María was a short, plump woman with thick legs. Matt was fascinated by the dark spots of matted hair, los pelos that grew wild in her armpits. His mother didn’t have pelos in hers, he knew that much. Matt wondered if she had hair “down there” but couldn’t tell for sure. To see his mother naked would be a mortal sin. To see María, just a venial one.
Matt followed her to la casita. When María went inside, he pressed his face against the tiny holes he had opened with a kitchen knife in the lightweight board. It smelled of musk and Castile soap. Usually Matt was careful, looking all over first, but that day he didn’t take precautions. His parents would come back late in the evening and Jorge worked until six o’clock. Or so he thought.
Matt felt the hard, cold back of the machete blade against his shoulder. On this warm Havana night, more than twenty years later, the pain from the old blow blended with the fresh one from Pato Macho’s bat, merging memory and present in one long, excruciating instant. He stopped on the corner of San Lázaro and Jovellar Streets. He caressed his shoulder and massaged his back, blinking back tears.
It had happened so fast. Jorge’s rough hands dragged him to the main house, to the small dark garage, now empty, while he muttered insults—gringo de mierda, shitty little American, I am going to teach you—
Matt tried to run away but couldn’t. He was paralyzed with fear, afraid that the man would beat him up, or kill him and leave his body there as an example, his eyes out of their sockets. Wouldn’t he be justified? Matt had committed a sin against his wife—many times. But Jorge didn’t hit him again. He pulled down Matt’s pants, unzipped his own, and forced the boy to bend over. He penetrated him furiously and ejaculated inside.
“If you tell anyone, I’ll cut your tongue out,” were his parting words.
Matt didn’t tell a soul. Not Blair, certainly not his parents. He tried to block the pain when he sat at the dinner table that evening. He did his best to behave as usual, but his mother must have noticed something was wrong.
“What is it, dear?” she asked.
“I have a stomachache. May I go to my room?”
“You haven’t finished eating.”
“I don’t feel like it. Please.”
She smiled at him. His father caressed his hair. They looked at him, so naïve and lost. So defenseless in this strange world they had dragged him into.
“Okay,” she said. “You are excused.”
“He doesn’t want to leave Ayacucho,” he heard his father say, on his way out. “He’s made friends here and is doing well at school, but we can’t take the risk.”
“Kids forget quickly.”
He avoided María and Jorge and refused to say goodbye to them. After the green VW Beetle left the village streets behind, Matt said a prayer of thanks to both the Methodist and the Catholic God.
He never talked about what happened, not even during the therapy sessions that he attended as an adult. He hadn’t had sexual contact with another man again. He tried to erase the incident from his mind. Why had it returned now, at the most inopportune time?
It’s all Taty’s fault.
The porch light was on at Villa Tomasa. Román was still sitting in the lounge chair, a joint between his lips and his eyes closed.
“Back so soon, amigo?” he asked, elongating the syllables. “The night is young.”
It was a quarter to twelve.
Matt suddenly remembered Isabel. It would be inconsiderate to keep her waiting for him and concerned about his whereabouts. She had written La Caldosa’s address and phone number on a piece of paper “in case he forgot,” and insisted he call her if he ran into any problem.
“Remember, Mateo, we are your family in Cuba,” she repeated. “We are here for you.”
He dialed her number using an old rotary phone, black and heavy, that he found in the dining room under doña Tomasa’s portrait. In a low voice, hoping Román wouldn’t hear him, he explained he had decided to stay with a friend and that they would take a trip to “the provinces” very early the following day.
“Sorry for the last-minute notice. I’ll call you when I’m back.”
Isabel believed him, or pretended to do so.
“Take care, my friend,” she said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Don’t hold your breath.
He replaced the receiver.
Matt had started having vivid dreams shortly after the family returned from Peru. They were always preceded by a buzzing noise and a subtle vibration of his whole body. Most began the same way: he would open his arms, run a few yards and fly up. It was that easy. He found himself floating over the sea, often so close to it that he smelled its salty scent and got splashed by the waves. But all he needed was the desire to rise, and he would soar again. All his senses felt sharpened. The colors were intense and sometimes he could hear snippets of instrumental music, soft and relaxing, nothing like the hair bands he listened to. But there was always a moment when he realized that it was just a dream and became acutely aware of the implausibility of it.
Many years later, he learned that these were called lucid dreams. He took a seminar with a guy who claimed he could teach others how to get in control of them. But Matt was never able to “stage” the scenes as their instructor recommended.
That night at Villa Tomasa, the dream had started as usual. He was happily flying over water. The Pacific? The Caribbean? A small boat floated below. There was someone aboard. Matt descended and discovered it was Yarmila. She was sitting on an olive green bedspread, holding the interactive map that he had bought for her at Toys“R”Us.
He landed by her side.
“This silly thing,” she said, pointing to the map, “has lost magnetic north.”
The map had turned into a compass.
