The Neruda Case

by Roberto Ampuero

  “That’s my friend,” Sammy said, pointing at the musician on the stage. “Paquito D’Rivera.”

  They had to wait for the rehearsal to end to get a word with him. They were plagued by thirst and heat, as the bar was always closed at this hour. Nevertheless, the wait was worthwhile, as they enjoyed the music and the Lanceros de Cohiba cigars supplied by Cayetano. Soon the dancers took the stage, shaking their hips, accompanied by a few slim, agile performers in ruffles and wide belts, bearing thick makeup and smiles. The show became deafening when the Irakere band electrified the afternoon with their wind instruments and drums. Cayetano thought of the poet, with his notion of life as a parade of disguises, and it occurred to him that Neruda was right, that life was actually the way he’d envisioned. After those women danced, with their narrow waists, firm thighs, and sharp, provocative scent, Paquito played another solo on the clarinet. He sat on a stool at the center of the stage, marked time with his foot, and poured out a medley of nostalgic Cuban songs, eyes closed, like a magician extracting silk scarves from a great hat with moves learned by heart. Paquito had narrowly escaped ruin, Sammy told them; he had managed to cling to a job and an instrument despite the inquisition unleashed by Luis Pavón, the minister of culture who condemned anyone who criticized the government. Saumell, the director of Irakere, had saved Paquito from ending up in one of those remote town bands after losing his place in the Tropical Orchestra of Havana when he was labeled a gusano. Saumell had called him in those days, and said, “My friend, come play with us. I don’t give a damn about this gusano business.”

  “Could you do it?” Sammy asked Paquito, after explaining why he needed eight tickets to the Tropicana. The clarinetist, still stroking his instrument, said they could count on him as long as this was for a good cause and not on behalf of some commie.

  “A good cause? There’s no better cause on this whole island than Cayetano Brulé,” Sammy assured him, taking off his baseball cap and baring the white hair on his small head.

  “In that case, don’t give it another thought,” Paquito D’Rivera replied. “You’ll have a table right in front of the stage, but, please, don’t get me involved in any problems. I’ve already got enough of those. And now stick around, I’ve just ordered mojitos to my tab. You’ve got to enjoy these boleros we’ve arranged for Saumell’s orchestra.”

  27

  Late that humid night, Cayetano Brulé and Heberto Padilla walked down dark streets scented with jasmine and flooded with the sounds of people chatting on their stoops, until they reached the door of the National Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba, or UNEAC, armed with the promise that Paquito D’Rivera would obtain a table at the Tropicana for the head of security. The success of their mission depended on this, Cayetano thought as he watched Heberto wipe sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

  The winds seemed to be blowing in their favor that night, as he’d received a message from Ángela, which he carried in his pocket: she would meet him the next day at seven in the evening, in Miramar, at the plaza in front of the Belgian embassy. The prospect of seeing her again renewed his hopes of finding some sort of reconciliation here in Cuba, far from the political turmoil of Chile. The streets of El Vedado smelled of young men decked out for the night. A cardboard sign at the union’s iron gate announced a reading by Ernesto Cardenal, the bearded poet from Solentiname who always appeared in a white tunic.

  When they tried to enter the front garden, a man with a gaunt face, glasses, and a well-groomed beard like Don Quixote’s blocked their way.

  “Your card,” he said to Heberto, standing in front of the doorman’s stall. He held a copy of Casa de las Américas magazine in his hand.

  Heberto gave him identification.

  “I mean your UNEAC card, not your regular ID.”

  “I’m a poet.”

  “Your UNEAC card.”

  Heberto dug nervously through the pockets of his pants and shirt. “I think it’s just been stolen.”

  “Well, if you don’t have it, you can’t come in. UNEAC is only for writers and artists.”

  “I’ve already told you I’m a poet.”

  “That’s what you say, just as I could say I’m Mikhail Bulgakov, who, of course, I have no desire to be. Only your UNEAC card proves you are a poet, novelist, or artist. If you don’t have one, you aren’t one. It’s that simple.”

  “I had it,” Heberto mumbled, glancing at Cayetano. “I had it and I lost it.”

  “Did you lose it or did they confiscate it?” Quixote asked him with a withering look.

  “I think it got lost, comrade.”

  The doorman became as silent as a bishop. His gaze was malevolent; his jaw trembled with impatience.

  “And you?” he asked Cayetano. “Another undocumented poet?”

  “I’m a tourist. And it seems that I won’t be able to enter, either.”

  “That’s an entirely different story, my friend. Our revolutionary government goes to great lengths to welcome tourist comrades who break from the confines of imperialism. You may even be able to enter UNEAC. Where are you from?”

  “Chile.”

  “In that case, right this way. And tell the writers and poets inside about Allende and the Chilean people’s struggles to build a socialist state. The youth here have such a good time of it that they even idealize the brutalities of capitalism.”

  “Don’t worry. I certainly will. And can this Cuban poet come with me, since we’re together?”

  “Let’s say I accept that he’s Cuban and that he’s with you, but the part about being a poet is still unproven. Whom do you want to see?”

