“Excuse me?”
“Pato Macho. Was it an issue or were you okay with it?”
Is she talking about a male duck?
“I am not following you, sorry. Did you say ‘duck’?”
“Pato Macho is an alias, obviously. His real name is Yosvani Álvarez. Sound familiar?”
“I’ve never heard that name.”
“Are you sure?” She stressed the last word.
“I would remember if I had, señora.”
Matt was translating the respectful term “ma’am” in English, but that was a faux pas. Lieutenant Martínez frowned.
“Call me compañera, please,” she said. “By the way, how old are you?”
“Thirty-six, compañera.”
“How old was citizen Yarmila Portal Richards?”
Matt paused before answering. He had all but forgotten Yarmila’s second last name. Her maternal grandfather had been from Jamaica—she’d told Matt when he asked about that English-sounding surname.
“Did you hear me?”
“Twenty-four. Or twenty-five. I don’t remember.”
Shouldn’t they know that? Why is she asking me?
“How long were you involved with the deceased?”
The deceased. God.
“Around a year.”
“A whole year?”
“Almost a year, if you want to be exact. We met in person last summer. But we had been writing to each other for several months before.”
“How much time did you spend together—in person, as you said?”
“Two weeks.”
“Are you sure?” she repeated.
“Well—more like ten days.”
“You didn’t see her again afterwards?”
“No. But we talked on the phone. We—”
“So you barely knew her, right? She was more like an acquaintance, wasn’t she? Not a real girlfriend.”
Don’t put it like that, bitch.
“That’s not accurate, compañera,” he said as politely as he could.
“How so?”
“We were in contact all the time. We emailed daily. I called her once a week. We communicated on a regular basis. We had a relationship.”
“And because you had ‘a relationship,’ you were planning to marry her and take her to your country afterwards, eh?”
Her tone was neutral but Matt sensed the sarcasm and saw it flicker in her pupils. He knew that Yarmila couldn’t have possibly left Cuba with him after their wedding. Once they were married, he would have had to petition her as an immediate relative, a convoluted legal process that could stretch out for months, even a year.
“Compañero? Did you understand what I said?”
“Yes, yes. I had invited her to visit me in San Diego first. Then we’d go from there.”
While this wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t the truth either. But he left it at that. Lieutenant Martínez sighed. When their eyes met again, Matt saw a flash of pity in them, instead of the earlier scorn.
“Did you send her money very often?” she asked.
“Every two or three months.”
“When was the last time?”
“Let me think. It was . . . around a month ago.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“What for?”
“I’m not sure—I believe part of it went to her friend’s restaurant.”
“Ah! So you do know about the paladar.”
“She told me she cooked there occasionally.”
He was going to add that Yarmila had bought a share, or whatever they called it in Cuba, of La Caldosa, but decided not to bring it up. He thought it might be illegal, not that it mattered now.
“Let’s see. You meet this citizen, spend ten days with her, don’t see her face to face again, send her tons of money,” Lieutenant Martínez paused here for effect, “and come back ready to marry her. Is that correct?”
“Yes, compañera,” Matt let the reference to “tons of money” slip. “That’s correct.”
It’s not worth trying to explain anything to Culo Grande. A few hundred dollars may sound like a million to her. Why bother?
“I must assume at this point that you had no idea she was involved with another man.”
With another man. Con otro hombre. The Spanish words echoed inside Matt’s head and it took him a few seconds to translate and fully understand them. When their meaning sank in, he willed himself to keep quiet and show no emotion. But his shoulders dropped and his heart fell to the level of Lieutenant Martínez’s boots.
“She had a lover, a citizen known as Pato Macho,” she went on. “They had been together since last October.”
It was his turn to ask, “Are you sure?” but the irony dissolved in the slight quiver of his voice. He fixed his eyes on the newspaper while she spoke.
“Absolutely. Most of her friends and neighbors knew. It wasn’t like they were making a big effort to hide it.”
The words hurt him more than Lieutenant Martínez could have imagined. Matt’s first wife, a nurse at Scripps Hospital, had divorced him after three years of marriage. Then he found out that she had been having an affair with a doctor for months. Matt had mentioned it to Yarmila, something he would later regret. She asked if the other guy was a Latino. “No, a gringo just like me,” Matt answered, but her question had left a bad taste in his mouth. Now he felt it again, in all its bitterness.
“Yarmi never—I do not believe that,” he said.
Lieutenant Martínez didn’t attempt to convince him. “Is there anything else that you would like to share about citizen Yarmila or your relationship with her? Anything that could help us?”
Right, after the bomb you just dropped.
“Not really.”
“It’s getting late and you’ve been here long enough. I’ll be back with some papers for you to sign.”
She left the office. Matt looked at Castro’s photo as if asking him for an explanation.
You know what, compañero? Yarmi loved me. I loved her. I don’t care what that fat-assed broad said. It’s a mental game. Now, does she want me to sign papers admitting that I am guilty of something? Guilty of what?