When Matt woke up, he was lying on his stomach, an unusual posture for him. He rubbed his eyes, walked to the window and stood there, listening to the long, high-pitched song of the crickets for over an hour.
That guy said you could find the answer to most problems in lucid dreams, that whatever you needed to know was available there. Next time I’ll make sure to confront Yarmi and ask her why. That might be the only answer I ever get from her.
Yarmi Cooks Cuban
Fanguito: Little mud
The condensed milk of my childhood came from the Soviet Union. Yes, it is now called Russia, thanks to the perestroika and all that, but I still find it difficult to say that name: it sounds old-fashioned and reeks of the tsars’ times. Bueno, the condensed milk of the eighties came from the former Soviet Union, to be historically and politically correct, and I loved it. But the cans, with red and black cows on the label, were difficult to open. Grandma Hilda joked that they were made out of steel.
One of my indulgences was, and still is, boiled condensed milk, or condensed milk in a baño de María. Known as fanguito, it’s the sweetest dessert you’ll ever taste.
The preparation is simple: just boil a closed can of condensed milk for a couple of hours in a big pot. Make sure that the can is totally covered in water all through the boiling process. You may need to add an extra cup or two.
Once you open the can, you’ll find out that the milk has turned light brown. That’s why people call it fanguito, like “a little bit muddy.” But the flavor, I assure you, isn’t “muddy” at all. An advantage of fanguito is that it lasts forever. You don’t even have to refrigerate it.
I could eat fanguito any day, but my favorite moments to enjoy it are when I am watching movies. My Yuma says that, in his country, moviegoers munch on popcorn. I’d rather have condensed milk. By the way, have I told you that I always cry at movies? I cry so much that my girlfriends call me La Llorona, the Weeping Woman, and sit far away from me so as not to be embarrassed by my inappropriate bawling. That’s why I like fanguito: it sweetens everything, even tears.
Enough of my philosop
hizing! For those of you who are always asking for Nitza Villapol-style recipes, this is a winner. Enjoy.
Comments
Maritza said. . .
You can also make fanguito in the pressure cooker and it only takes forty minutes.
Yarmi said. . .
I know, Maritza, but I am afraid of pressure cookers, as you know already.
Cubanita in Claremont said. . .
I remember eating fanguito with crackers. My mother made it every week when I attended the school in the fields, back in the eighties.
Taos Tonya said. . .
I eat my condensed milk directly from the can when nobody is looking. Then I get disgusted and barf.
Cocinera Cubana said. . .
Oh, I also cry at movies, particularly when they are about Cuba. I don’t remember much because we left when I was five years old, but I still turn into a Llorona when I see the Malecón Wall.
Mateo said. . .
It reminds me of dulce de leche, a Mexican dessert. But I bet yours is better!
Yarmi said. . .
Yes, Cubanita! Fanguito was a popular snack at the escuelas al campo. Cocinera, I think you should come and see the Malecón again with your own eyes. You may cry, but these will be tears of joy. Tonya, try cooking it and you will feel less guilty. My Mateo, of course it is better! Because I make it with a secret ingredient: love.
Chapter Five
Agent Pedro and the CIA
The insistent knocking woke Matt up. He looked at the cuckoo clock. It was ten after eight.
“What is it?” he asked from bed, sounding every bit as annoyed as he was.
“There is a call for you,” Román’s voice filtered through the door.
Matt got up, wondering who could possibly know that he was at Villa Tomasa when he hadn’t told anyone.
“Sorry, but this woman said it was urgent,” Román said apologetically, handing him the receiver.
“Hello.”
“It’s a good thing that you haven’t left for the provinces yet,” Isabel said. “I wouldn’t have bothered you but a Seguridad guy showed up here at seven o’clock, demanding to see you. I told him you hadn’t come to sleep here and he got mad at me, as if I were hiding you or something.”
“Was it Pedro?” Matt asked.
“He didn’t say his name.”
“What did he want?”
“To talk to you. Right now. He said you must call Unidad 13 as soon as possible.”
Matt’s hands began to shake. “I’ll contact him,” he said. “Thanks, Isabel.”
He was ready to hang up, but Isabel wasn’t done with him yet.
“What did we do to you, Mateo?” she asked in a whiny voice. “We welcomed you with open arms. We treated you as if you were a blood relative! If there was something you didn’t like about your room, you could have told me, instead of leaving us like that. I knew you weren’t going to any province when you called me last night!”
Matt didn’t answer. Why does she care? I paid her in advance. Jesus. But how does she know where—? Ah, the caller ID!
“Was it because of Taty?” she insisted. “Please, tell me the truth. If the little shit is causing me to lose clients—”
“This has nothing to do with him.”
“But you moved to another casa particular.”
“It’s very difficult for me to stay at a place that reminds me so much of Yarmila,” Matt said after a pause.
“I thought we had—”
He slammed down the phone and called Martínez’s number. This time she answered right away.
