In contrast with his slender body, the young man’s hands were big, with short, strong and knotted fingers—the hands of a stonemason.
Matt examined the place, still in shock. The walls were painted dark blue and the ceiling was Pepto-Bismol pink, a combination that made the space look smaller and claustrophobic. A toilet and a rudimentary shower had been built in a corner, with a white vinyl curtain separating them from the rest of the room. He tried to hide his frustration. The barely three-star Hotel Colina where he had stayed the previous year was a palace compared to this. He wondered why Yarmila had thought they would be better off here than in her own home—a real apartment with a real bathroom, after all.
“Do you like it?” Taty asked.
“Yes, it’s nice.”
“Breezy too. But if it gets too hot, turn on the fan.”
He pointed to a refurbished General Electric fan.
“I’m off now,” he smiled. “Unless you want company, of course.”
“I’d rather be alone.”
“Okay. Let us know if you need anything. We all go to bed late. Just don’t call at five in the morning! Have a great night, mis—er, don Mateo.”
Taty giggled and closed the door behind him. Matt dropped his backpack on the floor, flopped down on the bed and stared at the Pepto-Bismol ceiling.
Chin my fucking gao, as Estrada would say.
After a soapless room temperature shower (room temperature being close to eighty degrees), Matt dried himself with the same clothes he had been wearing all day long. There were no towels or toilet paper in sight. But he tried to keep a brave face.
This isn’t the Hyatt, but Isabel didn’t expect me to show up tonight. I’ll buy some toiletries tomorrow. It’s no big deal.
Feeling wired up and exhausted at once, he went outside and paced along the rooftop. It ended abruptly in a section that was missing the parapet. There was another building three feet away and he apprehensively eyed the chasm that separated them. An open door led to a staircase and he saw someone coming up.
Not wanting to be mistaken for a peeping tom, Matt moved in the opposite direction, back toward “the penthouse.” The beauty of the night fell heavily on his shoulders, like a lead cape embroidered with his losses. It was a night for lovers, and the word gave him a chill. But he forbade himself to think again about Yarmila or Pato Macho.
It could have turned out worse. I am here, fed and clean, not in a dirty cell at the Unidad.
He bent over to smell the jasmine flowers. The tub garden encircled the shed, surrounding it with containers where garlic, parsley and cilantro grew side by side. There was a small barrel with peppers and fist-sized red fruits he couldn’t identify, even after tasting them. They were sweet with a hint of tartness.
Cubans were ingenious, he had to give them that. He could have planted his own garden at home, in the backyard, and had fresh vegetables for over nine months of the year. But why bother when he could buy them at Whole Foods?
Necessity is the mother of invention. How did Cubans say it? La necesidad hace parir hijos machos. Necessity makes you bear male children. Yarmi had hated that saying. “It means that boys are more useful than girls!” she’d said once, indignant. She was a feminist, though Matt didn’t think they talked a lot about feminism here.
Matt was about to cut a jasmine flower when he touched something squashy and slick. He let out a yelp and retrieved his hand fast.
Good grief. He hoped nobody had heard him. What a pendejo Yuma. It had to be a worm, a centipede or some other inoffensive tropical creature that had made its nest there. Oh wait, there were two of them. Three. Four. No, there were five, as long as a man’s finger, creeping over the leaves like a stream of black oil. Matt backed off, disgusted, and returned to the room.
He closed the door, turned off the light and got in bed. It welcomed him with a promise of pleasant dreams, or better yet, no dreams at all. But a crazy carrousel danced inside his head, playing snippets of conversations, bringing images back to life. Did you know Banzer was a brutal dictator? What about Pato Macho? I am so sorry. Pedro’s buzz cut. Lieutenant Martínez’s massive behind. Isabel’s stained apron. The arroz con pollo. Padrino’s white clothes. Taty’s smile. Mister . . . mister. And floating above them Yarmila, her intense brown eyes, now closed forever. Words from her last email: Have you bought the ticket already? Let me know so I can wait for you at the airport. Wait for you at the airport—
A sudden noise roused him. It sounded like the rattle of a metal tub being dragged across the floor.
Is someone outside? Isabel? That little fag?
Then he saw it through the curtain: a tall, muscular figure silhouetted against the sky.
Matt didn’t move. He closed his eyes and, like a scared child, willed the apparition away. When he dared to look around again, there were no traces of the stranger. He peered outside. He found only darkness and silence, and the overpowering aroma of the night-blooming jasmine in the air. Just to be safe, he closed the window. It became hot at once, so he turned on the electric fan and went back to bed. This time, sleep came before he even had time to summon it.
Part II
Chapter One
Pato Macho
Matt woke up disoriented. It took him several minutes to remember where he was—and why he was there. The room was dark and warm. The feeble breeze from the electric fan was no match for Havana’s humid heat; the temperature had risen to ninety-one degrees. A thin layer of sweat coated his body and left a salty bitterness on his lips. There was a damp spot where his head had rested all night. He walked barefoot to the “bathroom corner” and took another tepid shower. He put shampoo on the mental list of items he was planning to get that day. The toilet, he soon discovered, wouldn’t flush.
Such a penthouse.
