Angela of the Stones

by Amanda Hale

  Evangelia yawned and sighed, almost asleep on her feet. After all, she’d been travelling since six that morning when the group left Caracas by plane for Santiago de Cuba, then a long wait for the bus to Guantánamo, more than five hours on the road, finally curving along La Farola highway to Baracoa.

  ‘Come, my sister, you must sleep,’ Venusa said, leading her down the corridor.

  Tomás was waiting at their bedroom door, leaning against the doorjamb, his dark eyes watching Evangelia. But she lingered with her big sister, laughing about Venusa’s drunken husband, José. ‘You’d better leave him in my backyard for the night,’ she said. ‘Let him sleep it off.’ She knew the scene too well. But now her reformed husband awaited her and she turned to him with a tired smile.

  When Venusa passed by on her way home from work a couple of days later Evangelia was on the front patio. The sisters embraced and moved through the house to the kitchen where it was more private. Venusa noticed that Evangelia had regained her habitual slouch, despite the new clothes and shoes.

  ‘I’m not feeling so good, Venusa. I have pains in my stomach,’ she said. ‘No, no!’ she held up her hand as Venusa opened her mouth to speak. ‘I don’t want to go to the polyclinic.’

  ‘Why are you so stubborn? You won’t let me help you.’

  ‘Venusa, no entiendes. Mira, I have twenty-five years’ experience as a midwife and what do they do? They send me to Venezuela to teach the nurses there how to do safe deliveries.’

  ‘What does that have to do with your stomach pain?’ Venusa asked.

  ‘All the experienced doctors and nurses are away on missions,’ Evangelia explained. ‘Cuba has a reputation outside, but her own people have to suffer with newly graduated medical staff who lack experience and have to work without guidance. Now do you understand why I don’t want to go to the polyclinic? Those kids know far less than I do!’

  Venusa nodded her head back and forth, weighing this information. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said. ‘My goddaughter was sent home from the hospital with her five-year-old the doctor said he had la gripe, two days later the boy died from pneumonia.’

  ‘Ah,’ Evangelia nodded knowingly. ‘Yarisnelda’s grandson died while we were in Venezuela. Undiagnosed bronchitis.’

  ‘And my neighbour’s daughter, Floriana, she died from an anaesthetic,’ Venusa said, her eyes widening as she began to put the information together. ‘It was a routine operation to remove an enlarged mole. Such a tragedy. She worked in the bank. She was young.’

  The sisters looked at each other and shrugged.

  ‘La vida,’ Venusa said.

  ‘Como Diós quiere,’ Evangelia replied.

  A week passed before their next chance to talk, and by then the upper part of Mariana Grajales, where it crossed Calle Calixto García, was in total disrepair. It looked like a war zone with the innards of the street laid bare by huge serrated-digger machines. The new pipes, five feet or more in diameter, lay on the red excavated earth, waiting to be dropped into place by the massive jaws of a hydraulic arm. There was a plank laid across the abyss, serving as a bridge for people to maneuver on foot or with bicycles, crossing with held breath before speeding down the hill, avoiding deep potholes. Venusa had crossed safely and walked down the hill to find Evangelia on the patio as usual, dressed in her old bata de casa — a shapeless dress that shrouded her magnificent form and looked rather strange with her golden-beaded hair extensions. Like her daughter Ariadne, she had a sulky expression, but Venusa knew her too well to be fooled by that. A kiss, a caress of her cheek, a teasing word, and their old rapport was re-established as Evangelia’s head inclined and a smile tugged the corners of her mouth. ‘Mi hermana,’ she said tenderly, ‘Where have you been?’ They sat in the sala and Venusa asked finally, the question that had been on the tip of her tongue since the homecoming, ‘How is life in Venezuela?’ ‘It’s very dangerous,’ Evangelia said, ‘They’ll kill you for a pair of shoes.’

  ‘But what about Chavez? Doesn’t he help the people?’

  ‘He does so much for the poor, and he’s popular, but there are those who hate him and spread propaganda. There’s an election coming, Venusa. I know he’ll win, his fourth term.’

