by Adam Gidwitz
“Is it bad?” Uchenna asked Yoenis. “Is she dangerous? Isn’t she your friend?”
“I don’t know. We used to hang out when she was in my mom’s fountain. Maybe she’ll remember me?”
Suddenly, the sea serpent pulled her head back. She looked like a snake about to strike.
“Okay,” said Yoenis. “I’m with Elliot. This is bad.”
The Madre de aguas roared, shaking the surface of the water—it looked like something right out of a nightmare.
She lunged.
And then, she . . . squeaked.
The sound she made could only be described as a squeak.
And she dove away, into the waves.
They all stared, completely confused as to why they were not dead.
Jersey swooped down toward the surface of the water. The Madre de aguas stuck her head out of the water, saw Jersey, and dove back under the waves. She was now hurrying away from them, getting smaller and smaller as she went, until she was invisible in the bright blue bay. They saw a splash as she leapt up and into the sewage pipe, small as she had been when they first saw her. And then she disappeared into the darkness.
“Wow.” Uchenna was gazing at Jersey, who was flapping above the waves. “I think Jersey just scared off the Madre de aguas.”
“I am inclined to agree with you,” Professor Fauna said. “As difficult as that is to believe.” The water was lapping the professor’s soaked suit jacket, shirt, and tie.
Yoenis had clambered into the cockpit of the Phoenix. “I’m going to call for help,” he said. “My cousin, Maceo, pilots a barge that cleans junk out of the bay. Maybe he can help with this plane.”
“Are you calling the Phoenix junk?!” Professor Fauna exclaimed, holding on to a wing of the Phoenix.
“Exacto, Mito,” Yoenis replied. He fiddled with the two-way radio and then spoke into it. “Limpiador, Limpiador, Limpiador para Phoenix. Cambio.”
Some garbled speech came out of the radio, and Yoenis broke into a grin.
“¡Hola, primo! ¡Sí, fui yo! ¡Ven a buscarnos! Cambio y fuera.”
CHAPTER NINE
They were all warm and getting drier now, wrapped in thick blankets that Yoenis’s cousin Maceo had given them. They stood on a barge called El Limpiador de la Bahía, the Bay Cleaner, as it steamed toward the malecón. Maceo had managed to fish the Phoenix out of the bay with a small crane that he used for salvaging junk. Usually, though, the junk that he saved didn’t have people hanging off of it.
Professor Fauna had managed to retrieve all the papers he’d brought from his office from the floor of the Phoenix. Maceo had given him a black trash bag and Professor Fauna hugged it to his chest.
Yoenis, with his one incredibly dense suitcase beside him, talked animatedly with Maceo, explaining what they had seen. Jersey shook himself and frolicked in the sunshine among the salvaged junk, jumping from a waterlogged sofa to an old crate to a black barrel. Maceo tried not to stare. Elliot was attempting to wring the bay water out of his grandmother’s sweater. “I am so amazingly dead.” He sniffed the sweater. “Ugh! My mom is definitely going to want to know why this smells like oil and dead fish!”
“Hey, Elliot,” said Uchenna. She was looking at the black barrel Jersey was now perched on. He was trying to clean his fur with his tongue, but kept having to stop to gag and spit out the filthy water.
“I’m not going near him,” said Elliot. “He will not throw up on me again.”
“No, not Jersey,” said Uchenna. “Look.”
She pointed to a silver snakelike S on the barrel.
“No,” Elliot moaned. “Nooo. Nooooooo.”
Professor Fauna heard Elliot’s moaning. He came over. Uchenna said, “Professor, look.” Her fingers traced small white letters that ran in along the curved edge of the barrel lid: SCHMOKE’S SURE-TO-CHOKE INSECTICIDE.
The professor sighed heavily. “So they are in Cuba, too? Hm. Well, if face them we must, then face them we will. But for now, we must gather information. Let us meet Rosa. And then, the library!”
“What?” said Uchenna. “The library?”
“The National Archives, to be exact!” Professor Fauna replied, cradling his black trash bag a little closer. “You see, this is the third reason we came to Cuba!”
