I don’t think that was too difficult. They all trusted her.
She remembered her visit with Pablo and Carmela. How would Yarmila have felt about the crackdown? They were her friends. Or were they? The couple was in prison now.
Personally, I think we’ve gone too far this time . . . These people weren’t criminals. They were only writing about what they saw, just like Yarmila. The difference was that they did it openly and used their real names.
Soledad announced that the mincemeat was ready although she didn’t need to, with the spicy aromas coming from the kitchen. Marlene got up and exchanged her pajamas for an old, comfortable robe. It was the first weekday in years that she didn’t put on her uniform.
“Mija! Come to the table before the picadillo gets cold!”
Marlene walked to the dining room dragging her feet. She didn’t want to admit it, but the source of the good food embarrassed her. Comrade instructor had insisted on giving her one hundred CUCs.
“You earned it,” he had said, pushing the bills into her hands. “I wouldn’t have solved this case without your help.”
“But I was just doing my job.”
“So what? You aren’t paid enough for it.”
She hadn’t argued, not enough, she remembered, ashamed. In truth, she had been glad to get the money. But it still felt wrong.
At first she had wanted to buy exclusively at government stores. “No bisneros!” she warned her mother. They had gone to Plaza Carlos III and gotten three pounds of ground beef, two pounds of steak, and a big Spanish chorizo that “smelled like divine glory,” as Soledad had said. They had even splurged on a box of all-purpose flour because Marlene had set her mind to make banana bread at home. But they balked at the price of milk—a can of condensed milk went for five CUCs.
“That’s ridiculous!” Soledad protested. “Any bisnero would sell me three for that amount.”
Marlene gave in.
Though the meat was tender and well-seasoned, Marlene had trouble chewing the picadillo. She felt as guilty as if she were an accomplice in a secret crime. But it wasn’t her fault that they didn’t get more than a few ounces of meat every month through the ration card, she told herself. She remembered that the Plaza Carlos III butchery had been full of steaks, pork chops, and ribs. All those shelves stocked with cookies, deodorant, toothpaste, Camay soap! She had been tempted by one that smelled like roses but had resolved not to spend the two CUCs it cost. Why wasn’t all that sold in Cuban pesos? Regular people like her didn’t get any CUCs . . . And why couldn’t she buy a pound of lobster legally, eh?
Because lobster was a forbidden meat, Marlene reminded herself. Despite what “Agent Katia” had written on her bogus blog, their sale was penalized. That brought her thoughts back to Yarmila. Marlene doubted she had made, let alone eaten, most of the dishes she had so diligently described . . .
Dessert was a creamy and fluffy tocinillo. Marlene realized that her mother must have also ordered eggs from a bisnero. She longed for merenguitos, but it would have been silly to sacrifice four or five eggs for such ephemeral delight.
“Aw, mija! I wish we could have these feasts more often.” Soledad sighed. “I don’t even remember the last time we ate that well.”
Marlene did remember—when her brother had sent them money from Miami. Soledad used it to buy food, as usual. She hadn’t told Marlene, but she had found a Western Union receipt in the trash can. She would have figured it out, anyway. Now she thought that she should write to her brother and thank him. She still didn’t approve of what he had done, but—
Life is so short. Look at Yarmila. She couldn’t have imagined that she would never make it to thirty years old.
“Don’t you think so, mijita?” Soledad asked.
Marlene blinked and stared at her. “Sorry, Mom. What did you say?”
“Full belly, happy heart, as the saying goes.”
Marlene’s belly was full indeed, but her heart wasn’t happy. She imagined that Yarmila was also sitting at the table—a spectral, uninvited guest. A cold breeze enfolded her and made her shudder. Soledad noticed too.
“It’s getting chilly,” she said. “Isn’t that strange? It was pretty warm a moment ago.”
She stood up and took the empty dishes to the kitchen.
Marlene recalled a sentence from Yarmila’s last blog post: “Energy can’t be created or destroyed, only transformed.” Was her energy there now? Could she hear them?
