Pedro tapped his left foot and cut him off. “How could they be called ‘CIA’?” he asked.
“The Institute? Well, C, I and A are the first letters of its full name.”
“Nah. They couldn’t possibly do that. Not legally.”
Matt sighed, frustrated. “I told you how Yarmila and I met,” he said. “She had a food blog, Yarmi Cooks Cuban.”
“I know that!”
“So I suggested she take an excerpt and make it into a feature for the magazine. That’s all.”
“Why would the CIA allow them to do that?”
“Do what?”
“Use their very own name. Why would they let a culinary school or whatever steal their name? They have a lot of power.”
He sounded angry, as if the idea of someone stealing from the CIA were somehow insulting to him.
“The Institute doesn’t use the same name, only the acronym. Acronyms aren’t copyright protected.”
“Copyright? I don’t even know what you are talking about.”
God. This is a socialist discussion.
“The acronym ‘CIA’ also stands for Cleveland Institute of Art,” Matt tried to think of other examples that would make sense to Pedro when translated. “It’s used for titles as well, like Certified Internal Auditor. It doesn’t belong to anybody. It’s—just letters.”
“You better tell me the truth if you ever want to go back to your country,” Pedro said. “This mumbo jumbo about acronyms and copyright isn’t helping you. You could spend the rest of your life in a Cuban jail!”
With a gigantic effort Matt managed to remain calm. “Please, read my message in context,” he said. “Find the previous ones. Yarmila and I had been discussing Caribbean dishes. I had mentioned the magazine, the full name of the Institute. I told her they were interested in publishing a piece by a Cuban chef.”
“I’ll see to that,” Pedro said. “Our technical department will find out if what you’re saying is true.”
“Can you pull my messages out? I can show you.”
“Pull them out? Out of what?”
“Don’t you have internet here?”
Now Pedro was confused and attempting to hide his confusion, which only made it more pronounced. He stood up and so did Matt.
“No, you stay,” Pedro said. “You can’t go anywhere until this problem is taken care of.”
“Since I am officially arrested, I want to see a lawyer,” Matt said.
“What for?”
“Because it is my right.”
“You have no rights here, comemierda! If you turn out to be a CIA agent, you’re totally fucked.”
Pedro left but his last words, todo jodido, kept ringing in Matt’s ears. He stared at the camera, a perfect close-up of anger and disconcert.
The three hours that Matt spent in the room, under the watchful eye of the lens, would stay in his memory as a scene from an absurd movie with no beginning, end or logical storyline. A Kafkaesque plot with a Cuban setting.
Pedro returned and said Matt was allowed to go because the email issue had been clarified. It seemed (seemed, he stressed, because it wasn’t proven yet) like Matt wasn’t actually trying to recruit the late Yarmila Portal to work for the enemy’s intelligence. But even so, he was still considered a person of interest and should remain available for further inquiries.
Matt didn’t argue. He had made up his mind: the next day, first thing in the morning, he would present himself at the United States Interest Section and ask for help.
Even if they make me pay a fine for coming here without a permit. I don’t care. I can’t deal with Agent Pedro on my own. I just can’t.
They went back to the Unidad. No apologies from Pedro, who at least looked mildly embarrassed. Still, he didn’t tell Matt when his passport would be returned.
“Pronto, compañero,” he said, and shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow.”
In the land of mañana, tomorrow never comes.
It was two o’clock. Matt stopped at a nearby paladar and ordered the especial del día—a dish of white rice, fried plantains and shredded pork. He washed it down with Cerveza Cristal, a locally brewed beer that had a crisp, refreshing taste. It wasn’t until he left the restaurant that he saw it was named El Policía Bueno, The Good Cop.
Isabel and Pato Macho were waiting for him at Villa Tomasa. Matt touched his shoulder instinctively, though Pato, who was sitting between Anne and Isabel on the yellow sectional, looked harmless and subdued. He hung his head as Matt approached.
Isabel stood up. She wore a long white dress, a cross between a Greek tunic and a housecoat, and a Santería necklace with blue and white beads. She carried a white vinyl purse adorned with saint pins and charms to ward off the evil eye.
“You should have let me know,” she clucked, as a way of greeting.
“Let you know what?” Matt asked, preparing himself mentally for another Kafkaesque sketch.
She took him by the arm and led him away from the couch. Her dress smelled like sandalwood incense.
“About Pato,” she whispered. “What he did. He’s really sorry and has come to say so.”
Matt stared at her, incredulous.
Why does she want to get in the middle of this? It’s none of her business!
Pato Macho followed them shyly. Under the teardrop lamp, clean and shaven, he wasn’t as scary as he had been on the rooftop. He had turned into a scared boy.
“I’m so sorry, señor,” he stuttered. “I didn’t intend to hurt you. I was—eh—drunk.”
“That’s not the way he usually behaves,” Isabel added, with a protective gesture toward the young man.
“Thanks for not ratting me out,” Pato Macho blurted out. “I want to apologize.”
He was using the respectful Spanish form, usted, to address Matt. The day before, threatening him with the metal bat, he had called him tú.
“Oh, it’s okay,” Matt answered, though his arm still hurt.