“Yes, Agent Pedro needs to talk to you,” she said. “Give me your address and we will pick you up in a minute.”
“I can get there by myself,” Matt replied, not wanting a police car to appear at Román’s door.
“Okay. But don’t delay. This is a serious matter.”
“I’ll take a taxi,” he said.
Before he could ask anything else, Martínez had hung up.
Gordo was at the reception desk and greeted him like an old buddy.
“Back again, eh? Came to see the lieutenant?”
But Martínez was nowhere to be seen. When Gordo announced Matt’s presence over the intercom, Pedro came out and ushered him into an unmarked vehicle, a blue Volvo with tinted windows. The Seguridad agent was carrying a black attaché case.
Matt became increasingly hopeful after they left behind Salvador Allende Avenue and sped toward Rancho Boyeros, the road that led to the José Martí International Airport.
“Are you letting me go back to the States now?” he asked, still incredulous.
“No, not yet, compañero. We have to clarify a couple of things first. See, it might just be a misunderstanding, but it’s a very ugly one.”
“A misunderstanding about Yarmila’s death?”
“About Yarmila and you.”
“What do you mean?”
Pedro didn’t answer. He drove in silence until they arrived at a gray Soviet-era building with square balconies. It was as weathered as the old ones Matt had seen in La Habana Vieja, but lacked the patina that time had spread over them like golden flakes of an opulent past. Here, the peeling walls were evidence of poor construction and low quality materials, not the passing of years.
The Seguridad man led Matt to a first-floor apartment. Two burly guys in civilian clothes stood at attention, saluted Pedro and ignored Matt.
“Will you explain what this means?” he asked, more irritated than scared. “Why have you brought me here?”
“To have a little talk,” Pedro answered at last. “It seems to me that you are the one who has some explaining to do.”
There were only two chairs in the room. A video camera was mounted on the wall. Pedro turned it on and ordered Matt to sit down facing it.
“When did you start working for the agency?” he asked.
“What agency?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. You know what—CIA.”
Matt had heard of the Cuban government’s paranoia about American spies, but didn’t take it seriously. He knew many tourists, like Anne, who visited the island year after year without being bothered.
“I have never worked for the CIA,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t think I’ve ever even met anybody who does.”
“And you never tried to get Yarmila Portal to collaborate, eh?”
“To collaborate with whom?”
“With you, with your boss.”
“I don’t understand,” Matt stammered. “You mean my editor at El Grito?”
The idea of Yarmila collaborating with Estrada was even stranger than him being involved with the CIA.
“Editor un carajo,” Pedro barked. “I’m talking about the CIA officer who attends to you!”
Attends to me? What kind of movies do these people watch?
“I have no links to the CIA or any other federal agency,” Matt repeated. “I told you before: I am not an enemy of the revolution.”
Yet. But if you keep this up—
Pedro opened his briefcase, took out a printed document and placed it first in front of the camera. Then he showed it to Matt.
Mi amor, he read, his own words, the message he had written in San Diego less than two weeks before. I would be very happy if you considered doing the little assignment I told you about. You can use old material, modify it a bit, but still make it sound very Cuban and very you.
“Did you write that?” Pedro asked.
“Why, yes.”
He remembered exactly when he had written it, during a break between two features for El Grito. He had been excited and confident, so much in love that he wanted to tell everyone about his young, pretty Cuban fiancée. “You look like the cat that ate the canary,” the newspaper receptionist had said.
I’m the canary now.
Pedro produced Yarmila’s response, another printed page with one of the last emails she had sent to Matt.
“I look forward to the assignment, my beloved Yuma,” Pedro read aloud. “Not sure if I should try to finish it before you come or wait so we can work on it together. What do you think?”
My beloved Yuma. Stupid Yuma who believed everything she said. Was Pato Macho with her when she wrote that?
“The subject line reads ‘Re: CIA story,’” Pedro pointed out, frowning. “Did you want her to spy on our people and write a report to the CIA?”
Matt broke out in nervous laughter. He had never noticed the identical acronyms before.
“Ah, this is funny? We’ll see how much fun you have at Villa Marista!”
Villa Marista was a jail for political prisoners. Matt had read about it on a Cuban website and the description had reminded him of the Hanoi Hilton, with a tropical twist.
“The CIA I was referring to is the Culinary Institute of America,” he said.
“Culinary Institute? What the hell is that?”
How could he not know? What kind of intelligence agent is this?
“It’s a school where they teach people how to cook.”
“Yeah, like in your country people need to be taught how to cook. Are they so dumb that they can’t learn it in their own homes?”
“I mean haute cuisine, fancy stuff like—I don’t know, ratatouille.”
“Huh?”
“A local branch of the Institute runs a magazine called Foodalicious,” Matt plowed on. “I had asked Yarmila to write something for it because the summer issue’s theme is Caribbean cuisine. I thought she could use a recipe from that cooking book she was always quoting, Cocina—”
Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Page 11