The Clairvoyant of Calle Ocho

by Anjanette Delgado

  Maybe I was making a big production out of stupid bad luck. Olivia had probably woken to the noise, realized Hector wasn’t sleeping beside her, and found out the horrible news along with the rest of Coffee Park, the news being nothing more than that he’d had some wine, felt like smoking a cigar, and crossed the street to smoke in peace and get some fresh air. That he’d then had a mild stroke and fell, hitting his head and dying from the concussion.

  Yes, and maybe, I was this much full of shit.

  I was grasping for light, thinking this and that and trying to infuse each thought with the energy of true sight. But it wasn’t. And I wasn’t seeing a thing. Can you imagine how crazy it made me that I hadn’t even been able to see what Olivia knew until she chose to reveal it to me? If after all the meditating, praying, reading, and rereading of my great-great-grandma’s journal, I still couldn’t see beyond my own nose, how would I ever reach Hector, find out what really happened to him, say a proper good-bye, or make my peace with death, his, and maybe my mother’s?

  The one good thing was that I had the letter. Well, one of them at least. The other one was probably in the bottom of the recycling bin, and I just needed to search for it a little better before the recycling truck came and destroyed it.

  I went back to my red armchair where my inherited medium’s “workbook” still lay, knowing that all the reading in the world was not going to be enough, and that I’d need help if I was to get some peace by bringing Hector into my space and trying to speak to him. But it was a start, so I kept reading. The journal had sections on working with energy, clairvoyance-inducing foods, practice exercises for reaching other dimensions in a minimum of time, and a troubleshooting section titled, “Remedios de Luz,” or “Remedies of Light,” which I read start to finish.

  Did you know sex increases your psychic ability?

  And that drinking coffee can kill your ability to access other dimensions, whereas clean water and very juicy or porous fruits and vegetables, such as watermelons and tomatoes, enhance it? I didn’t.

  And what about the fact that a mirror is one of the most powerful clairvoyance tools available?

  Now, I did know that mirrors are perfect for gazing into and visualizing the person or vision you are seeking coming into the mirror, like they do in old horror movies. Not only does it help your mind more potently “get” that it’s jumping between realms, but the fact that it’s a light-reflecting object gives it that much more strength.

  But what I didn’t know was that it comes with its own way for you to test if what you’re doing is working. According to my great-great-nana’s diario de clarividencia, when your visions are about to appear, the mirror will get cloudy or dark, as if misted with vintage dew from some day long ago.

  As I read through the list of tips, tricks, and other phone lines to the ghost world, it dawned on me that my mother had been wrong. Clairvoyance isn’t a gift. It’s a talent that has to be developed. It’s a craft that needs to be worked at every day. I saw now that I’d been wrong to renounce it, believing it was an intrinsic part of me, like an arm, instead of what it was: an ability that I could practice, or not, like singing or painting.

  I’d been so desperate to think that clairvoyance was as certain as the blood shared with the grandparents I’d never met, that I fell into the trap of writers who swear the muse just “takes over” and writes everything for them. As if this muse always worked perfectly unless something were wrong with you, the way my mother thought.

  For the first time, I saw that I’d just been too young when this “gift” was thrust at me. I understood that the pressure of pleasing my mother had turned something that could’ve been scary, but also fun and empowering, into something I was doing for the worst of all reasons: to be loved.

  And then I got to the end of the book, and there, in a long-dead clairvoyant’s handwriting, were the answers to all my psychic insecurities in the form of fortune cookie–like disclaimers:

  * Sight is not to be used for self-benefit alone. A higher purpose is needed, but it is possible to assist a more spiritually senior sister or brother of sight on your behalf.

  * Sight does not protect from evil. It attracts it.

  * The sight medium must have the purest of intentions when initiating contact with another realm, and be responsible for protecting herself and those she’s helping from evil energy.

  (See cures for protection.)

