Cuba blue

by Robert W. Walker

  “You’re not so old!”

  “My mirror tells me otherwise. I am old and nothing can change that.” He finally put aside his tools and walked to a shaded courtyard table where she’d placed glasses and iced lemonade. “So what’ve you and Palo been discussing?”

  “All manner of things.”

  “The state of the world, I suspect.”

  “Well that, yes, and…and I’ve also been thinking what all old revolutionaries think.”

  “And that is?” She poured a drink and handed it to him.

  “Past glories and successes, of Old Cuba, of how Rafaela and I re-built this home, and how lovely are her flowers today. Just an old man’s thoughts, Maria.”

  “You miss her, even now after nearly thirty years.” She placed a hand over his.

  “Baaa, but you don’t want to hear me complain like some child. What is it, Maria? What troubles you on such a beautiful day?”

  She placed her hands in the universal gesture of prayer. “How do you know my moods?”

  He lifted his glass and wryly smiled. “You have three lovely children who adore you, you have a comfortable home here, you enjoy life. Your only curse everyone knows. Has Santos been around again, asking for money?”

  She quickly looked down to hide eyes filling with tears. “He begs forgiveness and promises what he always promises-to stop drinking-but he doesn’t mean it, he never does.”

  “And your curse is that you still love him.”

  “Yes, but I can’t live with him. Yet when he begs me to take him back… Aiy dios mio…he called again last night.”

  Palo got to his feet and ambled off at the mention of Santo’s name. He’d always harbored a dislike for the man.

  She continued and Tomaso held her gaze. “So, even though it is your birthday, and Qui will be with you, and I want it to be a happy time, my heart is not cooperating.”

  “It’s OK…it’s OK.”

  “And, I worry about Enrique, so like his father-whom he adores, and the boy blames me for making Santos go away.”

  Tomaso offered her a handkerchief. “Rique’s just too young to understand these things.”

  “And I can’t tell him the truth about his father.”

  He agreed, adding, “Santos is twisted inside from some pain that never healed. It shows in his eyes. He is greedy and doesn’t want to work.”

  She only nodded. “Somehow the school failed him, and he has no good skills-”

  “Except to make friends of the worst sort.”

  “I know, Tomaso. He’s going down a bad road.”

  “He’s been going down that road for some time.”

  “I know he’s done bad things for money. But my heart, I can’t control that I still care.”

  “He’s so foolish. He thinks he can somehow live well and do no real work.”

  A warm breeze found its way into the courtyard and played about them. Small birds chased one another in the underbrush.

  “I will tell you as I would tell my Qui if she were with such a man. You must end it…as long as you hang on, he can hurt you again and again.”

  “Qui’s lucky to have such a steady, good man-a doctor.”

  “So? You’re still young enough to find someone worthy of you. Someone who’ll not crush your soul.”

  She dabbed at her tears and quietly nodded. “You’re right. I know you are right.”

  “Of course, now, I–I’d be lost without you here. How would I run the place? Who’d feed and keep the guests happy? As for love…you’ll see. Love will come again, I promise.” He pulled her hand up and kissed it, an oddly old world affectionate gesture. “Now go dry those pretty eyes, and let me finish before our guests arrive.”

  He moved back into the sun and was immediately plunged into his memories.

  Palo returned from his food dish to again lie at his feet as Tomaso resumed hanging plants. He liked the feel of the fine basket weave against his hands. His nose filled with the fresh odor of the flowers. Comforting Sunday morning rituals.

  “Palo, my boy, is it fair that Maria works hard and Santos takes all she has?”

  A military plane disturbed the peace, making him again look skyward. Palo’s ears alerted, and he looked for some change in the landscape-eyeing Tomaso’s old Mercedes as if someone might actually be interested in tampering with it. In fact, Yuri, a Russian emigre who’d stayed on in Cuba after the Soviets left-converted by Cuba’s beauty and the lifestyle-tinkered with the engine now. But for Palo, Yuri was like the rest of the landscape here, and so, finding nothing amiss in the familiar surroundings, the dog settled back.