  ‘But they said on the news he’s in La Habana again, having more treatment for cancer,’ Venusa said. She worried that if Chavez’ health failed they could enter another “Special Period,” as Fidel had called it when the USSR fell and Cuba had been starved for five years. Those who remembered said that the Special Period never ended, only that the survivors got used to it, that deprivation became normal. And the younger generation knew no different. Their parents sacrificed for them when they were little, but as adults they sought their own survival through foreign lovers. Look at Rosa Carceles, Venusa thought, with her extranjero who came from París three times a year with expensive gifts, and promises of a French passport.

  ‘We can’t go out after six o’clock in the evening,’ Evangelia said. ‘You were right, Venusa. It’s a dangerous country. The Catholic priest was murdered, and our pastor received death threats.’ Evangelia was a fervent Pentecostal. In Baracoa she attended services three evenings a week, and she believed it was her prayers that had brought about Tomás’ reformation. ‘We can’t meet, we can’t pray, we can’t sing.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I live with a surgical nurse from Havana and a midwife from Guantánamo. We have a computer. I write to Tomás. That’s how we spend the evenings.’

  Venusa nodded, her eyes blank. What did she know about computers? She saw the kids in the park with their phones, that was all. People used to talk to each other face to face.

  ‘I don’t want to go back, Venusa. But I have to, at least for another year. Tomás has applied for a permit to build — two rooms on the roof, for Ariadne, Morito and the girls, with their own kitchen and bathroom.’

  Eleana was watching a video, still kicking her feet with the red lights blinking on the toes and heels of her new shoes. The child leaned forward to turn the sound up higher, sucking her thumb and wiggling her little butt to the reggae beat.

  ‘I have to do the laundry, but there’s no water,’ Evangelia sighed. ‘They told us it would be off for three days, but it’s already been five days and now there are problems.’

  Venusa shook her head. Five days could turn into fifteen with the condition of the roadworks. No wonder my sister is tired, she thought, coming home to this. I remember how she longed to get out of Cuba and see the world, but it’s been a disappointment.

  The next time she saw Evangelia was in the centre of town the following week, with Tomás and Ariadne. Evangelia waved a sheaf of papers at her. ‘We have the permit,’ she said with just a touch of enthusiasm.

  ‘¡Qué bueno!’ Venusa exclaimed. ‘¡Felicidades!’

  ‘Now we have to wait for the materials,’ Ariadne said sulkily.

  ‘How long?’ Venusa asked.

  Tomás looked down at his shoe and scuffed it on the sidewalk; Evangelia greeted a passerby; Ariadne shrugged and sighed in a long slow expression of resignation. Venusa understood. She too had been disappointed many times and had learned to be discrete. It might be a matter of months or even years before the building materials could be purchased — depending on availability. And need. If another hurricane hit later in the year, building materials would go first to the affected areas.

  ‘When are you coming to my house?’ Evangelia asked with a sudden sense of urgency.

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Or the next day. I’m waiting for news.’

  ‘I’ll come tonight.’

  Several dates were set and then changed. All the returnees were in suspense, waiting with their empty suitcases, but it was to be a full week before everything was firmed up, and even then, who was to know after so many delays that there would not be yet another. ‘You must come to the terminal,’ Evangelia said emphatically. ‘I’ll be waiting for you on Sunday at five in the afternoon.’
She was to take the bus to Guantánamo, and on to Santiago de Cuba, then a plane to Caracas, retracing her steps.

  Venusa arrived at the bus terminal at five thirty, half expecting them not to be there — another change and no way of letting her know — but yes, there they were, Evangelia and Tomás lounging under the ceiba tree with its sprawling branches trailing to the ground. All the travellers were there with their families ready to see them off. Horatio and Yarisnelda both said the time had gone too fast, and Yarisnelda was red-eyed, still grieving for the grandson who had died so suddenly in her absence. Horatio’s son clung to his papa, while his mami held onto the baby. She’d been pregnant when Horatio left a year ago and now the child, already ten months old, had met her papa for the first time. They sat around talking and joking as though it were just another day.

  ‘Do you have your ticket?’ Venusa asked.

  ‘Morito will take care of it,’ Evangelia said with a shrug.

