But there was no house pet this time. Under the ceiba, a man dressed in white was clutching his chest. His shirt and pants were soaked in dried blood.
Gutiz knelt next to him. “Brother, what happened to you?”
“The police,” the man whispered. “Call Unidad 15. This is—a life or death matter.”
“It surely is for you!”
Gutiz helped the man sit up against the ceiba and noticed that a medal around his neck had been badly damaged. The ranger took off his own shirt and wrapped it around the man’s chest to contain the hemorrhage.
“Stay put,” Gutiz said. “I’m going to get you an ambulance right now.”
The man couldn’t hear him. He had fainted. Gutiz took one last look at him and ran to the bosque entrance, crying out for help.
Padrino’s tongue felt swollen, like a wet sponge. Thirsty and dizzy, he found himself in a tight space moving unpredictably. He tried to turn around but couldn’t. He realized he was on a stretcher.
“Don’t move, compañero,” said the nurse sitting next to him in the ambulance. “I don’t want you losing more blood.”
The memory of what had happened came back to him slowly. He had been shot. By Elsa, the woman with the red umbrella who had killed Rosita’s boyfriend and possibly Víctor Pérez Díaz. That woman had cojones.
How right his wife had been. “You don’t want to bite off more than you can chew,” she had said. Well, he had been chewed and spit out. He needed to tell Marlene. Now. Was Elsa still in the country? What had she said about traveling the next day? That was . . . today.
Padrino managed a glimpse at the nurse’s watch. Five to six. Marlene wouldn’t be in her office yet. He felt a sting in his chest, closed his eyes and passed out.
When he came to, red and yellow lights flashed under his eyelids. The colors of fire, following Oyá’s purple shades on the spirit’s journey to the afterlife. Ah, this time he was dead for good, not like in Angola! He had missed passing through the Queen of Bones’ domain. He wasn’t sorry, though. Full of skeletons, worms and oozy things, it wasn’t a restful place for traveling souls. But these bright, happy colors marked the advent of the new life that awaited him in the land of the other orishas. Would Yemayá, his patron saint and Santería mother, be waiting for him?
He opened his eyes. Yes, Yemayá was there! All those years as a faithful devotee of la Virgen de Regla hadn’t been in vain. He didn’t need to worry about worldly affairs anymore. Pepito, Elsa, Marlene, even his wife belonged to another realm now. He had arrived in a place with no crime, only peace. Yemayá herself, with her honey-caramel skin and big liquid eyes, was standing in front of him.
“A gua wa o to, Omo Yemayá,” he attempted to say.
She got closer. The orisha smelled of gardenia and, oddly, rubbing alcohol.
“Can you hear me, compañero?” she asked.
Compañero? That wasn’t an orisha’s word. Then he noticed that Yemayá was wearing a starched medical gown. In one hand, she held the pencil-thin flashlight she had just shined in his eyes. In the other, she had what looked like a charred chip. He wasn’t in Ile-Ife but on a hospital bed. He had survived. The wound on his chest, now bandaged, began to hurt again.
“You’re stable now, but we’ll need to monitor your vitals for at least a couple of days,” the doctor said.
He exhaled heavily.
“Do you know what this is?” She showed him the round metal chip.
Padrino shook his head no.
“It saved your life,” she said. “You were wearing this medal, and it absorbed enough impact from the bullet that it didn’t kill you. You’re a lucky man!”
The San Lázaro medal that Rosita had given him. He remembered it now—and how much he had disliked it at first because it was so huge. But the heavy alloy the metal was made of had provided just enough resistance to hinder the bullet from killing him. What had his goddaughter said? That the orishas worked in strange ways.
“You can thank your santos,” the doctor said, lowering her voice.
Padrino thought he would need to arrange a special ceremony to honor Babalú Ayé as soon as possible. But he had to talk to Marlene first.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Eleven o’clock,” the doctor said. “You spent three hours in the operating room. But everything went well.”
Was it too late? He hoped not. “I have to make a call, Doctora.”
“You want us to call your family?”