“Because you wanted to go to the library?” Uchenna asked.
“I sympathize,” Elliot added. “But we do have libraries in New Jersey.”
“Ah, amiguitos, you do not understand. The third reason we came to Cuba is that . . . I am hot on the trail of . . . the world’s missing unicorns!”
“What?” said Elliot. “Seriously?”
And Uchenna said, “That. Is. Awesome.”
CHAPTER TEN
Yoenis led the members of the Unicorn Rescue Society off his cousin’s barge and over the edge of the malecón. Professor Fauna turned and bid farewell to his airplane.
“I hope I see the Phoenix again,” Professor Fauna sniffed.
“I don’t,” Elliot said.
“Don’t worry, Mito,” Yoenis reassured him. “You’ll get your avioncito back. Maceo’s other job is fixing old cars. Look around. Thanks to the embargo and terrible government policies, many of the cars in Havana are seventy years old. If Maceo can make a seventy-year-old car run like new, I think he can fix the Phoenix.”
“Yeah, but the seventy-year-old cars don’t crash every single time you drive them,” Elliot objected.
“Eso sí es cierto,” Yoenis agreed. “Well, we’ll see what Maceo can do. Now come on, follow me.”
Uchenna slipped Jersey into the backpack—luckily, the air holes and synthetic fabric meant that it was the least waterlogged thing they had—and they followed Yoenis. He waved back to Maceo on the barge, while the Professor blew kisses at the Phoenix with the hand that wasn’t cradling the trash bag with his wet papers.
Yoenis led the group away from the water, back to the road that ran parallel to the malecón, snaking around the bay in the shape of a seashell. Beyond the street, a wall of buildings followed the same curve. To Elliot, the buildings seemed like city guards, hiding the city beyond from view. From where they stood, the structures looked as if they stood shoulder to shoulder, keeping everyone out. It was only when they crossed the street that Elliot saw the narrow roads between the buildings, leading deeper into the city.
“Come on,” Yoenis said. “Let me show you my favorite part of Cuba: La Habana vieja—Old Havana.”
Uchenna, Elliot, and Fauna followed Yoenis through one of the gaps between the buildings, onto a narrow, potholed road, shaded by buildings with elaborate moldings and intricate carvings. Some of the buildings were painted bold colors—pinks and purples and teals and yellows, so bright that Elliot thought they belonged in a storybook. But other buildings looked as if they were being devoured from the outside in: Gray cement bubbled through fading, peeling paint; steel rebar stuck out like broken bones from crumbling facades. Most of the buildings, beautiful and decrepit alike, had iron balconies with spirals and curlicues. Dozens of electrical wires crisscrossed above their heads. They looked just as decorative as the balconies.
“Havana used to be one of the ritziest cities in the world,” Yoenis said. “The newest music, dance, poetry; global businesses and world famous entertainment.”
Uchenna and Elliot looked around at the colorful, beautiful, shabby city. It was marvelous. It did not look ritzy.
“But all of that glamour and success—it was only for the rich. For years, the Cuban people tried to choose their own government, to have control over the beauty and resources of Cuba. And for years, powerful outsiders held us down. When Columbus first arrived in Cuba, he said it was the most beautiful place on earth, claimed it for Spain, and then he started killing the Taíno, the Native People who live here.”
Down an alleyway, there was shouting. Some children, boys and girl
s, their skin all different colors, played baseball with a stick and tattered ball. They were laughing and yelling at each other.
Yoenis smiled and then went on. “Enslaved people were brought here in chains from Africa, kidnapped to work in brutal conditions growing sugar and other crops. It’s always the same story—some people have power, and they make everyone else suffer. Finally, at the turn of the twentieth century, the people of Cuba overthrew the Spanish rulers—”
“That sounds good!” said Uchenna.
“Yeah, it was good. For about a minute,” Yoenis replied. “And then big American businesses came and decided that Cuba was a place to make money—for big American businesses. They chose our leaders. They chose our laws. And they left most Cubans desperately poor. As we like to say, ‘Se quedaron con la quinta y con los mangos.’ Which means, roughly, ‘They took the farmhouse and all the mangoes, too.’”
