She passed by the zoological garden, entered the bosque and parked under a big ceiba like the one outside her own house. The place was desolate. The sky was finally dark, and the crescent moon lit the trees. The perfect scene for a thriller movie, Elsa thought. She had always dreamt of acting in one, but not as the villain. She opened the back car door and dragged Padrino’s body out. It wasn’t rigid yet and seemed too warm. She felt for his heart, but a sticky, hot liquid bathed her right hand. Frightened and nauseated, she wiped her hand on her pants and used her foot to push the body under the ceiba, as far as possible from the road. Even if by some miracle he was still alive, he would be dead by the time anyone found him.
She thought of taking his wallet so he wouldn’t be immediately identified and linked to her before she left. (Not that the tactic had worked with Juan. How had they figured out who he was so quickly?) Though she didn’t believe in higher beings, the Santería clutter he had around his neck creeped her out, and she preferred not to touch it. A cursory inspection of his pockets revealed a cell phone, the ID card Cubans were required to carry at all times and an expired police badge. She took them with her.
How had it come to this? She kept asking herself the question. But as with Juan, she’d had no choice. The guy was in cahoots with the police. He knew the officer who had interrogated Juan. It had been within his power to have her arrested. She imagined the sorrow and disappointment her father, the pincho, and her young son would feel if she were to end up behind bars, accused of killing a man. Or two.
This had all been a series of mistakes and bad luck, starting with Vic’s death. No point in trying to lock away the memories any longer. They came rushing back, as if a dam had been broken in Elsa’s mind. Once again, she heard Vic’s question, the one that had been replaying in her head for days: “Why won’t you help a friend in need? All you have to do is make a quick call to Almodóvar and get me the audition.”
They had been sitting in Vic’s bedroom while the pork was roasting in the oven. Elsa had looked distractedly at the old Avon bottles on the dresser. The entire apartment smelled of fat, which was making her nauseated. Vic chatted nonstop, but Elsa barely answered. The short walk from the parqueadero to the building had put her in a foul mood. The streets had been full of potholes and cracks. And why weren’t there awnings, as there were in Seville, to protect people from the sun and the rain? She had left her umbrella in the hallway and draped her coat over the shower rod to let it drip-dry.
Vic had been looking for a wig she wanted to show Elsa. It was platinum blonde and longer than Vic’s hair underneath. She put it on, walked into the little bathroom and admired herself in the mirror.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Too flashy,” Elsa said.
Vic took it off and left it on the wicker chair, carefully placing it on top of the towels.
“Didn’t you say that Almodóvar offered you a role once?” she insisted. “He could do the same for me. I have talent.”
Elsa rolled her eyes. “That was ages ago. The role offer, I mean. I haven’t seen Almodóvar in years. He probably doesn’t even remember me.”
It wasn’t true; they still exchanged Christmas postcards. But Vic was too old for the industry. Elsa wasn’t going to tell her that, though. She wasn’t that mean.
“Well, it’s up to you,” Vic said. “But you don’t help me, see if I help you.”
Annoyed, Elsa walked into the bathroom and grabbed her coat, ready to leave. What a mistake it had been to come here.
“When in the hell have you ever helped me?” she spat.
Vic put her hands on her hips. Her red nails looked to Elsa like drops of blood on her big fingers.
“This entire time, with my silence,” Vic said.
“Don’t be such a cabrón!”
“Cabrona.”
Vic chuckled. Was she making fun of her? Blinded by rage, Elsa slapped her. Vic slapped her back. Hard.
“Get out of my house!” Vic yelled. “You can’t come in here to abuse me, puta. Who do you think you are?”
Elsa pushed her against the sink. Vic fell backward, the back of her head hitting the corner of the wall-mounted cabinet. She collapsed to the floor. The mirror that was attached to the cabinet door came unglued and crashed against the sink, shards scattering everywhere. Horrified, Elsa hurried to help Vic.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
Elsa thought of bringing her to the car, taking her to a hospital, but then realized it was too late. Vic’s face was congealed in a sarcastic smile, and she wasn’t moving. Her heavily made-up eyes were locked on to Elsa with a mix of surprise and reproach.
Elsa fled, the smell of pork roast chasing her all the way to the hallway. She retrieved her umbrella and hurried to the street. She got into the car and began to drive around, crying in disbelief. Had she really killed Vic? It hadn’t been intentional. It had just been an accident. Why had she run away? She should have called a hospital, explained what had happened. But what if they blamed her?
By the time she returned to the neighborhood, she had had a change of heart. She would call a hospital, maybe say that she had simply found Victoria’s body. But what if she wasn’t dead, just unconscious? She parked a short distance from the building and got out of her car. Then she saw the throng of people gathered outside. They had already found Vic and were hauling off Juan and a younger man. It was too late . . .
But all of that was over. Nothing would bring Vic or Juan or this guy—she didn’t even remember his name—back. A lo hecho, pecho. What was done was done.
On her way back to El Vedado, she took a detour to El Fanguito, one of Havana’s poorest neighborhoods, and dropped the dead man’s belongings in a rusty dumpster covered in flies. As she sped away from the slum, she thought of Emilito, poring over a science book in his MIT dorm.
