The narcissist pointed to the modest, yet respectable, monument that the town of Cojimar had erected in Hemingway’s honor: a bust of him housed within a gazebo. It stood right across from the Spanish fort at the entrance of the harbor. The Malecón of Cojimar was tiny compared to Havana’s, so we reached the monument in no time.
“This will do,” Rigo said, taking charge. “You can drop us off right here.”
I promptly stepped out of the taxi while Rigo thanked the absurd little man and paid him. I could barely bring myself to say goodbye, much less thank him. I could think only of saying good riddance. But he was a leech that would not let go.
“Compañera,” he began. “Just one question, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s that?” I asked, weary and exasperated.
“That sister of yours, the one who wanted to accompany you this morning. How old is she?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen. Oh well…”
“Why, compañero? How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Thirty-six!” I declared.
“Yes, now tell me, from a woman’s point of view, do you think thirty-six is too old for sixteen?”
“No compañero, not too old. Ridiculously too old!”
He fell silent and nodded erratically, almost talking to himself.
“That’s what I thought,” he replied. “That’s what I thought. Well, what about the other sister then? The one with the weird eyes.”
“She’s twenty-three, compañero, and she’s got a boyfriend. She’s also blind, that’s why the weird eyes.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well listen, good luck to you both and be real careful out there. The sea looks kind of rough this morning, much rougher than it’s been all week. Not only that, I hear that in the last couple days a few corpses have washed up to shore. But don’t worry about that. I’m sure you’ll be rescued long before you know it.”
He went to shake Rigo’s hand before driving off, but my husband, so full of surprises this morning, unleashed one nagging question.
“How about you, compadre?” Rigo began. “Think you might be interested in leaving at all? In joining the exodus from here in Cojimar?”
“Me, compañero? Me? Why do you ask?”
“You must be frustrated, compadre, terribly frustrated. You’re a Técnico Medio in Artes Plásticas, yet you have to drive a taxi in order to put food on the table. I can’t think of a worse consolation.”
But the absurd little man smiled and looked at Rigo with that half-crazed expression in his eyes. He would not be outdone, and he had the goods to prove it.
“Oh no, compañero, you shouldn’t make such assumptions, not at all. I’m perfectly fine with my position, perfectly happy. You see these jeans I’ve got on?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Rigo.
“They’re Jordache. Not even Levis, but Jordache. And you see this shirt?” he posed again.
“Yes,” repeated Rigo.
“It’s Calvin Klein, chico, Calvin Klein!” he repeated. “The very best there is. All due to this job I have as a driver and the tourists who support me—I mean, my clients who care for me very much. No, compañero, I’m perfectly content,” he added. “But remember what I told you now. Be real careful out there, real careful. The sea can turn on you in an instant, so it’s always best to assume the worst, always! It’s the only way to maintain control!”
With that, he was off! He slunk back into his taxi and drove away. I was a knot of nerves and couldn’t think straight. Not as I caught sight of him for the last time, his dark blue jeans and Calvin Klein shirt, his balding head with its dull sheen glowing in the distance; meanwhile, Rigo and I were left to fend for ourselves within the curious scene unfolding along the waterfront.
The little sea village of Cojimar, just an extension of the eastern portion of Havana. I didn’t know what to anticipate, what I would see or hear. Maybe family members making a last-ditch effort with some pleas and sobs, with hysterics even; maybe friends or neighbors who had come to say goodbye and offer well wishes to loved ones. More than anything, I expected an air of solemnity over the whole affair, a mournful silence draped over the canvas of this coast. Hardly. There was hardly anything mournful or melancholy about any aspect of the gathering here.
Sure, there were tearful goodbyes and tight overwrought embraces. But the clamorous scene along the calm blue waters of Cojimar was not one of despondence or gloom. It was festive and brewing with energy. It seemed like carnaval time in Havana, as if these processions along sand and shore were the only carnavales being celebrated this year, these homemade rafts replacing the traditional floats. The floats of Cojimar were not the fancy flashing spectacles of a parade. They were the floats of some farcical fleet; a fleeing armada of vulnerable vessels, and where the most prevalent common denominator was the lowly everyday inner tube.