He remembered a perplexing document called a “certificate of single status” that he had practically forged. Notaría Internacional, the only office where marriage ceremonies between Cubans and foreigners were performed in Havana, required this as part of the documentation necessary for a wedding. None of the attorneys Matt had consulted in San Diego or Tijuana had ever heard of it. In the end, he took his divorce papers to a notary public with a letter he himself had written where he stated, in English and Spanish, that he wasn’t married anymore, which made him “single” by default. The notary, who advertised in El Grito and was a friend, peppered the page with seals and stamps that made it look awfully official. The letter was in his backpack. He now wondered if the Cuban authorities had deemed it fake.
But it was the closest thing to a certificate of single status that I could come up with! Damn cop. She made it sound as if I were an idiot. Yes, I bought the wedding dress and brought my papers without consulting with Yarmila first . . . I was hoping that we could make it work, despite our age difference and the little time we had spent together. But that doesn’t make me a pendejo. A pendejo in Havana—what would Estrada say about all this?
Lieutenant Martínez came back with a form that had the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria stamp on its upper right corner. There were a few handwritten lines about Matt’s status as a person of interest in a current investigation, but no mention of Yarmila’s death. She asked him to sign it and stapled the form to a photocopy of the first pages of his passport. Then she handed everything to him.
“Thanks for your time and cooperation, compañero,” she said, without any detectable irony. “Have a
good night.”
“What about my passport?”
“We are keeping it until you are cleared.”
“Cleared of what? Do you guys think that I killed her?”
“Not at all. The citizen had most likely been dead for several hours before you arrived in Cuba. But we may need to talk to you again.”
Matt was about to complain, but changed his mind. He was in no position to argue.
“If you want to rent a room in a hotel, this letter,” Martínez pointed to the stamped document, “will explain to the manager why you don’t have a passport now. Are you carrying any other kind of identification?”
“My driver’s license.”
“Everything should be fine,” she said. “But if there is any problem, tell the hotel manager or the owner of the casa particular to contact me.”
She wrote a phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to him. Her fingers brushed against his. They were soft, warm—electric.
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
At Yarmi’s apartment, he’d thought. But now—“I’m not sure.”
“You have to let me know.”
He tried to recall the name of the motel where he had stayed during his first visit. It was near a college campus. Was it Colima, like the Mexican city? Colina? Then he flashed back to his last conversation with Yarmila, when she had mentioned that La Caldosa’s owner had a casa particular—a private home where foreigners could rent rooms, bed-and-breakfast style. Yarmila had assured him that her friend’s casa was cheaper and more comfortable than a state-owned hotel. He had talked to Isabel on the phone once and hoped that she’d remember him.
“I’ll stay with the owner of La Caldosa,” he said. “That’s a restaurant on Salvador Allende Avenue.”
“Yes, the same paladar where citizen Yarmila used to work,” replied Lieutenant Martínez, and added with a shrug, “I find it a little strange that you want to go there, if you don’t mind me saying so. But it’s your choice. One of my compañeros will take you.”
Why strange? Should I ask her? No, I’ll keep my mouth shut. The sooner I’m out of here, the better.
They walked together to the lobby, where his belongings had been left in a corner. Martínez stopped to admire the bridal gown. For a few moments she looked like a young, starry-eyed girl hiding behind a uniform. But she soon shifted back to her official pose. She gave Matt his backpack and made a point of taking out his wallet and counting the $2,025 he had brought. She also examined his driver’s license and compared the picture to his face.
“You are thinner here,” she said.
He had gained twenty pounds in the three years he had been interviewing chefs for El Grito and Foodalicious.
“It’s not recent,” he answered.
She looked him up and down and Matt felt self-conscious and shy. Lieutenant Martínez was over six feet tall, her colossal butt the perfect match for her tropical Valkyrie body.
“Don’t hesitate to call if you remember something that can help us,” she said officiously. “And let me know tomorrow if you are going to stay at—La Caldosa for sure.”
He nodded.
“Remember that it’s in your best interest. The revolution has thousands of eyes and ears, so you can’t hide from us. You can’t leave Cuba without your passport anyway.”
“I understand.”
She gestured for the chubby cop to join them. “Gordo, take the compañero to the corner of Salvador Allende Avenue and Espada Street, to a paladar called La Caldosa.”
Gordo lifted the suitcase with an “uff.”
“It has wheels,” Matt said.
“Ah, good! Comrade Lieutenant, may I go home afterwards?” Gordo asked. “It’s past 8:00 p.m.”
“Fine, but bring the cruiser back to the Unidad first.”
Lieutenant Martínez escorted them to the police car. After they both got in, Gordo took a last look at his officer’s retreating back as she returned to the station.
“Tremendo mujerón,” he said, which Matt translated mentally as “one heck of a woman.”
He nodded in agreement and the cruiser sped away.
Chapter Six
Rice, Chicken, Tocinillo
Matt’s entrance in La Caldosa caught every patron’s eye. It was quite an unusual sight: a foreign-looking guy with a backpack over one shoulder and a wedding dress draped over the other arm, escorted by a fat cop carrying a huge suitcase.
