The Golden Havana Night

by Manuel Ramos

  I slipped on my pants. Sleep was impossible. I walked outside with the hope that the night air would jumpstart my Circadian rhythms. I lit the cigar Margarita had given me. The smoke was sweet. I looked up at the stars and the cloud-shrouded moon. I imagined where I stood on the Cuban map, but wasn’t sure.

  “Can’t sleep?” Marita’s voice surprised me. I hadn’t seen her standing in a corner of the courtyard. “Nor can I,” she added.

  The moonlight washed out her tired face. In the glow of the night she’d regained a hint of the beauty I’d seen at El Supremo. She left her corner and swayed to me. She stopped when she bumped into my shoulder.

  “You’ve been drinking,” I said.

  “I am always drinking. I never stop. You want a drink? In my room.”

  “No, thanks. You should go to sleep. It’s very late.”

  “Come with me, Gus. I need company.”

  She brought her mouth to my lips and kissed me. The tip of her tongue rubbed against my teeth, then my own tongue. I wanted to stay with the kiss, but I pulled away.

  “You don’t need me. You need sleep.”

  She grabbed the cuff of my shirt. I pulled away again. I tossed the cigar.

  “Go to your room, Marita.”

  She bent over, groaned, then straightened her body. The look she gave me was a menagerie of lust, regret, anger.

  I walked back to my room. From my window I looked over the courtyard. I saw no one.

  Margarita’s cook, Josefa, served us a breakfast of coffee, scrambled eggs and sliced mangoes. The short, black woman said that Margarita usually came down from her room around ten in the morning, so we were on our own for two hours, at least.

  The mother, Constancia, sat in the courtyard reading a book. She ignored us and Josefa, who badgered the old woman to come in to eat.

  We didn’t do much talking. Virgilio had joined Juanito during the night, but I expected him at any time to continue his bodyguard responsibilities.

  Lourdes still had her arm wrapped, Alberto continued to drag his injured leg, and Marita sat glumly in her chair, subdued and alone. She ignored me.

  “I thought about our situation,” I said when the coffee hit my brain.

  I tried to sound professional, as though my words came from thoughtful planning and not the fevered dreams of an anxious and isolated Northside Denver cholo.

  “It’s a mistake for us to just sit here, waiting, not doing anything. Someone’s trying to kill us because of the money. If we get the money back to the States, out of Cuba at least, that should end this. I don’t know who is after the money, not sure it really matters. But staying here, as still targets, doesn’t feel good. We have to do something. We can’t let the killers control what we do.”

  “You may be right,” Lourdes said. “I haven’t had time to think this through. Everything’s happened too fast since Hoochie was shot. But Detective Solís wants us here. He doesn’t want us exposing ourselves.”

  Alberto grunted. “I could care less what the so-called policeman wants,” he said. “I’m ready to go home. I need to leave before this country kills me. Let’s get the money and take it to your friends, Lourdes, so that they can return it, the same way they brought it into Cuba. It can be waiting for me when I finally get back to Denver.”

  She set down her cup and glared at her brother. “Why would the money be waiting for you?” Lourdes asked. Her face flushed with anger. “You know it’s Joaquín’s money. It’s always Joaquín’s money that saves you, rescues you from your latest mistake, your latest crisis.”

  Alberto shook his head.

  “Don’t deny it,” Lourdes said. “There are too many examples. How much did he give you for the pregnant intern? Or the accident in the mountains when you were drunk? How much has he paid over the years for your bobadas, your mistakes? And now these gambling debts—to Almeida of all people!”

  Alberto continued to shake his head.

  “You have no shame, Alberto, no shame.”

  He tried to laugh off his sister’s words, but the sound he made was a pathetic squeak. Marita frowned at him, Lourdes stared through him.

  “The money will go back to Joaquín,” Lourdes finally said. “Where it came from.”

  Alberto managed to speak. “No need to talk about my business, Lourdes. You not only don’t understand my business, you don’t understand my arrangement with Kino. I’m his partner, I can . . . ”

  “Partner!” Lourdes shouted. “You’re his obligation, his charity case. You’re nothing but a glorified servant, and that’s only because he takes pity on you, keeps you around so you don’t starve. And you pay him back by causing all this . . . ” she choked on her words. “All this death. Toda esta muerte. Carlito. Esteban. Even Hoochie.”

  “Those are not on me,” Alberto said, his voice rising in volume with each word. “How could you think that? I was in the van when it was ambushed, remember? Look at me! I’m practically a cripple. You’re talking crazy.”

  “It’s the truth. You know it, Joaquín knows it, I know it.”

  “You don’t know a damn thing! No sabes nada. Kino needs me. He relies on me, he . . . ”

  “Face the truth! Be a man for once in your life. Accept your responsibility.”

  Alberto stood up from his untouched coffee. He looked at me, then at Marita. He shook his head and again tried to laugh off Lourdes’ condemnations. And again, it did not happen. Still shaking his head, he bolted from the table. He almost ran to his room.

  The two women kept their eyes on their food. Perhaps they were embarrassed for Alberto, perhaps for themselves. I tried to drink the coffee, but the sweet, thick liquid sat at the back of my throat.