Inner tubes. Everywhere! Some inner tubes were single and solitary, their riders determined to make the voyage alone. But most inner tubes had been leashed like dogs, strung together in groups of two or three or even four or more; tied and fastened, saddled and harnessed for all their strength and might. Some had wooden planks; others had whatever floatable surface could be scrounged up; still others had material highly suspect—like ours, the only vessel woven together with stalks of sugarcane and maloja. All had been strapped like oxen to a cart, like chariots onto horses expected to gallop across the water. But this was one horse you could not whip to go faster or needle to giddyap. Not lest it pop or deflate or collapse under your weight and desert you in a watery grave. Some of these floating creations looked fortified and reinforced. Others appeared flimsy and precariously strung together. All came to life with the aid of the everyday inner tube—no longer a lowly object of disregard, but a true life-saver, a lasting friend.
And where did all these inner tubes mysteriously come from? This overabundance. During this Special Period we had shortages of everything in Cuba—food, energy, clothing—but certainly no shortage of inner tubes, the one item that needed no rationing, along with Chinese bicycles. Why was it that, suddenly, when a Cuban needed an inner tube, there were more than plenty to be found?
No, there was no shortage of these life-savers, just as there was no shortage of takers. As for the decorations on these floats or their visual themes, it was not pretty young girls or carnival queens who danced atop them. Thin young men adorned these vessels: stern-looking, hungry, fearless and brazen Cubans with a fierceness in their eyes and an angry intensity in their gaze. Cojimar. The town would forever be tied to the water. It was the setting for Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. Papa Hemingway had even docked his boat here. It remained a tiny fishing village of modest wood and concrete homes perched on a hill that overlooked a bay. But now, in this next chapter of the town’s seafaring history, it was the launching point of Cuba’s current exodus, later to be dubbed El Crisis de los Balseros.
I had only been to Cojimar once in my life, when I was twelve. My father had come here to conduct research and said we could make a family vacation out of it. He was writing a paper on the migratory patterns and language of the Cimmerians of Crimea: an ancient nomadic people now extinct and who were believed to have dwelled in perpetual darkness. Evidence suggested that, even though the Cimmerians had eventually settled as far north as South Russia, Asia Minor, and along the Black Sea, originally they had been colonists of Atlantis before it sank into the ocean.
And while it was generally believed that most of the Cimmerians who survived that cataclysm migrated to Northern and Western Europe, my father suggested in his paper that an offshoot of the group had headed south, never to be heard from or seen again. The Cimmerians who made it to the European continent went on to engage in centuries of warfare and conquests with rival groups; thus were they eventually expelled and driven out of Europe because of their affinity to the darkness. These embattled Cimmerians decided to head south this time, just as that small offshoot of their ancestor
s had done centuries prior. My father’s research indicated that, sometime in the fifth century, this bellicose faction reached Cuba and modern-day Cubans were actually direct descendants of theirs. The newly arrived nomads happened to settle in Cojimar and the word Cojimar itself was a variation of the word Crimea, named after the Cimmerians.
I knew nothing of the linguistic correlations to the Cimmerians or their ancient language. But while my father and his colleagues hotly debated all these esoteric notions—and at times their discussions grew heated and impassioned over cigars and shots of rum and servings of guayaba marmalade poured over cream cheese—I loved hearing all his description of the Cimmerians and the forbidden land of Crimea they once inhabited.
“It was beyond the ocean,” he would explain. “A land of fog and darkness, at the edge of the world and at the entrance to Hades, along the edge of a dark and gloomy forest.”
It was the last vacation we took as a family, and I would always recall it bittersweetly. My father could not relax. I remember our last evening in Cojimar as we sat along the seawall enjoying a rare treat of ice cream. How I wished Papi would simply savor and delight in that cool and sweet refreshment, along with the calming sight of the ocean, blue-gray and bleeding, and the blood-rust sun setting in the distance. How I wished he would tell me more about the mythical land of Crimea. But it never happened. He was too engrossed in his scholarly journal and his erudite thoughts. My father could never stop working. He could never just give of himself or give us his undivided attention.
