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

by Luis Gonzalez

  What was the matter with me? Why did I feel seasick even though I clearly wasn’t at sea? And why could I detect the odor of greasy food from what seemed miles away? Was this the result of not eating anything all morning? I didn’t know. But I did feel a new clash of movement taking place internally, inside me, some kind of motion sickness though my feet were planted firmly on the ground. As the waves of some vile and advancing nausea swelled deep from within and brought everything rushing upward, I felt my head turning and circling, spinning furiously into some dusk of uncharted disgust. I felt grimy from the spray of sea salt, and every strand of hair on my head felt wildly out of place. It may have been midmorning, but I no longer felt alert or awake. Sure enough my legs gave way so that, next thing I knew, I lay motionless on the ground.

  I had fainted. In a spectacle within a spectacle, I crashed down near the shore. How could I not have? Rigo had just stranded me. The one and only love of my life had just vanished beyond the ocean for good. Into a land of fog and darkness guarding the entrance to Hades. Telling me he loved and cherished me, but casting me aside. For no less than a year at that! When already we had spent so much time apart in our brief marriage. How could anyone not feel sick and weak after so inconsiderate an act? Impossible! I struggled to stay alert. I battled to remain fully awake, trying to brush the incident off and fight the crisscross of emotions.

  But I couldn’t do it. I had not the force. I had not the will. As the soothing strands of unconsciousness undid their tight weave and fully came undone, I felt relief in knowing I could no longer fight anything. I simply lacked the strength as my body hit the ground. I may have only fainted for a matter of seconds, but I took solace in knowing that it felt like hours upon hours.

  6

  solace

  august 15

  mid morning

  Wake up, compañera! But, please, be careful! You may have a concussion, so please, don’t move any!”

  I couldn’t move if I wanted to. I couldn’t even budge. As my eyes fluttered open, and I came to with a start, I found a face looking down on me, sturdy and strong. I didn’t know this face, yet it looked vaguely familiar. Its clear brown eyes seeking to comfort me; its gentle smile trying to assure me. The expression on this face gave such warmth, I didn’t want to move. It was only upon realizing exactly what I looked at, that my body stiffened and I slightly recoiled. It was nothing less than one of the mongrels in blue, crouching down right over me just inches from where I lay.

  “¿Qué pasó?” I asked startled. “What happened?”

  “You blacked out, compañera, right here along on the shore. Are you all right? You think you’re hurt?”

  What a question! Did the mongrel really need to ask? Couldn’t he tell? Of course, I was hurt. Of course, I wasn’t all right. Not only was I light headed and nauseous still, I was disconsolate, dejected, drowning deep in a dusk of despair. But more than anything, I felt repulsed, disgusted to have one of the mongrels in blue crouched down so close to me.

  “I blacked out?” I asked. “But how? I…I don’t understand. I don’t remember anything.”

  By now it wasn’t just the mongrel in blue hovering over me but a crowd of spectators swarming about, all the countenances of Cojimar: the curiosity seekers, the caregivers, the clowns—they had all gathered round to partake of the spectacle. For a moment the focus was off the water and onto the sand; off those fleeing and onto those fainting. And a mongrel sat huddled in their midst, but whispers abounded about the other spectacle everyone had just witnessed: the officer stripping down to his shorts and jumping onto the raft, the very same raft I should have been on. Nobody knew what to make of it, whether it had all been real or some kind of stunt. One thing was real: how quickly his remnants had been collected, how swiftly a responding pack of mongrels rushed over to whisk away the uniform, baton, and gun.

  “Don’t worry, compañera! Don’t you worry any!” said the mongrel crouched over me. “I’ve radioed for assistance and a car is on its way. Just stay put. Make sure you don’t move any, please.”

  Had he just said car? As in police car? Now I wouldn’t stay put even if I wanted to. Hopefully he’d meant ambulance, but I doubted it.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I don’t need a car. I’m perfectly fine.”

  I finally began to move. I even managed to switch from sprawled on my side to flat on my back. But the moment I went to prop my elbows up underneath me and hoist myself up, the onlookers leaped into action and launched into a litany of advice.