  You’d think these disclaimers would have been at the beginning of the darn book, right?

  And then, the next two made me gasp.

  * Sight is not perfect, clearly interpreted, or unfailing.

  * Strong emotions (love, fear, etc.) will cloud sight, especially with truth related to self, mother, father, sister, son, daughter, husband, or other that medium is bound to by love or fear, etc.

  Of course I didn’t see my mother’s illness! I loved her too much.

  So much pain, and the answer had been in this journal, a few feet from me, all this time. A surge of gratitude filled me and I dropped to my knees, thanking God and talking to my mother out loud, the words flowing from me like a torrent, my body lighter with every memory finally expressed. And even though I was not able to connect with her soul right then, I was still my mother’s daughter, and she’d loved me past her death, I knew, was suddenly sure, wise once more. She’d just been confused and worried and sad, like me. She’d read this journal dozens of times and had to know I wasn’t to blame. I faintly remembered her trying to tell me this, to reason with me back then, but I wasn’t listening. I thought she was just saying anything to save me from my own deserved guilt. She must’ve died hoping I’d one day read the journal, convince myself. And now that day had come, and it was as if my mother were kissing my hair again, her arms warm around me once more.

  I remembered I’d been about to do the same thing to myself again. Denying my ability and blaming myself even though I’d clearly seen Hector’s death psychically. I’d just been too ignorant of my own ability to know how to interpret it and inadequately armed with the weakest of intents: soothing my squashed ego.

  Well, no more. What I needed was the assistance of a real clairvoyant who could help me get my sight back, put myself back together again, and be who I’d been intended to be all along.

  Dusk was approaching quickly. I slipped on my flip-flops and padded over to Gustavo’s with a plan in mind, gave his door a strong pounding, and waited.

  “If I want to say hello, I’ll say hello. And if I want to do more than say hello, that is entirely my business and Jorge’s. You have a problem with that?” I asked the moment his face appeared between door and doorframe.

  “Ooooh-kay,” he said, one brow raised.

  “But I need you to give me his cell phone number,” I said in my most dignified tone.

  “I said okay. But if this is what I think it is, I want matchmaking credit for anything that develops.”

  “Stop being silly and give me his number.”

  “I could do that. Or maybe, we could let him make the first move.”

  “There’s no move. No one’s making any moves here.”

  “I already told him you wanted to say hello. Now, if he calls you after all the warnings I gave him, then whatever you do to him will be his own fault.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I’m saying I’ll feel better. It won’t be my fault. Seriously, Mariela, if you’d seen his face when I told him you wanted to see him, you’d leave him alone. He’s not like me, you know, with this advantage I have over the regular folk.”

  “Oh, yeah, and what would that be?”

  “I’ve told you: I have a knack for knowing what people are thinking,” he said, scrolling through what were apparently thousands of phone numbers on his cell phone, looking for Jorge’s.

  “Yes, you’re a real connoisseur of human nature, Gustavo.”

  “It’s my sculptor’s hands,” he said, halting his scrolling to hold his right one up. “They’re like X-ray machine
s for seeing into other people’s hearts, knowing what they want, you know what I mean? Now, when it comes to me, I’m screwed, but like you’re always saying, what you gonna do, right?”

  Welcome to the club, I thought, swatting a fly that had been greedily slurping away at my calf.

  “Let me go get my other cell phone ’cause I can’t find it in this one,” he said, leaving me to hold the door open while he did a deep squat to search under the cushions of his olive-green thrift store sofa.

  “Gustavo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Any news about . . . Abril?” I asked, hoping it was the reason for his seemingly improved mood.

  “Nope,” he said from somewhere on the other side of the sofa without a second’s hesitation.

  “Well, then ella se lo pierde,” I said, believing it really was Abril’s loss.

  He straightened up, second cell phone in hand, and shrugged his shoulders, but his expression reminded me of a cartoon character’s, face unexpectedly and resoundingly flattened by a foe’s heavy frying pan.

