Death Comes in Through the Kitchen

by Teresa Dovalpage

  Marlene flipped through the book. It was almost five hundred pages.

  Does Jacobo think I have time to waste with this crap?

  Some passages were marked in red ink. There were handwritten annotations in the margins, all in up-and-down strokes with a slight slant to the right. Intrigued, she sat down and started to read the underlined text.

  Page 78

  What does being a real agent mean? Putting together information, processing objective data and transmitting it to the center so general conclusions can be drawn and decisions made? Or drawing your own conclusions, offering your own points of view, proposing your calculations? Isaiev believed that he (the agent) should be, above all, objective.

  Marlene stopped to read Yarmila’s note in the margin:

  But what does being “objective” mean? My conclusions are far from objective because I don’t have access to the general picture, just a small fraction of it. “The center,” on the other hand, has a broader perspective. I should also offer mine, though, for whatever it’s worth.

  Page 119

  We, the detectives, must think with nouns and verbs. “He found.” “She said.” “He transmitted.”

  This time, the note was shorter. Marlene read it twice and found herself agreeing with it.

  Down with the adjectives! When I use them, they are often based on my perception of reality which can be distorted, or plain wrong. Our reports should focus on facts.

  Page 139

  During all these years, he had learned to examine his premonitions. He couldn’t understand those who asserted that having faith in premonitions was pure nonsense and mysticism. He was able to predict—one or two days before it happened—any important event.

  To this Yarmila had commented in a somewhat nervous penmanship:

  That’s what I call corazonadas, gut feelings. Yes, they are real. Sometimes, when I am having a conversation with a suspect, I come up with a statement that doesn’t make sense to me at that moment, but it turns out to be the right thing to cause a reaction, to prompt him to say what I am hoping for. Recently I have had a sense of foreboding, as if something were about to happen. Not sure if it is good or bad. But it is big, for sure. And it’s getting closer. I can almost touch it.

  Marlene nodded sadly. Yarmila’s corazonada had turned out to be accurate.

  Page 403

  Sometimes Stirlitz got tired of the hatred he felt for the people he had worked with in the last years. At first, it was a clear, conscious hate—an enemy is an enemy . . .

  Yarmila’s note read:

  An enemy is an enemy, but if you are sleeping with him, literally, you can’t help seeing him, and his people, as human beings just like you. The hatred I used to feel for the Yankees has turned into pity. I do not hate my “boyfriend.” I pity him, his loneliness, and his absurd, idiotic trust in me.

  Marlene put the book down.Had Yarmila believed these characters were real? Did she think she was one of them? An intelligence agent? Was she playing spy with Matt? Did the poor girl have a screw loose?

  Marlene looked at the printed documents. They were neatly typed and signed “Agent Katia” with the same slanting handwriting that covered the book’s margins.

  Report # 16

  March 1, 2003

  On February 26, Carmela Mendez and Pablo Urquiola went to a meeting with James Cason, head of the American Interest Section in Havana, at his home in Miramar. Selected attendees took part in a workshop about ethics and journalism.

  Mendez and Urquiola were not invited to be in the workshop, though they bragged about talking to Cason and his wife, Carmen, who speaks “perfect Spanish.”

  They received a shortwave radio and a digital camera, which they don’t know how to operate. They asked me for help.

  They said they would like to see their articles when they go live online on Cubanet.org.

  They complained about their old typewriter. I pointed out the fact that other “independent journalists” already have computers. I asked them, “Why the difference?” They didn’t say anything but looked upset. They resent having to dictate their articles over the phone or using a hotel internet connection to send them to Miami. They occasionally ask me to “help” with that as well.

  I told them that other dissidents had open passes to the Interest Section. Why didn’t they? Carmela was furious when she heard that.

  They aren’t leaders. They are just simpleminded followers and easy to manipulate.

  Their next meeting with James Cason will take place, tentatively, early next month. They are planning to attend. I may get invited too since they consider me “a prospective independent journalist.”

  Operation “Virtual Postcard”

  Report # 83

  February 17, 2003

  The comments have doubled in the last two weeks. Food opens many doors, virtual and physical. Though there are a few exceptions, my readers are still mostly Cubans. Many left when they were very young. Some are anxious to learn more. Others are willing to return.

  They are starting to talk about Cuba and the memories they have of their life here—what they ate, what they did, and where they used to live.

  They keep coming back to Yarmi Cooks Cuban because they are more comfortable reading in English. It makes them feel safer. I am one of them, even if I am here. That was why the first blog in Spanish didn’t succeed, in my opinion. It was too Cuban for its purpose. The author was “a foreigner” to them. They simply didn’t trust me.

  I still need to get more leverage. I plan to share personal stories and have them do the same. Tell them about Havana, our restaurants and beaches, the things they could do here . . . I have already invited some to come.

  I will write a fake comment about someone who returned and had a great time. I will also ask M. S. to write a story about his experience in Havana when he goes back to San Diego. I will review it before he publishes it.

  Marlene stared at the papers, then looked back at the book and scratched her head.

  “Cojones!” she said.