Yoenis stooped down and picked up an empty bottle of dish soap. An old woman poked her head out of the door and motioned with her hand. He brought it to her, and she smiled.
“And then, there was one last revolution. The Cuban people had a dream that all money would be shared. And that we would all decide our fate together, through truly free elections. So the rich were overthrown, the big American businesses kicked out, and a communist government was founded.”
“Was that good?” Elliot asked.
Yoenis snorted. “What do you think? The Communists collected everyone’s money . . . and then forgot to share it. Or, to be fair, did a bad job of it. And the US imposed the embargo, to punish us for kicking out the big American businesses. So we can’t get new cars or materials to repair our buildings. Every year, we grow poorer. The Communists ended freedom of speech, so if you complain too loudly, you can end up in jail. And we haven’t had a real election since they took over.”
Yoenis led them onto a beautiful little street, where the houses were better maintained, and an older man was telling a story—above their heads. He was sitting on his balcony, and other older folks were sitting on theirs, laughing across the street at the tale he told.
“And that’s the history of Cuba so far,” said Yoenis. “But this is not the end. What will happen next? Will Cuba be for the powerful, or for the people?” He looked at Uchenna, Elliot, and Professor Fauna. “Maybe, together, we can write a happier chapter.”
Uchenna said, “Yoenis, whatever we can do, we will.”
He gave her a half smile. “You know what, Uchenna? For the first time in a long time, you give me a little bit of hope.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They jumped over a puddle of mud and passed a stray dog sprawled out on the sidewalk with his tongue hanging out, trying to get cool. Elliot wished he could cool himself like that—the sun, the humid air, the smell of diesel and salt was wearing him out.
“WHAT?” Yoenis said. “They have got to be kidding.”
The members of the Unicorn Rescue Society found themselves gazing across a plaza. Wide stones reflected the bright sunshine. Royal palms formed a square in the center of the plaza.
It should have been beautiful.
But one side of the plaza was dominated by a gleaming marble building with sparkling glass windows that seemed completely out of place in Old Havana.
“A new hotel,” Professor Fauna said.
“A new hotel is one thing,” Yoenis said. “But this isn’t just any new hotel. Read the sign.”
Elliot read the words engraved in gold across the front of the hotel:
SCHMOKE INTERNATIONAL HOTEL
A PROJECT OF SCHMOKE HOSPITALITY GROUP
Treating You the Way You Deserve
“¡Hermanos del diablo!” Professor Fauna spat.
“I don’t know what the professor just said,” Elliot muttered. “But I think I agree.”
Uchenna marched across the square and pressed her face against a window of the new hotel.
“Uchenna!” Elliot hissed, coming up behind her. He looked around nervously. “What if they see us?”
“Whoa, it’s like a palace in there,” Uchenna said, ignoring Elliot. “There’s a fountain in the lobby that’s bigger than my house. And it’s made of gold.”
Elliot looked around a few more times to ensure that the Schmoke Brothers themselves hadn’t suddenly appeared in Cuba. Then he peered inside, too. After a moment, he said, “It looks like they’re preparing for some kind of banquet.” All around the soaring lobby, waiters in black bow ties were running around setting up tables and throwing elegant white tablecloths over them. There was a large, strangely shaped golden fountain in the middle of the room. From outside the hotel, they couldn’t make out what it was supposed to be.
Elliot watched as two of the waiters stood on ladders and unfurled a banner. The banner read, Bienvenidos, capitanes de agricultura. And below it, in English: Welcome, Captains of Agriculture!
“Captains of Agriculture?” Uchenna repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Uh, agriculture is farming . . . so really good farmers, I guess?” Elliot answered.
Uchenna said, “Aren’t the Schmokes more like the type of people who invite, I don’t know, royalty to their parties?”
Yoenis had come up behind them. “Could be farmers,” he said, putting his face against the window, too. “Or could be the government officials in charge the Cuban farming industry. Either way, something smells fishy,” he agreed.