“No, the police! Please, call Unidad 15, and ask for Lieutenant Martínez. Right now.”
8
Oyá’s Parting Gift
At the José Martí International Airport, Elsa waited for the passengers of the Havana-Seville flight to be called. It was 12:10. Her plane wasn’t leaving until two o’clock, but she had been happy to arrive early. She had left the car keys with Eduardo, the security guard, and paid him to watch the house and take care of the Lexus in her absence. She had cleaned the back seat the best she could in the morning. In case of an investigation . . . Well, if it happened, she would be far away.
The smell of burned fat drifted from the airport cafeteria, which was selling pan con chicharrón, bread and pork cracklings. It was exactly how Victoria’s apartment had smelled that time she . . . but soon all that would be behind her.
This was the right thing to do, move out of the damn country for good. Emilio had been talking about selling the company for a couple of years, since his heart attack. She had opposed it at first because she enjoyed managing the day-to-day operations of Savarria and Co. It gave her a pretext for going back to Cuba, where she was a woman of substance. In Spain she was still considered an immigrant, a sudaca, albeit with money and class. But she would spend more time in America, with Emilito. They could easily buy a house there, with the company worth at least 2 million euros. At last, she wouldn’t have to deal with her lazy, gossipy, good-for-nothing Cuban employees anymore. She would be free to pursue something else. And above all, she would be safe.
Was there anything that could ever draw her back to Cuba? No, she was too afraid to ever return. The smell of the chicharrón became stronger. She walked away from it and sat on a plastic chair near the bathroom. How long until her flight? Still almost two hours! How she wished she were already nestled in her first-class seat.
A uniformed woman and a man in plain clothes entered the waiting room. Elsa’s hands went cold. They looked around, then approached her with long, official strides. She wanted to run, but where would she go? She stayed put, though she knew they were coming for her.
Rosita gave the finishing touches to a discreet altar that she had built on the Formica table. It consisted of a purple cloth with a small print of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux on top and red rose petals scattered around.
La Seguridad wasn’t pleased with her, but she didn’t care. Following Agents Alicia and Pedro’s orders, she had tried to convince Sharon to leave the country and let her take care of the burial and funeral procedures. But the American hadn’t agreed. Good for her. Rosita wouldn’t have either, had she been in her place. And Rosita had never sympathized with La Seguridad or wanted to do their dirty work.
On the floor was an oak casket with an engraved nameplate. Inside lay Juan in an elegant dark suit (the best she had in her funeral wardrobe) with a white rose pinned on his lapel. She placed his right hand on his chest, then crossed his left hand on top. It would have been nice to have had some ceremonial music—ideally, batá drums—to accompany him on his journey through Oyá’s kingdom. Since that wasn’t possible, she sang softly, “A llorar a Papá Montero, zumba, canalla rumbero.” That would have to suffice.
Yes, Juan was ready. But what about Victoria? In the middle of the turmoil, Rosita had forgotten her, but now recalled that she had died recently. “Killed,” Padrino had said. Siacará. Her body hadn’t been brought in, though. Rosita wo
uld have seen it. Maybe the investigation was still ongoing. She would have taken good care of Victoria too, given her a proper burial and made sure to tell all her friends.
Rosita looked at her watch. It was three-thirty. She planned to bury Juan in his family’s mausoleum, though she hadn’t asked permission. But who could she talk to? Abuela was too old, and the last thing she needed was to hear about her grandson’s death. He didn’t have other relatives, so nobody was going to complain.
Rosita had told Sharon to be there at four o’clock. That would give her time to process the paperwork. Ah, Sharon! Rosita hoped and prayed that the American had forgotten their initial encounter at the hospital, when she had come to identify her husband’s body and found Rosita sobbing over it. They had been in the same room for barely a couple of minutes. She couldn’t even remember Sharon’s face. Oyá willing, Sharon wouldn’t remember hers either. Meeting her again was a bit risky, but Rosita wanted to take a good look at the woman with whom Juan had shared the last years of his life. He hadn’t loved her either, as his suicide proved. He had only ever cared for Elsa.