  “¡No, chica! ¡No!” they urged in near unison. “He’s right. You may have a concussion! You shouldn’t be moved.”

  “Quick! Get her some saltwater,” someone suggested. “It’s the best thing for fainting.”

  “That’s smelling salts, chico! Not saltwater,” another countered.

  “I meant for her face!” explained the prior person. “I meant to throw on her, not to drink.”

  “Look!” someone chimed in. “She’s passing out again! What she needs is CPR! What she needs is resuscitation.”

  “I can do that!” some guy eagerly volunteered. “I’m certified in that.”

  As the crowd burst into laughter, I took notice of this individual and his grungy appearance. He reminded me of a mangy street dog, like the ones so prevalent throughout the streets of Havana, abandoned and neglected animals scrounging around for whatever scraps they could find. The sight of this flea-bitten creature revolted me. He too looked familiar, even if I couldn’t figure out why. Regardless, I was not passing out again. I needed no resuscitation. What I needed was to be left alone. As the crowd swarmed and swelled about me that was all I wanted, but there was no getting through to the onlookers or quelling their solicitude.

  “Thank you all very much, really,” I called out. “You’re all very kind, and I appreciate it, but I’m fine now and I’m getting up.”

  The crowd protested at once. They objected vigorously that I knew not what I was doing, that I was in grave danger of seriously hurting myself. But I proceeded anyway. Only the mongrel seemed to respect my wishes. He extended a hand and pulled me to my feet so that, at last, the crowd stepped back and cleared the path.

  “I believe this is yours, compañera,” he said to me.

  I looked down. In his hands were my belongings, the items that Rigo had wrapped up neatly in a plastic sheath.

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I reached out to retrieve them, but the mongrel held onto my possessions like a dog with a bone.

  “That’s all right, compañera,” he smiled. “I’ll carry it for you. I don’t want you exerting yourself any.”

  “It’s no trouble,” I insisted. “I’ll take it.”

  He relented, handing me back what were probably the most important possessions I had in life: my journals, the prayer cards, the infamous letter to my father from Iraq, my birth certificate and carnét. How grimy I began to feel, and itchy too. Sand covered me in patches, and with my back to the ocean, I dusted myself off. Several in the crowd tried lending assistance, looking for a towel I might use as they peppered me with questions. Where are you from, compañera? Where do you live? Do you want to go to the hospital? Do you want anyone to accompany you? Are you hungry or thirsty at all? Surely you must be thirsty. No! I screamed inwardly. No! I wanted to be left alone, not pried or picked at. I wanted to block out everything surrounding me. But despite the deafening screams inside my head, I couldn’t drown out the clamor of Cojimar, especially the whispers of this swarming crowd that: I was the one, the girl who had backed out at the last moment as my companions took off. I thought I might black out again. I felt my legs giving way until that slimy individual, the one who had offered to resuscitate me, brought me crashing into consciousness, the full throes of it.

  “It’s all right, compañera. There’s still time if you want.”

  Before I could ask time for what, an unnerving scream punctuated the moment.

  “¡Mire!” one of c
uriosity-seekers yelled out excitedly. “Look over there!”

  The crowd quickly reset its sights, shifting its focus from ‘all things sand’ to ‘all things water,’ from fainting maiden to fleeing men. It swarmed toward shore to a raft resembling a horse cart—yes, a horse cart of all things! It was called el Caballo del Mar, which they had painted red and gray. Seven passengers boarded as the craft prepared to push off. My caregivers had gone to cheer this group of rafters on and their slightly worrisome vessel. Only two mongrels remained faithfully at my side: the mongrel in blue and the mongrel in rags—that grungy and disheveled animal that made me disgustedly uncomfortable.