I never knew what became of his research or whether his thesis about the Cimmerians ever got published. I doubted it; especially after what happened during his stint in Iraq and how his career in Cuba ended in such disgrace. But I certainly knew what became of the Cimmerians. They were alive and well, right here in Cojimar, all the messy multitudes of them, these modern-day Cimmerians who had been living in perpetual darkness at the edge of the world and the entrance to Hades.
It was a spectacular sight to behold, really it was. It seemed as if all the waters of the planet had funneled into the Bay of Cojimar and amassed into a shifting blend of oceans and seas. Seas of blue—the blue of the mongrels. Seas of bicycles—the Chinese bikes so prevalent these days. Seas of young people. Old people. Very Old People. Onlookers. Participants. Detractors. Curiosity Seekers. Adventurers. Most of all, seas of Dreamers. It was part parade, part procession. There were even shrines to La Virgen del Cobre set up everywhere. Some stationary. Some mobile. And we were all subject to severe food shortages during this Special Period, but there was even ‘food to go’ being provided for the multitudes: everything from pork bocaditos and croquetas to yucca and chicharrones.
Who were all these people and where had they come from? Why did they look so strange? Could it be true? Could that absurd little man have possibly been correct? Were the multitudes gathered here just everyday Cimmerians like Rigo and me, or some of Fidel’s convicts? Fidel’s mental patients. Loyalists and infiltrators going abroad only to gather intelligence for our great uncle. Was this really all a miracle or just a second Mariel? I regarded everyone with suspicion and mistrust now, as possibly having a secret agenda. Maybe I should come clean with Rigo myself, no matter how crazy the vision last night sounded. Who knew? Maybe he would actually believe in it. I should at least let him decide.
“Amor,” I began in earnest. “There’s something I need to tell you, something important.”
We were standing by Hemingway’s bust and Rigo turned to face me quickly, his eyes glowing with a brewing excitement. We may have been on land still, but his heart and mind were already on open water, navigating their way forth, tackling the peaks and valleys of the waves with the aid of that compass his father had given him.
“What is it, amor? Tell me anything you want. You know that.”
But what could I tell him? How could I possibly relay the vision I’d had? The dream. The hallucination. The visitation or whatever it was. I’d take a stab at it no matter how tenuous.
“Well amor, you see, last night when you were gone I…well, I thought I was falling asleep when…”
But I could not continue. My words faltered in some crisis of motion. I could not weave the strands of language together to merge a sensible thought.
“Yes, amor,” he urged. “Go on. You know you don’t have to be afraid with me; you can tell me anything. What happened last night, Clara?”
But I couldn’t shake this unwelcome pause. Not even as I struggled to ferret out the words from deep within. I couldn’t unearth them; they refused to rise. I could only stand there mute as Rigo fixed his gaze on me, as this curious scene surrounding us kept unfolding in a clash of movement: from all the people shifting back and forth, to the would-be balseros putting finishing touches on their rafts; from those actually pushing off into the water, to those who came only to spectate, clapping and cheering vigorously each time someone launched off and set sail. Even Rigo joined in the applause when one such group took off. I, however, couldn’t move or make a sound. I wrapped myself in a crisis of silence until, unexpectedly, I felt a hand tapping my shoulder.
“Coño, chica. Where have you two been?” asked Amalia. “We were starting to get worried about you.”
How ecstatic I was to see my best friend. The mere sight of her released that tight chokehold over my thoughts and words. But if I embraced her presence like a dose of salvation, it wouldn’t be that way for long; the morning was destined to unravel quickly. For the moment, however, I admired how stunning and alive she looked. She was dressed in tan shorts and a white top. Her hair was gathered back in a ponytail; two tiny earrings of gold hung from her ears. She looked like her old self again, brimming with life and energy, certainly not the motionless cadavar from the night before. Whatever had possessed Amalia last night, she had gotten it out of her system. The two of us hugged and greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek, while Henry and Rigo shook hands.
“We’re on time, aren’t we?” I asked.
“Sí, chica, sí. I guess I’m just a ball of nerves is all.”
“Where is it?” Rigo asked excitedly. “Where’s our ship?”
“Over there,” Henry pointed out, some fifty yards away. “In fact, let’s head over there before someone steals it. There have been several thefts this morning already.”