  An hour later, after calling “Agent Pedro” and having a long talk with him, she dialed Padrino’s number. When he answered, she started speaking fast, so eager and excited that words came tumbling out of her mouth:

  “You aren’t going to believe this, Comrade Instructor! The deceased citizen, I mean, compañera Yarmila, wasn’t who we believed she was. No wonder I was feeling so close to her, after all.”

  “What? Is Yarmila now a compañera?” Padrino answered. He remembered the patakín: “She was a fake.”

  “Oh, she always was! She worked for la Seguridad. The blog and her dealings with the gusanos were simply ways in which she served the revolution. She used her language skills to do so.”

  “Wait, mija, wait,” he said. “Start with the beginning.”

  “She was part of an operation called ‘Virtual Postcard’ aimed at bringing back the children and grandchildren of people who left Cuba many years ago,” Marlene explained. “She told them what life here is like, though sometimes she fluffed things up a bit. But she did it with good intentions.”

  There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

  “Fluffed up, huh?” Padrino said finally. He sounded angry now. “You mean all her stories about eating lobster and steak were just written to impress her readers? So they believed that Cuba was a paradise? Her entire blog was full of lies?”

  “Well, you have to do what you have to do.” Marlene sighed. “But she had more responsibilities. She also informed about the gusanos’ activities on a regular basis. Because they trusted her, she knew all about their meetings with Yuma officials. She had been doing that for two years.”

  “What about Matt? Was she spying on him too?”

  Marlene looked at the papers still scattered on her desk.

  “I’m not sure about that
part,” she said. “I’ll find out more because I’m also curious about what she did exactly. But Jacobo said that their ‘relationship’ wasn’t a Seguridad task. In fact, they frowned on it, but she was the kind of agent who liked to do things her way. It seems she thought that, because he was an American journalist, he could write good things about Cuba. To clean the country’s image, you know? Not a bad idea! Anyway, they’ll let him go soon.”

  “And Pato?” Padrino asked. “Was he—helping her clean the country’s image too?”

  “She told him that their affair was for entertainment only, remember?” Marlene laughed. Then she got serious. “Jacobo says that compañera Yarmila Portal will be decorated posthumously in a few days. Now we need to find out who killed her or I will totally lose face!”

  Chapter Five

  “The fish doesn’t know

  that water exists”

  When he hung up the phone, Padrino listened to the recordings for the third time, now with a sense of urgency. His desk was covered in the sketches he had made of Yarmila’s apartment. He studied them. The first drawing included the coffee table with two books on it, the old Frigidaire, and the ironing board. The stove was there too, surrounded by miniature representations of a knife, a whisk, and the two-pronged fork that Fefita had used to throw the chicken in the garbage can. The second drawing showed the bedroom, the bed, and the door that led to the bathroom. The sketch of the bathroom contained only the bathtub, a toilet, and a simple sink.

  He listened to Fefita’s words again: “The apartment looked as usual. Nothing was out of place . . . at least I didn’t notice anything. Except the chicken, fo! There was a very rotten chicken on the kitchen counter, next to a bag of sugar full of ants and some eggs. As if she were getting ready to cook when—but then Yarmi was always cooking, or cleaning, or reading a book. Busy as a bee. Maybe she knew she wouldn’t have a lot of time in life to accomplish everything she wanted to do.”

  Padrino added a triangle to the kitchen counter and labeled it “chicken,” drew a square for the sugar, and a few dots to represent the eggs. Then he stopped drawing. He looked at his notes and reviewed Yarmila’s posts. He read her merenguito recipe:

  The only ingredients you need are egg whites (four for a dozen or so merenguitos), a pinch of salt and one cup of sugar.

  He put the sketches away, took a semiautomatic pistol, the kind Cuban cops carry, from a drawer, went outside and got into his VW Beetle.

  Hamel’s Alley was a two-block zone located between Aramburu and Hospital streets. Tourist brochures called it “an open air gallery” because it was lined with colorful murals and sculptures made of discarded cash registers, ancient bathtubs, metal ladders, and recycled car parts. It was cubism, baroque and surrealism, all rolled into one, with Afro-Cuban motifs. Everything had been created by Salvador Gonzáles, an artist and a Santería priest himself. Sayings like El pez no sabe que existe el agua (The fish doesn’t know that water exists) and Aquel que vende el amor es tan miserable como él que lo compra (The one who sells love is as miserable as the one who buys it) had been written on the walls. On Sundays neighbors held public rumba parties in the street, but at 6:00 p.m. on a weekday there were only a few people around.

  Padrino stopped at the door of a house that also functioned as a clandestine shop. It sold fresh herbs, natural remedies, beaded necklaces and Santería-inspired colognes—Siete Potencias, Seven Powers, was their best seller. He made small talk with the owner, a plump woman dressed in white, while keeping an eye on number 45, where Yony lived. The Studebaker was parked outside.

  He’d had the intention to go in, but he saw through the window that Yony wasn’t alone. A blonde in her forties, obviously a foreigner, kept him company. He decided to wait. A few minutes later, the blonde came out in a huff. Yony went after the woman and tried to stop her, but she barked something in English and went away without looking back.