  There was something odd about him, something vaguely reminiscent. It wasn’t until I took note of his eyebrows and how they connected in the middle that I realized what: he looked just like the driver from this morning. Este tipo reminded me exactly of the preposterous little man who ran tirelessly at the mouth. But este tipo was not short or muscular or balding. He was tall and thin, and he had a full head of hair. He had a broken front tooth and another one entirely missing from along the top of his mouth. He wasn’t dressed in Jordache jeans or a Calvin Klein shirt, but he had exactly the same face as the driver! He even had a similar voice, low and gruff, with those eyebrows that connected in the middle like two cockroaches joined at the head. He drove no taxi. His only mode of transportation seemed to be a Chinese bicycle. But he might as well have been the driver’s fraternal twin.

  “Hurry, compañera! Hurry, so you can go and make it!”

  “Make what?” I asked perplexed.

  “Over there!” he pointed out. “Don’t you see what’s happening? The group in the horse cart is getting ready to push off. Look! They’ve got room for one more. Why don’t you see if you can jump on and join them? You’ve still got time, compañera. It’s not too late to catch up to your companions. ¡Dale! Move!”

  Even if someone had jolted me with volts of electricity, I couldn’t move right now. What a foul and disgusting animal stood before me, a true mongrel. He really was the incarnation of the taxi driver, the man’s malicious twin. Clearly, I was being haunted. Some horrible curse had befallen me: the Curse of Cojimar, where all my failings and weaknesses would forever be examined and exploited. How had this perfect stranger managed to zero in on the most vulnerable moment of my life and rub my face into it? How had he succeeded in peeling back the layers of my misfortune to make a mockery of it?

  I didn’t answer this mangy animal. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t. I was that numb, that stung with inaction. Plus, I suddenly felt sick again. Being on my feet summoned forth those brutal waves of nausea. They rushed violently upward until I finally released the contents of my stomach, little as it may have been. I vomited and retched unable to stop. But rather than be repulsed by my retching, the toothless and mangy animal seemed amused by it all, watching me as if I were entertainment. It took the other mongrel, the one in blue, to finally get rid of him.

  “¡Dale tú chico!” he said. “Why don’t you jump on the raft yourself and you get the hell out here! You’re not wanted here. You’re not needed here.”

  The animal stood silent for a moment as he licked his wounds.

  “Ey,” he finally said, shrugging his shoulders. “¿Qué pasa, chico? I haven’t done anything for you to talk to me that way.”

  The mongrel in blue wasted no time in growling and barking back.

  “You want to see what you’ve done, chico? Do you? Maybe arresting you will show you. Maybe that will do it. Don’t forget you’re still in Cuba and I can haul your ass to jail for anything I want. Get lost now, chico! ¡Lárgate!”

  I straightened myself up. I tried regaining my composure as that taunting toothless animal walked off while pushing his bike in hand. But it wasn’t to join the cheering along the shore. He simply vanished into the chaos and clutter of Cojimar never to be seen again. There had to be a reason why this kept happening, why I kept drawing all this negative energy to myself. There had to be. I had no idea of anything at the moment and knew not where we went, but I followed along as the mongrel led our way. How punishing the midmorning sun. How searing its ascent.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. “I thought you said a car was on its way.”

  “It is, compañera. It’s right over there.”

  My eyes followed in the direction he pointed. No, it couldn’t be. The Hemingway Monument again. Where this horrible ordeal had all started and unfolded. Wonderful. Just wonderful. More reminders, more negative energy.

  “All the way over there?” I asked. “That’s what you call the car coming around? Why don’t I just walk home?”

  The mongrel in blue ignored me. We strode in silence toward this phantom vehicle and the monument which the town of Cojimar had erected in honor of Hemingway. What must they all be thinking? All the faces of Cojimar. With each step I took I felt their probing, questioning eyes. Who was the girl being escorted by one of the mongrels? Was she being arrested or assisted? Was she being detained or deported?

  How I wished this were the ancient city of Crimea rather than the tiny sea village of Cojimar. How I wished I were an ancient Cimmerian rather than a modern-day Cuban. That way I could hide in a shroud of darkness. That way nobody could track my movement from shoreline to street or see me walking side by side with one of the mongrels—except, I was not walking the mongrel, the mongrel was walking me, leading me on some invisible leash to who-knew-where. How desperately I wanted the clouds overhead to dissolve into the mists of a black Cimmerian fog where nobody could identify me or point me out as the girl who had cravenly stayed ashore while her companions had risked their lives at sea. Even the mongrel’s colleagues threw nasty glances my way. Every few steps they would stop us and inquire suspiciously.

