The revolution? That was not serious. Only idiots took it seriously. (Of course, there never had been a shortage of idiots, inside and outside of the island). It was just another board game, and a lousy one at that. The rules? First and foremost: lie, at all times, in all places. Repeat inane slogans. Don’t think. And if you think, never, never tell anyone what you think. But it is much easier to make it around the board if you don’t think. Those, in sum, were the rules.
Of course, to pretend that he played the game indifferently (as he liked to pretend), was in itself a lie. The truth is he played it out of terror, he played it with a gun held to his temple, and that truth filled him with shame, destroyed his manhood. Yes, it was his fault, and the fault of others like him. And he could not escape the shame by pretending other things.
And José Antonio? What would he tell José Antonio?
“There, there’s his place,” Carmen said, interrupting his reverie as she pointed to a Chevron sign on their left. “Yes, that’s it, Campos Chevron,” she said, easing into the turn lane.
They waited for a break in the oncoming traffic and then turned into the driveway. The bay doors were open and a lanky, dark-haired boy, who looked about twelve, was hosing down the floor of the garage that was covered with white foamy streaks of detergent. No one else seemed to be around.
Carmen stopped the car in front of the bays. The boy looked up, shut off the hose, and walked over to their car as Juan lowered the window.
“Is José Antonio Campos here?” he asked the boy.
The boy turned toward the parking area and called out, “Papa!”
Juan followed the boy’s gaze and for the first time noticed the lower half of a man protruding from the open hood of an old Chevrolet. He shuddered and felt a momentary wave of nausea pass through him. Then he stepped out of the car and walked toward the protruding legs.
“José Antonio … José Antonio Campos?” Juan called when he was still about twenty feet away.
“Yes,” came a voice from under the gaping hood with a hint of irritation.
“I’m Juan—”
“What can I do for you?” asked the voice, still under the hood, obviously engrossed in something more pressing or more interesting than Juan.
“I’m Juan Cabre—”
“Look,” the voice called harshly, “I’m getting ready to close. Whatever it is, I can’t fix it today.” And then, in a softer, almost apologetic tone, “Unless it’s an emergency.”
Juan took a deep breath. “I’m Juan Cabrera. We used to own…” He hesitated. “From the Santa Cruz, the Finca Santa Cruz…”
A very large man in blue overalls emerged slowly from the bowels of the Chevrolet. The momentary cloud of confusion that had come over him began to fade, and by the time he finished stretching to his full height, the cloud had disappeared. His eyes now brightened with recognition and a broad, warm smile stretched across his face.
“Juan! Juan Cabrera! I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it!”
José Antonio covered the distance between them in a couple of strides and stood facing Juan for a moment, towering over him. Then he opened his huge arms and brought them down around Juan in a big abrazo, all the while repeating, “¡No puedo creerlo! I can’t believe it! ¡No puedo creerlo!”
He held Juan at arm’s length, one hand on each shoulder, looking at him closely, taking it all in, shaking his head.
“You look like a mess. What happened to your face? It’s full of ampollas, blisters!”
“I’ve been through hell—came across on a raft.”
“When did you get here?” he asked Juan.
“A couple of days ago.”
“¡Dios mio! I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it!” José Antonio broke out all over again. “How long has it been since we’ve seen each other?”
“José Antonio, I have something to—”
But José Antonio was not looking at Juan. He had turned to his son. “Tony! Come here, there’s someone you have to meet! Hurry up! Just put the hose down and come here!”
Then José Antonio’s eyes caught Carmen’s, as she walked toward them. “Juan, aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Juan was sinking again into his private horror, and José Antonio’s words reached him as the light from a star would reach him, without urgency.
“Juan?”
He opened his mouth and with great effort produced something that resembled a shriek, such as a parrot or an exotic, long-armed monkey might make as it crashes through the canopy of an impenetrable forest.
“I’m José Antonio Campos,” said Raúl’s brother, trying to salvage the situation as he stretched out a large, grease-stained hand toward Carmen.
Carmen grasped it, staining her own hand.
Seeing the grease on her hand, José Antonio blushed. “I’m sorry, I’m terribly sorry. I should have washed,” he said. “And such a beautiful hand, such a beautiful everything!” he added awkwardly, his face deep red. Then, turning again to his son, in a loud, booming voice to regain control, he shouted, “Tony! Bring a clean rag, and the grease remover!” And, looking at Juan, “I stained your shirt too. Well, I’ve made a mess, haven’t I? I’ll get you a new one. More was lost in the war, that’s what Mom always said. Remember Mother?”
“José Antonio,” Juan interrupted, “Raúl is—”
But José Antonio’s excitement was irrepressible, and he burst out, “Raúl! Have you seen Raúl? He hasn’t called me in three months! I’ve been trying to get him out through Panama, paid some damn lawyer three thousand dollars, and nothing, nothing—”
“José Antonio, Raúl is dead.”
For a moment José Antonio had the desperate look of a man seeking a breach in an impossible wall, a look that said, Surely there must be a hole, a gap, somewhere a hint of sunlight I can crawl through. Then the blunt intransigence of the words struck him, and he stood there trembling like a great silent tree.
His eyes filled with tears and he said, in a low voice, “No puedo, I can’t, no puedo—” He meant to say No puedo creerlo, I can’t believe it. But his throat had constricted and creerlo, a recalcitrant word even in normal circumstances, could not get through.
Juan began to say something, one of those meaningless phrases that all people say in all languages at times like this. Because, at such a time, what phrase can hold significance? But José Antonio hugged him and held him in a tight abrazo against his chest, sparing Juan the pain of having to force words out of his own darkness.
Standing there, pressed so tightly against José Antonio’s chest that he could hear his heart, Juan thought of Raúl and of how much José Antonio’s great heart reminded him of Raúl’s. A big lump formed in his throat and he felt thick teardrops begin to run down the sides of his face. And without effort, without even thinking about it, he started to remove the massive crust of deceit that he had built around himself over the years. He stripped all the layers, one by one, dropping them on the ground next to his feet, until he arrived at the negrura. Then, looking at it squarely, he saw that not even the negrura was important or central.
What was important was what he had seen in the last days. And there was no adequate way to say what he had seen in the last days, except this: he had seen colors in the negrura. In the last days, as he drifted alone in the Stream after Raúl’s death, when the negrura came, when she arrived dressed in darkness, he had seen tiny, fleeting specks of color swirling in her breast, like the fiery little blossoms of the framboyán carried by the wind, dancing in the wind.
Acknowledgments
With gratitude to:
• My wife Rhonda for her help proofreading the manuscript and her constant support.
• My three sons, Robert, Jason, and John for their patience and understanding.
• My dear friend, novelist Clara Rising for her early encouragement.
• My agents, Tom Colchie and Sue Herner for their faith in my work.
• My editors, Michael Denneny an
d Keith Kahla for their enthusiasm and professionalism through every stage of production.
• Raoul Garcia Iglesias for a terrific job of translating this work into Spanish in time for a simultaneous bilingual publication.
• Tom McCormack and everyone else at St. Martin’s Press for opening the door and making me feel at home.
About the Author
A graduate of the University of Florida College of Law, J. Joaquín Fraxedas first established a distinguished career in civil trial practice, specializing in the trial of medical, products liability, and other complex cases, before concentrating exclusively on the practice of mediation and alternative dispute resolution. He lives in Florida. He is the author of The Lonely Crossing of Juan Cabrera. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
THE LONELY CROSSING OF JUAN CABRERA. Copyright © 1993 by J. Joaquín Fraxedas. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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eISBN 9781250832184
First eBook edition: 2021
The Lonely Crossing of Juan Cabrera Page 14