“The sacrifices we make for our children,” she whispered to the crescent moon.
6
The Ugly Americana
After the woman who had been bent over Juan’s body had been practically dragged out of the room by the man in white, Sharon had officially identified her husband’s body. Juan was naked except for a white towel covering his privates. His chest was still stained from the blood he had lost. The hole left by the bullet was on his left side, as if the shooter had aimed to make sure the bullet went straight through his heart.
It didn’t occur to her until later that she should find out who the woman was. An old classmate or acquaintance of Juan’s? The mortician? In the meantime, Agent Alicia had gotten a call on her cell phone, and she and her partner left the room.
Alone with Juan, Sharon touched his face. He looked placid and happy. Happier, in fact, than he’d been while alive. At peace. She caressed his neck, his arms and hands but avoided his chest area. She was still afraid of hurting him. She noticed that he didn’t have his wedding ring on. The nurses had probably removed it when they’d taken his clothes.
When the Seguridad agents came back, looking annoyed, she told them everything she knew about Juan’s activities, which was concrete up to the point when he had left the hotel.
“Do you have anything with his signature on it?” Agent Pedro asked. “A driver’s license?”
“I have both his passports here,” Sharon said, remembering she had put them in her purse to take them to Unidad 15.
She opened her purse and retrieved them. The agents looked at the signature pages, comparing them to the writing on a scrap of paper—his suicide note. Sharon stared at it. The handwriting didn’t look identical to the signature on his passports, but it wasn’t totally different either. It was so hard to tell from just a scribble.
“Do you think this is his handwriting?” Agent Alicia asked.
Sharon struggled to remember a time Juan had handwritten her a note. It was so rare nowadays, with texting and email.
&nb
sp; “I—I don’t know,” she answered. “But I can’t imagine a reason for him to—he wasn’t depressed, for sure.”
“You mentioned he was deeply affected by his friend’s death,” Agent Pedro said.
“Well, yes, but more so because he was there when the body was found, then arrested—”
“But he was treated properly, wasn’t he?” he interrupted her.
“Yes,” Sharon agreed nervously.
“We have to look at the whole picture,” Agent Pedro said. “His friend’s death, a night at the police station, being back in his beloved home country after so many years—all of these are emotional triggers.”
Sharon frowned. Juan had never referred to Cuba as his “beloved” anything.
“It’s a lot,” Agent Pedro went on. “You also said that he had visited his grandmother, who was very sick.”
“Yes. I think she has Alzheimer’s.”
“See? When you put it all together, compañera,” Agent Pedro concluded, “it makes sense to believe that your husband, in a moment of grief, might take his own life.”
Sharon had the impression that he was trying to lead her to that conclusion. What had changed when they’d left just a moment ago? Agent Alicia hadn’t seemed convinced it was suicide during their ride from the hotel. Sharon remembered her last conversation with Juan, his joke about the unidad smell. No doubt he had been sad about Víctor, but not suicidal. She knew him at least that well.
“What about his friend?” she dared to ask. “Couldn’t his death and Juan’s be related?”
“No!” the Seguridad agents answered at once.
“Despite the efforts of our revolutionary government to integrate gay citizens into society, they still have their—issues,” Agent Alicia said. “Citizen Pérez Díaz’s killer has already been caught. That had nothing to do with your husband’s suicide.”
Sharon burst into tears. She recalled how emotional Juan had been about the trip, how he’d tried at first to travel alone. Would things have gone differently if she hadn’t insisted on coming with him? Would he still be alive? The thought that she would never see him again, never hear “amor” in his Cuban accent again, sank in. She had lost him.
She couldn’t stop crying. Agent Alicia left and came back with a nurse, who took Sharon to another aseptic little room. The nurse gave her a pill, and Sharon swallowed it without even asking what it was.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this,” Agent Alicia said. “Would you like to talk to a counselor? We have some very good ones.”
“No, thank you,” Sharon whispered. “Please, just let me see my husband once more.”
The Seguridad agents waited outside.
“Marlene Martínez is having a fit over the whole thing,” Agent Alicia said to her partner. “I just talked to her.”
“She thinks there’s a connection, eh?”
“So do I.” She shrugged. “And so do you.”
Agent Pedro nodded.
“But the higher-ups were clear—go with the suicide theory, and keep things quiet. A couple years back we had that Canadian who fell off the balcony, now this. If tourists start to think it’s not safe to come here, it’ll kill the economy.”
“Which is just starting to come back.”
“Right. Now we need his wife out of here. I hope she doesn’t stay long enough for the independent journalists to interview her.”
“She’ll probably want to take the body back home.”
“Maybe not. Remember that woman who identified him, the mortician? She offered to take care of everything herself. Maybe she can convince the Yuma to leave before shit hits the fan.”
“Here she comes. Let’s take her back to the hotel.”
When Sharon finally got a hold of an Interests Section officer, he assured her that he would prepare a Report of Death of an American Citizen Abroad, which she could use for legal purposes in Albuquerque. As for returning Juan’s remains, the man, though sympathetic, wasn’t encouraging.