  “Arturo Benilo now, there was a fire-breathing revolutionary, Palo, like Che Guevara himself. The young shout the slogan-‘Be like Che!’ But they know nothing of the man. Now there was a true freedom fighter. Captured and executed while carrying on the revolution in Bolivia.”

  Tomaso fell into silent thought as his hands worked. He had a plan: to line the entire courtyard with hanging plants.

  “Benilo almost went to Bolivia with Guevara, you know. God, how Arturo ranted in those days. A flaming-what do they call ’em now-radical? Yes, but we were friends.”

  Palo only snored now.

  “Our shared ideas about freedom and justice ran wild like a rain-swollen river-so young we were. Each trip outside Havana taught us something new about Cuban life…and Cuban death.”

  During the revolution, a Leica was in Tomaso’s hands, and from it, he learned how to take pictures of the land, of the women-all the glorious women-as well as the poverty and misery around them. Images that spoke to the heart and mind even today. Tomaso smiled at his pride in those old photos as much as the memory of his and Benilo’s youthful escapades. Full of the black and white thinking that characterizes teenage idealism, he and Benilo were such easy, innocent targets for recruitment into a revolution.

  Having pretty much left his family, Benilo, always angry, decided to join the revolutionaries and began a campaign to convince Tomaso to join. By this time, Tomaso had become disenchanted with his own family, the proverbial black sheep for his anti-Batista talk. He joined Che Guevara and Fidel Castro’s movement as their special photojournalist. As a result, his mother had come to think of his photography as having become the family curse.

  Tomaso again turned to Palo and said, “Smuggled to the foreign press, my photos made a big difference in the revolution. Made for me friends among the leaders-an uneasy relationship to this day.”

  Sighing heavily, Tomaso shrugged and stood, gazing at the abundant blossoms of Mariposa, so beautiful to look at, so like his beloved Rafaela. She’d left so much of herself here in their Miramar home, not the least being Quiana. She has your fierce persistence and goes her own way, untamable, such spirit, like your own. You’d be proud of her. But this…three bodies… this situation… I am afraid for her.

  He took as much care with Rafaela’s Mariposa garden as he did his cameras. “Pray for her, Rafaela, and watch out for her. Our daughter is in some terrible danger. I must find a way to persuade her to turn this ugly business over to someone else.”

  Qui’s voice kept rising, “What does an old man who tends flowers and talks to the dead know of Cuba today? You forfeited a place in Cuba’s highest circles, and now you tell me what to do? Always with what is best and what is too dangerous! Papa, I am a police woman now, not a little girl.”

  “Careful, daughter!” Tomaso gave only a moment’s thought to the governmental position offered him after the revolution, a position he’d walked away from.

  “Instead of being proud of me, you treat me like a child, like I’m play-acting!”

  “But this is dangerous territory.”

  “Dangerous territory is what I do now. This is who I am.”

  He just looked at this now angry daughter of his, saying nothing, again reminded of how much like her mother she was: impetuous, headstrong, passionate, and stubborn. Tomaso chuckled aloud at the thought, shaking his head. “Ahh… stubborn child.”r />
  “How dare you interfere in my professional life?” she persisted, pacing the courtyard where a trade wind swept through, bringing with it the clean scent of the sea.

  He tried to keep pace. “Calm down. We can talk like adults.”

  She stopped and turned back to him. “Oh, that’d be a pleasant change.”

  “I’ve never under any circumstances wanted to belittle or insult you.” He paused, taking a breath. “Now, what is all this ranting about, because I have no idea what-”

  “I wanna know why Gutierrez is suddenly all sweet and polite and fake toward me.”

  “Oh, this is about Alfonso Gutierrez?”

  “Yes! That wormy pig is all of a sudden being professional toward me. Why?”

  Tomaso laughed uproariously at her characterization of her colonel.

  She didn’t skip a beat. “I can’t stand that plastic smile he’s suddenly wearing. You called him, didn’t you!”

