Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1)

by Luis Gonzalez

  “Now stop, you three! ¡Ya!” Mamá ordered, trying to keep her own maternal emotions in check. “This isn’t a time for sadness. It’s a time to be happy, a time to rejoice. Your sister is not leaving us. She’s saving us!”

  Of course, we only wept all the harder. But after a few more minutes of unfettered emotion, I felt a firm and steady hand on my shoulder. I knew it was Rigo reeling me back, trying to pull me up to the surface of reason. The moment of truth had arrived and it was definitely time to take our leave. I didn’t want or need to take one last look at anything. Not at them. Not at the house. They were my one and only family and certainly we would always be a part of one another. This was my one and only birth home and there would never be any forgetting it. As much as I loathed Fidel Castro and what he had done to this country, this house would always remain my home and I would always cherish it.

  How I ever made it inside the vehicle or what direction I looked in or what thoughts consumed me as the taxi pulled away and raced down our street, I could not recall. But I would always recall our driver and how the man never shut up. I tried ignoring his incessant prattle, but it was asking for the impossible. He simply could not close his mouth. I never knew his name, but that was fine with me. And I would meet him only once, during this brief ride from Havana to Cojimar, but I decided he must be the most obnoxious individual I had ever encountered. Never could I foresee the pivotal role he would play on this morning of August 15 and its turn of events.

  He was short but muscular, albeit, slightly overweight; heavily balding with traces of dark hair; he possessed an abnormally low voice, and from his inarticulate diction and how fast he spoke, I could tell he hailed from the countryside, for he nearly swallowed his words whole. I figured him to be a complete illiterate, and was therefore dumbstruck when the absurd little man informed us he wasn’t really a taxi driver by profession but a Técnico Medio in Artes Plásticas.

  “Really?” I posed. “Well then, what are you doing driving a taxi?”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” he shot off in his low-voiced, rapid-fire manner. “Same thing everyone else is doing these days: surviving, making ends meet, ‘resolving’ if you know what I mean. You think that anybody can make money in Artes Plásticas these days? During this Special Period?”

  I kept silent, but only thought to myself: I’m sure you could if you were any good, if you had any actual talent or were any kind of real artist. But I simply kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t worth it. I had to recognize that this impulse to lash out was just the critic in me, the cynic always wanting to find fault with things or needing to dissect everything. So I kept my mouth shut. At least I knew now whom I was dealing with: a frustrated artist. One more example of why I must leave Cuba and eagerly looked forward to it: so I didn’t end up the same as this absurd little man; except, a frustrated critic in my case.

  “Of course not,” I replied with restraint. “You’re absolutely right, compañero.”

  Rigo must have sensed my simmering unease, for he jumped in to give his two cents and diffuse the tension.

  “Of course not, compañero. And I know exactly how you feel,” he said. Why, I’m an architect myself. I’ll have you know that I graduated two years ago at the top of my class from the Instituto Superior right here in Havana. But do you think I’ve gotten to exercise my talents even once? I haven’t gotten to build so much as a cardboard box yet.”

  I cringed as I sat in the backseat of that car and looked out the window. We snaked our way through the streets of Havana and it seemed we were navigating through a familiar sea of blue, police blue: the mongrels were stationed everywhere, especially along the Malecón. I wished that Rigo would not divulge any aspect of our life to this absurd little man. I didn’t trust him for one second in his dark blue jeans and tight-fitting designer shirt. I didn’t know what had gotten into Rigo. He was usually so discreet, so reserved. But this morning he was markedly different, seemingly changed somehow. He was a running faucet of water that one could not force shut.

  “Really?” said the bald little man. “I fancy myself as an engineer and an architect too. What have you been doing for the last two years?”

  Just as the faint light of morning was cautiously tiptoeing and had yet to press its footprints upon the soft path of day, how I wished my husband would proceed just as cautiously. How I wished he had the sense to brush off this intrusive line of questioning since taxi drivers in Cuba were notoriously nosy, usually security people. But no, Rigo fell right in place with those steps by plowing and stomping full-force ahead.

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” Rigo replied.

  “Oh, I’d believe anything,” the absurd little man shot back. “Remember, this is Cuba, compadre, where things that should make sense don’t, and things that don’t make sense do.”

  “You’ve got that right,” said Rigo. “That’s why they’ve had me in some remote, rural village in Camagüey teaching advanced math to kids who can barely read or write yet.”

  “¡Camagüey!” declared the absurd little man. “Why, I just drove through there a couple of weeks ago. Which town in Camagüey?”

  “I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. It’s this tiny little town called Rio Piedras.”

  “Rio Piedras? You mean where the cattle co-op is? That Rio Piedras? Why yes, compadre, I know exactly where that is.”

  I sank ever deeper into the backseat of that car, burying my face slightly as I brought a hand to my forehead and silently shook my head. Why couldn’t we have any privacy? Just a few kilometers of privacy. I turned to Rigo to get his attention, signaling him to put a lid on it, but there was no tightening that spigot, no turning off that faucet.

