Yony wasn’t aware of Padrino’s side job as a private detective, but he knew enough about him to realize this talk was an informal interrogation. He thought carefully before answering. “I don’t, man,” he said. “If I knew, I would tell you. I mean, the murderer is still out there, maybe getting ready to kill somebody else. It’s sick. But I know of someone who can help you: Fefita Comité.”
“Fefita who?”
“She is a neighbor of Yarmi’s. People still call her ‘Committee Fefita’ because she used to be the president of the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution. She resigned after her daughter married a Spaniard and left Cuba . . . I guess she was ashamed. As if marrying a foreigner were a bad thing! Anyway, even if she isn’t in charge of watching everyone like she used to be, nobody farts in that building without Fefita knowing it.”
“Thanks for the tip, man.”
“As I said, I do want to help. Ah, I live in Hamel’s Alley number forty-five, in case you need something from me. Food, clothes, gadgets, a TV, whatever.” Yony snapped his fingers. “I can find anything you want!”
The Cuatro Caminos Farmers’ Market, one of the oldest agromercados in Havana, had taken its name from the four streets that converged at its center: Monte, Cristina, Matadero and Manglar. It occupied an entire block. Its two floors housed booths, kiosks and simple wooden boards where the vendors displayed their goods. It had four marble staircases stained by years of use.
The fresh smells of fruits and flowers mixed with the very organic odors of chicken shit and pig poop. Flies surrounded the meat counters where pork ribs and full hams were exposed to bugs, dust and clients’ unhygienic touches. Plucked chickens could be seen hanging from strings. Stray dogs were no strangers to the first floor.
And yet, the market wasn’t devoid of charm. The high ceilings lent the place a spacious feel. An array of colors made even the humblest booths look festive. The revolutionary red of the tomatoes brought out the greener-than-the-palms shade of the avocadoes and the bright emerald of parsley bunches. Oranges, limes, and lemons were often found in the same stalls, in happy miscellany. Stout country women with stern faces hovered over their garlic, onions, and tubers, and set the prices depending on their customers’ ability to pay, which they judged by their clothes and gadgets. A well-dressed young man hooked to a cell phone would be asked to pay two CUCs for four pounds of potatoes while an old, plain-looking housewife might get the same for twenty Cuban pesos. Bargaining, though, was unheard of.
Padrino stopped his car two blocks past the market. All the spaces around it were already taken by trucks, pickups, and Russian-era cars. He was glad to have a few more minutes to talk to Yony without having to pay attention to the traffic, but the young man wasn’t in a talking mood anymore. He responded to Padrino’s comments, even the most trivial, with ahems and one-syllable words, not meeting his eye. Padrino couldn’t understand his change in attitude, especially considering Yony had just offered to do “bisnes” with him.
They walked together to the agromercado and were immediately beset by a small crowd of peddlers. They were the ones who couldn’t get a government’s license to sell inside. Their prices were lower than those set by authorized vendors, but there was always the danger of a cop interrupting the transaction and arresting both parties. Still, many farmers took the risk.
Yony ignored them, hurried in and began to check the chicken stalls. Padrino followed him and pretended to look at the birds too. There were loud roosters and angry hens pecking at their enclosure, at the corn kernels on the floor and at any hands that got too close to them.
“What are you looking for?” Padrino asked Yony.
“A rooster,” he answered. “It’s for Oshún. I was told to sacrifice a good fat rooster to him.”
“A rooster for Oshún?” Padrino frowned. “Who told you to do that?”
“A friend of mine. A guy who knows a lot about Santería.”
“I know a lot too,” Padrino said. “I can assure you that it isn’t advisable to give Oshún a rooster, except in extreme cases. You can offer him cacao butter, cascarilla, rum, even a white dove would be fine, but not a rooster. In a regular ceremony, he won’t approve of it.”
Yony’s expression betrayed his dismay. “Why not?”
“He’s very particular about offerings,” Padrino explained. “If the bird’s blood is on your hands, he’ll get encojonao, really pissed off. Man, you don’t want to have Oshún encojonao at you!”
“Huh, thanks for the warning. I may get a dove instead.”
Yony walked away fast and disappeared into the crowd. Padrino was left with an unsettling feeling about the bisnero and he had the definite intention to find out more about him.
Yarmi Cooks Cuban
Drunken salad
Hola, mis amigos!
I am so tired that I will make this a short post. Today I went to the farmers’ market and that always consumes a lot of time and energy.
The closest one to my house is El Vedado’s agromercado, located on the corner of 17th and K streets. I actually prefer Cuatro Caminos, the biggest and cheapest of them all. I resorted to El Vedado simply because it is easier to catch a bus that leaves me right at the door.
I bought three mangos, a pineapple, a watermelon and two pounds of rice. I looked like a veritable burra carrying all that by myself.
In Pinar del Río, where I am from, the market is never far away. And we grow vegetables and fruits in our own plots so we don’t need to go looking for them. Or paying for them.
If someone had told me three years ago that I was going to pay one CUC for five oranges I would have laughed out loud. The problem is that farmers can set their own prices. If they were conscientious, like my parents, they would keep them low so everyone could afford their products, but that isn’t the case. Many are in this business just for the money. And you know what? That’s wrong.