  “We’ll give Federico another day or two,” Lourdes finally said. “If we don’t hear from him, we’ll return to La Habana. Then you should leave, Gus. Take Alberto back to your country. I’ll have the money returned to Joaquín. You’re right, the threat will be over when the money is gone.”

  “I’ll stay as long as you need me,” I said.

  “You can’t stay in Cuba forever. You’ve done more than you signed up for. No, you should leave. Take my brother back to his country, as he says. Take him back where he belongs. He’s not a Cuban any longer. Take him home.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  She nodded, then gathered the cups and remaining spoons and forks still on the table. She carried the utensils to the oversized metal sink. She wobbled with uncertainty, then leaned against the counter.

  Marita hardly moved. Her eyes looked down at the floor, and I couldn’t be certain that she was still conscious.

  The silence of both women filled the space entirely. I left them to it and walked through the courtyard to Alberto’s room. He let me in and I sat on the only chair. He perched on the edge of his bed.

  “I apologize for that scene with my sister,” he said not looking at me.

  I shook my head to mean he didn’t owe me an apology, but he didn’t see it.

  “She’s been like that since we were children. Maybe it started when Hoochie’s brother was killed. She was closer to that family than Kino or I were.” He stretched his neck. “She doesn’t understand me, or the relationship I have with Kino. She’s always on me about that, but Kino needs me. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “He said something like that when he hired me,” I said. “He wanted me to get rid of the threat not only to him, but to you and Lourdes. He was very concerned about the both of you.”

  I didn’t answer his question, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “He’s the ultimate big brother. He’s never failed to look out for Lourdes and me.”

  “The money is his?” I said it casually, as though I knew the answer and it was of only minor importance.

  “It can be seen that way. We are business partners, and I am entitled to certain profits and returns on my investments. But the actual cash that we were going to turn over to Almeida? That came from Kino—which the Commissioner’s Off
ice can never know. Of course, I have to pay him back out of my share of the partnership.” He caught himself. “Well, I guess I don’t now since it’ll be returned soon.”

  “Lourdes wants us to stay here for two more days. Then we leave, Solís’ blessing or no. You and I will fly to Denver. That’s the end of this.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Yes, at last. The end of this . . . what would you call it? An adventure? Your Cuban adventure? I can’t wait to leave.”

  He looked more like the man I’d met in the Los Angeles airport.

  “At least,” I said, “I hope it’s the end.”

  “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it be?”

  His regained self-assurance slipped away in the brisk morning air. He returned to the deflated, tired man who’d come to Trinidad from a Havana hospital.

  I considered a dozen different answers to his questions. “Sorry. That’s just me. Sometimes I see only the negative. My sister says I’m too cynical.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I know what you mean. It might be the Hispanic in us. We can be extremely cynical.”

  Yeah, that might’ve been it.

  My stomach started to feel queasy the third day in Trinidad. I blamed Josefa and her scrambled eggs. Or maybe it was the occasional glass of tap water I sipped when no bottled water was handy. Lourdes gave me a half-filled tin of red pills to thwart oncoming diarrhea, and whatever they were, they plugged me up good. The nausea remained, though, and I knew I had a fever. But I convinced everyone that I could travel, that I wouldn’t be an obstacle to a quick return trip.

  We set out for the city at night. Juanito’s van was packed with Lourdes, Marita, Alberto, Virgilio and me. Occasionally, Juanito would point out something on the landscape or comment on the rough road. The passengers were silent, caught up in their own drama of grief, pain or whatever it was that somehow culminated in that van ride back to Havana.

  Most of the time I slept on the last seat. The journey turned into agony for me. I suffered cramps and hot flashes. I sweated, soaked my shirt and I couldn’t eat anything—not that I even wanted to.

  I’d occasionally raise my head and look out through the van windows. No street or highway lights. Darkness always surrounded us. Then we’d round a random curve and our headlights would confront a group of people standing on the edge of the road, waiting for something. A bus most likely. The van’s headlights would shine on the group and Juanito would speed by, only inches away from exhausted-looking women and children clinging to the legs of their parents. It happened several times.

  Or, out of nowhere, a jogger in running shorts and a T-shirt would appear in the headlights. He’d look back over his shoulder at us, but he wouldn’t move over.

  Juanito expertly maneuvered around joggers, bicyclists, hitchhikers and walkers trying to make it home from work. The darkness of the countryside was extreme. The van’s headlights were not enough to light up the road completely, or to warn others that we were coming through, but Juanito’s driving skills made up for the bad headlamps.

  We stopped at the beach where I’d met the young fans of rock ’n roll on our way to Trinidad. Everyone else climbed out to stretch their legs. Officially, the beach was closed, but Juanito ignored the signs, doused his lights and parked close enough to the shore that I heard the waves breaking against the rough and rocky ledges. I hadn’t planned to leave my perch in the back, but I changed my mind with the hope that the salty air might make me feel better.

  I stumbled along a path that wound through palm trees and knee-high grass. Off to my left I heard Lourdes and Alberto arguing. Their rapid conversation continued the fight they’d started back in Trinidad. I veered to my right and found myself on a flat outcrop of sea-battered rock that hung over the swirling water. Sea water sprayed me. I breathed deeply, waiting for something, anything to cure me.