  “Times change, my friend. I’ve lost my touch,” he said, before reading out the number for me to punch into my own cell phone. “You know, speaking of change, Mariela, Jorge sure has changed a lot. He’s not the same man you knew when I used to hang out with him.”

  I doubted that it was as bad as Gustavo’s no-joke face was making it seem. I mean, how much more pot and partying could a human being take? But I was not going to ask.

  “Relax, I don’t want to date him, I just want to ask him about . . . a friend of his I met once and haven’t seen in a while.”

  Gustavo’s face relaxed.

  “Look at me, being nosy again.”

  “Very. Now go eat something. You’re losing your butt from not eating.”

  Normally, he’d have been ready with a wisecrack. Instead, he stood there for a moment, looking at the floor.

  “She won’t even talk to me, Mariela.”

  My God, that woman! Gustavo had done nothing but love and support Abril and Henry from the day he met them. If you won’t be nice to a guy for your own twisted reasons, at least you could break up with him decently because he was nice to your son.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to Gustavo.

  “What did I ever do that she won’t talk to me?”

  “It’s probably best that way. She may be protecting you,” I said to console him.

  “Protecting me? Oh, you mean, like so I don’t get my hopes up?” he asked as if the concept were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard of.

  “Exactly,” I said, not believing a word of it. “You men should try it sometime.”

  The sound of steps on the other side of the entry door interrupted us.

  “Well, this is probably a bad time, but would you believe I was in the neighborhood?”

  It was Jorge.

  “Speak of the devil. Was just giving Mariela your number, bro. Whassup, man?”

  He looked older in a good way, with his longish, shaggy hair cut short, his loose, whitewashed jeans and leather sandals, a navy blue letterpressed T-shirt, and a thick, hammered gold wedding band.

  “Mariela,” he said, stepping into the foyer to take my hands in his and give me a kiss on the cheek, before turning to Gustavo and doing that slap, slap, half a hug, slight push, bring the cheeks close, finish-with-a-grin thing men do instead of kissing.

  I stood there looking at their little greeting ritual and thinking about how one minute, I hadn’t seen him in months and thought seeing him again couldn’t be any bigger of a deal than Hector’s death, and the next, I wanted to hug him.

  “Mariela?” It was Gustavo bringing me to, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Oh, sorry. It’s been so long. How’ve you been, Jorge?”

  “I’m good. Everything’s good. Lots of changes, but all of them good.”

  “Still a chef ?” I asked, wanting to know if he was still happily married. (As you’ve seen, Gustavo evaded all my digs for information, when I wouldn’t come right out and ask openly for the pleasure of his male ego.)

  “Always.”

  “And your boys?”

  “Great. They’re great. Eliezer got married, and we’re doing a lot of things together.”

  Yes, I bet I had a good idea of what he and all his party-addicted chef friends were doing together, I thought, remembering just how much he’d been enjoying his life in the states when I met him, more than a decade after his arrival. The Jorge I knew equated liberty with the freedom to party until you forgot which country you were in, if not the one you’d come from.

  “Jorge has become an organic chef,” said Gustavo.

  (What is it with us Cubans? We always sound as if we’re selling something, making anything and everything so exuberantly appealing. Can we ever say something in the boring, regular, tedious way it really is? Nothing wrong with, “This is Jorge. He’s just a man who cooks. Nothing special to see here, folks. Just Jorge.”)

  “Actually, I still let some pesticides into my cooking once in a while,” he said, patting his stomach lightly. “But I have become very interested in cooking good, wholesome food and, my God, so sorry. Here I haven’t seen you in ages, and I’m off talking about myself.”

  “It’s all right,” I said, comforted by his presence, by his obvious affection for Gustavo, and by their banter.

  “It’s not. How are you?” he asked, taking me in.

  I sighed.

  “I’m good, good as can be, you know? And it’s good to see you.”

