Wait, I do not request his death yet, Omnipotencia. Is she unharmed?
“Yes, but not for long. He wants her. Go now, and I will be at your side, but take every precaution. There may interference on his behalf.”
Thank you, Omnipotencia. I am your servant.
As quickly as he came, Babalú-Ayé was gone, my body restored as if he had never been there at all. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was always there, but rarely made his presence known. Feeling light and free, I rose from my aching knees and stretched, considering every limb and inch of flesh as never before, merely a vessel on loan, complex machinery that would work until the day it didn’t and the earth reclaimed it again. Every second of good health was a lucky gift, not a reward for good behavior, otherwise how else could one explain disease and disability in the most vulnerable of populations?
For the first time in a very long while, maybe ever, I looked down at my bare torso and saw it as more than a shell for my heart and lungs. Instead I understood it as the center of my spiritual self, a place to anchor the broad shoulders and powerful arms designed for the protection and nurturing of my family. Amada liked to rest her head there at night, and unlike me she had no interest in the steady rhythm indicative of a healthy heart. Instead, comfort came to her in the form of movement and sound, any sound, simply because it came from inside her lover. My pelvis was to me a heavy, thick base that supported the top half of my weight, while to her it was the source of my sexual strength and the cornerstone of her pleasure. The transformation had begun, the scientist in me already giving way to the emerging aesthete, capable of recognizing the value of passion over logic, emotion over restraint, and intuition over all that can be seen and measured.
My head swimming, I went to my office and changed into the plainest white dress shirt and black slacks I had, knowing I’d look like an aide on the plane and an overdressed European tourist on the streets. Making sure my necklace was well hidden under my shirt, I tucked a pair of sunglasses in my collar and a Ferrari branded baseball cap under my arm, leaving my phone, watch and wallet on the desk. I prepared, at least for an afternoon, to once again become that man Doña Delfina had rescued, one with no home and no identity. If I ran into trouble, I’d be better off that way.
Sandro was waiting outside to take me to the airfield, and on the way there his nerves got the better of him and he began to question everything about me. His eyes raked me up and down, critical of every item I’d chosen to wear.
“You should be wearing a Panama hat,” he said. “A baseball cap looks too American.”
“I’m not seventy years old, Sandro.” I had to laugh. He’d been raised by Cubans, but his experience stopped there. “What do you think young people dress like? Anyway, everyone loves baseball. I might be able to trade it for something if I need to.”
“That’s good thinking,” he said, turning down the paved road to the small terminal that housed the charter. For the first time ever, Sandro looked worried. “Sometimes I forget that you left Cuba less than a year ago. Why can’t I go with you?”
“You have babies and a wife,” I said. Then to lighten the mood, I decided to give him a little grief, too. He certainly never hesitated to poke fun at my looks. “You think you would blend in? All three hundred pounds of you, in your white Panama hat and, let me guess, white linen shirt? Throwing your Miami accent around all over the place?” Just the thought of him trying to go incognito in a getup like that had me in stitches, a welcome relief from the tension I could feel building up.
“Alright, alright,” said Sandro, good-naturedly. “How much money you bringing?”
“None. I can’t get it here, and over there they’ll want a passport and the address of my hotel before giving me any CUCs. There’s no point.”
“What’s a kook?” he asked, obviously clueless about day to day life in Cuba, as most Americans were.
“CUCs are the tourist money. Don’t you know about the two currency system? There’s CUPs and CUCs. CUPs are the moneda nacional or pesos worth about four American cents each. Cubans are paid in CUPs. The CUCs are another set of Cuban currency that’s worth exactly one American dollar, called dólares, and it’s mostly for things that tourists use or buy. Anything priced in CUPs is a lot cheaper because it’s meant for citizens and the prices are government controlled. CUCs are just American dollars with a huge surcharge built in, the exchange rate, which can only be collected by Cuba, because no other bank in the world has access to it.”
“Shady. Can’t you take a credit card?” asked Sandro.
“American credit and debit cards don’t work, and anyway, I don’t want a paper trail. I’ll have to rely on my charm, as always.” This made him laugh, as he knew I’d probably get away with it. “I knew someone from Athens on the ship and I remember his accent pretty well, so I’m going to be Greek.”
“Shit, what if someone tries to speak to you in Greek?”
“I guarantee there is not one official on the entire island who can speak a word of it, my friend. But if there is, I’ll be Czech. Whatever works.”
“Just act like a local. Why go through all that?” Sandro was becoming more confused by the minute, further proof that my decision to go alone had been a good one.
“Because I’m not working or selling anything, or a kid hanging out with my friends or my girlfriend. A local wandering around tourist areas looks like a pickpocket or a prostitute, and the last thing I want is to be questioned by the police.”
“Maybe you should pick up a prostitute,” he chuckled. “It’s the first thing a lot of dudes traveling by themselves do.”
“That’s not a bad idea actually,” I said, thinking of the possibilities. We pulled around the small terminal to the congressman’s plane, where one of his aides was waiting for me on the tarmac. Sandro watched me walk up the air stairs with an obvious look of concern on his face.