I felt a sickening malaise unfolding in my stomach. It had to be the excitement, the nervousness that one feels before a race or a test. Pilar always told me that, despite years of running competitively, she always felt sick to her stomach right before a race. It had to be the same thing. Wasn’t this just a race for our lives? I tried suppressing the feeling. But as we made our way through the throngs of people, it dawned on me what I would always recall about this morning of August 15: a clash of movement and motion.
I didn’t know what else to call it. A collision of the quick with the slow; a spar between the up and the down; a conflict between the forward and the backward, even a clash between that which circled and that which dispersed. Commotion and chaos, yet confidence and calm. These were the conflicting qualities of this morning in motion. But no movement caught my attention more than the water itself, and how, instead of rushing and receding, it flowed only in one direction, one motion: forward and outward. I was so mesmerized by this phenomenon that I never realized we had reached our famed vessel, La Maloja.
There it was, finally before me. And I have to say that, the moment I laid eyes on this raft, all my anxieties dissipated, even about its name. It was beautiful, captivating—really it was! It was also the only raft of its kind there. La Maloja was three layers thick of sugarcane stalks, the most exquisite sugarcane I had ever seen: bathed in bright yellow and light-green and interspersed with hints of orange. But it was the shadings of green that dominated the palette: a textured translucent green that appeared to have been polished and emulsified. The paddles were sugarcane stalk too, but with the sturdy bark of royal palm attached as oars. The vessel sat like a silent flame
of color shimmering in the sand. The paddles stood like two swords crossed in a regal and protective stance. Only the bottom layer was tightly wrapped and encased in the magical maloja that would guarantee the raft’s bouyancy.
“Well,” Rigo asked without any hesitation. “When are we doing it? Is there anything we’re waiting for?”
“That all depends,” Henry said. “Do we want to take off by ourselves, or do we want to take off as part of a group? I was speaking to those guys over there and they said we could push off with them if we wanted.”
Whatever Rigo’s response, I never heard it. Just then I became aware of the only bodies, the only entities this morning, who seemed devoid of this clash of motion, the only group whose every movement seemed uniform and in sync.
“Why all the policemen?” I asked. “Are they stopping people? Or are they looking for someone?”
“Oh no,” replied Amalia. “They couldn’t care less. They’re just making sure that anyone who leaves is over eighteen and is leaving freely, that nobody is being coerced.”
“That’s a good one!” Rigo scoffed. “What do they know about free will around here! Especially the police!”
I wanted Rigo to be careful. The mongrels still had the ability to mess with us if they so wished. They could still detain us if they wanted.
“Well, fortunately that’s not anything we to have to worry about anymore, is it?” said Amalia. “This damned Communism, this stinking Socialist dictatorship. You know what?” she said, nearly foaming. “Let’s not wait for anybody. Let’s just go by ourselves as we planned.”
“Yeah!” Rigo declared. “I’m all for that. But before we do, I want to pray first. I want to ask for God’s blessing.”
We all concurred with so excellent a suggestion, throwing our belongings onto the raft as it sat stationary along the sharp and rocky shore. The four of us then joined together and formed a circle. We clasped our hands in unison and closed our eyes reverently as Rigo led us in prayer.
“Father in Heaven,” he began solemnly. “We gather here this morning to ask You for your blessing. We gather here to ask You for your protection and assistance. As we leave behind our homeland to embark upon a new life, please guide us safely across the water, please be with us the entire time we sail. Let us complete this journey safely, Father. Not just us, but everyone here. Heavenly Father, all-knowing God that You are, You know why we’re doing this. You know that none of us want to risk our lives carelessly, that precious life you’ve given us and which we honor. But it is precisely because we honor and treasure that gift that we now commit ourselves to this choice. You know our desperation, Father. You know our suffering and misery and how life will never change here. You and you alone know this, Father, and have granted us this miracle. And so, Father, we petition you one last time: please join us this morning and light our way. Know that our intentions are pure and genuine and that we do this out of love for our families more than anything else. Thank you for your understanding and, once again, bless us and accompany us along this crossing. Thank you, Father. Amen.”
Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) Page 20