  “I’ve been wanting to call you, but—”

  “I’m glad you’re here now,” I interrupted, not wanting him to make excuses when his distance was nobody’s fault but mine. Still, I wouldn’t have minded a heads-up and time to comb my hair and put on some decent clothes. (I was wearing the same ratty tank top and jeans I’d worn to see Olivia.)

  “Gustavo said you needed to see me? What can I help with?”

  I looked at Gustavo, confused. (How did he know?)

  “About the tenant, Mariela. I told Jorge you wanted to say hello, but mostly to see if he knew of anyone who might be looking,” he said, smiling at me conspiratorially.

  Was he protecting me, keeping me from looking desperate? Or was he protecting Jorge from getting his hopes up?

  “Oh, of course,” said this new, more formal, more adult Jorge. “I read what happened. Must be tough.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Not the same apartment. Gustavo is talking about another vacancy I had this week.”

  “Oh, okay, well, sure, I’ll tell my guys in case they know of someone.”

  “No, it’s okay. It needs a lot of work first anyway.”

  “If I can help—”

  “It’s nothing really. Don’t worry about it. It’s not that much,” I said, forgetting I’d just said that it was. “But that’s not what I called you about.”

  “I see.” He nodded, looking into my eyes as if he did.

  And then it was like old times and we both turned our faces toward Gustavo.

  “Hey, don’t look at me. It seems to me you’re the ones blocking my doorstep,” he said. “This is Gustavo in his house, minding his own business, que conste.”

  “Yes, Gustavo, who speaks of himself in the third person,” said Jorge, smiling at me, falling into his old habit of teasing Gustavo for my benefit.

  “Oye, qué te pasa a ti, brother?” said Gustavo, protesting our ganging up on him. “You’re the lame one with your, ‘Would you believe I was in the neighborhood?’ Dude, really?”

  I smiled, wanting to talk to Jorge in private, but also wanting to put off having to say what I needed out loud.

  “So, how’s the wife?” asked Jorge, changing the subject.

  “The wife?” I asked, thinking I should be the one asking him that.

  “Your tenant’s wife?”

  “Oh. Oh my God. She’s okay, I guess. I mean, we’re . . . not exactly friends or anything,” I said, immediately getting the strange bu
t strong feeling that this was no longer true.

  “You know, if I can help,” he said again.

  “It’s so nice to see you again, Jorge,” I said, surprised at how nice it really felt.

  And then the vision came so quickly I didn’t have time to be surprised. Jorge was kneeling on a sopping wet grass carpet, howling an extended howl that went on forever and made the tree behind him contract slightly. It was horrible . . . like “aaaah-huuuuh-aaaaaggggg-hu-hu-haaaaaaaaaaaaaah-gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! ! ! !” or something like that, impossible to describe except by actually making the sound. He’d lost someone. I wondered if it had happened recently or if Hector’s death had made me hypersensitive, able to see things I never did before.

  “So how did he die?” Gustavo asked, gesturing toward the stairwell to mean Hector, while I asked the same thing mentally, but about the vision I’d just received.

  I was still a little shaken, but managed to muster:

  “They don’t know.”

  “Was it the wife? What do you call her?” asked Gustavo.

  “I used to call her Morticia. I am sorry I did that, and her name is Olivia from now on.”

  “I bet she did it,” he whispered to Jorge, who looked at me searchingly.

  I wondered if his eyes were asking what I was thinking: Had I ever done as his godmother had directed me to? Had I overcome my fear of clairvoyance? Was I a new Mariela?

  “So, Mariela, I have to get back,” said Jorge. “I left a small army wreaking havoc at the restaurant and it’s close to dinnertime. But I’ll come by to check on you soon, and whatever you need . . .”

  I hesitated for so long that Jorge looked pointedly at Gustavo, who put up his hands as if giving up and said, “I’ll talk to you two later,” before waving good night and closing his door.