  “Coño, compadre. You’re the first person I know who’s ever heard of Rio Piedras. That’s where I’ve been for the last two years, teaching calculus to fifth graders. It’s called Early Exposure.”

  “Calculus to fifth graders!” declared the absurd little man.

  “Yes, that’s right. But do you know what they wanted me to do this year? What I would be doing if I were going back? Teaching mechanical engineering to fourth graders. That’s what the project is for the upcoming year. It’s called Intense Early Exposure.”

  The absurd little man shook his bald head, laughing uproariously in his abnormally low voice.

  “No wonder you want to leave here so badly, compadre. I can’t say I blame you in the least.”

  “No more!” said Rigo. “No more! I’ve wasted two whole years of my life with nonsense, but no more.”

  “Well, what is it that you do want to do?” asked the probing little man. “Design houses?”

  “Definitely not!” said Rigo. “Growing up in Cuba has ruined that for good.”

  “And why is that?” asked the little man.

  “Are you kidding?” said Rigo. “You think that after spending an entire life here surrounded by hideous Soviet-style apartment buildings built after the Revolution, I want to design anything residential? Not on your life. I want to design things there are of no use here in Cuba: tall buildings, skyscrapers, towers even.”

  “Towers?” said the little man.

  “Yes, towers. You see, for the longest time I’ve been designing a very special tower. It’s the first of its kind, and I’m finally going to make it happen when I arrive in the United States.”

  “In Miami?” asked the round little man. “I’ve seen many pictures of Miami and it seems to be nothing but towers.”

  “No, we’re not going to Miami, compadre. Maybe for a couple of days, but that’s it. We’re going to San Francisco, in California. Now San Francisco is a city of towers. They’ve got this one tower that’s completely round called Coit Tower. And they’ve got this other tower in the shape of a pyramid called the TransAmerica Pyramid. Well, my tower is going to be the perfect complement to these two. I call it the Tri-Tower Complex. You want to see it?”

  “¡Coño sí!” he said excitedly. “I would love to see it! I’ve been d
esigning something very similar myself. But mine is four towers!”

  I didn’t believe this for a moment. I straightened out in that backseat while in the grip of some silent terror. I reached over and grabbed Rigo’s lap. He turned and looked at me as I shook my head furiously at him. What’s the matter with you? I wanted to scream out. What’s gotten into you? Why are you confiding in this narcissitic little man who can betray us and denounce us at any moment? Who might even steal your idea and design? Hadn’t he heard the absurd little man say he considered himself an architect and engineer? Rigo must have read my thoughts because he suddenly did an about-face.

  “You know what?” he said, changing gears and downshifting. “I don’t think I can do that. The blueprint is all packed away. It will disturb everything else if I retrieve it.”

  “I understand,” said the little man. “I understand perfectly, compadre. But coño, that’s great. Congratulations on such a stupendous idea; a tri-tower complex. I imagine it’s going to be three towers all in a row, right?”

  “Yes!” I jumped in to save Rigo. “All in a row, side by side.”

  Of course, I was lying. And fortunately this nosy driver was too narcissistic to wonder why I had suddenly answered for Rigo, which was fine with me. There were times narcissism actually paid off.

  “Well then, it’s a good thing you two are doing this right now,” continued the narcissistic little man. “That’s what I’ve been telling people all week: take advantage of this opportunity right away, the sooner the better.”

  Now he had me on the hook. Now it was my curiosity that was piqued.

  “Oh?” I began. “And why is that?”

  The narcissistic little man stopped to look up in the rearview mirror. Not to lock eyes with me, but only to steal a glance at himself.

  “Well, I can’t tell you with absolute certainty,” he said, managing to strip his attention away from the mirror. “But I understand this exodus isn’t going to be lasting much longer. In fact, it’s going to be ending real soon.”

  How full this guy was of himself. What a delusional little narcissist. Not only a frustrated artist and balding fool, but a know-it-all. Typical taxi driver here in Cuba, always acting as if they knew everything. Not only because of their contact with foreigners, but because everyone knew they were agents of the state. No wonder being a taxi driver was one of the most coveted trades in all of Cuba: trained in tips, travel, and tourists. Except this guy had an additional degree: tattler!

  “How soon?” I asked.

  “This week, compañera.”

  “This week?” I said. “What do you mean?”

  The taxi driver shot a glance over his shoulder. It was the first time he made direct eye contact with me. If I wasn’t mistaken, he looked at me the same way he had looked at Angélica earlier. I really couldn’t stand him or stand being in his presence any longer; in fact, I loathed him.

  “Well compañera, you do know that your uncle…you know who, right? The one who gives all the orders around here…that he’s just doing this because it suits him, right?”

  As he referred to our one and only comandante-en-jefe, the absurd little man gestured with one hand as if stroking an invisible beard, that silent but universal reference to uncle Fidel.

  “Suits him how?” I asked.

  “Do you need to ask?” the man fired back. “Certainly you don’t think he’s opened up the floodgates because of his generosity, do you? Because he feels bad for all the unhappy citizens he’s created?”

