The Santero

by Kim Rodriguez

  The entire night went off without a hitch, performance after electrifying performance. With the help of the artists’ private security, Sandro and his team skillfully managed the pulsing crowd, turning people away at the door when we reached capacity by eleven. Guests ate and drank with abandon, and almost all of the Santuario members had stopped in for a while to check out the private space and stock their lockers with the very fine cigars I’d procured for them. I’d left about ten of them, including Oscar and Carlos, smoking, drinking and talking in the members only area, and Piraña’s art had stolen the show, the oils literally stopping people in their tracks. As I’d predicted, some people in the main salon had already begun to leave offerings below the images, understanding their significance as abstract representations of our Orishas. The oil of Changó, the god of sex and virility, was particularly popular, not just because it was the most eye-catching, but also because of its subtle phallic imagery and position in the darkest corner of the main area. Many couples had already found themselves attracted to the fiery sexual energy emanating from what people were calling el rincón de Changó, or Changó’s corner, and acted accordingly. Filomena’s ballerina fountain dominated the atrium at the entrance to the restaurant and bar area, a beautiful complement to the new curved Baroque style ceilings and columns that reminded me so much of the Catedral de la Habana. It had all turned out better than I’d hoped, and now that everything looked so beautiful, I could forget about surface aesthetics and move on to the real work.

  Sandro and his man Jeronimo flanked me all night, refusing to leave me alone in case there were unfriendly faces in the crowd, or worse, Achille himself. Sandro was almost as fed up as I was, vowing to finish him if we crossed paths again, reasoning that he could have just as easily poisoned me and next time likely would. Sandro’s only question about last night remained how the peliroja had gained access to Madrina’s, which was practically a fortress after the security upgrades. Still in the process of reviewing the security tapes, he promised he would figure it out and deal with the lapse accordingly. Until then, he insisted on 24/7 protection.

  “You have two appointments tonight, boss,” said Sandro. “Why don’t we grab a bite now, so we can go back in a few minutes?”

  We settled together at a small table at the perimeter of the restaurant and ordered a few drinks and tapas. Sandro was in the middle of telling us a funny story about his wife and his mother in law when a group of four girls got too close for his liking. Unlike me, Sandro trusted no one, male or female, which I supposed was a good quality in his particular profession.

  “Can I help you ladies?” asked Jeronimo, prompted by Sandro’s unforgiving look. They giggled and huddled together almost too embarrassed to answer.

  “We want a photo with Rafa,” said the bravest one, a girl in a little black dress who barely looked twenty-one. She waved her iPhone at Jeronimo while never taking her eyes off me. The way they wouldn’t stop giggling made me wonder if they were checking identification properly at the door.

  “Why?” asked Sandro, taking a swig of beer.

  “Hashtag hot AF,” said one of the shy girls in the back of the group.

  “For my Instagram,” said the girl with the phone.

  “Que es lo que ella dice?” I asked Sandro under my breath. What is she talking about? I wiped my mouth and smiled at the girls, completely clueless.

  “A picture for her Instagram. It’s like an online photo album that everyone can see,” he said in Spanish.

  “Oh, I know it,” I said, thinking I hadn’t checked Amada’s for the last half hour.

  “He’s eating right now—” began Sandro.

  “It’s fine,” I said, standing and calling the girls over. “Jesus, Sandro, I’m not a movie star.” They squealed with delight when they realized they’d been invited over and gathered around me, practically throwing the phone at Jeronimo.

  “One thing,” said the girl in the short black dress. “Can you take these off?” She took the sunglasses off my face and tucked them into the deep v of her cleavage. “Perfect,” she said, then pressed her lips to my cheek as the flash went off.

  Every five minutes or so we were approached with similar requests, mostly from women of all ages who were star struck by something I certainly couldn’t fathom.

  “Sandro, what is this?” I asked, trying to gulp down the last bit of my food before there was another interruption.

  “Miami Latin ran a story on you and Madrina’s,” He and Jeronimo glanced at each other. “It’s a good picture,” said Sandro, dissolving into a fit of laughter.

  “So?” I asked.

  Sandro took his phone off the table and opened the Twitter app. Along with a link to the story about Madrina’s grand reopening, the caption read, “Rafa de Leon, boy toy of billionaire socialite Amanda Rose opens Miami’s most anticipated hotspot of the year.” The writer had made gratuitous observations about my so-called mysterious past, my penchant for wearing high end suits, and subtly hinted at an affiliation with Miami’s Cuban Santería community.

  “Boy toy!” I spat. “Is that like un jebo?”

  “Not as nice. Look.” He turned the screen to display a large candid photo of me standing beside Amada’s pool, taken the morning after we’d gone to Piraña’s studio. I’d just come out of the water holding a towel low on my hips after doing laps, flushed and glistening wet in the Florida sun. From the angle of the photo it was certain the photographer had used a telephoto lens from a boat on Biscayne Bay, the only way any one could access Amada’s house uninvited. Her neighborhood was a virtual Fort Knox, impossible to enter uninvited by land, but it had never occurred to me that the water was a weak security point. In fact, it must be how Demarais had been able to get on and off the property so quickly, and if I’d thought to look out the back, I’d probably have seen him racing away on a speedboat under the cover of night.

