The report filed by the Unidad 56, where Yony was booked, read:
On March 18, 2003, the citizen Yony Nogales attempted to leave the country in a makeshift boat. The backpack found in his possession contained five cans of evaporated milk, five cans of Spam, and eight plastic bottles filled with orange juice. There were also twelve hundred dollars distributed in three waterproof envelopes, a compass, a lighter, a pack of Populares cigarettes, and a battery-operated device that resembles a map.
The jail cell was hot. Yony, sweaty and bruised, groaned when Padrino came in and said reprovingly, “You aren’t such an honest bisnero as you told me you were, my friend.”
“I am!” Yony replied. “For the record, I knew you were a cop. I’ve known it all this time so don’t think that you fooled me.”
“I am not a cop anymore,” Padrino said. “But that’s not the issue. Why did you do it, Yony?”
“Because there is no future here! There, I said it. I wanted to get the hell out of this damn country!”
“I thought you had dozens of Yumas waiting to take you to the States.”
“I thought so too,” Yony shrugged. “But it just didn’t work out. And I am tired, so tired, man!” He stopped and inhaled deeply. “My bisnes is shit. No matter how hard I work, I can’t do shit with what I make. I sell shit. I buy shit. I am paid in shit!”
“Yes, life is pretty shitty, I won’t argue with that. But I wasn’t asking why you tried to leave the country. I was thinking of Yarmila Portal. Why did you kill her?”
“I didn’t!” Yony treaded hard on the last word. He pounded the cement bench with his fist. “Why are you bringing that up now? As I said, I already have enough shit on me.”
“Not really, son,” Padrino said quietly. “There is a lot more coming your way.”
“Just go to hell, cabrón.”
A guard who was smoking outside made a move to come in. Padrino held out his hand to stop him and showed Yony the interactive toy.
“Do you recognize it?”
“It’s a map, man,” Yony muttered. “You wouldn’t expect us to cross the Strait of Florida without one.”
“Where did you get it?”
Yony stared blankly at the cell wall. “A friend sold it to me,” he mumbled.
“Was that friend Yarmila?”
“Eh? No! I sold stuff to her, not the other way around.”
“Yarmila’s boyfriend sent this to her, Yony. We can prove it. The link is so clear that we can close the case right now.”
Yony shrugged. “Which case?”
“Yarmila’s, comemierda! You killed her and tried to escape to avoid being caught. There is no getting out of this, so do yourself a favor and admit it.”
“I don’t have anything to admit,” Yony said. But his tanned face had turned pale.
“You told me that you never got to deliver the merenguito ingredients, remember? But there was a bag of sugar in Yarmila’s kitchen the day she died. There were eggs too because she didn’t have time to put any of them in the fridge.”
“And? Someone else could have sold them to her. Why do you think it was me? I am not the only bisnero in Havana.”
“But you were the one she dealt with.”
Padrino got closer to Yony and reached for his left hand, where the two red circles were still faintly visible, piercing the tattooed image of La Virgen de la Caridad. Yony backed off.
“What about this? You didn’t get these wounds fixing your almendrón: you got them from Yarmila, who stabbed you with her two-pronged fork. It was still in the apartment when we searched it.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“But the main piece of evidence against you is that map. You killed Yarmila to steal that piece of crap. Carajo. A children’s toy, of all things. Why? What was in it that made you turn into a murderous thief?”
“I am an honest bisnero,” Yony put his hand to his heart for emphasis and looked Padrino in the eye.
“Yes, people say that you’re a pretty decent guy,” Padrino said, softening. “And lucky too. Let’s see: you were making good money. You had a superb almendrón. You didn’t lack women.” As Padrino spoke, counting with his fingers, Yony buried his head in his hands. “Explain to me why a hardworking bisnero ended up killing a girl and stealing a toy to boot. I don’t get it.”
Padrino’s avuncular manners soothed Yony. “Will you help me?” he asked.
