The Book of Lost Saints

by Daniel José Older

  He only has an hour or so before he has to head out to the club, but instead of plopping in front of the TV or jacking off, Ramón sits at the cluttered desk in the corner of his bedroom. He roots around for a piece of paper, finds something even better: an almost empty notebook he’d bought a couple months back for keeping track of what songs he played. The first three pages have messily scrawled setlists. The fourth has two paragraphs of a—let’s be honest—pretty inarticulate letter to Aliceana, and the rest is blank blank beautiful blank.

  He flips through the empty pages and I eye them hungrily from over his shoulder. Empty pages. A whole story to tell. A whole world to unravel. If he does what I hope he will, and if my skills are on point and I can build on what I’ve begun … well. Well. We shall see.

  Here is where I require just the slightest bits of forward motion from this water-treading giant. I’m not asking for mountains to be moved, just a small step toward me, now that I’ve come all this way. I don’t know the details of my journey, but I know it has been a long one, and I know I’ve come through some hell. I suppress the urge to call out, name my sudden burst of hope with a joyful yelp. I am patient though. I am a thing beyond the petty politics of hope and fear.

  Usually.

  I strive to be anyway.

  Then, as if to reward my restraint, Ramón turns to the first blank page, clicks out his pen, and writes: His name is Gómez.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Isabel.

  She is plump, nervous, sweating, peeking out of the shadows. Whatever this is, it’s something real, important. I can’t remember Isabel ever looking this unsettled. She’s got that ever-present notebook tucked under her arm and the other hand curled into a tight fist.

  She hides in the walk-in cupboard, just where she said she’d be. Waiting for me. She’s so vivid when she’s not faded black and white, so alive. And so terrified. Her eyes keep jumping back to the doorway and she’d let out a tiny yelp when I first entered. It’s a game to Little Me—we’re excited, puzzle pieces in a great mystery, something gigantic and terrible and so much better than any stupid hopscotch or marbles or anything else. And my favorite part: Nilda doesn’t know about it. Even better: She suspects. What good is a secret with your older sister if the middle one has no clue about it? No. It’s much better this way—her gut tells her something’s off, there’s a conspiracy afoot, but her mind can’t wrap around what it could be. I giggle a little at the thought of it.

  My high-pitched laugh startles Isabel and she swats me hard across the arm. I have to stop myself from crying. Isabel’s never hit me before, barely even raised her voice. Because I’m her favorite, of course. Nilda may be older than me, but she’s such a pain and is always playing by the rules, always doing exactly what Mami and Papi tell her and trying to make sure we do too. But Isabel and I, we have our own thing, so when she slaps me it hurts my heart even more than my arm.

  You have it? she whispers, softening some because she sees I’m close to tears.

  I don’t speak, just offer it up to her. It takes both arms because it’s so heavy. Isabel’s stronger than me though, and she easily lifts it and puts it on the counter and tears it open.

  She’s selecting one of Mami’s big knives when a knock comes at the front door and I have to stifle a shriek. Isabel glances at me, teeth clenched, then whispers, Come on, and I follow her out into the den and watch as she opens the door.

  The big toothy grin of Enrique Gutierrez awaits us, and I’m positive we both roll our eyes at the same time.

  Nilda’s not here, I say, one hand on my hip.

  Who said I was looking for Nilda? Enrique demands, grin gone.

  Go, Isabel says. We’re busy.

  What are you so busy wi—he starts, but I cut him off.

  I have to tell you a secret, I say, leaning forward so he leans forward too. You have too many teeth and not enough face. Then I slam the door before he can respond and, giggling, we hurry back into the cupboard.

  I watch, praying she doesn’t make me leave. I watch while she removes the chicken carcass and then pulls a knife off the rack on the wall and cuts into it. I hear the clink of blade touching metal and then Isabel stops and throws a glance at the door. Nothing happens. No one comes. It’s quiet. I think she’s going to make me leave then, and my heart is beating so fast it’s probably going to burst at any second.