  “Of course, not” I fired back myself, defensive but determined. “He’s doing this because he can’t stop us. Because this time the forces working against him are too powerful and the whole world is bearing witnesss to it, that’s why.”

  The chofer shook his bald head and laughed uproariously in his abnormally deep voice, trying to make eye contact with me in the rear view mirror.

  “Don’t be naïve, compañera, don’t be so innocent. He’s doing this because it creates a humongous problem for the Americans, because it forces them back to the negotiating table, that’s why.”

  “Negotiating table? What negotiating table?”

  “The negotiating table of immigration talks, compañera. That negotiating table.”

  “And how do you know this?” I pressed.

  “Let’s just say I have it under very good authority, compañera.”

  I settled down again in the back of that vehicle, but dumbstruck and deflated. I couldn’t reply. Rigo sensed my churning unease because now he jumped in for me.

  “That’s Fidel for you,” he said. “Never passes up an opportunity when he sees one.”

  “You know that your uncle is no fool,” the driver continued, stroking that imaginary beard once more. “Didn’t you hear him the other night on television? The veiled threat he made. What better way to force the Americans to bend to his will than by unleashing another exodus? Right now this is a mini-Mariel, but left alone, it could easily eclipse it.”

  I felt more and more disheartened as the absurd little man babbled on. The more he spewed his hot air, the more deflated I felt.

  “What are you saying then?” I began. “Are you saying he planned this all from the start? This incident I’ve regarded as a miracle?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, compañera. He’s not that ingenious. But your uncle definitely knows how to work things to his advantage. Didn’t he do the same thing with Mariel? Wasn’t Mariel a genuine revolt until he realized he too could make his move and clean house? Didn’t he take advantage by emptying out his jails and mental hospitals?”

  “So that’s who’s leaving now?” I asked flabergasted. “Convicts and mental patients? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, compañera, I’m not. But who knows? Who really knows? I think that if everyone were completely honest, they would admit that, in order to do what they’re doing—what you two are about to do—you have to be a little crazy, wouldn’t you? Be honest now. Risking your life at sea. Leaving behind everything you know and love. Everybody accuses Fidel of being old and crazy and blames him for Cuba being a mess. But Fidel is not to blame. We are. We Cubans are to blame. He’s just an orchestra leader conducting this socialist symphony. He’s just a chef preparing a major meal. You have to hand it to him. He always knows just when to remove the valve from that pressure cooker, doesn’t he? He always knows exactly when to let the steam out.”

  There, in the backseat of that car, Rigo and I turned and faced each other to assume the obivous: this absurd little man was an agent of the state, he had to be. For the ensuing moments that followed, his words hung thick in our faces, their stifling force sucking out all the oxygen. We sat there deprived of all air until Rigo’s voice pierced through the silence, but in a manner totally unlike him.

  “Well,” my husband began, “the whole damned thing can explode in his old, fucking face for all I care. Another thing, compañero: as far as that meal goes that our uncle is preparing, as you say, well, it’s already been served, and it tastes like shit—pure shit! Who knows? Maybe we are crazy, as you suggest. But at least we’re not cowards. You need courage to do what we’re doing. Real courage. Just like the kid who threw the rock at the Deauville last week and made this all possible. That took more than cojones, and I will admire and respect that kid for the rest of my life.”

  “Oh no, compañero. I beg to differ. I couldn’t disagree more. That was definitely crazy what that kid did last week, very stupid, actually.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Rigo. “And why is that?”

  “Why?” the man posed rhetorically. “Haven’t you been seeing the news reports lately? Haven’t you been reading el Granma?”

  “No,” we both said in unison.

  “Of course you haven’t,” retorted the bald little man. “How could you? You’ve been too busy getting ready for your trip. Well, they’ve got security images of the guy getting ready to throw another rock and they’ve been showing his picture in the paper and on TV. They�
�re looking for him and anyone who helped him.”

  “Anyone who helped him?” Rigo asked.

  “Yes, and believe me, I have it under good authority that when they find these guys—and they will—they’re going to have a lot of time on their hands to think about what they did.”

  “Well, hopefully they’ll never find him. Hopefully he’s already escaped. Maybe he’ll be in Cojimar this morning getting ready to push off.”

  Once again, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What in the world had gotten into Rigo? If I was the one usually running off at the mouth, there was no catching up to that loose tongue of his this morning.

  “And that’s one of the reasons why you’re going to be seeing so many policemen along the shore this morning. They’re determined to catch him if he tries to escape. See what I mean?” he pointed. “Look over there!”

  Rigo and I looked to our left, in the direction of his pointing finger. The prevalent color of blue stretched out like a dragnet: the blue of uniform, the blue of the mongrels. They were everywhere, it seemed, forming their own sea of blue.

  More important, we had finally reached Cojimar.

  “Where shall I drop you off?” the driver asked.

  “Hemingway’s bust,” I said. “Do you know where that is?”

  “Coño, who doesn’t know where that is?” he asked. “It’s right over there.”