  “You all right, chico? ¿Todo bien?”

  “Sí, chico, sí,” he would answer. “Todo bien.”

  Mongrels. All of them. It figures they were only worried about him. I was the damsel in distress, yet their concern was for the mongrel in blue. I tried disregarding it all. I still felt weak and dazed, stung from the encounter with that toothless freak. Nevertheless, I managed to catch plenty of snippets swarming all about; snippets of speculation but with one central topic on everyone’s tongue: the policeman who had stripped down to his shorts and jumped aboard the raft. Had he planned it all? Had it been spur of the moment? Had anybody else been in on it? Might it happen again? How could it be prevented, and who could be trusted now? What about his partner? Had his partner known anything about it?

  What did it matter? Why should anyone care? Hadn’t Fidel said that anyone was free to leave? Including his own mongrels. Who cared whether the guy had stripped down to his shorts or taken off naked. The Americans would easily figure out why he had floated in half-clothed. But it wasn’t until I caught even more of their snide speculation that I truly began to worry. Who were those people he left with? Was it a random choice or planned? Did he know them intimately, or was it a last moment encounter on the beach? Who were those people? Where were they from?

  We neared Hemingway’s bust. I felt weaker than ever from the brief but troubling walk. Worse, I felt ill at ease knowing that some anonymous mongrel and I would forever be linked by the morning’s turn of events. I felt naked now, thin and threadbare and wishing I could wrap myself up in the strands of anonymity, wishing I could plunge deep into some Cimmerian darkness rather than be exposed by Cuba’s specular sun. What a scolding castigating sun hung high overhead. How I wished that we, all those in Cojimar this morning, were ancient Cimmerians who dwelled in perpetual darkness rather than Cubans under the constant light of a microscope. Cubans whose actions were always exaggerated by some monstrous magnifying glass and whose every move was grotesquely amplified by the aid of some giant government crystal, like all the shiny crystals spread out before us now: microscopes and magnifying glasses in the form of row upon row of parked police vehicles—all meant to establish a presence in this crisis
, all designed to send a message that, despite the desperation and disarray, there was still going to be order in the disorder, that all those who paced and kept constant watch could still see right through everyone.

  “Here we are,” announced the mongrel. “Here’s the car.”

  “But where are we going?” I asked apprehensively. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Why, to the nearest polyclinic,” he replied. “Don’t you want to be seen?”

  “Seen for what chico? I only fainted. It’s nothing more serious than that. What I want is to go home, that’s what I want.”

  “I’m sorry, compañera, but I can’t do that. I’ve only been authorized to take you to the nearest polyclinic.”

  “In a police vehicle?” I posed suspiciously. “Why not an ambulance? Why didn’t you radio for an ambulance?”

  He grew quiet for a moment, those clear brown eyes of his capturing an abundance of the ambient light.

  “Compañera,” the mongrel began. “I don’t like having to discuss this, especially with a young girl such as yourself, but fine, I’ll tell you why not an ambulance. You see, there’s currently a shortage of ambulances here in Cuba. Ever since this Maleconazo of ten days ago, we need all the ambulances we can get here, and we need them available at all times. Every day, for the last ten days, bodies have been washing up, compañera: the drowned and mutilated bodies of our countrymen. That’s what we need ambulances for, compañera: the corpses, the cadavers. Everything else is being handled in police vehicles, especially minor incidents. Everybody in Cuba may hate the police, but you certainly don’t think we should drive around with dead bodies in our back seats, do you?”

  I didn’t know whether he was being serious or trying to comfort me. Those clear brown eyes of his glowed incandescently, but I didn’t know whether he was trying to inject humor into this morbid affair or telling me the truth.

  “All right,” I said. “Fine, chico, I understand. But I’m not going to any clinic. I want to go home.”