The Book of Lost Saints

by Daniel José Older

  “Ramón!” Aliceana whisper-shouts, pulling herself up to his face. “Are you … what do you feel? Are you okay?”

  Ramón nods. “I think so. My head feels like it’s under a truck though.”

  “Ay, poor baby. Come let me see your eyes.”

  He obediently opens one wide and then the other while Aliceana gets all up in his personal space examining them. Then she lays her head on his chest and nuzzles. “I thought you were gone.”

  “Me too. What happened?”

  “Kacique says one of the policía smacked you with a billy club. Do you remember?”

  “No. Are you okay?”

  Aliceana nods. “I ran. We got separated. And Ramón…” Aliceana sits up again, her face goes blank. “There was something … I don’t know how to describe it. I saw something, at the club, I mean.”

  Ramón lifts himself onto his elbows and furrows his brow at her.

  “A woman … she was … above all of us, above the crowd, but … it wasn’t just me, everyone saw her. She was there. I think it was, I think it was Marisol.”

  “It … was.” He nods. “It was. I remember that. That’s the last thing I remember, actually. She was there. She is … she’s with me.” He throws his legs over the side of the bed. “And … We have to find out what happened.”

  “He lives!” It’s Catabalas, calling from the top of the stairs. “And I bring information.” He tromps down, followed closely by Yaniris, who’s carrying a tray of cafecitos. “And coffee.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  That file in Catabalas’s hands carries my truth. Some semblance of it anyway. But then, it’s probably a government document, no? Since everything here is. And what do government documents know about the truth? Nothing.

  And still.

  I spread across the room and then swish back into myself, simply because I don’t know what else to do. Just moments earlier, I was reveling in the memory of having been seen, of Aliceana and Ramón’s shared moment. And now I feel like I’ve been scattered across the city from sheer anticipation.

  That gentle song of hope dances through me, teasing: Quizás, quizás, quizás.

  “Catabalas.” Aliceana narrows her eyes. “We still have to get Ramón to a doctor. He needs X-rays.”

  “I’m okay,” Ramón says.

  “Ramón.”

  “X-rays can wait.” Catabalas sits in one of the tiny chairs and Yaniris stands behind him, her delicate hands on his shoulders, like they’ve been married for years. He puts a file on the bright red picnic table and grimaces. Ramón sips his coffee and leans in. “What you got?”

  “Before we begin, I have to tell you that none of this is all that conclusive, but I’ll get to that.” Of course. Of course. Nothing is ever conclusive in this pit of lies.

  “The first thing is this: documento uno.” Catabalas lifts a single sheet of paper with a rough photocopy of an old court document on it. “Your aunt, one Luz Marisol Caridad Aragones, was in fact a tried and convicted rebel against La Revolución Cubana, captured not far from her house in Las Colinas and sentenced to an indefinite term at the famed Isla de Pinos, and spared execution only because of her young age at the time of her imprisonment. She had not yet turned seventeen.”

  Aliceana’s hand is on Ramón’s knee, squeezing. Ramón puts his hand on hers. “In prison, she was at times a notoriously badly behaved prisoner. She went on several hunger strikes, did a number of months, possibly years in solitary, the records are murky. Intelligence officers report she was particularly close with a priest from her province, one Padre Sebastián Enchaustegui, who initially supported the revolución but later helped run guns and apparently even was something of a munitions expert, although that’s all a little unclear. Enchaustegui died in prison from an infection, according to records.”

  “And Marisol?” Aliceana asks. I’m startled by her concern; she’s leaning all the way in, her fingernails dig into Ramón’s leg.

  “According to this…” Catabalas takes out an old copy of Granma, Cuba’s state newspaper. “There was an attempted jailbreak in 1981, not long after Mariel. Seems more than a few of the prisoners thought they’d be released along with the slew of petty criminals and mental patients that were unloaded on the US during the boatlift. Of course, the regime wasn’t about to free a bunch of unruly political prisoners and rebels. So a small cadre took it upon themselves to break out, including your tía. A boat was arranged, someone’s cousin smuggled messages back and forth, maps and weapons were brought in; a very elaborate plan.”