  “Remigio,” replied Heberto. Belkis had told them that this was the man who oversaw security for UNEAC, and that his office was next to that of Nicolás Guillén, the permanent president of the institution. Among other duties, Remigio examined the reasons foreigners gave for inviting Cuban writers and poets to appear abroad. He scoured these cases in search of attempts at escape or treason.

  “So you’re here to see Comrade Remigio?” the doorman asked, now affable.

  Between the bars, the UNEAC mansion brimmed with lights and gave the neighborhood an air of unreality.

  “Exactly. We came to visit Comrade Remigio,” Heberto said, emboldened. “Can we pass?”

  “That’s all you needed.”

  “So is Remigio a poet or a novelist?” Cayetano asked Heberto as they walked through the vast garden to the white mansion that housed Cuba’s official intellectuals.

  28

  As soon as Remigio saw Cayetano and Heberto entering his office, he invited them out for a walk on El Vedado. Cayetano was reluctant to leave the cool office, with its stately lamps and closed shutters—he would have preferred to stay and catch his breath, but in the end they went down to the first floor and walked down a cool hallway lined with beveled mirrors. In the event room, a few women spoke loudly to each other as they set up seats and a microphone for Cardenal’s reading. They went out onto the street, ignoring Don Quixote, who was engrossed in his magazine, red pen in hand.

  “Did you get it for me?” Remigio asked as they walked toward Línea, passing signs extolling the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution and calling on citizens to report for duty as night guards.

  “Don’t you worry. A table for six, this coming Saturday. It’s right in front of the steps where the dancers take the stage,” Heberto said. “Just call Paquito at the Tropicana on Friday night, and leave him a message.”

  Remigio breathed a sigh of relief. They continued on shaded streets, weaving past people taking refuge from the heat in doorways, where they chatted or played dominoes. “We’d better take our coffee in Línea,” he said. “The walls have ears around here.”

  He was a slender man, with nervous gestures and a baritone voice. He wore sunglasses, a Rolex that seemed fake, and a Lacoste-style shirt. He smelled of Old Spice. He walked with an energetic pace, his face severe, as though burdened by the larger problems of humanity.

/>   An enormous crowd had formed in front of the café. Remigio waved his state security badge and opened the way for the three of them just before a 132 line Leyland with rattling pistons stopped in front of the place, crammed with people. The engine emitted hot steam that stank of burned oil and petroleum. The driver, who sported a comb in his Angela Davis Afro, disembarked with a decisive air, trailed by a mob of caffeine addicts.

  “Well, I obtained some of what you asked me for,” Remigio said. In his student days, he’d succeeded in having one of his stories featured among the finalists of the March Thirteenth Literary Contest at the University. Perhaps that was why he now held the reins at UNEAC. “It’s not much, but it might give you something.”

  They drank their coffee, leaning on the bar, in the midst of the noise and shoves of people struggling for their turn.

  “Well? What do you know about Beatriz?” Heberto asked.

  Remigio rubbed the face of his watch, worried about one of its hands, which had come loose. “First: that woman isn’t Cuban.”

  “We already know she’s Mexican,” Heberto said in irritation. “And that she was married to a Cuban doctor by the name of Bracamonte, and that she lived in Mexico in the forties.”

  “It turns out she isn’t Mexican, either.”

  “What?” Cayetano put down the little cup of coffee, the best he’d had in years. “Not Mexican? What the hell is she, then?”

  “Before I answer, I want you, Heberto, to clarify one thing, because at this point I’m not playing around: are you sure about the table in the Salon Under the Stars this Saturday? There are several of us who want to go hear Irakere.”

  “I’m sure, my friend. So what nationality is she?”

  “German.”

  “German?” Cayetano repeated, incredulous. The Leyland had resumed its route, snorting like a bull in heat, leaving behind the passengers who were still waiting for their taste of coffee. Outside, as the three of them walked back toward Paseo, they were assailed by a sea breeze that rose from the Malecón, its scent blended with the odor of asphalt from the street.

  “German,” Remigio said again.

  “And she’s in Cuba?”

  “Beatriz, widow of Bracamonte, whose maiden name is Beatriz Lederer, spent only two years here with her daughter.”

  “What was her daughter’s name?”

  “Tina Bracamonte.”

  “And what did Beatriz do here?”

  “She worked as a translator in a department of the East German embassy, here in El Vedado, near the Hotel Nacional. And Tina studied at a school in Marianao. They left the island eleven years ago.”

  “In 1962? Where did they go?”

  “To Berlin, my friend. To the German Democratic Republic. To live behind the anti-fascist wall, as they call it.”

  “What for?”

  “How do I know!”

  “Then what?”

  “Then nothing, man. One morning in 1962, at the José Martí Airport, by the steps to an Aeroflot plane, the footprints of Beatriz Lederer and Tina Bracamonte disappeared forever from the island of Cuba. Now, what’s that Paquito’s number?”

  29

  The night was as fragile as a Swarovski statuette when Cayetano saw his wife below the hibiscus trees of Zapata Plaza, in Miramar. Along Quinta Avenue a Zil of the Youth Workers’ Brigade passed, heading east, laden with singing troops, as well as a Leyland packed with passengers down to its stairwells. His wife—whom he still considered as such, since they were, after all, still legally married—had just disembarked from a blue Lada, which was waiting for her nearby, its lights off. She was wearing the olive-green uniform of the Armed Revolutionary Forces, or FAR, which disturbed him.