  Jeronimo scrolled through the comments on the article on his own phone. “Hashtag fanning myself,” he read. “Is he a model? OMG I’m pregnant.”

  “Shut up,” I said, looking around to make sure no one was listening.

  “I’d hit it for sure,” he continued, his voice cracking. “Yum. That’s the best towel I’ve ever seen in my life. Daddy!” Jeronimo stopped reading tweets only because he started to choke on a breadstick, so Sandro slapped him on the back, literally crying with laughter himself. He dabbed the corner of his eyes with a napkin as he managed to calm himself down, but not before waving his hand at me in apology.

  “Hey, Head of Security,” I said. “Notice anything about the photo?”

  “Yes, I did, boss,” said Sandro, sobering up quickly. “I’ve already instructed the team to regularly patrol the ocean side of the house. We’ve got eyes and cameras on every square inch of the property now, including the water. Apparently even criminals have half a million dollar boats these days.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me one bit,” mumbled Jeronimo, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Rich people are the biggest criminals of all.”

  “You ready, boss?” Sandro stood and wiped his mouth with his napkin, surveying our surroundings. Satisfied that no one would approach, he motioned for me to follow him. “Your first appointment is waiting in Doña Delfina’s consulta. If you’d rather meet with clients somewhere else, let me know.”

  “No, it’s nice,” I said, rising. “That’s the perfect place.”

  We’d kept Doña Delfina’s consulta almost exactly as it had been, except I’d gone through her elixirs and herbs and discarded anything I thought could be poisonous or couldn’t identify, which was more than half of what she kept on hand. The liquid mercury had been the first to go, and I’d told her more than once I was going to do it. Of all the things she used in her potions, I disliked the quicksilver most of all. “Fine, mijo,” she’d said. “You do things your own way.” Her only specific request had been to keep her altar in place for a period of one year, after which it should be disposed of in a deep Florida lake, or if a
trusted friend were to travel to Cuba before that time, he or she should take her three favorite statues and toss them into the ocean from the Malecón in Havana. At her funeral everything had been confirmed through divination, and until the year was up, nothing could be disturbed.

  Once I had moved Doña Delfina’s chair to another part of the room, I removed my jacket and glasses, then made myself comfortable in a wing chair I’d had Sal bring down from my old apartment upstairs. It was the one Doña Delfina had used when she sat at my bedside during my illness. The powder blue chenille fabric was old and dated, but the chair had a special energy that could be helpful during more challenging moments.

  I sat for a few minutes in silence and centered myself while lighting the customary candles on the table before me, a white candle for purity, a blue candle for the spirit, and a yellow candle for the mind. Until I spoke to the individual and knew more about his or her problem, these were the ones I preferred and lit by default.

  Sandro ushered in my first visitors, a well-dressed middle aged woman accompanied by an older relative. I stood and shook hands with them both, inviting them to sit. The younger woman introduced herself as Mirtha and her companion as simply her tía or aunt.

  “How can I help?” I asked. Probably in her mid-forties, Mirtha spoke Spanish with a thick American accent just like Amada’s, obviously born in the US and raised by a bilingual family. My initial impression of her was a strong, almost voracious feminine energy, indicating to me she came from a long line of women. She looked tired and pale, like someone who’d been fighting a long, hard battle.

  “Dicelo,” said the aunt. Tell him. She pulled a small notebook and pen out of her purse and placed it on her lap. “Is this OK?” she asked. “I don’t want to forget anything you say.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Good idea.”

  “I’m in trouble,” said Mirtha. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t get the words out.

  “Speak freely, Mirtha. I don’t judge, and I have no obligation to anyone.”

  “I’m in love with a married man,” she blurted out. Her aunt patted her on the arm, proud of her niece for confessing, except I wasn’t a Catholic priest and it wasn’t my place to find fault or to forgive. Mirtha anxiously tucked her hands in her lap, crossed her legs at the ankle and continued.

  “His name is Sam and he’s thirty-five years old, about ten years younger than me. We both work in the same office. We were friends at first, then we started flirting, and finally one night I asked him out after work for a drink. We ended up in bed that night, and every night after that.”

  “And why are you in trouble?” I asked.

  “His wife found out, but she won’t leave him. She made him break it off,” she said. I took a closer look at her, noticing that she was a very attractive woman. The lines on her face weren’t from age but from stress and possibly insomnia.

  “I can’t live without him. He’s like a drug. Young, virile, hung.” At those words her aunt threw her hands up in the air and crossed herself, embarrassed that her niece had spoken so frankly.

  “It’s alright,” I said to the tía. “Details are important.”

  “My life is falling apart. I’m exhausted every day, I can’t sleep, my hair is falling out and I’ll probably lose my job soon because I can’t think about anything but him. I wake up at night and the sheets are soaked from my sexual dreams. I have terrible anxiety and my heart races. I’m obsessed. I need him back at any cost.” She sat forward in her chair, her breath causing the flame on the blue candle illuminating her face to flicker and dance wildly. “Please, make him mine.”