“Text me when you start the descent back into Miami. I’ll be here by the time you land,” he called out over the roar of the engine.
***
“So do you want CUCs or CUPs or both?” asked Esteban once we were in the air. He and his two aides had laid out a stack of cash on the small tables in front of them. We’d be in Havana in less than fifteen minutes and obviously the rules were different for someone in his position, so I didn’t even ask how he managed to keep so much Cuban money on hand.
“Around the hotel, CUCs are better.”
“Fine, take it all,” he said. “And the other?”
“Maybe a few big bills, for water or street food.”
“Keep the two kinds of money in separate pockets,” said the young man to Esteban’s left, a kid no more than twenty five years old. He looked smart and ambitious, probably a young lawyer looking to become a politician one day himself. I smiled at Esteban, who only shook his head. This rich Miami kid telling me how to be careful on the streets back home was the funniest thing I’d heard in a long while. His advice was useless, and his Spanish was even worse.
“Believe me, I won’t get confused,” I rolled all the bills into one wad and stuffed them deep in my front pocket, knowing it would be gone in ten minutes if I put it anywhere else. Due to the economic conditions, in Cuba petty theft and pickpocketing was more accepted than people could imagine. Among a percentage of people there existed the rationale that it’s okay to steal from someone rich, especially if they won’t notice it’s gone. A housekeeper for a wealthy family could take little things every once in a while, without the slightest bit of guilt, and to a certain degree it was expected. The same in hotels. Even retail workers shortchanged the less enlightened at every opportunity. It wasn’t considered bad, just shrewd. There was a point where it was frowned upon and considered real stealing, but receiving the wrong change at a food stand or finding that a piece of jewelry had disappeared in a hotel room was as common as the day is long.
Many of my friends in school earned extra money by cheating tourists out of a dollar here and there, bu
t I could never bring myself to do it no matter how much I saw other kids getting away with. Even at a young age I knew I couldn’t, so instead I used my looks to charm people into giving me the things I needed, like a warm meal, a place to live or even the job I’d landed with the government. Some people might consider that a different type of stealing, and if they did, then I was just as guilty, but if there was one thing I knew all too well was how to survive on the streets of Havana with no money. If this cash was pickpocketed or miscounted by cashiers too many times, I’d be just fine anyway.
In spite of wanting to impress Esteban at every possible moment, the aide realized he had nothing of value to say to me and turned away in a huff, going to sit two rows back with his colleague. Esteban’s two assistants were so eager to please their boss that it made me think of Alex. It wasn’t that he was at all like them, but they had aggressively demanded and received the attention and mentorship from Esteban that rightly belonged to Alex. Esteban and Alex were very different, and their father-son bond had suffered for it.
“Esteban,” I said, feeling the beginning of the plane’s descent. “Your Alex is something else. I saw him box the other day and he’s a natural. Have you been down to the gym yet?”
“No,” said Esteban, running the palm of his hand along the silver-black hair at the nape of his neck. He was every bit the politician, as charismatic as any man or woman who had ever held office. I could see why those in the know said he’d be a political star, only I wish it hadn’t been at the expense of his relationship with his son. Alex had told me how often his father had been absent, and it had hurt him deeply. The disappointment went both ways with these two, and when things settled down, I was going to make a point of healing their relationship as much as possible, perhaps by spending time with them both.
“I wish he’d do something a little more adult, but considering where he was a year ago, I can’t complain. I’ve never seen him look better. That’s why we’re here today,” said Esteban, leaning forward. There was a tremble in his voice, the slightest hint of a river of emotion flowing freely behind a perfectly constructed facade. “My wife and I are forever in your debt. She was half-dead after a decade of worry for him, and now she’s like a new woman. I’ll never forget it, Rafa. You have my friendship and gratitude for life.”
“I proudly accept your friendship, and the gratitude goes both ways,” I said. “My wife and our future children are everything to me. When I get her back, it will be because of you, and—” I stopped right there and simply gestured upward because of the mixed company, but Esteban understood.
***
Landing in Havana was as simple as Esteban had promised. There was no customs, no officials who boarded or asked any questions, and if there was any paperwork, it had all been arranged earlier. We strolled into the terminal as a group of four, and at the curb Esteban and his assistants stepped into a waiting car while I jumped in the back of a cab parked right behind them. As the young, friendly man in the front switched on the meter, I pulled my cap down low and simply said, ‘Hotel Nacional.’ Today I wouldn’t chat with the driver as I usually did, instead settling in for the half hour ride by staring out the window while doing my best to ignore the eerie drone of the government run news station, Radio Reloj, which had been ticking every second and timestamping every minute of every day since 1947.
The safe space of the decrepit auto allowed me to gather my thoughts and acknowledge the surrealism of the moment. I’d dreamed of coming back many times, but nothing prepared me for the reality of being here. An overwhelming feeling of sadness came unexpectedly, and desperate to see everything that had been dear to me once more, I contemplated how I could at least visit the small neighborhood cemetery where my mother was buried. It was only four miles from the hotel, but I knew it would be the height of stupidity to do anything but get Amada and leave right away. Another time. Settling back to watch the endless procession of palm trees go by, the words to our most famous folk song danced through my mind. Yo soy un hombre sincero, de donde crece la palma. I am a truthful man from where the palm tree grows.
