Ruins

by Achy Obejas

  Usnavy’s pulse had quickened. He knew that thing in there was treasure (whatever it was). She shouldn’t have lied to him about having such a lamp, he thought; now that he was in business for himself, he would have bought it, he could have given her the money to fix their roof. Sometimes just the threat of rain could start things off … It was all a matter of paying attention. How long did she and her sisters have there? How long did he?

  Minerva glanced up but couldn’t read the signs in the sky that had Usnavy so enraptured. “Try to come by, at least in the morning,” she repeated, back to her task. “You know, when they’re all there. You can leave later. I’ll cover for you.”

  “You have relatives in Pinar del Rio, right?” Usnavy asked.

  She nodded, confused.

  “You could call them and see if it’s raining there, couldn’t you? They have a phone, don’t they?”

  “You want me to call my family in Pinar del Rio to see if it’s raining there? For the love of god, why don’t you just watch the weather report?”

  Usnavy shrugged. “They don’t always get it right”—he pointed to the earphones wrapped around his head—“and I don’t need to know about tomorrow. That’s all they’re going to tell me about, you know, tomorrow—always tomorrow. I need to know about now, about today, about a few hours from now,” he insisted. “Whatever’s in Pinar is headed here.”

  “What’s so important about the weather report two hours from now?” Minerva asked with an arched eyebrow.

  Usnavy got up from the stoop, dusted off his pants, and followed Santiago’s example, shaking his head in disbelief, grunting, and walking away.

  He sure wasn’t going to give his secrets away to anybody.

  Because, of course, now there were secrets. There had always been, certainly, but these secrets were grave and disorienting. They went beyond him and Lidia hiding what they were doing for dollars from Nena and the neighbors, beyond the white lies of ordinary life, yellow headlines and propaganda. They went beyond the peasant origins of his lamp, its shabby Third World pedigree.

  They began to peek out of their hiding place when, needing to pull a few more dollars together so that Lidia could show a potential seller enough to have a shot at buying his car, Usnavy had extracted another glass panel from his magnificent lamp—this one not so loose but still easy to get at—and taken it over to Virgilio, who handled it with care but with less reverence now.

  “So, are you ever gonna tell me where you get these, huh?” the artisan asked him.

  Usnavy shrugged and shuffled, waiting for his money.

  “I know they’re coming from the same lamp, I can tell,” Virgilio said. “And it must be quite extraordinary because these are not common pieces. They’re a bit big, a bit unusual for a Tiffany. But they’re definitely Favrile, definitely Tiffany.”

  A sparkly Virgilio handed the pane to Santiago, who took it away brusquely, practically tossing it at Manolín. Virgilio reached in his pocket as if to pay Usnavy.

  “I’m thinking, Usnavy, that for all your revolutionary spirit, maybe your family was really part of the bourgeoisie, that you must have had a lot of money and influence once if they owned a lamp like that,” he said, pulling his hands out of his pockets. All Usnavy could focus on was that those pockets were empty.

  “I’m from Oriente,” Usnavy said, unsettled. “Nobody had money in Oriente.”

  “Sure they did, all those sugar barons, all those Americans.” Virgilio was now working on a small lamp, polishing the panels, as if he’d forgotten all about the payment due.

  “Well, I’m not American. I’m descended from Jamaicans.”

  “You, Jamaican? Somebody’s pulling your leg, my friend. What makes you think you’re Jamaican?”

  “My father was Jamaican.”

  “He was black?”

  People made that connection frequently, and though most times Usnavy wanted only to say yes and confirm it, to claim a little bit of Africa in his blood, he found himself a little disappointed this time, surprised that Virgilio would respond in so common a fashion. “No, but you know, not all Jamaicans are black.”

  “Sure they are. The rest are called Englishmen. Nobody who’s not black actually calls himself Jamaican. What’s your last name anyway?”

  “Martín Leyva.”

  Virgilio stopped cold.

  Usnavy shifted his weight, now acutely uncomfortable. “Martín, it’s English … Martín Leyva. Leyva’s pretty common in Oriente, though not here.”

  “I’ll bet!” said Virgilio, now grinning. “Tell me something, Usnavy: Was your mother a churchgoer?”

