The Santero

by Kim Rodriguez

  “It’s not really an appointment. Bombax just asked for a few minutes after you’re finished with everything else. I think he just wants to say hello.” His voice trailed off, his attention drawn to something on his screen.

  I was thrilled that there was finally a new post on Amada’s account, a black and white photo of her on the beach in silhouette captioned “French Riviera.” Even from behind she was as beautiful as ever, her petite proportioned frame a couple of pounds lighter, the transparent swimsuit cover up flying in the breeze like some sort of long, regal veil. The thought that I might never see her in a veil shocked me no less than if she’d tossed a glass of ice water in my face. I went into an immediate panic, angry at myself for sitting around while she was so far away, probably thinking about never coming back to me.

  “Son of a bitch!” I shouted in frustration.

  “Did he text you, too?” asked Sandro.

  “Who?”

  “Oh shit,” he said. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but an editor at Miami Latin just received a copy of the picture with ‘Not his fiancée’ in the subject line.” Sandro started reading directly from the editor’s text. “I have no plans to post this photo nor do I think anyone else will, but just wanted you to be aware that someone is passing it around. Let me know if I can help.”

  “That’s great,” I groaned. “I guess send him fifty-yard line Dolphins tickets.”

  “Nah, I know this guy. Lakers courtside.”

  “Whatever. Sandro, I have to go get her.” I turned my screen toward him. “Look.”

  “Man, we talked about this,” he said, swatting in the direction of the photo as if it were a ridiculous annoyance. “My wife took the kids and went to her sister’s house in Georgia for three fucking weeks when she thought I had a girlfriend at work. I told her she was wrong, but I didn’t call her or chase her, and eventually she realized it was nothing and came home. Let Amanda calm down first. She’s in France at her friend’s house, right? Let them drink wine and talk about what an asshole you are for as long as she wants, and when she’s tired of it she’ll show up. Teach her early on not to pull that running away shit on you, or she’s gonna do it every time she gets mad.”

  Sandro had a point. I’d been honest with her on all fronts, especially my fear that she’d use her financial means to leave me one day, and the minute things got rough she’d done exactly that. Yes, she was hurt and likely wanted to hurt me back, but she had to learn that family doesn’t act that way. Not my family, anyway. You’re either with me or you’re not. Fuck this disappearing act.

  Sandro and I got a drink at the bar and met up with Bombax and his associates in Changó’s corner, where he and his entourage of about twenty groupies and dancers filled the couches across from the oil of Changó, his security obtrusively flanking the entrance to the area. I wasn’t thrilled he’d taken up the entire space for his own group, but since it was so late I let it go. If he was this interested in privacy at the club, we’d have to talk about private membership.

  “Doctor De Leon!” exclaimed Bombax, standing to greet me. Not a day over the age of twenty-five, Bombax had crafted his stage look to perfection. Every article of clothing had a name brand or logo of some kind, and the amount of jewelry on his wrists and around his neck could have fed a small nation. His hair was so short and groomed it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had a haircut every other day. I had to hand it to him, Bombax was a sharp, good looking kid who was clearly enjoying his success.

  “Please, call me Rafa,” I said, “and this is Sandro.”

  “Great to finally meet you,” he said, giving me a quick hug and handshake. “I’m Tony. Bombax is just a stage name.”

  Tony invited us to sit down, offering us a drink from the many bottles he’d already ordered. Though it would be impossible for him to finish even half the liquor and champagne on the table, Tony’s tab would be well into the six figures tonight, his way of showing us his support. I appreciated his patronage, as it was big spenders like him that allowed us to charge less or nothing for other things, such as my consultas and our philanthropic endeavors. For example, tomorrow a large shipment of medical supplies would be heading from Miami to the Haitian field hospital where I’d worked less than a year ago. I’d sent it anonymously to my former colleague and girlfriend Irina so that she wouldn’t have to answer more questions about me and my whereabouts, but she’d know who they were from. I’d also just bought a second building near our current artists’ residence to house more of the up and coming local talent my Madrina had been so passionate about nurturing, like Piraña. Once a homeless teen in trouble with the law, Piraña was now a rising star on the art scene thanks to his benefactor Doña Delfina, whom he had publicly thanked many times for taking him off the streets and believing in him when no one else cared whether he lived or died. Accordingly, Tony’s showy display of wealth, at least in this case, pleased me very much.

