The Black Cathedral

by Marcial Gala

  IBRAHIM SALAZAR

  The Church of the Holy Sacrament of the Resurrected Christ … When Stuart arrived from Camagüey, no more than a dozen people in Cienfuegos had heard of our congregation, and across the whole province, there weren’t even twenty of us, eight of whom lived in Aguada and three in Cruces, making it difficult to depend on them for anything practical. The pastor of the Cienfuegos Sacramentalists was named Basulto, an intelligent young guy, but cold and aloof. Arturo Stuart had charisma and a knack with crowds, he was a natural leader, and a church like the Sacramentalist one, which is inspired by ancient Greek rites, fit like a glove on someone given to manners and mystery. Besides, he had his son Prince. The kid knew how to speak. He knew how to be convincing. He had read the Bible with purpose and knew how to cite verses correctly. Even his siblings would fall silent, watching him as if the angel of the Lord himself were speaking through his mouth. Everybody liked that; Cubans have a penchant for the corny and sentimental, and on worship Sundays, Basulto’s house would fill up. Certainly another factor was that Arturo had cemented friendships with the denomination’s pastors in several U.S. states, and they began to send us contributions, or assistance, as we also called it. Such assistance took the form of electric razors, soap, toys for the children, shoes, clothing, and kitchen utensils, even Bibles, worship books and videos, which gave us an idea of the Sacramentalist church’s power in the U.S. In six months, we went from twenty people to almost a thousand; few, in a sense, but for a congregation as strict as the Sacramentalists’, that was legion. So, Basulto’s house, big as it was, came to be completely insufficient, and we decided to worship at the house of our good sister Elizabet.

  RICARDO MORA GUTIÉRREZ, a.k.a. GRINGO

  I had killed my first guy. I slashed his neck and didn’t stop until his eyes were like a dead cow’s. “Who has the biggest cock now?” I asked him, then I cleaned the switchblade with the sleeveless shirt he had been wearing to show off.

  “Now what do we do, Gringo?” Pork Chop asked me.

  “That’s the easy part. We cut him up—the guy came from Cabaiguán, no one is going to miss him. You’ll see. Get the bike, but pedal slowly, you don’t want anyone to mess with you, and start telling suckers that you have some high-quality meat. When you’re done with that, go to the hiding place and bring over the boning knife. But first, wash yourself and change your clothes, ’cause you fucking reek of moonshine.”

  “But we don’t have any,” Pork Chop said.

  “But we don’t have any what? Soap?”

  “Meat, Gringo, meat.”

  “What about this? Grade A meat.”

  “Damn, Gringo, you’re a genius.”

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet … Get moving, but calmly. I’ll start preparing this veal.”

  He came all the way from Santiespíritu to end up like this, some guys really are a special kind of stupid, I thought, looking at the deceased, who had been left with an idiotic expression on his face that made me feel a smidgen of pity, but, “You gotta fuck life before it fucks you,” my mother used to say, and this guy had come to fuck us, so he got what he had coming to him.

  The first thing I did was remove his huge-ass gold chain, then I took out the wad of cash from his backpack and found the piece, one of those Makarovs that always jams. What a useless piece of shit you are, I thought. Who thinks of putting a gun in his backpack? Idiots must be a dime a dozen in Cabaiguán.

  “Hey, man, do you know where you can buy a motorcycle, a really good one, an MZT or something like that, none of this Carpati or Benjovina shit?” the guy had asked me right at the door of La Mimbre. I was selling shades, but the minute I saw him, I thought this guajiro, this peasant, had cash.

  “I might know,” I told him. “Who can say, the only fortune-teller here is God.”

  “But it has to have the paperwork in order. I came from Cabaiguán because they had one set aside for me, and when I got here, they didn’t have the title.”

  “This one has everything. It’s just waiting for a guy like you to ride it … It’s almost new.”

  “I like that. Is it an MZT?”

  “No, a Harley-Davidson that my cousin the sailor brought from Panama.”

  “Really?”

  “Just like I said.”

  “It’s going to be really expensive.”

  “No, about the same as a Jawa, and it’s got the kind of engine that, well, when you ride it into Cabaiguán, all of those guajiros are going to go nuts.”

  “Let’s go see it.”

  “Do you have the money on you?”

  The useless piece of shit said yes, then he saw something in my eyes, regretted it, and said he had hidden it at the house of a girlfriend just in case.

  I said, “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “Cop? Me? No way, I’m a normal guy.”

  “You can tell, but we’re already talking too much. Let’s go to my cousin’s house so you can see the hog.”

  “Let’s go.” I took him to San Lázaro, and he was all, “Your cousin lives in a pretty bad place.”

  “The thing is, his wife threw him out and he had to come here, motorcycle and all, and he’s scared about it getting stolen, that’s why he’s going to sell it, for peace of mind.”

  We got to Pork Chop’s room:

  “Cuz? Listen, tarugo, are you there?”

  “What a surprise, Gringo, how’s life going, my man?” Piggy said from inside with a grin ear to ear, thinking I had come to collect the money he owed me, but you could tell that he’d been drinking, he stank of rotgut and piss and the guajiro practically took off.