  “No!”

  “And your father?”

  “I …” Usnavy stammered. He had no idea. “I never met my father.”

  Virgilio stared at him.

  “What?…What?” a rattled Usnavy demanded.

  “You, my friend, are a Jew,” said Virgilio, “or, at the very least, the son of a Jewish woman—just like me.”

  A Jew …? Hadn’t Virgilio heard him? He was Jamaican—Jamaican, descendant of Africans and Englishmen, not Turks and Poles. Was Virgilio trying to get out of paying him? Usnavy turned on him. “You know, I’ve always thought you didn’t look Jewish, that you look mulatto.” He knew instantly his tone was accusatory and he stopped himself before this could go further: Anybody else might have said something about how Virgilio was trying to clean up his family tree, pretending to be Jewish rather than black. But what kind of insanity was that? Usnavy swallowed, the taste in his mouth vinegary and dry.

  “Yeah, well, like I said, you don’t look Jamaican—you look … American—actually, you look like an American Jew. I bet you were blond or red-haired as a kid, right?” Virgilio shot back at him, only he was smiling.

  “This is ridiculous. I’m Jamaican,” Usnavy repeated, annoyed.

  “There are plenty of Jews in Jamaica.”

  Usnavy scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

  “Yeah, right—yes,” insisted Virgilio. “The English didn’t really bother them that much. You know, it’s not so bad being a Jew. Maybe you’re a Jamaican Jew.”

  “Look, this is a fascinating conversation, but are you going to pay me?”

  “Yes, I’m going to pay you,” Virgilio said, getting up from his workbench and wiping his hands. “But, whether you like it or not, your surname—your maternal surname—is Jewish. Not common Martínez/Ramírez/Rodríguez Jewish, but seriously, undeniably Jewish.”

  “This is crap,” said a frustrated Usnavy.

  Now it was Virgilio’s turn to shrug. “Did you get the lamp from your mother?”

  “The lamp …?” Usnavy was miserable. How had the man switched from accusing him of being a Jew to the lamp?

  “I think I know your lamp,” Virgilio said.

  “What the hell are you talking about? Look, just pay me, just pay me and let’s end this conversation.”

  He wanted desperately to get out of there, to breathe real air, feel real light instead of the infernal heat and fairy dust falling off Virgilio.

  But Virgilio held up his palm, signaling him to stop. “In good time, Usnavy Martín Leyva, in good time.”

  Usnavy shook his head. Me, a Jew? What did that mean anyway? Surely Virgilio was out of his mind. He wasn’t taking on any new burdens, that was for sure. He was who he was, nothing more, nothing less. Usnavy was so agitated when he left Virgilio’s that he walked most of the way home, for the longest time just holding the handlebars of his new (used) Trek and guiding it by his side.

  During Usnavy’s next visit, Virgilio explained that he and Santiago and most of the others in the building where he lived were descendants of old Jewish families—mostly immigrants from New York—who’d been living and working together since long before the Revolution. But the group did not simply repair lamps. What Virgilio and Santiago and the others really did for a living was create exquisite fake Tiffanies.

  “My father did it, he taught me,” Virgilio admitted with a laugh not unlike Yoand
ry’s. “His father taught him. We’ve been doing it here in Cuba as long as there have been Tiffanies to counterfeit.” He reached up and pulled a catalogue from a shelf, opening it to pages and pages of lamps, just like the ones all around him. “These are ours, all of them.”

  Usnavy stared at the color pages. “They’re not Tiffanies?”

  “They’re Tiffanies, yes, but ours.”

  Usnavy ran his fingers through his white hair. “I see,” he said, sitting down and dropping his hands flat on his lap.

  “You don’t,” Virgilio replied, “but that’s okay.”

  “Why’s that okay?”

  Virgilio shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. For all the Tiffanies that are real, there are probably just as many that aren’t. Those are ours—mine, my father’s, my grandfather’s. But the thing is, because my family worked for Tiffany, because my grandfather was who really got it right for Tiffany, you have to ask the question, don’t you: Which Tiffanies are the real Tiffanies? Because if you’re talking about the artistry that’s known in the world as Tiffany, then that’s ours. But if you’re talking about the brand name, the industrial copyright, then that’s his.”