Dressed in denim shorts and a gray T-shirt, Matt went outside to breathe in fresh air. A floor below the rooftop, someone had hung a white sheet to dry on a clothesline strung across the balcony. The soft wind made it blow and billow like a miniature sail. He remembered the intruder he had spotted by the window but now, in broad daylight, it looked like a trick played by his sleep-deprived brain. He inspected the shed’s surroundings. The tubs were exactly where they had been the night before. He also poked around the jasmine plant and failed to see the slippery critters that had freaked him out almost as much as the apparition.
He exhaled, relieved. There had been no scary stranger and no mysterious bugs.
He’d been exhausted and spooked. Hey, who could blame him? But things are okay now, aren’t they? Lieutenant Culo Grande was in charge of the case. She looked like a capable woman. In the meantime, Matt needed to find Yarmila’s parents and offer them his condolences. She’d never said anything about Matt meeting them, but still—he had to do the right thing and visit them.
Matt heard a soft thump-thump behind him and turned around instinctively. The metal bat that had been aimed at his head only managed to brush his left shoulder.
“What the hell—?”
He faced a tall man who looked vaguely familiar. He was a young and handsome human specimen, despite being disheveled and crazy-eyed. Matt could have made a run for it. He was closer to the stairs than his attacker was. The guy was too drunk to catch up with him, but he was also stronger and probably faster.
“Your lucky day, cabrón,” the man said, putting the bat down. He staggered and leaned on the shed’s door.
Was he a thief? But Matt had always heard that Havana was a safe place for foreigners.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“It is your lucky day, cabrón,” the other repeated. “Mine too because I could have killed you and then what? Hear that, gringo hijo de la gran puta? I could have killed you, just like you killed her.”
“Killed her?”
The guy, he recalled in a flash, was the same one who had come into La Caldo
sa after closing time.
“Yes, Yarmila.”
Matt backed away quietly until he reached the parapet.
“You are crazy,” was all he could say, in English. All Spanish words had deserted him.
“Don’t talk mumbo jumbo to me,” the stranger brandished the bat again in an alarming way. “I could just crush your brains, you know?”
The young man’s eyes were bloodshot. There were tears in them, ready to roll down his tanned cheeks. He had a gold chain around his neck with a medal of some saint Matt didn’t recognize. He spoke again, softly this time.
“I loved her,” he said.
A wave of heat washed over Matt. He felt dizzy. He held on to the parapet and looked down to the street. The white sheet was flapping in the wind like a surrender flag.
“I thought you did it because you knew about us,” the young man added.
She had a lover, a citizen known as Pato Macho. They had been together since last October.
“Are you—Pato Macho?” Matt asked.
“I am,” the man answered with pride, as if there were something particularly honorable in being called a male duck.
“I didn’t know about you—you guys, until that cop told me,” Matt said.
The blood drained from Pato Macho’s face. “They told you,” he said flatly.
“How else would I have known?” Matt shrugged and did his best to appear indifferent, if not unafraid.
“So you didn’t do it?” Pato Macho insisted, caressing the metal bat. “You didn’t kill her?”
“Of course I didn’t!”
I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with Yarmi’s lover.
“You didn’t mind it, then?”
“Mind what?”
“Me. Me and her.”
Matt inhaled deeply and chose to ignore the question.
“You are a cabrón con ganas,” Pato Macho snickered. “I told her many times. I was right.”
Though he had never heard the expression, Matt sensed he had been called a happy cuckold. “I didn’t know a thing, comemierda!” he screamed, losing control. “Had I suspected it—”
“Yes, what?”
“I’d have ended our relationship. I wouldn’t be here now!”
A noise came from the stairs. Pato Macho’s body tensed up. A moment later he jumped to the nearest rooftop, throwing the metal bat away.
“Yarmi liked me best!” he shouted, before disappearing into the other building’s stairwell. “I was el hombre de su vida, the real man in her life!”
With that he vanished. Matt stood motionless by the jasmine plant. Pato Macho’s last words were more painful than the blow to his shoulder, which was gradually turning red under his T-shirt.
He returned to the shed and picked up his backpack from the floor. He started to feel inside, looking for a bottle of aspirin (he was sure he had brought one) when his hand touched a small box. He took it out and opened it. The size-five gold engagement ring shimmered in the red velvet cushion. He threw the box over the parapet. Then he sat on the bed, tortured by images of Pato Macho and Yarmila together, making love, eating ice cream at Coppelia, laughing. Laughing at him.
“‘Ah, you’re up already!’’ Isabel came in carrying a plastic tray. “Good morning, dear. I brought you a Cuban-style breakfast, café con leche and bread with butter. And I didn’t spill anything!”
She placed the tray on the pine table.
“Do you know where I could find a phone?” he asked.
“We have one downstairs. You can even make long distance calls.”
“It’s a local number. I need to get in touch with the detective who questioned me yesterday. She wanted to know for sure where I’d be staying.”
Isabel’s demeanor changed at once.
“No way!” she yelled. “You can’t do that!”
Matt’s back stiffened. What in the world got into her? Is everybody crazy here or what?