  Aliceana has had just about enough of Catabalas’s penchant for storytelling. “And? What happened, man?”

  Me? I’m quiet. I’m still. Whatever happened, I am here. Here in this simmering in between, but there is a clear progression ahead. There is more to me than I’ve ever known, and I accept it. I occupy the space just behind Ramón’s head; I am a curtain, the cautious embrace of a warm breeze, the tingle of certainty that a warm day brings after a long winter.

  Catabalas leans forward. “A disaster.”

  Aliceana exhales like a punctured balloon.

  “Someone ratted out the conspiracy. The guards let the plan go through just far enough for them all to make it outside the walls and down to the beach. Then they massacred them.”

  Yaniris squeezes Catabalas’s shoulder so hard he flinches. “Díselo ya, coño,” she whispers.

  “According to this, your tía was listed among the killed.” Everyone lets out a long, sad breath.

  “The would-be escapees were catalogued, meticulously, in fact. Their bodies brought back, names published in the paper, all of this. Hoopla to annunciate the theater of good and evil, the all-powerful state, dissidents be warned, etc., etc.”

  So that, finally, is how I died.

  A hail of gunfire, but not against a wall. By the sea, probably.

  Inwardly, I nod, accepting it. At least I made an attempt. Whoever I had become after all those years locked up, I still craved freedom. I was cut down in the pursuit of it.

  I accept.

  And now I will begin the process of fading away; this time for good. It will be peaceful, I think—a relief to release this strain of holding on and holding on and holding on.

  Perhaps I have done some good in this world while I was here. Maybe this second chance of mine served others more than me.

  So be it.

  I accept.

  Ramón, less so. “Why do you sound like there’s something else going on?”

  Catabalas lifts one shoulder, then the other. “I’ll just say this as a precaution, but I don’t want to overcomplicate things or get your hopes up unnecessarily, so I’m hesitant to say it at all.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Granma lies. I mean, of course it does, yeah? It’s a state newspaper. The records about these things are almost impossible to access unless you’re actually a government worker, even for me. Unreachable, really. As in, I couldn’t reach them.”

  Yes, the Granma lies, but there is nowhere else to turn now. And I am exhausted, depleted. I don’t have much choice but to accept. If it’s not the truth itself, it’s probably something close. A tainted caricature of the truth, but the larger pieces of the puzzle remain intact.

  “This is all I could bring you really,” Catabalas says, holding up the yellowed newspaper, “besides the original court documents detailing her detention.”

  “Which was a lot,” Ramón says, clearly still reeling. He stands. “Thank you. Seriously, I … Thank you.”

  Catabalas waves him off. “Be that as it may, there’s nowhere else to turn really. Not to be … well, yes to be arrogant, but if I can’t access something, then no one can access it.”

  “I know, I just…” Everyone in the room raises their eyebrows at Ramón. His gut is clenched, fists too. He shakes his head. “I need to keep looking.”

  Another long collective exhale. I can already see the strain building in Aliceana. She’s exhausted and filthy and terrified and all
she wants is to go home. “Why?”

  “For what?” Kacique asks.

  Ramón strides across the room, rubbing his face. Returns. “Something else … a source that isn’t a liar … some goddamn truth in all this!” The room goes deathly quiet. “Something besides all these dreams and propaganda.”

  I want to scream: It’s over. He found what he needed to know, all that’s left now is just for me to fade away peacefully. But not if he can’t let me go.

  * * *

  Tesoro Milán.

  An unlikely sort of savior; he is a thick man with explosive sideburns and a mass of curly hair crowding around a perfectly round bald spot. He stands very, very still in the darkness of the trees. We surround him, ravaged, frightened pilgrims, just shadows really, each tasting the uncanny freshness of air outside those walls for the first time in years. In the middle of the yard, close to the tower, the stench of shit and rotting flesh dissipates some and you can sometimes catch a whiff of pine in the early morning breeze. But of course, you are near the tower and therefore all the easier to gun down. Here, in the forest, all we smell is pine, pine and soil, soil and life, rain, the tiny formulations of dew preparing themselves for the break of day, the gentle churning of trees, the murmur of life all around us. I inhale and almost topple over from the sheer joy of it. Almost.