  There’s a wet, nasty sound when Isabel plunges her hand into the chicken and I cringe but stare in fascination as she digs around, unperturbed by the gunk all over her. Finally she smiles. I love Isabel’s smile with all my heart, but I mean the real genuine one, not the one she shows when the abuelos come to visit. It’s the real one that happens now when she adjusts her position and then pulls a paper bag out of the chicken. She strips it away and holds in her hand a pistol. A real one, not a toy. There’s another bag with the balas in it, and she puts it on the counter.

  She’s not smiling anymore when she looks down at me, holding the pistol in one hand and a notebook in the other, and tells me to clean up the mess while she hides the gun. And I do, I do because I love her and I’ll do anything for her, and there are guerrillas in the mountains outside of town, and at night sometimes we hear the cracks and low rumbles of their war against the government. And this war is a noble one, according to the whispered stories Isabel fills me with late at night as Nilda snores. And even though it’s only been going on a few years, it stretches back whole centuries, as generation after generation has risen up to throw off one form of oppression or another, and maybe now, maybe this time, we stand on the precipice of the whole world changing forever. And somehow, we’re part of that change, and because Isabel is there with me, and I know we can do anything if we do it together, I close my eyes for a second and brace myself for all that is to come.

  * * *

  Ramón wakes, the dream still with him, the world still strange and hazy with the heat of our Havana suburb, the shock of a much colder, grayer city outside the window. And I hover just above him, feeling empty and even more barely there than before.

  It drains me, this cruel gift of my memories that I give. It takes something small and immeasurable from me. I know I’ll replenish, can already feel the damage begin to undo itself as I strengthen. But if memories are all that make me, there can’t be an endless supply. Even reenergized, something is gone. There’s only so much of my life I can give.

  And everything feels different now that I’m on a first-name basis with that seeping, vanishing sensation: my undoing.

  The notebook lies open on the bedside table beside him. In it, the tiny event of my trip to the butcher, my return home, is scrawled out in his sloppy handwriting. Ramón eyes the pen, considering adding this strange new chapter, but it’s time to leave, almost past time, and he has to make it to the club to set up.

  He hurls himself into a sitting position and stumbles to his feet, and for a second I think he’s going to dash off out the door and be on his way. He is about to be late, after all.

  But this is Ramón, of course, and so instead he ramóns his way through that unintelligible sequence of yawns, grunts, eye rubs, and crackling joints. Then he stands perfectly still for a few moments, and at first I think he’s fallen back asleep. I venture closer, allow myself to merge with him.

  Music.

  It ripples through him like light on a lake: just the rough sketches of melodies that rise and fall and cut suddenly short, chortling waves of notes that crash into each other and then cycle back toward some vaguely defined one; sudden blasts of harmonies that diminish and then are gone. But mostly, there are rhythms: the fanciful and abrupt lullaby of the guaguancó. That loving, familiar side dash of the bolero, the high clack of the clave, which waits, and then lands on each beat, then waits again and slips between them.

  And now, Ramón opens his eyes.

  He is ready.

  * * *

  Here’s how I died, since I’m sure you’re just salivating to find out: fast footsteps on pavement
, a frantic run, the pursuit not far now. Yells in the distance, closing. An impossible clutter of crossroads, alleyways, storefronts. Some unfamiliar neighborhood, and the gnawing sense that one of those streets surely leads to another that leads to another that will bring me to some part of this haunted city by the sea that I do know, somewhere familiar, safety. But no: Instead, the approaching boots get louder and the yells to stop feel like they’re right in my ear and I know what’s coming so instead of stopping I run harder and then and then and then: nothing.

  I don’t know if it was the fallen regime or the one that replaced it. Does it even matter? They all start to look alike from here.

  I don’t remember the bullets ripping through me. Or the sudden wreckage my face became beneath their clubs.

  I need to know the whole truth of it though. Because somehow, it will make me whole.