“Why did you do it, Yarmi?” Marlene whispered. “For the revolution? Was your sacrifice worth it?”
She laughed quietly at herself.
I’d better be careful or I’ll end up praying to comrade instructor’s orishas.
The temperature in the room seemed to go back to normal. Marlene was clearing the table when a disturbing idea jarred her.
What about me? I am doing the same? Am I another Yarmila, sacrificing my life for the cause? Which one? The cause of our shortages?
“Are you okay?” Soledad asked from the kitchen.
“Sure,” Marlene replied as cheerfully as she could.
“You look pale.”
“No wonder. My stomach is in shock, after getting so much food at once.”
Her mother chuckled. But Marlene wasn’t okay.
I wish I had a way of somehow—connecting with her. I could ask comrade instructor if he knows of some Santería ceremony, but that sounds way too crazy. What would he think of me?
She put the leftover tocinillo in the refrigerator. Then she stopped and smiled. She might not be able to “connect” with Yarmila, but she could certainly pay her a visit.
The Colón Cemetery is the final home for over one million quiet residents. Founded in 1876 in the heart of El Vedado, it has maintained the neighborhood’s elegant and expansive feel with its sprawling layout, tree-lined avenues, and discreet side streets. The necropolis stretches for 140 acres of chapels, mausoleums, graves, urns, and vaults.
Marlene had been in the cemetery just a few times—the first was when her father died, in 1992, and more recently to accompany Soledad to exhume her parents’ remains and bury them in an ossuary. Fifteen years after a burial, or earlier if the space was needed, the bones were usually transferred to the ossuaries, a practice that Marlene considered unsanitary and a bit spooky. Why not cremate them, eh? Soledad still came to visit her husband’s grave on his death anniversary, but Marlene had always refused to go with her. “That’s creepy,” she would say emphatically. “My dad isn’t there.”
She wasn’t that sure of her beliefs anymore. When she passed near the seventy-foot high Monument to the Firefighters, she looked up and admired the tall blindfolded angel with wings extended. An old black limousine drove by, covered in floral arrangements and followed by three cars. One was a blue almendrón.
The sun was blinding as it reflected off the white headstones. Marlene felt hot and a little dizzy. She looked for Yarmila’s grave, trying to get oriented among the many mausoleums, funerary monuments, and larger-than-life sculptures. She had no idea where to go. An older woman carrying a plastic bucket full of flowers approached her.
“I have lilies,” she whispered. “Ten for one CUC.”
It occurred to Marlene that it wasn’t proper to visit someone’s grave empty-handed. Hadn’t Yarmila written that she loved lilies, that she even cooked and ate them? Maybe that part wasn’t a lie. Marlene searched her purse, found four twenty-five cent coins and gave them to the woman, who threw in two extra lilies.
“Because you look so sweet,” she said.
Marlene, who wasn’t used to being called sweet, smiled and asked the vendor if she happened to know where Yarmila Portal was buried. “A young woman who was murdered not long ago,” she explained. Her voice quivered when she said “murdered.”
“Ah, I know who you are looking for!” the vendor crossed herself. “Poor
girl, way too young to be here. Are you a relative of hers?”
“We were friends,” Marlene lied.
“Come with me.”
Marlene followed her, holding the lilies, which gave out a creamy, spicy fragrance. Her heart was heavy as if she were, in fact, visiting the grave of a lost friend.
The vendor pointed out the marble statue of a woman who had a cross in one arm and a baby in the other. The mausoleum was surrounded by fresh flowers, wreaths, candles, photos, and cards.
“That’s La Milagrosa,” she said. “Have you heard about her?”
Marlene nodded and looked closely. Yes, she had heard her mother tell her own Milagrosa story many times. When pregnant with Marlene, Soledad had suffered from severe bleeding and was in danger of losing the baby. She had made a special trip to the cemetery to ask for The Miracle Worker’s intercession. “And you were born five months later, healthy and cute!” she would conclude with a triumphant smile.