  “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  “These sailors really drink a lot.” I smiled. “But have a seat, man, have a seat.”

  The guajiro sat down, and I asked Piggy, “Hey, tarugo, how’s the bike?”

  What bike? he was going to ask, but I winked at him.

  “Oh, yeah, the bike. It’s around. I lent it out.”

  “You lent it out? That’s not the kind of thing you lend out. To who?”

  “Mariana’s guy.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t have any problem with him … When’s he bringing it back? Our friend here is interested in the hog.”

  “In a little while; he needed it to go to Varadero.”

  “On a machine like that you can go to Varadero in minutes, it runs faster than a Ferrari.”

  “Runs? It flies. Especially since I have it in tip-top shape, it doesn’t need anything.”

  “Besides, the Harley is a classic, the best there is in motorcycles.”

  “You said it.”

  “Look, here, go get six beers over there, but get Bucaneros.” I made as if to put my hand in my pocket, but the guajiro was faster.

  “Forget it.” He opened his backpack and took out his wad of cash, and that was his mistake; he thought he was so young and strong with that bull’s neck and those big mitts, he waltzed into the lion’s den for a beer. What a moron, it still surprises me. I had to wait for him to drink three Bucanero beers and then say, “I’m going to the bathroom,” and while Pork Chop talked to him, I got behind him, took out my switchblade, and quickly slit his throat so he wouldn’t scream.

  When Pork Chop came back, I had already counted the money and I had the guy naked on top of the sink. “Did you bring everything?”

  Pork Chop opened the bag and showed me the hammer, the knives, and a machete.

  “Did you tell the chumps we had steak?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Who’d you talk to?”

  “The ones in Punta Gorda. Those blancos are going to be eating dead person for a week.”

  “They deserve it. Let’s get started.” I grabbed the boning knife.

  “You’re really something, Gringo.”

  “What I am is a guy with money.” I showed Pork Chop the big wad of bills. “Do you know how many are here? A thousand bills of a hundred each.”

  “And how much is that?”

>   “How much do you think?”

  “I don’t know, you tell me.”

  “You’re such an idiot, Piggy, such an idiot.”

  “Lucky you that you’re smart.”

  “Well, now we’ll see if that little black girl from Camagüey gives me a chance, we’ll see.”

  GUTS

  Gringo liked her as soon as he saw her. A black girl for taking out on the town, she has Beyoncé’s body and the face of an angel, and she’s going to be mine, he said, and it was as if he had branded her, no one in the neighborhood would dare mess with her.

  “Pass it to me, loco, pass it to me!” I was shouting to Cricket, because that was his problem, he thought he was Messi, he didn’t give the ball to anyone. Plenty of times I wanted to fight him after we lost a match because he thought he could handle everything like he was Ronaldinho Gaúcho himself. I’d get right on him, Next time you pass it or I’ll fuck you up! That was before we knew that Gringo was all gaga over the sister and that it was dangerous to threaten to hit Cricket, because Gringo was a super inconvenient guy to cross, he was a Palo initiate, and besides, he seemed to be suddenly flush with cash; he showed up in the neighborhood one day riding a bike from the shopping center, he rang the bell and shouted, “I demand respect!” And everyone knew that Gringo was loaded, more so when he invited the whole neighborhood to drink beer, not just crappy little cans, or even bottles, but an enormous keg on wheels. Good old lager, and lots of it, but anyway, the keg stopped, attached to a tractor and everything, in front of one of the entrances to the neighborhood, and each family got a tub apiece. By ten at night, everyone was drunk, even the kids. It was pure pandemonium. All the families drank, except for the one from Camagüey, because when Gringo showed up at the Stuarts’ door with eight cans of Bucanero beer and two cola drinks, the old man practically kicked him out.

  GRINGO

  “Hey,” I said to him.

  “Blessings,” he said. “What do you desire?”

  “I’m sharing, my friend, sharing,” I began, which was my first mistake because the old man didn’t like being called that.

  “I’m not your friend.”

  “Yes, I know, it’s a figure of speech. How would you like me to address you? Compañero? Fine then, no problem; I’ll call you compañero and that’s that.”

  “Oxen are compañeros. It’s better to call me Mr. Stuart, or if that bothers you, Arturo Stuart or just Arturo.”

  “Whatever you say … Look, Mr. Arturo, I’d like to share these beers with you, and these soft drinks are for the kids, since I know they don’t drink, and I’d like to speak with your daughter, Johannes, just for a minute.”

  The old man let me unload all of that, but when I finished, he wouldn’t let me in. He stood in front of the door like Barcelona’s goalie and forcefully shook his head no. “This is a Christian family and we don’t accept this kind of invitation.” He said it just like that, strike me dead if I’m lying. That old coot was the biggest weirdo I’ve ever seen. Behind him was his wife, Carmen, who was almost as pretty as her daughter, but with a batty face that would give anyone the creeps. Where did he get her from? I thought. A cave? Anyway, I couldn’t see Johannes until the next day, at the door to our school.

