of her. She nevertheless invites them to take a seat on the veranda – perhaps only because Theresa’s disappointment makes her look close to fainting – and offers them something to drink.
Theresa slumps into a plastic chair and shakes her head, but Ruben accepts the offer on behalf of them both.
After Clara disappears into the house, Theresa looks at Ruben helplessly. ‘What now?’
‘Let us wait and see what she says,’ he placates her in his calm manner and lowers himself onto a small plastic chair that creaks under his bulk like a child’s toy. ‘She may still be able to tell us something we do not already know, yes?’
They wait in silence until Clara reappears. She is carrying a tray with three glasses of iced tea and a small mug with cooldrink for a child – a toddler with his mother’s dark eyes who stares at them with curiosity from his hiding place behind his mother’s legs. Clara sits down too, and allows him to climb onto her lap.
‘Ask her if there is no one else in her family who has contact with Mercedes,’ Theresa tells Ruben, her voice raspy with barely contained hope.
To her surprise, Clara smiles and says that she understands English. But she doesn’t believe anyone in the family can help. ‘It is complicated,’ she apologises, clearly uncomfortable. She is silent for a moment, as if deciding how much is safe to tell them, before continuing in English. ‘I am the youngest of three children. My brother and sister are about ten years older than me. Andres and Aleja are about the same age as Mercedes. They were friends from childhood, since long before I was born, even though they only really saw each other during … durante las vacaciones, when Mercedes and her mother came to visit the family. When they were all teenagers and I just a chiquita, a little girl, they did not allow me to hang out with them, so I never really had the chance to get to know her …’
Theresa nods sympathetically. She remembers all too well how nasty she used to be towards her own little sister. And Sandra is barely three years younger than her.
‘The last time I saw her was at the funeral of abuelita Clara – my grandmother – more than ten years ago. But by then Andres had already disappeared, which ruined the friendship between Mercedes and Aleja. The funeral was very … una tensa atmósfera!’ She laughs gloomily, stroking her child’s shiny black curls. ‘I know funerals are not supposed to be pleasant, but this one was really horrible.’
‘What became of Andres?’ Theresa asks carefully.
‘He escaped to the US. In a homemade little boat. To look for political asylum.’ Clara frowns and glances uncertainly at Ruben. ‘I do not know if I should say any more.’
‘I assure you that whatever you say, it will stay between us,’ Ruben says softly.
Theresa watches the two of them appraise each other silently for several moments. Then Clara seems to make up her mind to trust Ruben. She takes a deep breath and turns to face Theresa: ‘Mercedes was one of those Cubans who truly believed in la revolución with heart and soul. I say “was”, because I don’t know if she maybe changed her mind mientras tanto … in the meantime. I mean, of course we all believe in the revolution,’ she hastens to add, presumably for Ruben’s sake, ‘but most of us can see that we have not created una sociedad ideal. We have a one-party state, since more than half a century already, and we are not exactly a model for freedom of speech. You can see how scared I am to speak frankly with the two of you right now.’
Theresa leans forward in her chair, because Clara’s voice keeps dropping lower. ‘And Mercedes?’
‘Well, she probably did not believe we were living in el paraíso either. She was far too clever to believe in any kind of paradise. But she still held on to the idea of la revolución. Remember, her father died in the name of this revolution when he went to fight against your people over there in Africa, and she was always inclined to … a idolatrar, to worship him, even though she never knew him. Or perhaps it was because she never knew him.’
‘My people,’ Theresa murmurs apologetically. ‘That’s precisely why I want to find Mercedes, to make up for what my people did.’
Clara rests her chin on her child’s head. ‘I am really sorry I cannot help you. Mercedes thought the flight of my brother to the us was the deepest possible traición. Betrayal. Not just of his country but of her, his prima, his cousin. And when Aleja took the side of my brother … well, that was the end of their friendship too …’
‘And your grandmother’s funeral?’ Ruben tries to prompt her. ‘You do not remember where Mercedes was living or working back then?’
‘She was friendly to me,’ Clara muses with a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I think she was sorry for me because my mother died when I was still young, same as her mother. And she probably realised it was the last time she would see anyone in the family. Abuelita Clara kept everyone together, despite all the political differences, but after her death …’
They sit in silence for a while.
The child has jumped off his mother’s lap to scratch in a box with old toys further along the veranda. Broken little cars and raggedy stuffed animals that previously belonged t
o other children, perhaps even to his parents when they were small. Nothing apparently gets thrown away on this isolated island.
‘And where does your sister live now?’ Theresa asks.
‘In Havana. She is a nurse. She and Mercedes worked in the same hospital in Havana at some point. When Mercedes was still studying medicine.’
‘Did she complete her studies? Did she become a doctor?’ Theresa hears the despair in her own voice and is reminded of how little she still in fact knows about this Mercedes. And when Clara nods, she asks: ‘Wouldn’t your sister perhaps know which hospital she went to work at next? Any clue we can follow up. Anything!’
‘We return to Havana tomorrow,’ Ruben says. ‘If you give us a telephone number we could contact her.’
Clara bites her lip, looks at the child who is now playing with colourful plastic blocks. ‘I do not think it is a good idea to phone. It will only open up old wounds. Most likely she will put down the phone in your ear.’
Theresa feels her last bit of hope drain away, like water from an empty bath. She turns her face away and places her hand in front of her face so they won’t see her struggle to fight back the tears. Then she notices that the little boy is also holding his hand in front of his face and peerng at her between his fingers. He thinks it’s a game. She spreads her fingers so she can look at him, then closes them again, smiles involuntarily when he giggles.
‘Romero likes you,’ Clara says, surprised.
‘Thank you for your time and your courtesy.’ Theresa gets up to leave.
Clara stays seated. ‘There is another possibility,’ she says tentatively. ‘Aleja is on Facebook. I do not know – perhaps you can contact her that way … send a private message? That would give her a bit of time to think if she wants to respond or not …’
‘Ah!’ Ruben looks at Theresa, pleased. ‘At last you will get a chance to use your brand-new Facebook account.’
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