“La Milagrosa and her newborn child died in 1903,” the vendor said, noticing Marlene’s interest. “When it was time for them to be exhumed and taken to the ossuary, the baby, who had been placed at her feet, was found resting in her arms. Neither of them had decomposed. From that moment on, expecting mothers started to come here asking for a safe delivery. Mothers with sick children come and beg for their recovery too.”
A month before, Marlene would have listened to the story with amused disbelief, at best, or with utter contempt. Now, she just listened respectfully. They walked for ten more minutes. Finally, the vendor stopped in front of a small grave that looked recently painted. Instead of a cross, there was a granite vase on top of it with a bouquet of withered roses. The vendor retrieved them, emptied the vase and filled it with water from her bucket.
Many of the neighboring graves were decorated with Cuban flags. Marlene realized that this section of the cemetery was devoted to “homeland heroes,” as the TV anchor had called the Seguridad agents that morning. But there was nothing on Yarmila’s tomb that indicated she had belonged to the secret police. Only her name was etched, followed by two dates: 1978-2003.
The vendor went away discreetly. Marlene placed the flowers in the vase. Their scent lingered on her hands.
“I believe that you did what you thought was best, Yarmi,” she said. “And I am so sorry for what happened—” Though she felt her throat closing, Marlene tried not to cry, for Yarmila’s sake. She had been a strong woman. “But see? We caught the cabrón who did it. You can rest in peace.” Or could she?
A wave of sweet warmth swept over her and dissolved into a cloud of caramel. Marlene closed her eyes and let the smell of merenguitos fill her heart and lift the oppressive heaviness from it.
Chapter Four
The Baracoa Weed
Matt came out of his room at six in the morning, freshly shaved, anticipating a long day of waiting rooms, airport crowds, and insipid food. Román was making breakfast. Besides the unmistakable aroma of Cuban coffee, Matt identified another smell, similar to pot, but stronger and spicier.
Standing in front of the oven, Román held a joint between his lips. He flipped an omelet with the skillfulness of a trained chef.
“Want some?” he asked Matt. He wasn’t talking about food.
“No, thanks. It’s not legal here, is it?”
“I don’t use it all the time,” Román explained without answering directly. “Only when I’m nervous, like today. I just heard on the radio an interview with a chivato. It looks like the Seguridad had tons of informers infiltrated in human rights groups. Many are coming out now and accusing the people who thought they were their friends.”
“So it’s in the news,” Matt said.
“Finally. Everybody knew, but they didn’t admit it until now.”
“What are they accusing the human rights groups of, exactly?”
“Man, of being human rights groups!” Román shrugged, as if stating the obvious. “They call these people mercenaries, pro-Yankees and CIA agents—the usual stuff. I’m scared so I’m cooling off with la yerba. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No problem. But why are you so concerned?”
“Because I have said—things. About the government, the restrictions, the shortages. I’ve bought stuff on the black market. I am not completely clean, if they want to come after me.”
“No offense, but I think that you Cubans are prone to exaggerating,” Matt replied. “Think of it this way: even if the authorities wanted to, they wouldn’t have the resources to spy on everyone. There aren’t enough informers to do that.”
“It’s true, there is a limited number of chivatos.” Román inhaled from his joint, blew the smoke in the air and watched it disappear. “But we don’t know who they are so that makes everybody a suspect. This guy, Manuel David Orrio, posed as an independent journalist. A friend of mine said he wrote critical articles against Fidel, the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution, the Party, and everything under the sun. Guess what? Today he is bragging about how he fooled the gusanos and even got the Americans from the Interest Section to confide in him. How many more Orrios are among us?”
He placed the omelet and a buttered toast on a dish.
“In any case,” he concluded, “I’m keeping my mouth shut for the time being. Eh, do you want to try la yerba or not?”
“If you insist—”
“It will do you good. You look a little out of sorts yourself.”
Román took another joint from a kitchen drawer, lit it and passed it to Matt.