  “Sweetheart, I’ve had no contact with the man since-”

  “You did more than just call him. You scared him, didn’t you! And you told him to take me off this case.”

  “No! I’ve not spoken to him since your promotion. But I tell you-”

  “You might’ve given me a fair chance. But you…you couldn’t be satisfied with that, could you? Could you?"

  Tomaso stepped away from her, located his favorite courtyard seat, climbed into it, calmly crossed his legs, and said, “Quiana, perhaps someone called Gutierrez, but I didn’t. Now come sit, and we’ll talk about this.”

  Taken aback, she calmed down. His sudden relaxed demeanor invited her to sit alongside him. When she did so, their eyes met in a truce.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Some detective you are! Think! You know I’d do nothing to sabotage you. Have I ever betrayed you?”

  “This is different, and we both know it. This isn’t a recital or a school grade or an entrance exam you can fix for me. God, this is a triple murder! And how I hate it when you interfere, making me appear stupid and childish. I hate it!”

  Her anger reignited, Qui stood and rushed from the courtyard.

  “Wait a minute,” he called after her. “We still don’t know who called Gutierrez! Sheeze…” His words fell on empty air, she was no longer in the courtyard.

  Qui felt a pang of anger for losing her temper on her father’s birthday. Passing through the kitchen, she realized only now that Maria Elena had overheard their squabbling. This brought on a dose of discomfort. “You can’t leave him like this,” the other woman pleaded, “not on his birthday. Besides, I know your father. He no longer interferes like you think. We talked about it, Qui, and I swear, he didn’t make any calls.”

  “Well…if that’s the case…I stand corrected. But I need to get away for a while and think things through. I’ll be back later.”

  In spite of Maria Elena’s words, Qui turned toward the lobby door, hesitating a moment, glancing through the window at her father. “Like hell that old man made no calls.” She knew someone had influenced Gutierrez.

  19

  At the same time

  Having entered the lobby of Tomaso’s bed and breakfast, Dr. Arturo Benilo involuntarily exclaimed, “ Madre Dios, you are too beautiful, my beloved.” His heart had skipped a beat, so shocked was he at the sight of Rafaela’s life-size photograph hung in an ornate frame like a painting here in the lobby. More stunning than he’d remembered, she was the most attractive woman he’d ever known. This photo must have been taken when all three of us were friends. Aiy, Tomaso, you always did know how to take a picture, he grudgingly acknowledged.

  Rafaela’s likeness graced the center of a huge mosaic-images of women that Tomaso had photographed over a lifetime, homage to beautiful Cuban women. Without question, Rafaela, blonde, blue-eyed, proved the most dazzling. As if staring from across time, and yet as if no time had passed, her vivid eyes peered lucidly, deeply into his. Her smile, so familiar. Tomaso had captured her precisely as how Benilo remembered, the image haunting Arturo deep within his soul. She lives in this photo…

  Voices shook him from his reverie, but he wasn’t ready to let go of Rafaela’s likeness. However, a second glance and it was just a photo, beautiful yes, but all magic gone. Must’ve been the lighting, he speculated, else she really was here for a moment. As he walked closer to Rafaela’s image, he again heard raised voices, the loudest, angriest that of Tomaso’s daughter, the quixotic Quiana.

  A door suddenly flew open and Qui, her face flushed, came eye to eye with Dr. Arturo Benilo. Perplexed, she demanded, “Wait a minute. What’re you doing here?”

  “You invited me, remember?”

  “Oh…yes, so I did. But I’m not sure how comfortable you’ll be.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Like you have trouble following a woman’s lead, doctor,” she said sarcastically, realizing his eyes were doing a little fox trot of their own, comparing her mother’s features with hers.

  “You’re angry. What’s got you so upset?”

  “You probably know perfectly well what he’s done, so why do you ask?” The thought that the call might have come from Benilo flitted through her mind.

  “Is it Montoya? Did he give you a ring last night during dinner?”

  She quickly studied his eyes to determine if he was deliberately dense. “No, it’s my father! He’s interfering in my life again!”