“No promises.”
Yony stared at the Santería necklaces. “You were right about not offering a rooster to Oshún,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Don’t bring the santos into this. It won’t help now.”
“He’s punishing me, isn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Oshún. I’m really fucked. I have the rooster’s blood on my hands.”
“Only the rooster’s blood, son?”
Yony didn’t answer.
“You’ll be less fucked if you tell me the truth.”
“Yarmila was a chivata, a government informer,” Yony said, his gaze still fixed on Padrino’s necklaces. “I was the comemierda who trusted her. Everything I told you the day you gave me a ride was true. Except that I did get the eggs and the sugar that she wanted on Monday evening. I saw her at La Caldosa that night and she asked me to bring them to her apartment the next day. ‘Just in time to make merenguitos for my Yuma,’ she said.
“I prefer clients to pick up the merchandise at my place, but Yarmi was Yarmi. If she had asked me to deliver the stuff to a Politburo meeting, I’d have probably done it. When I delivered the stuff she was getting ready to iron. She didn’t wear lycra pants or short shorts like most girls, but old fashioned dresses and skirts. Despite that, she was always a bit of a flirt. She paid me immediately, eight dollars even, and offered to make coffee for me. In the meantime, she asked what plans my Yuma and I had, since she knew Anne was coming too. I said I was going to propose to her and try to convince the old woman to take me out of Cuba.
“‘If I don’t ask, she can’t say yes,’ I told her. ‘But she may send me packing. Not everybody has it easy like you, mamita.’
“Yarmila laughed. I was sure that she was laughing at me. To her, I was a loser. She knew that no rich Yuma would ever marry a poor bisnero from Oriente. So I felt the need to brag . . . I told her that I had a Plan B if things with Anne didn’t work out as expected. My cousin El Pantera and I had built a boat, and we could leave the country anytime. It was ready, waiting for us at a Guanabo house.
“‘You built a boat?’ she asked.
“She looked at me differently, as if I were less of a loser. Actually, El Pantera had done most of the work. I just gave him money to buy the materials. But she didn’t need to know that.
“‘Yeah,’ I answered. ‘It will take us to Key West in a matter of hours.’
“‘That’s terrific,’ she said.
“She smiled. I thought I had finally impressed her. ‘You want to come with us?’ I asked.
“It was a risky move. And I had sworn not to tell anyone about the boat, but I couldn’t help myself. Besides, I didn’t have any reason to suspect her. Yarmila bought things from me. She had gusano friends and a Yuma lover. I assumed she didn’t like living in Cuba any more than I did.
“She batted her eyelashes, bit her lower lip, and began to play with her hair. All the things chicks do when they are interested—or pretending to be interested—in a guy. She served coffee in cute demitasse cups instead of regular mugs. When she gave me one, she brushed my hand.
“‘I’d have to think about it,’ she said.
“‘Fine, but think fast,’ I said, acting all macho. ‘If Anne says no, I’m leaving on my own. In fact, I may just do that. I don’t need to land on La Yuma with that ugly albatross hanging around my neck.’
“Whil
e we were talking, Isabel called out to her from the street. Yarmila invited her to come upstairs, but Isabel yelled something about her varicose veins. I was happy she didn’t want to visit because by then I had started getting ideas about Yarmi. I had always liked her and thought that I might have a chance after all.
“‘I’ll be right back,’ she told me.
“She left. I just sat there and looked around. I saw a cell phone, which surprised me because only people with lots of money can afford them. Even with CUCs, buying a line is still a hassle. Then I discovered the interactive map . . . Yes, I knew it was a toy, so what? I never had toys when I was growing up. Never had anything. I began to play with it. I liked it so much that I planned to ask Yarmila to sell it to me or to exchange it for food. But it didn’t occur to me to steal that piece of crap. I am not a thief!