  But there is something else too: terror. Because we have only just made it out through a raggedy hole they’ve carved through someone’s cell and because at any moment we could be dead or captured and suddenly, after so many years of craving death, of settling into filth, of giving over to the mindless acceptance of degradation, suddenly being alive matters very, very much.

  Tesoro Milán shakes his head, meaning we aren’t to move yet. The forest gives up no answers, no rattling gunships, no rush of bootstomps, just the sheer shush of nature, wind, trees, life. I try not to let myself get distracted, but it’s a chore; every breath of air offers new wonders, new joys. Somewhere, not far away, the wild ocean lets itself be heard. I hunger for it; it’s a new frontier of freedom. Suddenly the forest isn’t enough. Out there in the darkness, a boat waits. It must. It must.

  Tesoro nods and we move. He wasn’t happy to see me. They hadn’t included me in the plot and my presence hinted at a conspiracy that had slipped out of their hands, worked its way, like all secretes do, in whispers across the prison yard, cell to cell. A morbid sign. Still, he had no choice, and besides my friendship with Padre Sebastián, Tesoro bore me no ill will.

  The forest breathes in and out, chortling softly as heart rates soar, hands tremble, muscles clench. A tentative freedom, so sudden it’s violent: an assault on the senses, and so conditional. The drive, in all of us, is to just burst through the trees aimlessly, to act in accordance with the graceful whims of the night. But we’re a disciplined lot. And what we truly crave is a freedom less fragile than this. We crave the lasting kind. So we move steadily, if not silently, through the prickle of pines, the seductive caress of wind unsullied by shit and death, the occasional glimpse of the moon through the trees instead of framed by ugly walls. We move fast, it feels like it because I’m running out of breath and wonder how much longer, but how fast can it be if we’ve been moving all this time and still not found the ocean? The ocean had seemed so close, its snarl surrounded us, beckoned.

  And now it’s gone.

  Panic wraps around me, squeezes. Tesoro has his directions confused, he’s a spy, he’s gone mad. A million possibilities. I will die before we reach the boat, of heartbreak or the shock of actually still having a heart. Or of a bullet, which will break the skin just above my clavicle and enter my flesh, forcing tissue and blood vessels out of its way and bursting through my lungs, destroying, devouring and then collapsing luxuriously in the chambers of the heart I hadn’t even realized I still possessed until milliseconds before it was shattered.

  They will turn on me, my fellow escapees. This sudden freedom will make them mad with lust and what unspoken rules we’d lived with inside those walls will crumble, I can already feel it happen, and they will take turns destroying me like I always feared the guards would do. They will …

  I stop. We all stop. Because the ocean is back in our nostrils, unmistakable, gigantic. She is bigger than prison, bigger than fear, bigger than hope even. The ocean doesn’t care, but she’s there, she’s there and that’s all that matters.

  * * *

  “Ramón?”

  “Eh?”

  “You dozed off. We’re here.”

  Here is the Passports Ministry, a cluttered oven of a building that looks suspiciously similar to the Ministry of Records. Ramón and Kacique get out of the cab and make their way inside, and I flush ahead of them, still nursing my despair.

  I linger in the lavishly decorated upper corners, amidst the slow turn of ceiling fans and far away from the mountainous paperwork files. “This is not a good idea,” Kacique says as they take their seats. He has his arms hugging protectively around himself; it’s rare for him—he usually projects his chest out, hands wandering small, demonstrative orbits to accentuate the excessive importance of some point.

  “Nothing I’ve done has been a good idea.” Ramón shrugs, stubborn. “And look where it’s gotten me.”