  “You mean your case? A thing to worry any caring father.”

  “But that’s just it. It is my business…my case, my life!”

  “Don’t make your case your life,” he warned.

  She ignored this and paced in a little circle of frustration.

  Tomaso came through the door, and Qui turned to him and added, “My case, get it! My decision. Not yours.”

  “I thought we settled this misunderstanding?”

  “You’re my father, not my boss! I can take care of myself.” Then she turned on Benilo and added, “Now, you come to take his side-”

  “Whoa! I’m not taking anyone’s side. I don’t even know what’s going on.”

  “-and I already know you want me to drop the case. Every man I know wants me to drop the case-what is with all of you? Do you think I’m stupid, can’t do my job?”

  “Did I come to the wrong door? I thought I was invited to a birthday party.”

  Tomaso erupted in laughter.

  “This isn’t funny! I’ve worked too hard to get this far.” Rushing out, she turned at the sound of both men stomping after her. “Both of you are exasperating. First, you see conspiracies in every dark corner, then you laugh? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Tomaso lifted his hands in supplication. “Come back and let’s enjoy our dinner and our guest.” He smiled and nodded at his old friend.

  “Come on Qui, no more talk of the case,” Benilo mildly pleaded. “It’s your father’s birthday. I brought a special wine from my collection.” He held up the bottle, beckoning her to join them. “I promise, no talk of conspiracies.”

  “It’s a murder case, pure and simple… Well, OK, not so simple, but it’s not some huge governmental conspiracy either!” She secretly wanted to believe this.

  “But, Qui,” Tomaso shook his head, “three foreigners murdered and dragged from the sea?”

  “You’re doing it again!” Qui spun around, pushing through the exit, the door slamming shut. One of her father’s flower arrangements, which had hung from the door crashed to the terracotta tiles. Glass that’d held each flower in its own small vase shattered, spilling petals and solution, darkening the tiles.

  Even the caged Cartacuba birds became quiet in the sudden silence.

  “Damn, Tomaso, she really is like Rafaela,” Benilo said once the whirlwind had ceased.

  “You don’t need to tell me that!”

  “But you have to love that kind of spirit. You see it so seldom these days.”

  “Yes, as exasperating as it is.” The two old men stared at one anoth
er for a moment and then laughed. “She’s like a force-5 hurricane when angry, that one,” finished Tomaso.

  “How many times did you come to her rescue as she was growing up?”

  “More than she wanted. She could always take care of herself.”

  “How often did you have to rescue others from her own wrath?”

  “All too often. By the way, I must thank you, Arturo, for getting me into such hot water with her.”

  “What? Me?”

  “She thinks I made a call to Gutierrez to ease off, which I suspect came from you.”

  “Hold on. I didn’t call him.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  “Good question.”

  “We should talk about this.”

  Tomaso replied, “Over dinner and that bottle you brought.”

  “French. A Bordeaux. It needs to breathe.”

  The two old friends spoke easily with one another. It was as if the nearly thirty years of silence between them had melted into mere days.

  Benilo held up the bottle. “Enough for two old men to celebrate a long overdue reunion.”

  “Come then!” Tomaso slapped him on the shoulder and led him toward the courtyard door. “You’ll meet Maria Elena, who’s prepared a feast, and Yuri, who keeps the old place operating and repairs everything in sight, including my computer and digital cameras.”

  “Sounds like a fellow I could use around my lab.”

  “And if you can stand it, I’ll tell you tales of Quiana that will curl your hair.”

  “What about her having left in a huff? Aren’t you worried?”

  “Bahhh… we’ll have her share of the wine and birthday cake. Don’t worry. She’ll come back later when she has danced off her anger-”

  “Ahhh…she dances.”

  “In more ways than I can count, yes.”

  “Will she be all right? I’m sorry for this turmoil.”

  “Nonsense-she’ll be back, I tell you. Perhaps she may even apologize. She doesn’t like Gutierrez’s new attention, or intentions, or something of the insincerity in the man.”