  People milled about, unconcerned. Some walked into the terminal building to see what was happening, and finally Horatio returned with the news that the bus from Guantánamo was delayed. There had been a breakdown, he said, and they were making repairs. By seven o’clock everyone was hungry and thirsty, but the terminal cafeteria was closed, though even at the best of times it served nothing more than beer and pop, and occasionally cucuruchu, a sweet mash of cacao, coconut, papaya, orange rind and honey spooned into a palm leaf cone. The energy of the waiting group was beginning to droop like the ceiba branches when, with a sudden flurry of dust, the bus rumbled down the Malecón and through the terminal gates. People began to embrace and make their farewells, though no-one yet had tickets. They didn’t go on sale until the passengers from Guantánamo were disembarked. ‘No problem,’ said Evangelia, ‘We misioneros have priority.’

  Venusa was beginning to feel very sad at the thought of parting with her sister again. She was anxious about the last-minute rush for tickets, the uncertainty of it all. Evangelia was making her slow way into the terminal, moving from one embrace to another. Big Marta was there to bid farewell and to give God’s personal blessing to the mission. Milena was on the verge of tears so that Venusa couldn’t get a word out of her, but Eleana was too young to understand that her abuela was going away again, and she babbled away, singing and hopping like a little bird in her blinking shoes.

  Morito stood tall amidst the crowd, trying to get the attention of the ticket vendor, then he was swept suddenly towards the door with a wave of passengers bursting through, brandishing their tickets for inspection. Milena had begun to cry noisily, huge tears rolling down her cheeks as she clung to her abuela. More of the compañeras from the church had arrived and surrounded Evangelia, praying and blessing her amidst their tears. Ariadne pushed them aside and embraced her mother, sobbing with a passion equal to that of her own Milena; and Eleana began to howl, her little hands grabbing at her mother’s plump thighs. Evangelia has become a personaje once again, Venusa muttered to herself, a celebrity amidst her own family, on the verge of her departure. And she too began to weep, caught up in the emotion of the crowd. Evangelia alone remained calm.

  Venusa wiped her eyes and looked around for Tomás. Through the murky glass of the waiting room she could see the bus filling with passengers, the driver already in his seat, the ticket collector waving his arms and shouting emphatically at Morito while Tomás stood quietly off to one side. It was at this moment that Evangelia appeared, ready to board finally, with Ariadne behind her carrying her bags. But somehow Evangelia’s ticket had not been reserved, and the ticket collector said there was no room for her on the bus. A discussion followed about standing room, at least until Guántanamo, but the driver shook his finger. ‘Absolutamente prohibido. Demasiado peligroso.’

  And so Venusa watched with mixed feelings as the bus lumbered through the terminal gates and disappeared in a cloud of black exhaust. Perhaps my sister can stay home now, she thought, but she knew that in reality Evangelia had to complete her mission. An unaccustomed wave of anger and frustration swept over her. If only Evangelia had been ready, lined up with the other passengers, prepared and insistent. But no-one except Venusa seemed concerned. Opinions were exchanged, accompanied by lackadaisical gestures while Evangelia simply shrugged in her seductively boneless manner. Tomás took hold of her arm and they spoke briefly with her young brother Felix, who had appeared out of the darkness with a bicycle and now pedalled away with Morito balanced precariously on the crossbar.

  ‘How will you get to the airport?’ Venusa asked. If only her sister could have taken one of the twice-weekly flights to Santiago, but they wouldn’t pay for that, and in any case the flights were filled with tourists.

  ‘Morito will find a car,’ Evangelia said calmly. ‘We’re going back to the house. Come with us.’

  And so she went, arms linked with her sister, who was linked in turn with Tómas, while Ariadne went ahead with the children on her bicycle — Milena balanced in front of her and Eleana straddling the rat-trap with her chubby arms clasped around Ariadne’s broad hips. The worst part was the anti-climax after all those tears and heartfelt goodbyes, but it prolonged Evangelia’s status for a few more hours, it singled her out, the only misionera left behind.