The two men avoided looking at each other. Isabel elbowed Pato Macho and he spoke again, “I understand that you had nothing to do with what happened to—to her. I hope the cops figure it out too.”
“They will,” Isabel said. “They know everything.”
“I’m not so sure,” Matt replied. “That Seguridad officer or whatever he is, Agent Pedro, didn’t know shit. It took him hours to check my emails and find out that I wasn’t a CIA agent.”
He made himself shut up. Why am I babbling like an idiot?
“They believe every American is the devil’s spawn,” Isabel spoke in a soft mumble. “As Padrino says, they don’t get that there are Yumas and Yumas, and that people in your country are all different.”
“Padrino is right,” Matt said. “Whoever Padrino is.”
“You met him the other day at La Caldosa,” Isabel reminded him. “You sat together for a while and shared a tocinillo.”
“Oh, yes, the guy in white. So his name is Padrino?”
“That’s what many of us call him—”
Pato Macho, Padrino, Taty—they wear their nicknames like camouflage.
“Because he is our Santería godfather. We believe in the orishas, the African gods.”
A Cuban godfather. A voodoo don with a gang of spirits instead of hit men.
“I told him about your predicament. After I found out what had happened in the penthouse, I went to him and asked for advice. It was Padrino’s idea that we come to see you and that Pato apologize.”
Matt shrugged. “It wasn’t necessary,” he said.
“Padrino can help you.” She got closer to him and said in a conspiratorial tone, “He’s really, really good.”
“Do you think he can do a little—ceremony for me?” Matt asked, trying not to sound sarcastic.
“No, that wasn’t my idea. Unless you want him to,
of course. A ceremony never hurts, nor does a safety measure. Look at me!” She pointed to the purse and her necklace. “Today I’m wearing all my weapons to keep the bad spirits away.”
They were alone by then. Pato Macho had returned quietly to the sectional and was chatting with Anne again.
“I don’t get it, Isabel,” Matt said. “How could Padrino help me?”
“He is a detective. He used to work for the fiana. That was a long time ago but—”
“What’s the fiana?”
“The police. He’s retired now and, like everyone else, trying to eke out a living, so he went private.”
“What can he do for me?”
“Find out who killed Yarmi and convince the police to let you go.”
“Does he have that much power?”
“Yes, he does. They respect him. Remember, he was one of them. And he has solved many cases after he retired. For a fee, of course.”
Matt wanted to ask if Padrino enlisted the help of the African deities he and Isabel worshipped to solve said cases. But he held his tongue.
Maybe I should see this guy before going to the Interest Section. He’d heard Americans could face fines of thousands of dollars for unauthorized trips to Cuba. The law was seldom enforced, but still.
“I am very much willing to talk to Padrino and, naturally, pay him for his services,” he said.
Isabel patted his hand. “Great! He can meet with you tomorrow. I’ve already made an appointment for 11:00 a.m.”
Matt winced. That was fast.
“I understand why you prefer to stay here,” Isabel sighed, with a wistful look at Román’s living room. “You can be sure that Pato will not bother you again, but this is way nicer than anything we can offer you.”
She opened her purse and handed him thirty dollars.
“Please, keep it,” Matt said.
“You mean it?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate it, Mateo,” she said hastily. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow and we’ll go to Padrino’s house.”
“Thanks for all your help.”But you are still a snooping bitch.
Isabel called out to Pato Macho, “Let’s go! It’s getting late.”
They left after exchanging a few more niceties with Matt and Anne. Anne accompanied Pato Macho to the door and kissed him goodbye. “See you soon, chico,” she said playfully.
“It has been a pleasure, beautiful lady. I hope to see you again.”
When they were out of the house, Isabel turned to the young man and hissed, “Can’t you stop chasing tail, coño? You just don’t learn, do you?”
Yarmi Cooks Cuban
In memory of Nitza Villapol
Hola, my culinary friends! Here we are again, getting ready to prepare another Cuban-to-the-core entrée.
When I say Cuban-to-the-core, you think rice and beans, don’t you? And something fried, preferably with manteca, because yes, we are lard lovers. We like fried beef, as in vaca frita, fried chicken, as in pollo frito, and fried fish, as in pescado frito.
That may be true, but today we are going to give the frying pan a well-deserved rest. We will be calorie conscious—though not too much, because skinny women aren’t popular in Cuba. I want to keep my curves.
We will make grilled steak following a recipe found in Nitza Villapol’s cookbook Cocina al Minuto. Hey, all you cooks out there: if you haven’t yet read Cooking in Minutes, go find it at once. It is the Bible of traditional Cuban cuisine and I believe that it has been published abroad and translated into several languages. My grandma treasured her tattered copy, but I am using a more recent version from the nineties, with ingredients that were readily available then.
Let’s start with the adobo, a seasoning mix made with the juice of one bitter orange, three chopped garlic cloves, and a sliced onion. Set aside a few onion slices for later. Let the palomilla (thin cut) steak marinate for two or three hours in the refrigerator.
Melt one tablespoon of butter on the grill (yes, you can use oil, but it won’t be the same), season the steak with salt and pepper, and grill it three or four minutes on each side. Then allow the steak to rest for a while—it will be piping hot. Before serving, cover it with raw onions and fresh parsley.