  Kacique actually laughs out loud, mostly to defuse the tension, I think. One of the studiously disinterested ministry trolls glances up from his paperwork and frowns. Kacique wraps back around himself. “It’s gotten you to Cuba, where good ideas come to die.”

  The irritated bureaucrat stands, suddenly gracious. “Buenas tardes, señores. How may we help you today?”

  Kacique and Ramón approach the desk. The man is positively swamped in towers of paper, folders, photographs. The nameplate on his desk says SR ALVAREZ. An unfortunate comb-over does little to keep his shiny head out of view, and his uniform is rumpled and several sizes too big. He peers out at them like a very dull fish from an aquarium, misery barely concealed behind a thin smile.

  “Ah, originally I had planned to just come here for a few days,” Ramón says. “But I’d like to extend my visa.”

  Ramón glances at Kacique, who just shakes his head and looks away.

  “Ah, no se puede hacer,” Alvarez says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It cannot be done.”

  Ramón grunts a laugh. “No, I know what no se puede means”—a silent but implied asshole hangs in the air between them—“I mean what do you mean it can’t be done? Why can’t it be done?”

  The bureaucrat lets out a long, steady sigh. “Because the original term of the visa has not expired yet. You understand?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What you will have to do, in order to get a longer visa, is this, I’m going to explain for you, yes?”

  Ramón narrows his eyes at the man. “Okay.”

  “You must wait until after the period of the original visa has expired, yes?”

  “Wait.”

  “And then return to this office and submit form siete-jota-jota for a longer duration of stay, perhaps, okay? And then await response.”

  “But won’t—”

  Alvarez clasps his hands together with a self-satisfied smile. “When the ministry responds to that request, if it is in the affirmative, then you may stay for the extended period of time. You understand?”

  “So I’m allowed to overstay my visa in order to apply for a longer one?”

  Alvarez turns suddenly stern. “Certainly not.”

  Kacique looks away and squeezes his mouth shut. Ramón just shakes his head. “Let me ask you a question.”

  “Anything, señor.”

  “HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO RETURN TO THIS OFFICE AFTER MY VISA HAS EXPIRED IF I’M NOT ALLOWED TO BE IN THE COUNTRY?”

  Alvarez smiles wider. “Ah, that! That is for you to figure out. I, desgraciadamente, do not make the rules. May I see your original visa?”

  Ramón glances at Kacique, who shrugs.

  “Mm.” Alvarez reaches for the visa an
d Ramón passes it to him. He clacks away at an old desktop computer that looks like it could overheat at any moment. “There’s a note in your file, Señor Rodriguez.”

  Ramón looks up. “What?”

  “Seems a Lieutenant Urrutia in the Ministry of Records placed a note in your file.”

  Now Kacique is paying attention too. I don’t know what this means, but it can’t be anything good.

  “She did some investigating,” Alvarez says, sounding almost fatally bored. “And based on her findings the state of Cuba would prefer it if you not be here at the time being.”

  “I’m being kicked out?” Ramón gasps. “Why?”

  Alvarez looks up, suddenly very present. “That’s not what I said, señor. That would be … er, complicated, yes?” He cringes slightly, then relaxes. “From an international relations perspective. I said that according to your file and the research done by Lieutenant Urrutia, we would prefer it if you leave, based on your association with a known exile.”

  A known exile.

  He must mean the Gutierrezes—their activities are renowned and certainly they are enemies of the state here. But how—

  “Who?” Ramón blurts out.

  Alvarez checks his computer screen. “Luz Mari—” is all he can get out before Ramón stands up so fast the old wooden chair he was in falls backward, clattering to the ground. Alvarez looks up, alarmed.

  “It says exile?” he demands.

  Kacique wraps a calming hand around Ramón’s wrist and picks the chair back up. Ramón sits.

  Alvarez watches them both and then returns to the screen. “It says here her official status is Desaparecida, vanished. But according to the documentation, she is presumed to have escaped to the United Estates following the failed prison break at La Isla de Pinos.”