  “You’re a good friend of our establishment, I see. Thank you for the great performance and for your generosity,” I said, taking a sip from my tumbler of rum. “What’s your style of music called again?”

  “Reggaeton,” he said proudly. “Did you like it? It’s barrio music, maybe not your thing,” he said, taking in my fancy suit and watch. Barrio, the Spanish word for neighborhood, was sometimes also used to mean ghetto, likely Tony’s intent. Little did he know that thanks to the generosity of my fiancée I was in nothing but a costume myself, unaware that I had probably grown up in much more humble circumstances than he could ever imagine.

  “I do,” I said, turning to Sandro. “Don’t you like reggaeton?”

  “Hell yeah,” he said, downing his drink. “Listen to it all the time.” He’d had a few tonight, but because of his size it didn’t matter, all six and a half feet, three hundred pounds of him still stone cold sober. Sitting on this small couch, Sandro looked even bigger than usual, thighs the size of hams dwarfing the coffee table in front of us. His lap must have looked like a very good place to sit because in a flash one of Tony’s dancers perched herself right on Sandro’s legs as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “Hi,” said the girl, popping a cherry into her mouth. “I’m Kiki.”

  “Honey, you can’t sit on me,” said Sandro. “My wife would go nuts. Sorry.” With a little pout she slid over and sat at the end of the couch next to another girl, presumably a friend or fellow dancer who at first threw her arm across Kiki’s shoulder, but then casually let it fall it so that she held Kiki’s tight, round dancer’s ass literally in the palm of her hand.

  “Damn,” said Sandro, enjoying the view but uncomfortable with the vibe. He stood and straightened his jacket and tie, finding it necessary to turn away from the women to adjust himself. Stepping over the various legs and feet between him and the door to the outer room, Sandro tried to get me to come with him. “Rafa, it’s getting a little too real in here for married men. We done?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute,” I said. Since Amada had run off I’d felt anything but sexy, and I wanted to spend at least a few minutes with Tony. Unlike Sandro, a chronically undersexed and sleep deprived new father, I knew that there would be no hard-ons for me tonight or any other night until Amada came home.

  “I’ll be right out here keeping an eye on things,” said Sandro. “Tony, no pictures. He’s already in big trouble.”

  “My security has everyone’s phone,” said Tony, motioning to the guys at the doorway. “Nobody’s getting a goddamn thing around me.”

  The waitresses fixed us drink after drink as Tony’s friends laughed and hung out in small, lively groups, while he and I talked about Puerto Rico and how much he missed it while on tour. He had a new wife at home and couldn’t wait to get back to her in Ponce next week, to hold his new baby and to hear the song of the coqui as he slept.

  “That’s bullshit you can’t go back home, man,” said Tony, stretching out and pulling his cap down over his eyes. “I would die if I couldn’t go back a
nd forth.”

  “I agree,” I said, taking off my jacket and loosening my tie. “That’s why we’re working so hard to make our community in Miami strong. When the time’s right, we’ll push hard for Cuba to rejoin the modern world. Don’t get me started, Tony.”

  “Here, let me get that for you,” said one of the dancers, unknotting my tie. Before I could react, she’d leaned in close and took a nice strong whiff of my neck. “Mmmmmm, you smell so good.”

  “No, Myrka. Leave him alone,” said Tony, perking up a little, but slurring a bit. “He’s married. Go play over there.”

  “Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Come on.” She grabbed Kiki’s hand, who in turn grabbed another dancer, the three of them forming a chain of beautiful women that would bring any man to his knees.

  “Can I plug my iPod into your sound system in here?” One of the girls followed a waitress behind a curtain and in seconds a new sound flooded the space, drowning out the band in the outer salon. Thanks to their habit of always ending the night with a slower, more romantic tune, a particularly nice touch, I knew it had to be around closing time.