Pushing all of my complicated feelings about being home aside, I fought every urge to tell the driver to go faster as I started to construct some kind of plan in my head. I had to find out what room she was in and gain access as surreptitiously as possible, though he would probably be in there with her, and who knows what I’d walk into. I’d brace myself for anything and find a way to delay my own reaction until we were safe. I’d done it many times in the field, putting the blinders on when a patient’s needs had to remain the sole focus in spite of horrific circumstances, but I’d never had Amada’s life in my hands. Of course if he’d already done something, I wouldn’t be able to let him live. Who would I be when I left this island tonight?
The half hour ride into Havana was uneventful thanks to the honesty of my driver, who took the most direct route and requested the proper fare. Accustomed to travelers from all around the world, the young man of about twenty-five used hand gestures to communicate and didn’t bother to say a word besides treinta. When I handed him sixty, he shook his head and tried to return the extra. I declined, using the word for tip, propina, so he’d feel alright about taking it. I tried to speak like Sal, pronouncing every letter in each word so that I wouldn’t sound Cuban. His eyes lit up with gratitude.
“Americano?” he asked, as if he already knew the answer.
“Griego,” I said. He shrugged his shoulders as if he’d never met anyone from Greece before, then gave me a thumbs up as I exited the taxi. Tonight the topic of conversation among his friends would likely be the generosity of Greek tourists, and then it would certainly turn to a discussion of Greek women.
A sense of place finally hit me like a rogue wave when I stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Hotel Nacional. On the drive over, somehow the pane of glass between me and the city was enough of a barrier to keep my mind on Amada, but now that I stood in the open air of Havana, breathing in the scent of palm, ocean and memories, I lost it. I’d barely had to look up to know when we were passing the Jose Martí monument and the Ministry of the Interior, the famous building with Che Guevara’s backlit face on the side, because since tenth grade it had reminded me of my friend Jose, whose sixteen year old girlfriend told him she was pregnant the day we took a field trip to the Plaza de la Revolución. It only took a glance out the window to know when we passed the University of Havana, and that from there a right on calle Neptuno would take me straight back to my home near the cathedral, where I’d lived with my mother and then with the old widow after my mother died. It wasn’t necessary to contemplate these places at length because I felt them in my soul as if I had lived them a thousand times, because I had. Thankful for the pane of glass between me and the city, in the car I thought about anything but that. But standing before this hotel, with nothing to separate me from the people, it was too much. Everything I’d been holding in came at once, and I had to turn my back to the tourists walking behind me into the hotel to hide my face and sob.
In the midst of my breakdown, an old Cuban woman of about eighty approached me and gingerly put her hand on my back. At first, I thought she was an employee of the hotel, but it was clear from her simple clothing that she was perhaps visiting a friend or had some other business with a local there. I felt her hand move up and down my back as she leaned in to try and see my face.
“Mijo, estás enfermo?” she asked. My boy, are you sick? Her green eyes radiated kindness and the maternal energy that always affected me profoundly. I tried to answer her in some fake Greek sounding language, but I just couldn’t lie to her. Not this woman.
“No.” I answered her in my own language and accent. “I’m just homesick.”
“But you are home,” she said, reaching into her bag. “You’re too handsome to cry, stop it now,” she cooed. The way she said it made me feel worse and better at the same time, and after one more moment of pain, the fog that had enveloped me on the way here suddenly
dissipated, and I could breathe again. I wiped at my face with the small tissue she’d given me and pulled it together, then smiled at her.
“There, you look much better,” she said, patting me on the cheek.
“I am,” I said. “Let me help you. Do you need to go somewhere?”
“No, mijo, my husband is waiting right over there.” She pointed to an old man with a beard in the distance who neither smiled nor waved. “Almost sixty years together and he still thinks I’m going to run off,” she laughed.
“Would you like to run away with me?” I asked, unable to curtail my natural tendency to flirt with nice women.
“Not today, but next time you see me, ask again,” she giggled, patting my arm. “Now get going before someone bothers you,” she said, walking away toward her husband, who closed the metal car door with obvious satisfaction, happy to recapture her.
The hotel on the hill was exactly as I remembered it, as it should be, considering it hadn’t changed much since the revolution. As I crossed the famous Hotel Nacional floor plaque near the entrance and moved toward the ornately tiled front desk area, I remembered the dream I had not long ago, where Filomena came to me the first time and Amada and I danced together to Glen Miller. If only Amada and I were here to dance like before, but there were more serious matters at hand. I stood in the reception area with the cap low on my head and my hands in my pockets wondering the best way to approach one of the clerks.
I decided to bypass all of the two young men in dark jackets at the front desk and approach the clerk closest to the elevators. She was a dark haired young woman in her early twenties who didn’t seem to have the permanent scowl on her face that the other employees did. I knew she wasn’t supposed to give out room numbers, but I had to start with something. The clock above her head read 5:15. Plenty of time left. I nodded and gave her my best smile, to which she enthusiastically responded.
The Santero Page 17