“If an official investigation is still taking place, that’s going to be lengthy,” he said.
They were dealing with a similar case, he mentioned, an elderly Cuban American who had died in a car accident almost two months earlier while visiting his homeland, whom his family insisted on burying in Miami.
“It’s been an ordeal,” the man said. “They don’t have the ten thousand dollars that the process costs and were asked to fill out so many papers that the body’s still in Cuba. We’ve tried to help, but unless you feel very strongly about it, I recommend you find another way.”
“Like what?”
“Cremation, perhaps?”
She might have agreed to it, but as soon as she lay on the bed, hoping to get some rest, she received a phone call from Necrological Services. The caller, a woman with a high-pitched voice, explained that the Chiong family had a mausoleum in Havana. Would Sharon like to bury her husband there?
“I’d rather cremate him,” she said.
“Oh, are you sure? That’s very much against Cuban tradition!” the woman said reprovingly. “We can do that if you want to, but it’s going to take time.”
“And how long will the burial take?”
There was a brief silence.
“In both cases, it may take several weeks, even months,” the woman said. “There’s an ongoing investigation. I just wanted to know in order to be ready when the time comes.”
At this point, Sharon was too overwhelmed to make the decision. “Let me think about it.”
The woman left a number and hung up. Sharon began to connect loose threads. Necrological Services? Had that been the voice of the mortician who’d claimed to be Juan’s classmate, the one who had first identified him?
Not a minute had passed before she got another call, this time from Agent Alicia. Was Sharon feeling better? Did she want to see a doctor, a psychologist, anyone? No? Well, then they would discuss what to do with the body, if she could handle it.
“Here, even when a death is ruled a suicide, we have to follow a lengthy protocol,” Agent Alicia said. “Once it’s over, if your husband has relatives who can help with the burial . . .”
“The only relative he has left is his grandmother,” Sharon answered. “Based on what he told me, she’s too old and sick to help. But a lady from the Necrological Services just called and said that his family had a mausoleum here.”
“Ah, that’s excellent! That will make things much easier for you. When are you leaving?”
“Our—my return ticket is for Tuesday.”
“I imagine you might want to get home sooner.”
Sharon froze. The woman was trying to get rid of her, get her off the island. Who did they think she was, some stupid American? She might’ve acted like one during this disastrous trip, trying to be kind and understanding, overly politically correct, and it hadn’t helped her or Juan. It was time for a change. She would summon the ugly americana for the truly deserving.
“I won’t be leaving Cuba until I find out exactly what happened to my husband,” she said firmly and hung up on Agent Alicia.
Sharon made two more calls. One was to the Necrological Services employee.
“Let me know when the burial is taking place,” Sharon said. “I don’t care if I have to wait a month or a year. I’m willing to spend as much time as needed here.”
“Ah, well . . .” the woman stuttered, apparently surprised by the change in attitude. “As it happens, I’ve just heard from La Seguridad, and they’ve changed plans.”
Aha, Sharon thought.
“They are going to bring me the body tomorrow morning.”
“I want to be there.”
The silence on the other side wasn’t long.
“I understand,” the Necrological Services person said in a kind tone. “It’s your right, Señora. Do you know how
to get to the Colón Cemetery? I can give you directions if you don’t.”
“I’ll take a taxi.”
“Okay. Be here at four tomorrow.”
The second call was to Unidad 15. Lieutenant Martínez was in a meeting. Sharon gave her cell number to the clerk.
“I am Juan Chiong’s wife,” she said. “Actually, his widow. Tell Lieutenant Martínez that my husband has been murdered and I expect the Cuban Revolutionary Police to do something about it.”
“Ah, uh . . . Okay, compañera. I mean, Señora. I will.”
Sharon felt better. She would stick to her guns. Her return ticket could be changed. She would call Sonya if necessary. The Interests Section would have to back her up; that was what it was there for. She opened the bottle of Havana Club Siete Años and drank to Juan’s memory. She refused to cry. She couldn’t bring him back, but she would make sure that justice was done.
7
Red and Yellow
Gutiz el Guardabosque, the Bosque de la Habana’s only ranger, started his day at 5 a.m. His first task was to collect the park’s litter from the previous day. There was always plenty.
These dirty Habaneros, thought Gutiz, who was from Oriente. Hadn’t anybody taught them that it was wrong to discard beer bottles, old newspapers, cigarette wrappings, empty cans, dirty condoms and worse in the forest, spoiling the sacred beauty of nature?
He also found sacrifices of chickens and goats and bananas tied with red ribbons but didn’t mind the offerings to the orishas. As a San Lázaro devotee himself, he disposed of them with due respect. “But look at this,” he grumbled, picking up a bloody sanitary towel with his work glove and dropping it into his metal cart. Was there no limit to Habaneros’ cochinerías?
He thought he heard a faint noise coming from under a ceiba. Had someone abandoned another dog or cat? Unscrupulous people sometimes used the bosque to get rid of unwanted animals. He had already rescued three old mutts and a litter of kittens left to die in the forest. People who did that, he told himself as he walked toward the noise, had no soul.
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