  “What … what are you saying? That your family was the genius behind Tiffany lamps?”

  “Hard to believe, huh?” Virgilio nodded nonchalantly. “Yeah, us—a bunch of Cuban Jews—we’re the real Tiffany talent. Hell, we’re the real Tiffany!”

  Usnavy shook his head. “Forgive me, but I think you’re delusional—that you’re messing with me and think I’m too tired to tell.” He smiled weakly as he got up.

  “Sit down, Usnavy Martín Leyva, sit down,” said Virgilio, his hand firmly on Usnavy’s shoulder. “Remember when we were at the lamp store and we were talking about the Museum of the Revolution, and you said something about there being no stained glass there at all?”

  Usnavy nodded wearily.

  “Well, there’s a reason for that, my friend. By the time Tiffany got that commission, Tiffany was doing everything—cabinets, tables. The man was all over the place. Anyway, originally, there was going to be a lamp at the palace, a huge and gaudy thing held by double suspension chains.”

  Oh god, thought Usnavy, his stomach churning.

  “But then Tiffany and my grandfather had a falling out and the guild—you know, the guys my father had brought here with him—they refused to work for him,” Virgilio continued. “Some people say the lamp that was supposed to go in the palace was made but never turned over to Tiffany. Others say it was never more than a drawing, and only a very rough one. With my grandfather’s guys essentially on strike, Tiffany knew that if he wanted to use colored glass, he would have had to use inferior craftspeople. And if Tiffany was anything, he was a perfectionist. He knew the quality of work my grandfather did. He knew he couldn’t use too much glass, if any, at the palace. Funny, isn’t it? The palace is a Tiffany without the one thing for which Tiffany became famous: colored glass. Isn’t that so typical of our little island?”

  According to Virgilio, the grandfather felt he deserved to be paid for the idea of the lamps. And for his designs: He claimed the queen’s lace was his, as well as the grapes and the peacock motifs. These were critical to the Tiffany catalogue. Tiffany was willing, if not happy, to pay, but not enough for Virgilio’s grandfather, and the notion of credit was beyond him. So the artisan threatened to flood the market with phony lamps—and later knickknacks too—to punish him by forcing Tiffany prices down. It worked for a while, but then the market dried up and everybody was miserable, especially during the Depression.

  Eventually, the price of Tiffanies—even the “fraudulent” ones—rose, as certain as the tides.

  “One of his lamps sold at auction for more than a million dollars a few years back,” Virgilio said. Then, looking around as if telling a terribly naughty secret, he whispered: “But the one that sold in 1985—it’s a gorgeous piece—that was one of ours. And it went for more than half a million!”

  “Was … was the lamp—the one for the presidential palace—was it signed?” Usnavy asked, his voice barely audible.

  “Was …? Was the lamp signed, is that what you asked? Aren’t you listening? I just told you no one knows if it was ever even made!” Virgilio exclaimed. “I mean, if it was …hufffffff! Can you imagine?”

  Usnavy’s stomach dropped. He felt waves oscillating somewhere deep inside him. He wanted to surrender to the splendor and the ambiguity but Virgilio kept on talking, oblivious.

  “Some people think it’s out there—Yoandry, for one—but I don’t think so,” he said. “Somebody somewhere would have seen it by now, would have reported it back to us. I’ve seen a million Tiffany lamps here, or lamps that people think are Tiffanies, but are really god knows what. Still, nothing’s even come close to what this thing was supposed to be. I mean, this is a small island, it’s not like you could hide something like that.”

  “Yeah, but didn’t you say no one knows if it was even made? Wouldn’t that mean that no one knows what it would even look like? How would you identify it?”

  “Yeah, I know, that’s the problem precisely,” said the sparkly man. “I’ve told Yoandry this but he insists. I guess it’s a way of dreaming for him, for everybody who hears about it. A Cuban holy grail, I guess, something magical to look for. Something good finally, eh?”

  A few days after Virgilio’s revelations, with Usnavy still roiled by all of their possibilities, Frank showed up out of nowhere on Tejadillo. “Muchachón!” he shouted, hitting the door with the bottom of his hand.

  “What the hell do you want?” asked a snarling Usnavy as he opened up.