Rosita shrugged. Though she’d done this all out of respect for the love she’d once had for him, that love no longer existed. She was just fulfilling her duty, performing the last rites of death for him, and then she would put him out of her mind and life forever. Soon he, and the past they shared, would be six feet under. She wished she could talk to Padrino, but he hadn’t answered her calls. Why did people have these expensive cell phones if they didn’t bother to use them?
She surveyed the body, the casket, the wreath—the prettiest she could make in a time crunch. Everything was first-class, but she wouldn’t charge Sharon a cent, even if she insisted on paying. Rosita felt sorry for the shortchanged American, having been shortchanged herself once. She still resented Elsa, who always came out on top in the battle for Juan’s heart. A woman for whom things seemed to always work out, one who was never shortchanged.
But did any of that matter now? No. She and Armando had hit it off. He had invited her to dinner after Carlota had worked her magic on Rosita’s hair with that Brazilian treatment, giving a beautiful shine to her tresses. The menu had featured his famous arroz con todo, which had turned out to be a scrumptious combination of rice, seafood, chicken, tiny meatballs, veggies and fruit in a curry-like sauce. The dessert was arroz con leche with raisins and small chunks of chocolate hiding under the creamy texture of the rice pudding. Armando was a master chef. They had kissed at the end of the date, and he’d tasted as delicious as his food.
She glanced at Juan’s body, feeling embarrassed and triumphant at the same time. She had deprived herself of so much, waiting . . . for what?
She had wasted too many years but was off to a fresh start. Not only was she seeing Armando, but she had agreed to be Carlota’s partner at Bellísima. This would be Rosita’s last day at this job, though she had told Necrological Services that she would train her replacement if needed. She hoped they found one soon, because the business of death had no days off. She hoped her desertion wouldn’t offend Oyá, but she had been in loyal service long enough, and there were other ways to worship. Armando was going to pick her up after Juan’s burial in the Chrysler he had bought for his home-delivery venture. He was also planning to be an almendrón driver. What a resourceful guy he was!
A knock on the door cut her musings short. She hurried to open it, thinking it would be Sharon, but found two women dressed in gray uniforms followed by two men carrying an unpainted pinewood casket.
“I’m Rita Álvarez,” the older woman said, “and this is Sister Yuleidi. We are from El Asilo de los Ancianos Desamparados. We’ve been trying to contact you for two days!”
“I’m sorry,” Rosita answered. “I had a personal emergency.”
El Asilo de los Ancianos Desamparados. . . was that a nursing home? She tried to remember where she had heard of it.
“We’re having another burial in a few minutes, but I’ll squeeze you in afterward, unless you want a mass or any special services,” she added. “In that case, someone will take care of it tomorrow.”
“Compañera, we’re from a Catholic nursing home,” Rita said sharply. “The deceased is a ninety-year-old woman and has gotten all the masses and services needed. We just need to bury the body before it starts to smell. Here is the property deed.”
Rosita could have refused to handle it, as burials were supposed to be scheduled in advance, but didn’t want to argue. After all, it was her last day there. She went out and gestured for the men to bring the casket in. She opened it and gasped at the old woman’s emaciated, wrinkled face, which had begun to show the first signs of decomposition. Rosita’s eyes clouded with tears. “Oh, Abuela!”
In the meantime, Rita, who had looked distractedly at the oak casket, exclaimed, “Carajo!”
Sister Yuleidi crossed herself. “Please, Rita, watch your mouth.”
“But . . . that’s the guy who came to see Tonita!” Rita said.
“You knew him?” Rosita asked, confused.
“He came to El Asilo to visit his grandmother,” Rita said. “She’s the one we are burying.”
Rosita turned to the altar and crossed herself. Oyá didn’t do things halfway. She quickly examined the property deed for the Lasalle mausoleum.
“Well, since you know Juan . . .” she said, tentatively. “I was planning to bury him in his family’s grave. I hope you don’t object, since you’re the deed holders now.”