  “Are you sure it’s love?” I asked. “If it’s lust, he’s not the only man who can satisfy your needs. It doesn’t have to be him.” I had to suppress a laugh when I saw Mirtha’s aunt nod and write it down, as if I’d said to take a vitamin or eat a banana.

  “I don’t know,” she said, starting to cry. “I’m so confused.”

  “Alright. Three things. Number one, it’s always a good idea to see your doctor once a year. I know some people find it beneficial to get their hormone levels checked.” I put extra emphasis on the right words so that she would understand she should have this particular test.

  “I told her the same thing,” said her aunt, writing and bobbing her head up and down in agreement.

  “Each different stage of life comes with its own challenges for all us, men and women, and so many maladies of the mind have a very simple and treatable physical cause. The human body is a very complex, balanced system that requires care and maintenance, or problems will undoubtedly occur. Your eyes are so pretty. May I have a closer look?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said, leaning forward. I pulled down each of her eyelids and looked at the color of the tissue inside.

  “You bleed heavily every month?”

  “Yes, I do,” she answered, astonished. She looked over her shoulder at Sandro, standing by the door and lowered her voice to a whisper. “How do you know? Did a spirit tell you?”

  “No,” I laughed. “There are physical signs. It’s not difficult to figure out.” I turned to her tía and pointed at her pencil. “A complete blood count is also a very informative test.”

  “What do you think is wrong?” Her aunt looked up from her lap and put a hand on her niece’s leg. “Dear God, you don’t think she has something serious like cancer, do you?”

  “Please, don’t jump to any conclusions,” I said, shaking my head. I hated to frighten her, but Oscar and Javier had drilled it into my head never to even appear to give medical advice and to always have a witness in the room who could testify that I had not. Amada was right, I missed helping people and it would be wonderful to be able to practice medicine again. “I’m not licensed in this country, so it would be illegal for me to make a diagnosis. However, if you go to your doctor, he or she will find the problem, and by easily and quickly resolving that matter, you may feel tremendous relief without any other intervention. Were you paying attention earlier?”

  “Yes,” said the aunt, holding up the notebook where she’d been taking notes. “I was.”

  “Good.”

  “But doctor,” said Mirtha, “I do need your help. I want him back desperately.”

  “Well, that leads me to the second part. I’ll give you a very potent herbal tea to calm you and give you clarity of thought until your doctor’s appointment. And third, once you’ve taken care of any physical issues, if there are any, then come back. I’ll see you immediately, and if you still feel the same way, we’ll resolve it one way or the other. Until then, don’t engage in any self-destructive behavior or become aggressive toward him or his family. The spirits will not like that one bit.” The last part was a stretch of the truth, but I knew she’d follow my orders if I put it that way. In reality, the spirits had very little to say in terms of morality, and if Mirtha’s night sweats, fatigue and anxiety were symptoms of anemia caused by an underlying hormone imbalance, she would be wise to address it before making any life-altering decisions. I was operating under the assumption that another doctor would catch it, but one never knew. I’d cross that bridge later if necessary.

  “So then how much will it cost me to have a spell cast on him?” asked Mirtha.

  “There are no fees and most certainly no spells, at least not in the way you’re thinking.” I was astonished at how she thought we would operate in this day and age. “I’m not a back woods witch doctor. All I ask is your continued support of our business and our many charitable endeavors, as our standing in the community is of paramount importance. You’re obviously a friend of a friend or you wouldn’t be here. Who got you the appointment?’

  “I’m Raquel’s second cousin.”

  “Oh, Raquelita,” I said with a smile. “She’s close to my wife.” I’d been busy all night and had only a few moments to think of Amada, but now that she was on my mind again, my mood started to darken. I felt dread at the thought of going back to that empty house, but I didn’t
want Mirtha to leave with anything but a positive impression, so I made sure not to let on.

  “Doctor,” she said, “this is all in the strictest confidence, correct?”

  “It goes without saying, but yes, absolutely. I take my clients’ privacy very seriously.”

  “Thank you,” she said with relief. “So then after I have those tests done, I can come back, and you’ll help me get Sam?”

  “I can’t guarantee that will be the outcome. I won’t do anything I believe could be harmful to you, and frankly it seems that this relationship is a toxic one. However, we’ll confer again. We’ll ask for help from one of my spirit guides, a young ballerina, so you’ll have to bring a gift that a dancer would like. You have time, so I’m sure you’ll think of something. We want her happy.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Mirtha’s aunt. “Is that why you have the beautiful fountain out front? I love it!”

  “Yes, it’s for her,” I said with pride. It really was a showstopper and I’d been getting compliments on it all night.

  “What’s her name, doctor? Your spirit guide?” asked Mirtha.

  “Filomena, but I’d prefer that information also stay private, if you don’t mind.” I rose to indicate the meeting was over and shook both their hands once more. “Until next time. Oh, and let me get you that tea. It’s very healthy and natural. You’ll love it.”

  After they left, I checked Amada’s Instagram again. While I waited for the app to refresh I asked Sandro, busy checking his own phone, about the second appointment.