  He was in no mood for Frank and his twisted jokes, no mood at all for his not-so-funny and often cruel shenanigans. Lidia had left to price another Lada and all he really wanted to do was sit in the darkness and hold his head. A snotty Nena was off to school, whirling through the city on her bike. She disappeared for hours now, for what seemed like days, showing up late at night, immune to his and Lidia’s grievances, and vanishing again at daybreak. Just the night before he’d caught her, he was certain, conspiring with the fleeing neighbors. She’d been whispering with some boys, passing them pieces of rope and wire from the stash Usnavy now kept to sell to Yoandry.

  “What the hell are you thinking?” he’d asked, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arm as he yanked her away. He was so angry that she might actually want to leave—he didn’t give a damn about the rope and wire—that he had to keep himself from hurling her against the wall or otherwise hurting her.

  “Is it any different from what you’re doing, huh? Is it?” she’d responded, her breath hot, her eyes moist and red.

  As a result, Usnavy had woken up frazzled, his head throbbing and feverish. Looking out at Frank now, he scowled and spit.

  “Whoa!” said Frank, throwing his hands up in the air as if in surrender. “What’s up with you today?” Usnavy noticed his friend’s heavy new watch, an anchor around his thin wrist: Money changing was apparently very good business these days.

  “I’m asleep and you’re bothering me, that’s what,” Usnavy said.

  It may have been the first time in their lives that Usnavy had talked back to him, and Frank couldn’t hide his surprise. But Usnavy’s muscles were in knots.

  “Hey, I just came to see how you were, if maybe somebody was sick. We haven’t seen you at the game in a while and the folks at the bodega said you’re on some kind of leave.”

  “That’s because they won’t fire me,” Usnavy said, disgusted. “I haven’t been there since I can’t remember when, but, you know, I’m an exemplary worker so they don’t have the guts to fire me. Who will explain it?”

  Frank shifted his weight, tucked his shirt in. “Well, we haven’t fired you either,” he said. His Anthony Quinn face was soft around the edges of an incipient smile, rubbery and brown, like when they were boys together and he’d run home from his Quaker school, full of ideas he’d share with Usnavy and the others. They’d sit i
n awe of him, hearing him recount his knowledge, then they’d argue—Diosdado would start—and Frank would rub his then hairless chin.

  “We’re waiting for you, even Diosdado,” said Frank, with his old voice, the slightly chagrined voice that he could never use to pronounce love and which always betrayed him. “And that’s in spite of the fact that you are not an exemplary player and are, in fact, salao.” Frank laughed and slapped Usnavy’s shoulder.

  But Usnavy was not amused. He was sick of being the butt of jokes, sick of being the extra man in the games. (If Obdulio returned tomorrow, he knew he’d lose his spot at the domino table, and that burned him.) Usnavy turned back into his room and returned with a huge wad of dollar bills.

  “See this?” he said, holding the cash in Frank’s stunned face, fanning the bills out with his fingers. The dollars were as crisp and green as lettuce. “Ever seen anything like this, huh? My friend, I am hardly the one who’s salao.”

  And with that he slammed the door on a startled Frank and retired again to his cot, where he sprawled out on cool new sheets. He’d been listening to a Miami radio station earlier and he knew one thing for sure: It was going to rain later. In fact, it was going to pour.

  Usnavy raged as he finally put his new multilevel shoe to the pedal of his new (used) Trek and headed to Tejadillo at the end of another day of scavenging. Forms blurred. The night smelled of sewage and salt, then a sudden flash of fragrance—something French perhaps, expensive. A tourist no doubt. Usnavy shook his head for clarity. His bike zigzagged through a maze of watermelon rinds thrown on the street. They looked like boats, overturned boats, a legion of boats.

  In the beginning, there was water everywhere.

  This is what he knew: His father had disappeared into the sea. He had vanished, over the rolling blue hills, into the horizon.

  The damned circumstance.

  On the Malecón, there was a party, a dance of some sort, spines curling. Nearby, a band was playing—a live band, a band in a house or apartment, a band with hand instruments—bongos, cajón, maracas, chekeré—chak chak chak—a rough rum voice. He thought he could see the singer’s saliva misting the air.