“No, no problem at all,” Sister Yuleidi answered. “What a strange coincidence, indeed! And how did this man die?”
Rosita sighed. Not a long explanation, with two bodies there waiting to be entombed! Thankfully, there was another knock on the door, and a woman came in. She was tall, slender and well dressed. Their eyes met, and Rosita had a vague feeling of recognition.
“I’m Sharon,” the woman said. “Juan’s wife.”
Rosita shook her hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Señora.”
Rosita made brief introductions all around.
“Oh, that’s Juan’s grandma!” Sharon said, peeking nervously at Abuela’s casket. “He told me about her. I didn’t know she was so sick.”
Rita and Sister Yuleidi exchanged a perplexed look. An awkward pause ensued until Rosita broke it, saying in her most professional voice, “We are ready to proceed with the burials.”
They all nodded, relieved. But then she turned to Sharon and added softly, “Unless you want to spend some time alone with him?”
“Yes, thank you,” Sharon whispered. “Just a moment. I would like that very much.”
The men carried Abuela’s coffin outside. Rosita, Rita and Sister Yuleidi followed them while Sharon said her last goodbye to Juan’s corpse.
Rosita thought that Juan had not taken care of Abuela as he should have. Victoria had told her that he had phoned the nursing home only a few times over the last twenty years. Even if he had been living in La Yuma, he could have been more present in her life. Now he would spend a long time near her, atoning for his neglect. Yes, Oyá, the wise Queen of Bones, knew what she was doing. She always did.
Rita touched Rosita’s arm. “Are you two related?”
“Excuse me?” Rosita blushed, thinking she was talking about Juan.
“You and that lady,” Rita said. “You look a lot alike.”
Rosita then realized why Juan’s widow had seemed familiar. They were the same height, had the same auburn eyes. Even their hair looked similar, especially with hers more lustrous thanks to Carlota. Related, huh? Well, maybe in a way, they were.
“We’ve only just met,” Rosita said.
Sharon came out. She was pale but calm. Four cemetery workers arrived soon and carried the two caskets to the Lasalle mausoleum. The Asilo de los Ancianos Desamparados crowd walked behind them, followed by Rosita and Sharon.
“I understand t
hat you identified my husband in the hospital,” Sharon said suddenly.
Rosita’s ears burned hot. “I was so . . . so surprised when I saw him again in . . . that hospital,” she stammered. “It was the last thing I expected. I’d heard he had left Cuba a long time ago.”
“How did you know him?”
“We took some college classes together, back in the day.”
“Did you study at the ISA too?” Sharon gave her a side-glance.
“Yes, for a while, when I was very young. Everybody knew everybody there. Juan was part of a tight-knit group.”
“The Three Musketeers, right?”
Rosita coughed. She was getting antsy. How much did this woman know? Rosita then noticed Sharon was wearing a black coral necklace. Black coral, a favorite of Oyá’s. That had to be a good omen.
“Yes, that’s what people called them,” Rosita said, trying to sound casual. “I had forgotten all about it.”
She thought of adding that she and Juan had barely known each other, having had different majors, but decided against it. She didn’t want to lie lest it offend Oyá—again.
“He told me a bit about his college years and the Special Period,” Sharon said. “It was one of our last conversations. He sounded . . . fine. You know, I don’t believe for a second he committed suicide.”
Rosita didn’t answer. She did believe Juan had offed himself, but she couldn’t explain the reasons to his widow. She walked faster, wishing that the whole thing was over.
Sharon’s cell phone rang. She excused herself and answered. Rosita couldn’t help but listen to the exchange.
“Lieutenant Martínez? Yes, thanks for calling. What? You caught her? It was . . . a woman?” Sharon turned completely white. “Yes, Lieutenant, I know who Elsa Dieguez is.”
Rosita watched the emotions pass over Sharon’s face: disbelief, horror, anger and then quiet understanding. The same feelings boiled inside her, but she willed her face to be like stone. When the call ended, Sharon was shaking. Instinctively, Rosita held her arm. They continued walking in silence and stopped by the Lasalle mausoleum.
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