  It was past midnight when Morito and Felix arrived in an old Toyota Cressida driven by a friend of Morito who agreed to drive them overnight to Santiago de Cuba in time for Evangelia to board her plane to Caracas in the morning. How will they pay for it? Venusa wondered, but it seemed to have been worked out by the men, so she decided to stop worrying. She kissed Evangelia one last time and, exhausted with all the goodbyes, walked slowly homewards through the warm night, smiling to think of Tomás and Evangelia in the back of their car, asleep in each other’s arms. She tried not to feel envious, knowing though that she would probably find José already snoring with an empty rum bottle beside him on the crumpled sheet.

  The street was so badly lit that she almost tripped when her toe caught the rim of a pothole. It was a new one, the concrete sidewalk beginning to wear away outside Big Marta’s house. Venusa could hear them singing inside, a hymn of glory to speed Evangelia on her way. She hesitated, almost ready to join them, to give herself the comfort of singing with her compañeros, but something tugged at her, she needed to go home. As she approached her own house, walking more carefully now, she saw someone on the front patio. Was it her son? Or perhaps her brother Felix. She squinted in the gloomy light but she couldn’t recognize him — a man for sure, but who? She walked faster now, and as she reached her house she grasped the handrail that skirted her patio. Venusa peered across the railing, then she shook her head and laughed. It was José, looking at her with a steady gaze, his dark eyes full of expression, as though he had been waiting for her. ‘¿Qué pasa?’ she asked. Did something happen? But he didn’t answer. He shrugged almost imperceptibly and reached for her, so Venusa put her hand in his rough, worn hand, and with his touch everything became vivid, every detail of his tired face sharp and clear after her confusion in the darkness. How could I not have recognized my own husband? she wondered, with a guilty pleasure. She saw in the half-light how José’s grizzled hair stood out like a halo around his head, and how his shirt clung to his wiry frame. She could count every rib on his chest. Venusa would have been content to simply enjoy that moment, but José pulled her down onto his lap and set them both in motion, rocking together in the balánce as he wrapped his strong arms around her and nuzzled her neck. He smelled pleasantly of sweet tobacco, not a drop of rum on his breath.

  THE PIANO-TUNER FROM GUANTÁNAMO

  Mári has been waiting all morning. She’s dusted the piano three times and arranged the bench exactly so — any number of times — now she sits in her rocking chair, waiting. He will arrive on the noon bus with his son to guide him, and the driver will put them down at Calle Moncada, as arranged, and they will walk up the hill to her house.

  The old upright stands waiting on the far side of the sala, its keys a mottled brown lik
e tobacco-stained teeth, but Mári has dusted the vase of roses that sit atop the instrument. It had belonged to her father who played exclusively the music of worship, and upon his death it had passed to her brother Reymundo who had played every kind of joy, from Sunday hymns to jazz and salsa. On Fridays they’d held Danzón evenings, which had brought elegant old couples drifting into the sala where they would dance sedately to the romantic beat, the ladies sporting gorgeous fans in their right hands while the men, full-handed, guided them effortlessly across the polished floor. Even as a girl Mári’s heart had swelled with the music and the dignity of the ladies as they danced. Now she is herself a lady en la tercer edad — the final stage of her life — living with her daughter Gabriela, and the two grandchildren — Alegra, who is studying to become a doctor, and her athletic grandson, Yorki, who has his heart set on a career in sports and has already won three medals for sprinting. Mári is immensely proud of the boy.

  When she hears a gentle tapping she immediately opens the door and blesses her visitors with a smile. Her spirit illuminates the house, making of it a beacon at the corner of Moncada and Rodney Coutín, and when she makes her weekly pilgrimage to the church across town, her arm linked comfortably through Alegra’s, she greets her neighbours with a Biblical salutation and that same radiant smile, as though she were spreading her wings across the town of Baracoa. Mári’s grace and ageless beauty draw people to her and incline them to listen to her Baptist discourse without resentment.

  Osvaldo helps his father over the threshold. Despite a boyish appearance Osvaldo is thirty-five years old and has already been accompanying Oriol for more than twenty years. The old man flexes his fingers and inhales the humid air of Mári’s front room, his body swaying from side to side, his eyelids flickering. With Osvaldo’s guidance, he feels his way from chairback to wall until, together, father and son locate the piano on the far wall of the sala where the light comes from behind, illuminating the chipped ivories.