“Like an alien landing on the wrong planet,” one of the Cuban girls said.
Her friend giggled. The Germans maintained their blank expressions. Matt hesitated, but the salty aroma of fried chicken encouraged him to take a tentative step inside. Gordo, who seemed to enjoy rolling the suitcase on the floor, left it next to the kitchen after peering through the rattan curtain.
“Here you are, compañero,” he said. “Good night.”
After Gordo left, Matt stood by the door, confused and a little incredulous. Was this supposed to be Yarmila’s friend’s booming business? He had imagined a different scene—sort of a rustic tavern, homely maybe, but not a cramped, crowded living room. He surveyed the tourists and their companions, the young Cuban couple, and the lonely guy in white.
It was Taty who came to his rescue while Isabel and Luis remained speechless behind the curtain.
“Hi, mister, welcome to La Caldosa, home of the amazing arroz con pollo a la Isabel!” he said, with an exaggerated flourish of his hands. “Make yourself at home. Table for one?”
“Yes, please.”
Luis finally reacted and led him to a table.
“I’m Yarmila’s boyfriend,” Matt explained, though the word “boyfriend,” novio, sounded juvenile and silly. But he couldn’t remember the Spanish term for fiancé.
“Alabao! You are the Yuma!” Isabel came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Yes, señora. Er, compañera. I’m Matt.”
“I’m so sorry, Mateo. So sorry!” She hugged him. “What a tragedy!”
“I know how you must be feeling,” Luis said. “We are in shock. Terrible, isn’t it?”
Matt swallowed hard and nodded. Isabel hugged him. She smelled like grease and spices.
“Thanks for stopping by, Mateo,” she said. “We were very concerned about you.”
“I didn’t know where else to go,” Matt admitted. “I was detained for a few hours and I’m still trying to figure out what to do.”
Padrino watched him closely. He was chewing a piece of chicken, savoring the crunchiness of it.
“Would you like to try our arroz con pollo?” Isabel asked. “You are probably devastated by your loss but—”
“One still needs to eat,” Matt replied with a weak, guilty smile.
He dropped his backpack on the floor and looked for a chair where he could put the wedding dress. Isabel took it gently and placed it on top of the suitcase.
“Sit down, Mateo,” she said. “Luis, bring him water and a beer. I’ll take care of the food.”
The rich flavors of the rice and chicken lifted Matt’s spirits. He remembered a saying that Yarmila used to quote on her blog: barriga llena, corazón contento. Full belly, happy heart. Not really happy, of course, but at the very least at peace, and not starving anymore. Isabel and Luis hovered over him, bringing more salad, more chicken, another beer, touching his shoulders, making him feel welcomed and cared for. Even the guy in white, who had seemed spooky at first with his strange necklaces and bracelet, began to look friendly. He raised a Cristal beer to Matt and said “a su salud,” to your health, before drinking directly from the bottle.
When Matt was done with the main dish Isabel insisted he try a black bean soup, potaje de frijoles negros, that she had made for herself and Luis, not their patrons. The potaje was comfort food at its best: the creaminess of the beans, the tang of orange
-marinated pork, and a hint of cumin, as subtle as it should be.
While Matt ate, Isabel kept glancing at the suitcase and the wedding dress.
“I could take your luggage inside,” she suggested.
“Please, do,” Matt said, relieved. “Give the dress to—somebody. Anyone who wants it. Or sell it, if you can. Whatever.”
Isabel avoided his eyes.
“There are some kitchen gadgets and cookware in the suitcase. Everything is for you guys.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that!” she protested.
“We can’t accept it,” Luis said.
“Come on, that’s why I brought them. These are things she told me you could use.”
He wouldn’t hear about Isabel and Luis paying for anything. He also told them to keep the gifts he had brought for Yarmila: the calendar, the apron and the dream catcher.
“Would you like more soup?” Isabel asked.
“That would be great,” Matt said, adding with an embarrassed grin, “I normally don’t eat that much.”
“You need it, dear.”
After serving him a second bowl of frijoles negros and more avocado and onion salad, Isabel and Luis excused themselves, took the suitcase to the kitchen and opened it with childlike interest. Matt heard their hushed exclamations: “Look at this, incredible . . . and everything is new!” Isabel squealed in delight when she discovered the rice cooker, and Matt hated her for having forgotten Yarmila so quickly. Then he remembered what Lieutenant Martínez had said about a guy nicknamed Pato Macho and took another helping of black beans.
No, that’s ridiculous! I don’t believe it for a minute. Yarmi couldn’t have cheated on me. She’d never said she would follow him to San Diego, but that was natural: she needed time to think it over. She had lived here her whole life. And Matt had liked the fact that she wasn’t anxious to leave—it meant she wasn’t using him to escape from a bad situation. She was a nice, honest, college-educated girl. Lieutenant Culo Grande doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
Isabel and Luis acted so thankful when they came back that he forgave them for their happiness. They hugged him again and said that his help meant “a million pesos” to them.
Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Page 5