Isabel wheezed and added in a softer tone, “Sorry, but you can’t let the police know that I have a casa particular. I told you I haven’t gotten my license yet.”
“I’ll tell them that you are letting me stay for free,” he said. “Anyway, they probably suspect it. It was a cop who brought me here last night, remember?”
She frowned. “They know everything,” she said. “Every single thing that happens, they find out. They even find out before it happens. The Committees for the Defense of the Revolution are always watching. Nothing escapes them.”
Back at La Caldosa, Isabel handed Matt a cell phone. It was an old and heavy model, with punch buttons, but it did have caller ID. He dialed the number Martínez had given him and the answering machine picked up.
“This is Lieutenant Marlene Martínez from Unidad 13. Leave a message.”
He simply said he was staying with La Caldosa’s owners, in 902 Salvador Allende Avenue.
“Please, let me know when I can get my passport back,” he added.
He didn’t want to mention the incident with Pato Macho in front of Isabel. After hanging up, he felt an acute pain in his shoulder. He had almost forgotten it.
“Do you have anything that can help me with this?” he asked, lifting his sleeve. An angry purple bruise had started to spread over his bicep.
“Ay, pobrecito! Who did that to you?”
“The cops, when they dragged me out to the police car yesterday.” He didn’t like to lie, but there was no way of explaining what had happened without sounding silly or worse, a coward and a cabrón.
“Bastards! They didn’t even respect the fact that you are a foreigner. I don’t know what this world is coming to. Let me get you some arnica.”
“And a couple of ibuprofens.”
“Ibu what?”
“An aspirin will do.”
“Ah, yes. Another guest left me a bottle of Bayer aspirins. I’ll bring you one.”Isabel turned on the big-screen TV, but Matt paid no attention to it. He kept reliving the scene on the rooftop, playing it in his mind and berating himself for his naiveté.
I should have known Martínez was right the minute she told me about Pato Macho. And maybe he had. But he hadn’t wanted to admit it to her—or himself. Yarmi didn’t care about me. That was why she never said that she would marry him or move to San Diego. That was why she was always distant and a bit cold, even in bed. He’d been blind, just like Anne, who believed that young stud was into her.
But let’s take stock here. Things weren’t that bad after all. Crazy Pato could have hurt him badly or killed him. Now . . . was Matt going to stay at the “penthouse” like a pendejo, waiting for that dickhead to come back and finish the job? So he could remind Matt again that he, Pato Macho, not this cuckold Yuma, was Yarmi’s man? Hell, no.
Isabel brought him more café con leche and two aspirins.
“Are you feeling better?”
He didn’t but said yes, wanting her to go away.
I’ll ask Anne tonight if I can move in with her.
Matt had met Anne the year before at El Refugio. Yarmila had suggested it, saying that it was a well-established, reputable paladar. That evening Anne had been the only other American there, sitting all by herself. She had joined Matt and Yarmi and started chatting in English.
“I’ve been in Cuba for two weeks,” she said. “Total Spanish immersion!”
“My Spanish is still rusty,” Matt admitted.
“So is my English,” Yarmila chimed in. “But we all can communicate, and that’s what matters.”
Matt had been proud of his bilingual girlfriend. Anne looked impressed. Yarmila was the first Cuban she had met who spoke English fluently.
“If I didn’t know Spanish, my boyfriend and I would have to use sign language,” she laughed.
Anne and Matt hit it off, more so after finding out that they b
oth were from California; she lived in West LA and traveled often to San Diego. Back home, they had kept in contact, calling each other to talk about their Cuban crushes and discuss wedding plans. Matt’s wedding plans, that is, though Anne had hinted that she might also marry Yony someday.
I need to have a word with her about that. That little prick probably cheats on her too.
Matt felt a wave of resentment against all Cubans. It wasn’t fair or logical, but nothing that had happened to him in the last two days was fair or logical. He closed his eyes and ignored the TV—the program was a mind-numbing report about potato crops on the Isle of Youth. Then he heard Taty say, in a sing-songy voice, “Oh, mister—sorry, don Mateo, you’re here! Good thing because I was planning to go upstairs and wake you up with a good-morning kiss.”
“Hi,” Matt sighed.
“How are you doing?”
“Just fine.”
“Any plans for today?”
Matt didn’t feel like talking. He pretended to be interested in the potato news.
“I know you must be sad and hurting . . . I mean no disrespect.” Taty cleared his throat and smiled coyly. “But if you have nothing else to do this evening, would you like to visit Café Arabia? This is my free night here so I work there to make ends meet.”
“Is it another paladar?” Matt asked. He didn’t want to encourage Taty, but there was no need to be rude either.
“No, it’s more like a nightclub, a chic one. Don’t think of a run-of–the-mill joint. It is a very classy lounge.”
Taty leaned closer to Matt, so close he could smell the young man’s spicy cologne. His cheeks were rosy. Matt suspected he was wearing powder or foundation, or whatever it was that women put on their faces.
This one must know about Pato Macho too. Why would he ask me to go to a bar a day after my girlfriend’s death?
“Thanks, but I’m not the lounge type,” he said. “And I’ve made plans already.”
“Where are you going, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Pendejo. I do mind.
Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Page 7