  “Oh, Nura must have picked it,” laughed Tony. “She loves her Middle Eastern music.” Like everyone else in the room, he repositioned himself so that he had a more direct view of the girls, who weren’t doing much of anything yet. A few people sat on the floor near our feet, waiting for something. “Watch. She’s a good dancer.”

  Ever the consummate musician, Tony was just as interested in the song as whatever was about to happen. “I love to let the music wash over me, you know. What’s better than that?” he laughed. “Nura, what is this? Old school Madonna?”

  “No, papi,” said Nura, seductively swaying her hips. “It’s an Ofra Haza remix.”

  “Nice,” said Tony, still enraptured by the music, which to my ears sounded like Middle Eastern dance music accompanied by one of the most beautiful female voices I’d ever heard. I couldn’t understand a word she was saying, but it was undoubtedly sensual, bordering on erotic. Very nice indeed.

  Beneath the red and orange hued painting of Changó, Nura, Kiki and Myrka began to gyrate together in what I first thought would just be a sexy performance. It started out that way, with Nura leading the other women into a semi-choreographed belly dance, thirty seconds into which they all took off their tops, leaving them to perform in skimpy bras and tight pants. Now semi-naked, it was easier to appreciate the complexity of their movements, their abdominal muscles speeding up and slowing down with ease, rising and dropping in almost perfect unison. When one woman would twist her hips and turn the others would follow, their long, dark hair grazing the oiled, shimmery skin on their lower backs.

  “This happens after every show?” I asked Tony, sitting forward. Like Sandro, I started to feel this was headed in a direction that was far too risqué for me.

  “Not like this. Maybe it’s your presence,” he said playfully. “I saw that article about you today. The ladies go wild for you, huh?”

  “You too, apparently,” I said. Some of the women in the room had already gathered on the carpet near Tony, intertwining their arms with his legs. He didn’t seem to mind, affectionately kissing the ones closest to him.

  “Only after they see me perform. It turns them on,” he said, stroking one girl’s hair.

  “It’s Changó,” I said, indicating the painting. The energy in the room was somehow already perfumed with sex, the atmosphere charged as everyone broke off into groups of three or four. “He’s aroused.”

  Nura playfully turned Kiki around and gave her a kiss on the shoulder, then unhooked Kiki’s bra and slipped her hands around front to cup her breasts. Kiki did the same for Nura, then Myrka, until the three of them arranged themselves front to back, hips together and legs everywhere like a sexy arachnid.

  “Tony, I’m going to go,” I said, grabbing my jacket. “I really appreciate—”

  “Wait,” he said, only vaguely aware that one of the women at his feet was starting to undo his jeans. “This is getting good.”

  The girls had begun to walk back toward us through the group, playfully stopping to caress or kiss a few people along the way back to the sitting area. Kiki and Myrka joined a couple already half undressed on one of the small couches. In less than five minutes it had gone from a friendly, casual gathering to a full blown orgy, and I had missed every single sign of what this really was until now. Ignoring the others and never taking her eyes off me, Nura gracefully stepped around the bodies on the floor, her long, graceful limbs still moving to the Arab music as her hips swayed side to side like a model’s on a catwalk.

  “You deserve special attention.” She spoke in English, her native language, licking her lips seductively as she dropped down between my knees.

  “No,” I whispered back in Spanish. I pointed to my ring finger. “I’m married.” Soy casado. I glanced to my left at Tony, now eyes closed and mouth open thanks to the expert blow job he was receiving in full view of everyone, though not one person was focused on anything but themselves and their own partners. Nura’s glossy mane cascaded down her shoulders and chest, pooling on large, heavy breasts, her almond shaped, kohl-lined eyes supplicating from below.

  “So? I love Cuban men,” she said, rising up to give me a kiss. Alarmed, I pulled back, surprised that she’d be so forward even though I’d said no. I supposed I shouldn’t have been considering I was in fact at an orgy, but I’d only just figured that little detail out. We were certainly having no trouble communicating, Nura in English and me in Spanish, but when she suddenly switched to my language with a perfect Cuban accent, it gave me great pause.