  “Did you see that?” asked the store owner, moving her head reprovingly. “Yony is a bisnero and a pretty decent guy, but all these women coming in and out his house, alabao! The Yumas will be his downfall!”

  Shortly afterwards, Yony emerged with a swollen eyelid and walking unsteadily. He wore tattered denim shorts and a T-shirt, and carried a stained paper bag under his left arm. Padrino followed him all the way to La Quinta de los Molinos, the big park and botanical garden located at the end of Salvador Allende Avenue. Once there, Yony disposed of the bag under a tall ceiba. It was a two-hundred-year-old tree considered sacred in Santería, where people often made offerings to the orishas.

  When Yony left, Padrino quickly inspected the bag. It contained a slaughtered rooster wrapped in newspaper pages. Its small, beady eyes were still open, staring angrily at the world.

  He didn’t listen to me. I bet Oshún is now encojonao at him.

  He returned to Hamel’s Alley. He could have detained Yony right away and let Marlene deal with the legality of the issue, but was afraid that the evidence against him wasn’t that strong. He couldn’t well accuse someone of murder based on a recipe.

  I will keep watching him. If he did offer the rooster to Oshún, he must be really scared. He’ll sooner or later do something to incriminate himself. They always do.

  An hour later Yony came out again. He had changed clothes and now wore cargo pants, a long sleeved shirt, a yellow jacket with huge pockets, and a butterfly bandage over his left eye. He also carried a heavy-looking backpack.

  It was seven thirty. There was still enough daylight for Padrino to see Yony’s concerned expression. He looked over his shoulder several times before getting into the Studebaker. Padrino hurried to the corner where he had parked the VW Beetle and was soon on the almendrón’s tail.

  Yony drove past El Mégano, Santa María del Mar, Boca Ciega, and Guanabo. These beaches, las Playas del Este, though not as clean and attractive as Varadero, had become popular among nationals and low-budget tourists. The Studebaker left behind the last Guanabo houses, Guanabo River, and Los Caballitos amusement park, always following the coastline. The city gave way to an empty landscape punctuated by sparse lights. The next town was Santa Cruz del Norte.

  Finally, Yony stopped between Guanabo and Santa Cruz del Norte, outside a dilapidated cabin a few yards away from the ocean. Palm trees, coconut trees and climbing vines grew around it. Without the almendrón’s lights shining on the front door, Padrino wouldn’t have even seen it. A number of rudimentary beach cottages—cabañitas—had sprouted all over the area, built by enterprising Cubans who rented them to foreigners.

  Padrino parked a block away and walked to the cabin, his footsteps silenced by the sand. As he approached the cabañita, he was forced to make a quick retreat and hide behind the trees. Yony and another man came out carrying a boat. It was around twelve feet long, with a built-in engine.

  “Come on, viejo!” Yony’s companion said. He was a younger, lanky guy who resembled the Pink Panther cartoon character. “Just lift the damn thing up!”

  Padrino stiffened and his heart began to beat fast.

  “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “Do it as if you mean it! If that’s all the strength you have, I’d hate to see you rowing tonight.”

  Padrino realized that this was an attempt to leave the country illegally—a crime punished with up to ten years in prison. His take on that was “let them leave if they want to,” and he might have just done so in other circumstances. But Yony was the main suspect now and he couldn’t afford to lose him. He made a quick call on his cell phone, asking the nearest Unidad for support and giving his location the best he could.

  “It’s a hut in the middle of nowhere, past Los Caballitos and before the first Santa Cruz lights,” he said.

  “We know, compañero. It’s not the first time someone has tried to leave from the same spot. We’ll be with you in ten minutes.”

  But he feared that they wouldn’t arrive in time. Y
ony, still carrying his backpack, and the Pink Panther guy were already onboard. The boat’s engine started with a loud cough.

  “Stop, stop right there!” Padrino came out of the dark, aiming his gun at them.

  Yony turned to him. Pink Panther ducked down. Padrino fired one shot in the air.

  “Come back!”

  There was no answer. Padrino shot again, aiming closer this time.

  “Pal carajo!” Pink Panther yelled. He bent as if he were going to retrieve something from the boat’s floor. Padrino shot at him.

  “Get out of that piece of crap!” he repeated.

  Yony hesitated. The engine was still on. But the siren of a police cruiser coming toward them and another shot in the air put an end to the scene. When the two men came off the boat, Padrino saw a stream of blood trickling down Pink Panther’s right arm. The guy was shaking and smiling.

  What the hell is he laughing at?

  Pink Panther didn’t seem much older than eighteen.

  “Stay there, in front of the house,” Padrino ordered. “And don’t move!”

  When the cruiser stopped by the side of the road, Yony reacted and ran in the opposite direction. Three cops went after him. In the darkness, only broken by the icy blue and red lights, Padrino saw their shadows tackle Yony to the ground, handcuff him and carry him to the car. They came back for Pink Panther, who followed them obediently, a vague smile still on his pale lips.

  “Have a doctor see this pendejo,” Padrino said.

  After a brief conversation, the other cops returned to the cruiser. Padrino said he would meet them at the Unidad to file a report. Less than twenty minutes had passed since he’d arrived on the beach.