  She was studying art at the city’s art academy, the Benny Moré School, where she was the only black girl studying art; enough of her oil-colored kind were in music and dance, enough to make waves. I would go over there on my bicycle and they would look at me. That’s Gringo, they’d think, what a good-looking guy, and they would come over to ask me, “Is that bicycle Italian? How many gears does it have?” I had a bunch of young black girls pining for me, and a few white ones, but to that Johannes, I didn’t exist. What a proud black girl, I would think, who does she think she is? But the way she walked killed me, her agile gait that looked like she was dancing.

  “You’re losing it,” Pork Chop told me. “That black girl is sharp, she won’t suck off a black guy. Can’t you see that she thinks she’s better than anyone?”

  “Pinga, don’t be filthy, Piggy.”

  “The thing is, I need cash.” He had already spent the ten thousand pesos I gave him after knocking off the guajiro. “We need to kill another one of these little cows … I have customers asking me, ‘Come on, Salvador, if you get more veal like that, the really tender kind, the tourists were happy, we’ll pay you double, but it has to be now that we’re in peak season.’ They’re all coming after me, and I have to tell them to wait.”

  “You can tell that neither you nor they had to cut the guy up and make him into steaks. It’s better to go to the countryside and kill a real cow.”

  “That’s a lot of work … You have to walk a ton, and you can always get caught by a peasant. Besides, you have to carry off the meat in bags, which is really risky, and if they get you, they’ll treat you just as if you offed some guy.”

  “Lower your voice, fucking Piggy. Or do you want everyone to hear you? If I get caught because of you, you’ll be the one who ends up as tenderloin.”

  “No one’s hearing a damned thing, everyone is here for the whores.”

  We were at el Ruso’s bar, and one of his prettiest whores was dancing and showing off her tits. Pork Chop took a long drink, then gave me a piece of advice:

  “If you want to conquer that Johannes, then you have to be more like her father … Become a Christian and that black girl is yours.”

  GUTS

  I just didn’t have a head for reading, it was hard as hell for me. I sat behind Cricket in class and I just wanted to fuck around; I couldn’t stay still, I started to bob my knees up and down quickly until Magali, who sat at the same table I did, would say, “Guts, please sit still.”

  “If you show me your panties,” I’d say, and she would lift the edge of her skirt, and I’d lower my head so I could take in her skinny legs, until the teacher stopped the lecture and said, “Whoever is not interested in what I’m saying can leave.”

  I would go out to the hallway and smoke a cigarette while I waited for snack time, then I would go home. I had threatened that teacher, whose last name was Suárez; once, I kept watch as he entered the teachers’ bathroom and I pulled a knife on him because he’d been on my back, he’d gotten it into his gourd that I should repeat the eighth grade, he told everyone what was going to be on the tests except for me, he was really tough on me and had already failed me on the midterms. That day I pulled a knife on him, it was a madhouse, he started to shout and went running straight for the principal’s office; I flew out of there to my house, the police came to get me, they put me in their patrol car, took me to the precinct, and there were the school principal and the teacher. They accused me of selling pornographic cards and of masturbating.

  “Yohandris Carlos Fernández Ramírez is going straight to a juvenile detention center, where the real savages are, that’s the place for him,” said Pancho, the policeman, and signed a little piece of paper.

  But the following day, my father called my uncle who sits on the Central Committee, and they sent me back to school. They even apologized, all the teacher could do was stand in front of the chalkboard and say I was the best thing since sliced bread; but I didn’t have a head for reading, or for numbers. Cricket did. That idiot knows so much, I would think, and sometimes I felt like punching him. It sucks when you realize that a space cadet like that knows more than you.

  “It’s because he pays attention, Guts,” said Nacho Fat-Lips, who had failed sixth grade for the second time.

  “He doesn’t pay shit. The point is that he has an engine in his head, and when it’s running, he knows everything. All my head is good for is knocking people with it.”

  Despite his smarts, Cricket was pretty absentminded. Sometimes, he would just stand there, staring at the sun, oblivious to the world, he would even start drooling, and as tall and skinny as he was, he looked like something evil, like a wingless black heron wanting to fly. “Cricket,” I would say, because he scared me when he got like that, a
nd then he would start to sing, and that was the worst. “This one’s nuts.”

  MARIBEL

  There’s very little to say about the mother. Since she almost never left the house, for the fifteen years she lived there, it would be a stretch if I said I talked to her a handful of times; she was, however, someone who shared, she didn’t keep anything to herself. You just had to ask her for something for her to give it over, although later she would saddle you with one of those little sayings, Christian ones. I was really fucking sick of her Christianity.

  GRINGO

  I got tired of going everywhere on a bike, even though it was a good brand and everything, you had to pedal like hell, so I told Pork Chop, “My man, get things ready, ’cause early tomorrow, I’m going hunting. I don’t want to see you drunk or poorly dressed; when I get to your house with the two-legged ox, everything has to be okay, is that clear?”

  “Clear as water.”

  “Killing a guy is no easy thing, I’m doing this because we’re in the fuácata, broke as hell, but if there were another way to make a living, really, I wouldn’t do this.”