“You will be high in the clouds before your plane takes off, man.”
La yerba was a potent variety of marijuana, or at least the strongest Matt had ever encountered. He had experimented with pot in college, but it made him feel paranoid instead of relaxed. He had once flushed a baggie down the toilet for fear of being found out. Román assured him that this one was high quality, harvested in the mountains of Baracoa, in Oriente.
“It’s good shit,” he said, adding virtuously, “not weakened by any of this modern stuff that Habaneros use. Most people don’t know better, but I do.”
Matt hadn’t yet inhaled when he started to cough.
“What do you think?” Román asked.
“Is it—what do you call it, hashish?”
“I call it yerba. Weed.”
Matt’s lungs were filled to the point of explosion. He exhaled painfully.
“Don’t ask la yerba anything, man, just let it embrace you,” Román said.
During the trip to the airport, squeezed inside Román’s car, which was smaller than the Studebaker and equipped with harder seats, Matt was aware of a warm tingling in his arms and legs. At first he didn’t feel particularly high or euphoric, but as the car sped along Rancho Boyeros Avenue, a soothing sense of satisfaction filled him. His worries receded. He stopped thinking about la Seguridad. The Iraq war could have been happening on another planet, for all he cared. He laughed quietly.
“Feeling good, eh?” Román asked.
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“What did I tell you? It lasts longer than the regular stuff too.”
Román parked two blocks away from the main airport building.
“I don’t want the guards to mistake me for a clandestine taxi driver,” he explained. “But I’ll accompany you and make sure you get in.”
“Thanks.”
A flower vendor intercepted them. Matt realized that it was the same disheveled woman who had offered him marigolds the day he arrived. This time around, the woman had only sunflowers. Just to be safe, Matt bought a bunch for one dollar.
At the airport parking lot, the two men shook hands.
“If you ever come back, remember that my home is waiting for you, Mateo,” Román said, producing a bunch of cards with the house logo (a Spanish-style building that didn’t resemble his place at all) and the slogan B
ienvenido a Villa Tomasa, donde se sentirá como en su casa.
By then the Baracoa weed had been working its juju because Matt simply said, “I will remember it,” and pocketed the cards.
As soon as he entered the airport lobby, a security guard ordered Matt to get rid of the sunflowers.
“You can’t travel with those.”
Matt threw them in a trash can, muttering an invented prayer to the corresponding orisha. He was pleasantly calmed through the ticket inspection and the first passport check. There would be a second one in the waiting room, the customs officer told him.
“Keep all your documents handy until you board the plane,” he said.
Two more Americans stood out in the crowd—a blonde girl, long-legged and ponytailed, who, like Matt, carried just a backpack, and an older, pudgy, sunburned man accompanied by a shapely brunette who was obviously Cuban.
They all waited to have their carry-ons inspected. The line moved slowly. The X-ray scanner was flanked by guards armed with AKMs. More uniformed men patrolled the area. When Matt put his backpack on the conveyor belt, a guard’s gun made a menacing turn toward him.
“No suitcase?” he asked.
“No, señor.”
He should have said “no, compañero,” but remembered it too late. The guard, fortunately, took it in stride.
“Go ahead and pass through the metal detector.”
Matt obeyed, noticing that the other AKMs were also aimed at him, as if they had acquired a life of their own. The guards’ faces remained indifferent.
I shouldn’t have smoked that shit.
He tried not to look at the guns again. His backpack got momentarily stuck in the conveyor belt, but the guard pulled it out and handed it to him.
Matt entered a well-lit area with a door that led directly to the tarmac. There was a glass window through which he could see the X-ray scanner and the line of people in the other room.
Most of the passengers that waited for the Cancun flight were Mexicans—tanned young men and middle-aged couples. A few were Cubans who lived abroad, easily identified not only by their accent, but because they looked less relaxed than the rest of the crowd. A group of six, who were about to leave the island for the first time, had gathered in a corner. They were the loudest and the most excited.
Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Page 28