  The black ocean contrasted sharply with the star-filled sky and the almost full moon. I stood on the rock and sucked in the smell and taste of salt water and verdant jungle. The angry voices of Lourdes and Alberto bounced up at me from the water’s edge.

  I heard someone tripping on the rocks nearby. It was a woman, and she mumbled unintelligible words. I squinted to bring the figure into focus.

  Marita made her way slowly along the shore. She continued to mumble with the rhythm of a prayer. She stood in water that rolled around her ankles. Behind her, the beach glistened with yellow brilliance. She looked up at the sky, and I thought I heard her moan, as though the silver moon had blinded her, as though the stars had stabbed her heart.

  I thought of the golden nights I’d experienced in Cuba. I tried to recall their beauty and promise. I couldn’t find the gold anymore, only fake gold leaf.

  I watched the tormented Marita walk into the water. She almost lost her step when a wave slapped against her thighs. She kept walking into the sea.

  I didn’t yell at her, didn’t call for help. I didn’t move, didn’t try to stop her. She advanced, and the water whirled around her chest.

  “Marita!” Virgilio hollered from the shore.

  She jerked her head, tried to turn around and then she disappeared into the wet darkness.

  Virgilio ran into the sea. He kept shouting her name.

  Lourdes and Alberto hollered back.

  “¿Qué es? ¿Qué pasa?”

  I ran to the path, turned to where I’d seen Virgilio and stopped at the shoreline. I couldn’t see anything in the blackness.

  Lourdes and Alberto ran up behind me.

  “What happened?” Lourdes asked.

  “Marita,” I said. “She went under. Virgilio’s out there, somewhere.”

  “What? We have to help him,” Alberto shouted.

  “Neither of you are in any shape for that,” I said.

  I stepped toward the sea. The cold water shocked me, and again I felt queasy. I stopped.

  Virgilio’s head bobbed on the water. He held Marita by one arm.

  Part Three

  — Chapter 18 —

  NEAT AND SWEET

  “Aw shit, Sherlock. You would’ve let her drown?”

  Jerome’s anger was never below the surface. He preferred it out in the open so the target of his ill-will would be clear about where he stood. It was my turn to wear the bullseye.

  “I wish you’d quit calling me that.”

  “Homie don’t play that, eh?”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Beside the point. I repeat, you would’ve let her drown?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I hesitated.”

  “You had to think over whether you should save a suicidal cubana from drowning in the Bay of Pigs?” He kept shaking his head.

  “When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”

  “How else would you put it?”

  He wasn’t going to let it go. I’d been in Denver for a week, had convinced myself that I was back to my old self. Of course, I never figured out what my new self was supposed to be. I hoped I had left him in Cuba. I thought I should talk with Jerome about what happened in Havana and Trinidad. It didn’t take long for me to regret my invitation.

  “There’s no good way to put it,” I conceded. “You’re right. At the time, I was suspicious of everyone. I was exhausted, sick, maybe delirious. Dehydrated and on some kind of communist medication. I think those red pills were designed to poison Americans. I’d been shot at and tortured, I . . . ”

  “You making excuses?” he interrupted.

  “I’ll stop if you stop asking me about it. It happened, I’m not denying it. You will think what you want. Can’t help that.”

  “Okay, Sherlock. No more about your less than shining hour. Go on with your story.”

  Jerome had come at me hard about my lack of intervention when Marita tried to drown her grief and pain. I expected no less from him, but I wanted Jerome to react to what happened in Cuba. I needed his knowledge, his awareness. He had to put it in perspective for me. Jerome was good at that, so, the hassle was worth it.
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  His left arm still trembled, his fingers shook and his gait had become stiffer. He walked with a forced lunge, almost like Frankenstein’s Monster. But his attitude was a hundred percent improved. He’d settled into a routine that included a healthier diet and several exercise classes each week, as well as a yoga session that he said he attended because of the young and flexible black woman who taught the class. Of course, he had to say that to save face. Not too many old-timer Northsiders were into yoga. Whatever the reason, he was in a better place, mentally. He said he was “just living life, like always.”

  “The exercise classes must be helping,” I said.

  “Yes, they seem to be. The only thing is . . . ”

  “What? There a problem?”

  “It’s just, I’m always the only Chicano. There must be hundreds of Latinos, men and women, with Parkinson’s in Denver. But I never see them. Not in class or support group or at my doctor’s office. I don’t know why that is. These classes are cheap, some are free or take donations. Why don’t the raza take care of themselves? I honestly believe these exercises do more for me than most of the meds they use on this disease.”

  “You don’t like the people you train with?”

  “Nah, that ain’t it. Those people are good, great even. We’re all in the same boat. There’s lawyers, judges, teachers, dentists, museum volunteers . . . people, man. All kinds. They treat me decent, welcomed me to the PD world. I’d just like to see more gente participate. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Yeah, that’s a mystery. Maybe they don’t get the word, the info. And some of the elders aren’t used to group exercise. It takes a lot to get an old Mexican into a gym.”