I also bought a bunch of lilies—at least they were available in pesos. I am a guajira at heart—a basic peasant girl. I love veggies and flowers. Roses, not so much, because they are too flashy. My favorites are simple plants like humble marigold, tiny jasmine blossoms, and lilies.
I use flowers to garnish salads and cook them with scrambled eggs. Have you ever tried that? Huevos revueltos con flores. I spread lilies over the eggs when they are almost done. They lend the dish a special fragrance, a mix of sweet cloves with hints of vanilla.
Anyway, the main reason why I went to the market is because I wanted to make ensalada borracha, drunken salad.
It’s very simple. Just slice and mix one pineapple, two mangos, one watermelon, four oranges, one papaya, and whatever other fruit is available. Spread the petals of your favorite flower on top, for extra pizzazz. That’s easy enough, verdad? But what makes it special is the dressing.
What’s the dressing made of, you may ask. Ah, a secret ingredient! Use half a cup of Havana Club siete años, our national rum aged for seven years, and combine it with the juice of two oranges and one lime. Pour it over the sliced fruit, chill for an hour and enjoy.
Comments
Cocinera Cubana said. . .
Funny, at home we don’t eat a lot of fruit or salads. My friends are often surprised because they assume that Cubans must love veggies, coming from a tropical place. But I don’t think it’s a tradition, at least not in my family.
Cubanita in Claremont said. . .
Same here, Cocinera. My dad used to say that “that green stuff is just for goats.” I tried being a vegetarian for a while and my parents worried to death, thinking I would end up anemic. They kept lobbying for the steak! But I will try the ensalada borracha.
By the way, Yarmi, do you eat the flowers when you put them on salads?
Julia de Tejas said. . .
What sold me was “la salsa.” May I use Bacardi instead of Havana Club?
Taos Tonya. . .
<
br /> What about 7 Deadly Zins? That’s my favorite wine!
Lucy Adel said. . .
Are the agromercados like dollar shops, where everything is sold in CUCs? How can people who are only paid in pesos afford to buy anything there?
Yarmi said. . .
Thanks for all the comments. Sorry it took me a while to respond but I was . . . just like my ensalada, a bit borracha.
Cubanita and Cocinera, there have been several nationwide campaigns to encourage people to eat more vegetables, particularly after the new agroponics began to yield fruit. But many still snub them.
Yes, of course I eat the flowers. They are delicious!
Sure, Julia, use Bacardi or any kind of rum. Tonya, I’ve never made it with wine, but I guess it won’t hurt. The salad will get borracha either way. And so will you!
Lucy, you can pay either in pesos or CUCs. Farmers accept both, though, sadly, they prefer the “convertible” pesos. Too bad.
Chapter Three
Half-faced Mona Lisa
After Padrino returned home, he resorted to an English-Spanish dictionary to read some of Yarmila’s posts. It took him a couple of hours and he was left scratching his head.
Pork and chicken for a caldosa? Really? She must have gotten it from a bisnero. Of course, Matt sent her money, she could certainly afford it. But still. Grilled steak? Maybe her folks sent her food from the countryside, though I doubt it. They often have even less to eat than we do.
He called Martínez and got directions to the home of Yarmila’s parents in Pinar del Río. As he was getting ready to leave, Matt phoned him.
“I was wondering if you knew how to get in touch with Yarmi’s family,” he said. “No matter what happened, I’d still like to meet her folks and offer my condolences.”
Padrino hesitated.
“Yarmi was from a town called Los Palacios,” Matt went on. “Do you think I should get a taxi and just go there?”
“Not a good idea. The taxi driver will charge you a fortune and you will be wasting your time if you don’t have a name or an address. I’ll try to find out where they live and let you know.”
“Okay.”
He sounded disappointed. Padrino hung up.
What if those people don’t want to see him?
Padrino’s VW Beetle couldn’t keep up with the tourist buses that he encountered along the way to Pinar del Río. Halfway through the trip, at a booth sloppily built right by the side of the road—an assortment of wooden boards with a sun-bleached thatch roof—Padrino had an unexpected encounter with a gaggle of Matt’s compatriots. The bus driver had stopped there, just as Padrino had, to buy something to eat. The booth was manned by a young guy and served only one item: pan con lechón, a sandwich with a slice of pork and a dab of mayonnaise and strawberry syrup, a pink concoction that no tourist was brave enough to try. But they all paid their four CUCs for the sandwich without complaint. The vendor, magnanimously, let Padrino and the driver have theirs for twenty pesos.
The tourists, around a dozen, had emerged from a roomy air-conditioned bus designed for fifty people. Padrino listened to them gab about the weather, the hotels where they had stayed, and the best sightings. At first he didn’t understand what the “sightings” were. Had these Yumas come to Cuba to spy? Were they all secret agents? But they wouldn’t be talking about their activities so freely, would they? And the CIA wouldn’t recruit so many people over sixty years old, most of them on the porky side. Eventually, catching a word here and another there, Padrino got a clearer idea of who the tourists were and what they had been up to.
“My favorite is the eastern meadowlark.”