Elliot looked down at himself. “It may be my sweater.”
Yoenis surveyed the scene for another moment, and then he said, “Well, if anyone knows what’s going on, it’s my mother. Vengan. Her house isn’t far from here.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The group walked under a blue sky crisscrossed with low-hanging electrical wires and between apartment buildings that seemed to lean over the narrow streets. Yoenis came to a stop in front of a bright yellow building with a large brown door. He knocked loudly. “¡Mamá!” he called.
A French window opened above them, and a small woman with short hair burst out onto a small balcony. She had brown, wrinkled skin, muscular arms, and light gray eyes. “¡Mi’jito!” she shouted, and fled the balcony. A moment later, the front door was thrown open and the little woman burst through it and wrapped her arms around Yoenis’s neck. She hung on to him for a long time. Yoenis laughed and tried to stand up, but she wouldn’t let go so he lifted her with him. Then they were both laughing. She let go and dropped to her feet, then turned to the children.
“Bienvenidos a La Habana. Me llamo Rosa. Come in, please.”
They followed Rosa through the door and into her home. Except, they weren’t actually inside. They were standing in a small courtyard, lush with plants and a little fountain in the center. The walls surrounding the courtyard were painted the same yellow as the exterior of Rosa’s house. Windows looked down into the verdant space.
“Whoa . . . ,” Uchenna breathed. “This is beautiful.”
Big fronded plants reflected the sun that shone down into the courtyard. There was a little waterfall that tumbled from a rock sculpture into the fountain. A small tree with gray bark stood behind the fountain.
Jersey, in the backpack on Uchenna’s back, started to wriggle. Rosa pointed and said, “Déjalo. Let him out.” So Uchenna put the backpack on her stomach and unzipped it. Jersey poked his head out and started sniffing the air. Rosa laughed. Yoenis laughed seeing his mother laugh. Then Jersey bounded out of the bag and into the garden, where he started to frolic under the plants.
“Jersey, come back!” Elliot called.
But Rosa said, “Shh. Let him play.” She turned to Professor Fauna. “Erasmo, thank you for coming. Please, put down your trash bag.”
Fauna put down his bag of papers on a chair, and Rosa grasped both of his hands in hers and looked him in the eyes. He smiled. He introduced Elliot and Uchenna. Then he nodded at Jersey, w
ho was running and leaping and then rolling on his back at their feet.
“He is very happy here,” said the professor.
“He knows that it is a special place.” Rosa turned to Elliot and Uchenna. “Children,” she said. “It is nice to meet you. Now come, I have something to show you.”
So they followed Rosa to the tree with the smooth gray bark.
“This is a ceiba tree. Have you ever seen one before?”
Uchenna and Elliot shook their heads.
“For thousands of years, ceiba trees have been important to the people of Cuba.” Rosa rubbed her wrinkled hand up and down the trunk. “Go ahead,” she said.
The children rubbed the tree. It felt almost . . . soft.
Rosa said, “The ceiba is sacred to the Taíno, the Native People of this island. Then, the first thing the Spanish did when they invaded Cuba in 1519 was gather under a great ceiba tree and pray, to give thanks for arriving safely in this land. And, not much later, when Europeans began enslaving people in Africa and bringing them across the Atlantic, those people sought out their holy tree, the baobab tree—but those West African trees don’t grow here. The ceiba tree looks a little like the baobab, though, and so the ceiba became the holy tree of Afro-Cubans as well.”
Rosa looked from Uchenna to Elliot to Professor Fauna, to make sure they were all listening carefully. They were. “This tree is like Cuba. We are many peoples. Some have always lived here. But over time, we have grown together. Our belief systems have merged, separated, overlapped—just like our music, our dance, our food. Like many roots feeding one tree, drawing water from distant sources. The ceiba tree is Cuba’s people and Cuba itself.”
The members of the Unicorn Rescue Society nodded solemnly.
“I told you my mother and I see the history of Cuba differently,” Yoenis told them.