If raw onions horrify you (my Yuma boyfriend hates them), just sauté the slices you saved and decorate the steak with them. Serve over white rice.
Easy, isn’t it? I loved Nitza. She was every Cuban housewife’s best friend because of her creative dishes. She was an inspiration in feast or famine times.
Nitza hosted a TV program also entitled Cocina al Minuto and greeted her audience by saying, “Good morning, my TV-watching friends. Here again is Cooking in Minutes, with fast and easy-to-make recipes.”
She passed away in 1998.
When my time comes, I hope to be remembered as an amazing cook, like dear Nitza. A mojito toast to her sweet soul!
Comments
Cocinera Cubana said. . .
I remember Nitza’s show on Sunday mornings. My mother used to watch it when we lived in Cuba when we came back from church. But don’t talk about “when your time comes.” You are so young, querida.
Cubanita in Claremont said. . .
Nitza was like the Julia Child of Cuba, wasn’t she? I loved her desserts, particularly the tocinillo.
Lucy Adel said. . .
Excuse me, but was steak (or any kind of meat, for that matter) “readily available” during the nineties? That’s not what I have heard from my relatives who lived through the so-called Special Period!
Anita said. . .
It’s refreshing to know that Cuban women aren’t skinny-crazy. Someday I may move there, where my own curves will be more valued than in calorie-obsessed California.
Yarmi said. . .
Lucy, though meat in general wasn’t “abundant” in the nineties, people still received some through the ration card. Anita, I heard you are coming soon. Do you plan to stay longer this time? That will be great!
Chapter Six
A Cuban Private Eye
The next morning Matt and Anne sat under the teardrop lamp enjoying a cup of strong, sugary coffee. Román was in the kitchen, getting breakfast ready: buttered toast, guava jam and the host’s specialty, revoltillo de jamón y queso—eggs scrambled with ham and cheese.
“I used to read Yarmi’s blog all the time,” Anne said. “I loved her recipes and the stories about her family and friends, and all things Cuban. After a while, I felt as if I’d known her forever.”
“I guess I didn’t know her at all,” Matt replied. “Ours was a short-lived long-distance relationship.”
Long-distance love, morons’ love. He’d heard that in Tijuana, walking down Avenida Revolución. Two kids were talking and one had said, Amor de lejos, amor de pendejos. He’d thought it was hilarious, then.
“What did she think of the Cuban government, Matt?” Anne asked. “Was she a communist?”
Matt took his time to respond. He thought that Anne was being insensitive, bringing up his dead girlfriend in such a casual manner.
“I don’t know,” he answered at last. “She never talked politics. Sometimes she would complain about waiting in lines and lack of public transportation, but so does everybody here.”
“She must have had an opinion about Castro, Matt. All Cubans do.”
“If she did, she didn’t share it and I didn’t ask. I assumed she was being cautious since people are so afraid of being labeled as worms.”
Anne pursed her lips. “Yep, they can be sly about it. Even Yony isn’t totally open with me, though I’m sure he wants to leave the country. It’s difficult to find out what Cubans really think about politics.”
“Or anything else, for that matter.” He shrugged and looked at his watch. “Hope Isabel gets here soon.”
“Are you se
eing her private eye friend today?”
“Yeah, what do I have to lose?”
“Right. You are better off dealing with the Cubans, seeing that you are on their turf. Someone who used to work for the police—you can’t beat that! And he is sort of an oracle.” She laughed. “Yosvani’s mom always consults everything with him.”
“Yosvani who?”
“The guy who was here yesterday. I thought that you knew him.”
“We—we met briefly.”
“Such a sweetheart. And handsome, isn’t he? He said his mom wouldn’t open the paladar until Padrino gave her the green light.”
“His mom?”
“Yony believes in Santería too, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. I don’t know why . . . I find the whole thing fascinating.”
Matt wasn’t listening to her anymore.
Pato Macho is Isabel’s son. Donna Summer is Taty. I am a CIA agent. It can’t get more bizarre than this.
Román called them from the kitchen.
“Hey, my friends! Come and jump-start your day with a delicious Cuban breakfast: revoltillo a la Román.”
Isabel arrived at ten o’clock and began to give Matt instructions right away.
“Put on some sensible shoes because we have to walk a bit,” she said officiously. “And bring plenty of cash.”
Matt recalled Román’s advice. “But it is safe out there?” he asked.
“You are going to be with me so you don’t have to worry,” Isabel answered. “I’ll take care of you.”
In San Lázaro Street they boarded a cocotaxi, a three-wheeled scooter with two small seats and a yellow egg-shaped cover, to the Sierra Maestra cruise port in Old Havana.
“Now let’s take the lanchita de Regla,” Isabel declared. “It’s very cheap. I’ll pay for it.”
Havana bay was practically empty. There were only two Venezuelan merchant ships moored in the harbor. Matt saw oil stains on the water and caught a whiff of rotten fish while they waited for la lanchita, a rudimentary ferryboat which, according to a faded schedule posted at the ticket booth, was already twenty minutes late.
Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Page 12