  * * *

  Cold weather kept the crowd slim tonight. The folks who are here bop in perfect time to Ramón’s thumping beats, form circles around each other, and take turns contorting themselves and head spinning. Marcos showed up around two with his congas and now punctuates the hip-hop beats with a sultry guaguancó.

  “Aliceana?” Marcos says as Ramón segues into a thickly synthesized trance section.

  Ramón shrugs. “Same, I guess. Neither here nor there.”

  “What’s it been, half a year now?”

  “Nah. Just three … four months.”

  “Maybe you should consider some side slice.”

  Ramón shrugs again, not even convincing himself. “Hard lookin’ for side slice when the slice you got ain’t in the middle.”

  “Maybe you should look for some middle slice and make Aliceana the side.”

  “If it’s the middle, it’s not a slice. It’s a half. Or something.”

  The layered drone rises and falls in waves of guttural, electronic sound. Strobe lights catch the dancers in millisecond freeze-frames of movement, now turning, catching each other’s gazes, now reaching, eyes closed, mouths open, backs arched, skin glistening, designer clothes damp. Ramón and Marcos take in the scene without speaking for a few seconds and then Ramón asks Marcos if he’s seen Alberto.

  “Ugh, that comemierda? Fuck no. Why would he show his face around here?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Ramón?” Marcos prods.

  The drone becomes a pulse, bass so deep, the bones of the dancers must rattle in time, and they rally to it knowing that soon the beat will drop back in and cue a precise explosion of movement.

  “Ramón, if you think Alberto would be here … Why would you think that?”

  “I … it doesn’t matter.” Ramón doesn’t drop the beat; he keeps building layer on layer of synth drone, and the room becomes thick with sound. The crowd writhes in expectation.

  “¡Oigan muchachos!” It’s Luis, an older gentleman who holds court at one of the far corners of the club most weekend nights, dishing out advice and favors and keeping folks generally in check. He’s thickly built with a thickly built mustache, and something about those hard, bright eyes belies a kinder man than his harsh voice and thick hands—fighting hands—would have you believe.

  “¿Qué bolá, asere?” Marcos says, exchanging a pound with Luis.

  Ramón nods and looks back at his turntables.

  “Ramón, Alberto is outside looking for you.”

  “Shit,” Ramón mutters.

  “Yo, what the fuck?” Marcos demands.

  By way of an answer, Ramón finally lets the beat fall, a static-laced bass drum that pounds away as the snares clack back and forth their sudden, maniacal conversation. The explosion comes, the dancers burst to life, and Marcos rolls his eyes and launches in on the congas.

  * * *

  “What do you want?” It’s pelting icy chunks and it’s just past four a.m. and the sky will be getting light soon. Ramón is trying not to fixate on Alberto’s menthol.

  “Just to say hi to an old friend. Is that so weird?”

  I know this kid. Well, no. I know the angle of his jaw. His slim eyebrows and the trace of red in his light brown hair. I know the grin that is sinister and cautious all at once, the glint in his eyes that can charm or offend. The smell. I never knew the boy, but I know from whence he came—two generations back, actually: Enrique, who was always stopping by looking for Nilda.

  Anyway, the boy is three rum and Cokes deep and it’s got him even sloppier as he tries to look tough and see through all that alcohol and sleet.

  “It’s weird that you’ve emailed me four times and texted me twice in the past two days.”

  “Well, you didn’t answer.” Alberto rattles the ice in his paper cup and grins. “Try, try again and shit, no?”

  “No.”

  “Ah c’mon, Ramón. We’re basically brothers.” He swings an ungainly arm out to pat Ramón’s shoulder, but Ramón steps back. Alberto regains his balance and frowns.

  “No,” Ramón says. “My mom being your madrina doesn’t make us brothers. Not even godbrothers. It just makes my mom your madrina.”

  “Damn, man,” Alberto sulks, but I can tell they’ve been through this before, that this isn’t the first time he’s pulled the godmother card.

  “You bring any of your gangster friends this time?” Ramón asks.