“I was busy ‘traveling’ from Havana to Miami when I heard a strange sound, a beep that made me jump. I couldn’t figure out what had made it. It was spooky, man. The second time it happened, I realized that the beeps were coming from the bedroom. I looked out the balcony. Yarmila was still chatting with Isabel.
“I went to the bedroom and the first thing that caught my eye was a computer. A buddy of mine has one and it’s always loaded with porn. He charges three CUCs to watch a skin flick. I wondered if Yarmila had porn there too or naked pictures of herself that she had sent to the Yuma. The screen showed a landscape with a river and trees. I am not very familiar with these things so I moved the mouse a little and waited to see what happened. The landscape went away and a typed page appeared instead.
“I began to read about a meeting that her gusano friends had with a Yuma. I didn’t get all the details, but realized this was the kind of report that only a chivato would write, saying what time these people met, what they talked about and when they were going to get together again. It dawned on me why Yarmila had bought the fan for them, which had seemed weird at first. That’s what Seguridad agents do to gain people’s trust—give them stuff and act all nice and helpful. And that was also why she had a cell phone and never talked about it: she used it for her chivatería business, to keep informing about this and that . . .
“I returned to the living room, peeing my pants out of fear. I had already opened my big fat trap and told Yarmila about the boat, and it’s a fact that chivatos get extra points when they blow the whistle on rafters. I didn’t know what to do next, if I should bolt out of there, go back to Oriente and hide for a few months, or beg her to keep quiet.
“When she came back with a chicken wrapped in tinfoil, I was pretending to read that Cocina book as if I had never left the living room. She started to say something about making sugar-baked chicken when the computer made another beeping sound. She walked to the bedroom and saw that the report was still on the screen. Her face told me that was bad news.
“‘Have you used my computer?’ she asked.
“I told her no, but she didn’t believe me. She could see I was scared shitless.
“Her manners changed. Now she was serious, dead serious. I guess she was afraid that I would go around telling everybody what I had seen and blow her cover. I wasn’t going to do that, but she must have been scared shitless too. She took her cell phone and started dialing a number.
“I hurried to the door, trying to get out of there before she called la fiana. Then she made a mistake, the sort of mistake that bitches make so often. She grabbed my arm and started yelling that I was under arrest.
“I pushed her away. She attacked me with the fork and pricked my hand. Crazy, man! What was that woman thinking? Then she made some kind of karate move to throw me off balance. It didn’t work, but she got hold of my arm again and wouldn’t let go of me. We fought and somehow—my fingers closed around her throat. She was a skinny thing, nothing like the American horse that Anne is. Coño, I don’t know why I’m bringing the Yuma up now! What I mean is that I only put a little pressure on Yarmila’s neck and that was it. She went limp like a rag doll.
“Everything happened too fast. I didn’t intend to hurt Yarmila, only to get away from her. But she was like a pit bull. I stood there, calling her name and trying to revive her, but it was too late—she was dead. So I went into damage control. I cleaned every piece of furniture I had touched, the book, the computer, the mouse, the chair I’d sat on, the fork—I’ve been fingerprinted twice before so I had to be extra careful. I put her body under the shower and left the water running.
“I was crying, man, like a fucking baby. Crying for the awful thing I had just done, a sin against the orishas, but also for that beautiful girl I had had a crush on and killed without wanting to.
“I didn’t steal any money. I didn’t even think of it. I didn’t take the phone either. But I did get the map before leaving. Big mistake, I see it now, but at that moment I thought it could be helpful for the trip, just to have an idea about distances and so forth. And I—I just liked that shit. I waited until there was no one around, and snuck out of the building.
“This is the truth, man. You can believe me or not. At this point, I don’t care. Oshún didn’t accept my offering and now he’s really encojonao at me.”
Yarmi Cooks Cuban
Dreams of Grandma and natilla
Last night I dreamed of Grandma Hilda. Maybe because I have been writing so much about food, she has been on my mind for several days. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but my grandma passed away three years ago.