  “Dame tu leche,” she said in Spanish, rubbing her breasts on my leg. “Impregnate me.”

  “What?” I said, standing so quickly I almost knocked over the table. “Why would you say something like that?” It had been many years since I’d heard someone use the extremely vulgar slang for a man’s ejaculate, leche, and never from a woman. I couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth.

  “I want a flask of bull semen once a week,” she said, her voice dropping several octaves. “Make me a fountain and put it where the ballerina is, or you’ll find this space quite unusable.”

  I fell to my knees in disbelief. It had to be him, Changó, speaking through Nura. I’d of course had interactions with muertos before, but never direct contact with an Orisha, which was an honor for any santero, especially a recently initiated one like me. I remember Delfina said that it had been decades before an Orisha came through her.

  “Sí, Changó,” I said, facing the painting. “You shall have these gifts.”

  “You travel along two parallel roads, but soon they will merge,” said Nura, now standing above me. “Public altars are not enough. Until then, even though you are pledged to Babalú-Ayé, wear my necklace on Fridays as a reminder of who you serve.”

  “An honor, Omnipotencia,” I said, looking up at Nura, then the painting. Her body language remained the same, relaxed and feminine, so it was unlikely a full possession. It made sense that he would only use her to speak, because I knew Orishas would only inhabit the bodies of initiated practitioners of at very specific times. One day I might receive a visita or visit, but it was an honor reserved only for santeros and santeras.

  Then he was gone. Just as quickly as they had fallen under Changó’s spell, Tony and his friends began to awaken from the force that had compelled them to copulate freely in public, an impulse so strong that social conventions and consequences meant nothing. It was as if everyone in the room had been thrust into the pivotal moment during lovemaking when one is too far gone to reason, to care who or what lies beyond the singular goal of climax. Now that they were free of his lust filled haze, they began to sit up and dress, expressions of confusion and embarrassment all around. Nura was no different, suddenly aware she was half naked with a strange man at her knees.

  “You’re smoking hot, aren’t you?” she said in English, as if noticing me for the first
time. “I know I look tough,” she said, “but this isn’t my thing. Kiki over there would love to tie you up and give you a good punishment, though,” she said, giving me an affectionate pat on the head before running off to get dressed. Left speechless by the position I found myself in and what she had assumed about me, my only thought was thank god for Tony’s no cell phone policy.

  ***

  That night I went home alone again, still electrified from Changó’s manifestation at Madrina’s, a virtual blessing of my new role in the faith and our place of worship. The high lasted a few days and I kept busy, visiting friends and finishing all the little projects around Amada’s house. Every so often I checked William’s old room and left a book I thought he would like, but until his feast I thought it better not to tempt him with offerings of food. But really my main task was to obsessively check Amada’s Instagram and debate what to do. Once a day she’d post a few photos of herself on the beach or on a veranda with another woman her age who I assumed must be the owner of the house, Charlotte. Day by day her mood seemed to be improving, while mine spiraled.

  By the sixth day of Amada’s absence I was an utter wreck. My usually fastidious habits had become slovenly, I’d barely checked into Madrina’s, and showering had become a chore. Each night I slept in the chair beside the bed, staring at Amada’s things and wishing her home. When I found myself at the bottom of a third tumbler of Bacardi Reserva alone in our bedroom I cursed the house, which I was still convinced had a depressive effect on all of its occupants, and then myself for not going after her the minute I realized she’d left me. Ego be damned, if she wanted me to chase her and beg, then that’s what I would do for my queen. Sitting here, in her fifty-million-dollar mansion, drinking hundred dollar rum, I felt like a complete imbecile for thinking I should do anything but kiss the ground she walks on. The day she called from the liquor store I told her to buy a basic rum for me, any one of which was probably far better than the Havana Club I’d always had in Cuba, but she stocked the cabinet with the best one she could find. That was my Amada, full of love and generosity, blissfully unaware of the vast difference between us and how we viewed the world.