  “What are you doing in Cuba?” she asked after kissing his cheek.

  “I’m on a mission. What’s with the uniform?”

  “I’m doing what I told you about before. I’m a woman who lives by her word.”

  Cayetano gazed at the thick trunks of the hibiscus trees, which resembled twisted anacondas, then returned his attention to Ángela. With her hair pulled back under her soldier’s hat, her uniform fitted to her curves, her face tanned by days spent out in the sun, she looked more beautiful than ever.

  “You look great,” he managed, and stroked his mustache, feeling insecure.

  “And you’re on a mission? Here?”

  “As you see.”

  “It makes you seem more mature. How long will you be on the island?”

  “Two or three more days,” he replied, giving himself an air of importance and aloofness. In reality he would have liked to propose that they give it another shot, that as soon as she finished her training at Punto Cero, they should try to get back together in Valparaíso. If there was still love between them, they should give it another chance. Things could change when they returned to Chile; one day the country would regain its stability, and he also held out hope that the poet might recover his health and help him find work among his legion of contacts. Perhaps it was just a matter of trying, he thought, of giving it one more chance. But he said nothing, and only her voice was heard.

  “I’m going to stay here a few months. The situation in Chile is getting worse. We’re approaching the hour of truth—or, as they say here, the hour of the mamey fruit, that Caribbean mango.”

  “So what are your plans?”

  “If you’re on a mission, then you know they can’t be discussed.”

  He had to admit she was right. They sat down on a marble bench, still warm from the sun, and looked at each other in silence. He was captivated by Ángela’s fine features and full, delicate lips. The night was turning into jet-black linen, warm, fragrant, and impenetrable.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” Ángela said, looking at her hands, the nails now chipped and dirty.

  “Really? In what way?”

  “I’ve been thinking about how I still don’t understand why you don’t return here for good.”

  “So we can be close?”

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Cayetano, but I honestly feel that what we had can’t be salvaged. You should go back to your own life. There’s nothing like the land where you were born.”

  “Is there someone else?” He felt as though he’d plagiarized the question right out of the soap opera An Italian Girl Comes to Get Married.

  “No, nothing like that. You think I’m in any mood to start another relationship? The best thing for you would be to go home to your roots. This is where you’re from, not Miami or Valparaíso.”

  Exiles should never return to their homeland, he thought. Nostalgia laid traps and played tricks. Nobody was built for the strain of return. Disappointment was always waiting on the arrivals platform. People were made to remain in the place where they were born; that was the only way of living without nostalgia. And one should never return, one should always leave for good. Nostalgia fed the illusion that returns were possible, that lost paradise itself could be regained.

  “Your dream is a mirage,” he said in a firm, steady voice, as if he were sitting on another bench, spying on the scene from a distance. “If the war you’re preparing for does arrive, you have no chance of winning it. The Chilean army is nothing like that of Fulgencio Batista. Who’s making young idealists like you martyr themselves in the name of a cause that, however just, is impossible to attain?”

  “Don’t talk that way, out of respect for this uniform if nothing else, Cayetano. There’s no other way to defend Allende. If we don’t take up arms, the right will stage a coup. And if they did that, more people would die than in a battle of equals.”

  “Don’t you realize that you’re dealing with a professional army?”

  “What do you want me to do?” she said in a raised, angry voice, and she stood up and tore off her hat. Her hair spilled copiously over her shoulders, and her cheekbones became more prominent under her tanned skin. “Renounce my role as a revolutionary, in the tradition of Manuel Rodríguez and Che, so I can go back to Valparaíso with yo
u to wait for the army to rebel? Or to put down my weapons and take up yarn and knitting needles so I can make you a scarf while the enemy prepares for a coup?”

  “I just don’t want you to risk your life.”

  “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees! And that’s not just a slogan!”

  He was about to tell her to calm down a little when the Lada at the edge of the park turned on and flashed its lights a couple of times.

  “I should go,” murmured Ángela.

  Cayetano stood up, feeling like a man sentenced to death who no longer sees the point in begging for his life or one more minute of time. He approached her and held her tightly to his chest.

  “I had to say it, Ángela.” As he kissed her cheeks, he recognized the Coco Chanel she always wore. She was the same bourgeois girl as always.

  “I won’t forget you so easily,” she assured him. “I was happy with you. Do you remember the cabin we used to dream about building on some Caribbean beach?”

  “And the three children we were going to have, who wouldn’t go to school, but would be free to roam instead?”

  She kissed his lips and hurried off through the park, hat in hand, her hair loose around her shoulders like a shawl. Cayetano followed her with his gaze until she disappeared into the car. The Lada drove off down Quinta Avenue, toward Havana, and then he was alone, listening to the muffled, anonymous whispers of the night and the rapid drumming of his heart. He thought it had begun to rain, but then realized there were no drops on the lenses of his glasses; the tears in his eyes had blurred Miramar’s hibiscus trees.