This was a strange dream, and a little scary. We were cooking together, making natilla, custard, so close that the tips of our fingers touched over the saucepan. I felt a chill because hers were so cold.
She didn’t say a word, just keep stirring milk and cornstarch in the caldero.
“What’s up, abuela?” I asked.
She looked at me sadly and offered me a spoonful of the natilla mix. But when I opened my mouth to taste it, I woke up.
I still feel her presence around me. If I didn’t have to iron and fulfill my other responsibilities, I would make custard right now. Just in case, you know?
I don’t believe in ghosts or anything like that. But when I was in college, a scientist from a university in Kazakhstan visited our class. She talked about some interesting experiments with energy that they were doing in the Soviet Union.
“Energy can’t be created or destroyed, only transformed,” she said.
She also told us about Kirlian photographs and explained that the human aura was made of energetic patterns. I don’t remember a lot more, but it really impressed me.
Could it be Grandma’s “energy” that I am feeling?
Do you believe in dreams, dear readers? What can you make out of this?
Bueno, but since this is a blog about food and not ghosts, I will share with you the recipe for the custard that Grandma and I made in my dream.
Natilla is a smooth, rich dessert. So good and creamy that you will want seconds every single time you eat it.
Start by boiling two cups of fresh milk and one can of evaporated milk in a caldero, a big saucepan. Add a two-inch lemon peel, one cinnamon stick, and one cup of sugar.
While you wait for the milk to boil (keep an eye on it!), beat five egg yolks. Here, remember that you can use the whites to prepare merenguitos.
In a separate bowl, dissolve four tablespoons of cornstarch in half a cup of milk. Make sure to get rid of the lumps.
Mix the eggs with the cornstarch-and-milk blend.
Grandma Hilda used a colander to strain whatever was left of egg whites and the undissolved bits of cornstarch. When I am in a hurry, I tend to skip this step, though.
Go back to the saucepan. Retrieve the cinnamon stick and the lemon peel, and add the mixture of eggs, milk and cornstarch. Let the whole thing simmer, stirring constantly, until it thickens, and add two tablespoons of vanilla extract.
At this stage, if you want, also add raisin
s. It’s so much fun to find them later!
Cook on low heat for around five more minutes. Keep stirring. Pour into individual containers or a big dish and sprinkle with cinnamon powder.
Grandma always refrigerated it immediately, but I also like my natilla warm.
If you use the egg whites to make merenguitos, you can adorn the custard with them.
Let me know what you think of my natilla and that crazy dream.
Kisses to you all!
Comments
Cocinera Cubana said. . .
Ay, your dream was scary! Pray, Yarmi. Ask for protection. I know you aren’t a Catholic, but a good prayer never hurt anyone.
Could I use lime peels instead of lemon? Lemon is too strong for my taste.
Cubanita in Claremont said. . .
Oh, Yarmi, you should attend a séance to contact your dead grandma. Do you still have espiritistas in Cuba?
I will make the natilla. It looks like crème brûlée without the caramel.
Julia de Tejas said. . .
To me, the recipe sounds a lot like like pastel tres leches, only with two kinds of milk instead of three. I may use condensed milk instead of sugar.
I don’t believe in ghosts either, but I love ghost stories. Particularly if I can listen to them while eating custard in front of the fireplace!
Taos Tonya. . .
Pues, it is natilla, Cuban custard, not pastel tres leches or crème brûlée or whatever. Stop making it into something it isn’t, pendejas.
Maritza said. . .
Hey, these are just comments, Tonya. Yarmi, maybe you were hungry, that’s all.
Cubanita in Claremont said. . .
Thanks, Yarmi! I made it and the custard tasted just like the one my grandma used to make. Did you find the recipe in Nitza’s cooking book?
Cocinera Cubana said. . .
Where are you, Yarmi? You always answer our questions right away. Hope everything is fine with you, querida.
Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Page 25