“So precious! I believe it’s endangered.”
“For me, the best one was the spotted rail that we found in Zapata Swamp,” a pudgy, round-faced woman said. “But who could have thought, forty years ago, that we would be taking pictures of ourselves at the Bay of Pigs?”
“Remember those Cold War drills? Duck under the table and kiss your ass goodbye?”
The others laughed.
“Now, as for the highlight of my trip, I must say it was the zunzún.”
“The guide says they eat half their weight several times a day.”
“Like somebody we know!”
More laughs.
“Look, there’s one on that tree! Snap a picture, quick!”
Padrino examined them, intrigued. Where had these people come from that the sight of a humble hummingbird became the highlight of their day? He also got the impression that they had paid a lot of money for the excursion. For a trip to watch birds. The santero stared at the camera-wielding, Birkenstock-wearing men and women, who chewed enthusiastically at their soggy bread with charred pork meat, and he stifled the desire to laugh in their puffy red faces.
At five o’clock, Padrino arrived at a remodeled hut that had been plastered over and painted blue. Two brick rooms and a bathroom had been added to the original structure. A zinc roof had replaced the palm leaves that would have once covered it.
Yarmila’s parents, Reutilia and Severio, were at first suspicious of him.
“You said you work for the police?” Reutilia asked, looking him up and down. “Are you a detective?”
“A retired lieutenant colonel and a detective, yes, compañera,” Padrino answered.
“Do you have a badge or something?”
He produced his expired Communist Party card. The couple let him in after a quick look at it.
“I don’t know what this world is coming to,” Reutilia whispered to her husband.
A print of Fidel Castro and Che Guevara together, from the early sixties, and a picture of a young, unsmiling Yarmila in a black frame were the only wall ornaments in the small living room. Papers and photos blanketed a coffee table. Yarmila’s life was spread over it in the form of faded diplomas, tin medals, letters, and yellowish college transcripts.
After a few moments’ small talk, the grieving couple started to tell Padrino all about their daughter. Their sadness didn’t prevent them from bragging, but who could blame them?
“She was a bright student, the first one in her class.” Her mother pointed to a piece of paper with school grades written in blue ink. “Ten points in every subject! When she was in fourth grade, Yarmi was chosen among five hundred kids to go to a Pioneer Camp in Havana.”
Reutilia showed Padrino a black and white picture of a solemn little girl wearing a beret.
“She once wrote a long poem to Fidel,” Severio said. “She was barely fifteen years old. I wish I had kept it. It was published in our local paper and Yarmi said that it was the best quinceañera present that she could get. She hoped someone showed a copy to El Comandante.”
“Later she attended the Vladimir Ilich Lenin School, in Havana.” Reutilia held a color photo in which a slim teenager stood at attention next to a statue of José Martí, Cuba’s national hero. Only half her face was visible; the other half appeared darkened by the statue’s shadow. “That was during her induction ceremony. She had just been accepted into the Young Communist League. We were there as well.” Reutilia’s index finger, leathery and with short, bitten nails, pointed to two unrecognizable figures in the crowd.
“And she went off to college. To the University of Havana! We were so proud of her.”
“She was the very first one in our family to get a college degree. Thanks to the revolution.”
“Yarmi set an example for her comrades,” Reutilia beamed with pride. “Even during the Special Period, when everybody was complaining about the situation, I never heard her say a word against the government. She told the whiners that other people in Latin America were poorer than Cubans. ‘Look at Haiti,’ she would say. ‘Look at these street kids in Brazil. Aren’t we better off?’”
Padrino listened to them quietly. Both sounded like hardcore revolutionaries and seemed to believ
e that Yarmila was too.
“She later found a great job,” Reutilia went on.
“We thought that she was going to live in Havana forever, as a model new woman who would give children to our homeland. Instead—”
Severio wiped a tear from his face.
“You guys have to find out who did it!” Reutilia yelled.
“And when you find him, paredón! That’s what revolutionary justice is for, eh, compañero?”
“Even the firing squad would be too good for him!”
“That’s what we are trying to do,” Padrino said. “I know how sad and angry you must be now, but I do need your help. I have questions; some are difficult ones.”
Reutilia stiffened, but she said, “Ask, ask.”
Her husband nodded in agreement. “We will do anything to help you find the cabrón.”
“When was the last time you saw Yarmila?”
“Around two months ago,” Reutilia said. “Or was it three months, viejo? My head doesn’t work right anymore.”
“It was early January because I had started planting the first tobacco crop of the year. She spent four days with us.”
“Did you notice anything different about her?”
“No, she was her usual spunky self.”
“What did she talk about?”
Severio shrugged. “Her new apartment, her friends . . .”
“How much she liked coming back to Los Palacios,” Reutilia added. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Padrino hesitated before asking what they thought of their daughter’s fiancé.
“What fiancé?” Severio asked.
“The—the American.”
The couple exchanged a puzzled look, then scowled at Padrino as if he had insulted Yarmila’s memory.
“What did you say, compañero?” Reutilia snapped. “I must have misunderstood!”
“Yarmila was in a relationship with a man named Matt Sullivan,” Padrino said.
Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Page 16