  “No, man. Look, I forgive you for being an ass before. Okay? I’m cool with it. I swear. I really don’t even give a fuck.”

  Ramón just looks at him.

  “But look, my, uh, abuelo needs to talk to you.”

  “Oh?” Ramón says. He looks genuinely surprised. As he should.

  Alberto glares down at the slush, puts one foot forward and then pulls it back. “Yeah, I mean … yeah.”

  “’Bout what?”

  “I dunno, man. Just come up to the house tomorrow and we’ll talk about it.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I said no. What makes you think I want anything to do with your abuelo, let alone that I’d go up and talk to him about nothing in particular just because he asked. No.”

  “You’re an asshole, Ramón,” Alberto seethes. “You know that?”

  “Thanks for dropping by.”

  Ramón turns to go back into the club, trying not to look rattled.

  “Fuck you and your whole fucking family,” Alberto mutters. Then, quietly, as if as an afterthought: “Except your mom.”

  Cadiz, the six-foot-four bouncer, is glowering in the doorway. His frown says he’s considering using Alberto’s face to shovel snow, but he keeps still. Everybody knows who’s who, and anyway, the picture is painted in the smell of sweat and frustration pounding through the air, the rage of Ramón’s heart in his ears, the way Cadiz hesitates, his fists clenched tightly into themselves: No one’s dumb enough to put a finger on a Gutierrez, least of all the beloved grandson, heir to the ugly empire. Ramón exchanges a nod with Cadiz, puts away all the violence threatening to burst out of him, and walks back inside.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It’s so quiet.

  Ramón and Marcos are still on the way home. Adina—the third and, let’s be honest, best resident of apartment 3C—sits at the kitchen table, clacking self-righteous lawyerly things onto her laptop. She’s having a moment, so all the other lights are out and she has headphones on, probably with some heartbroken diva bleating through them, but I try not to make assumptions. I’m in Ramón’s room, quiet. Quiet because I’m gathering myself.

  I must’ve carried the freezing rain inside with me—I’m chilled and permeated with something else … loneliness? I’ll be honest with you: I’m more lost than I seem, only grasping at memories, barely making sense of the present, let alone the past.

  Slowly, slowly, pouring all my concentration, all my breath, all my being into my hands, I lay them on his bedside table. Yes. It’s shaky, but there is a solidity to me. I’m encouraged and lean into it a little too hard, slide forward and through the wood, its solid form prickling against my nothingness.

&nbs
p; From the top.

  I didn’t get this far by giving up. I don’t think.

  (Then again, maybe it’s exactly what got me here…)

  I rally, chase off disappointment, allow the slathering, almost solid slices of rain against the window to lull me back to calmness. Release the chill I’ve been carrying. Re-center myself on my fingertips. The edge of who I am to the edge of the wood, and stop, our molecules meeting; sweet resistance means I’m good and I’ll stay slow, stay focused.

  All known and unknown factors considered, I’m still just moving toward the light. And the light seems very, very far away right now. I have no map, no plan, just the fierce knowledge that this is a piece of the puzzle, this is how we get to the next part: He has to see the me that once was, he has to know how close I am to him. I will show him. And I know that if I fail at any tiny piece here, if I misstep or lose patience, give up that holy swagger I’ve managed to click into, it won’t just be a matter of the puzzle getting tougher to beat: There won’t even be a me to beat it.

  So I keep my breath focused forward, my energy charged to the very limits of myself, my fingertips wrap around the wooden handle. Pause. Breathe. Breathe. Pause. Prepare, and pull.

  * * *

  Laughter and irreverence from the kitchen.

  Adina, roused from her reverie by the return of the boys, puts on music, some pretty atrocious rock/salsa mix that Ramón only tolerates because he’s tired of offending her.

  I make my flowing, elegant way out of the bedroom and into the warmth of the kitchen to sit among them. I’m sure I once carried on like this, with friends, with Nilda and Isabel, surely, though the memories have been torn from me. I’m sure we reveled in the impossibilities of life and topics we weren’t supposed to cover. Surely.