Red Angel

“It is a secret society with many sects. Very violent and dangerous, and much feared by the people. They consider themselves part of Palo Monte, yet apart from it. Most paleros wish they were even more apart.”

“Great. We’re being followed by lunatic voodoo worshipers, who also happen to work for the secret police.” He reached out and placed a hand on Martinez’s shoulder. “You have any good news?”

Martinez offered up one of his mournful smiles. “Soon, my friend. Soon we will have good news. I promise you.”

They drove a dozen blocks before Martinez pulled to the curb in front of a large, crumbling house that would easily qualify as a small mansion.

He turned to face Adrianna. “This is your ancestral home,” he said. “It was the home of your grandfather before he left Cuba. It was also the home of his father before him.”

Adrianna turned to look at the house. It was two stories of stone, covered with stucco that had fallen away in places. There were two balconies visible from the front, with ornately carved stone balustrades and curved floor- to-ceiling windows. The small front yard was closed off by a low stone wall and iron gates, and behind it thick tropical vegetation hid much of the house from view. There was a long driveway that led back to a large detached carriage house, with long-disused servants’ quarters above. It was one of those houses that years before must have seemed impervious to any changes that might come.

On either side stood equally once elegant homes, homes that now spoke of the new Cuba of the past forty years. To the left was a brightly painted and well-tended mansion that served as the headquarters of the Cuban Olympic Committee. To the right was an even larger, but fast-crumbling house that had been converted into apartments. A large Cuban flag hung from one window of the second house, while another held freshly washed clothing set out to dry.

“It’s like seeing a world that doesn’t exist anymore,” Adrianna said. “I’m trying to imagine what all this was like when my grandfather lived here.”

“It was an elegant neighborhood,” Martinez offered. “People like your grandfather lived in great splendor, while others barely lived at all.” He shrugged, as if apologizing for that regretful truth. “Your aunt returned to the house after the revolution. She lived here with her sister, Amelia, and her sister’s husband. But apparently the two women did not get along, and later Fidel gave her another house in Miramar, where many of the leaders of the revolution still live.”

“Fidel gave her a house? Himself?”

“Oh yes. All the houses given to heroes of the revolution were selected by Fidel, or at least personally approved by him. It is the same today. He is-how do you say it? — a micromanager?” Martinez seemed pleased with his use of the word. “Anyway, your tia Amelia lives here alone now. Her husband died several years ago. But certainly you knew that.”

Adrianna shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I never even met my aunt Amelia.” Her hands tightened in her lap. “I guess it’s time I did.”

A small, agitated woman with the darting eyes of an angry bird opened the door. Amelia Mendez de Pedroso glared at Adrianna, then at the two men. Her hair was pulled back in a tight gray bun. Strands had pulled free on either side, and it gave her a wild, slightly mad look. She was frail, almost shrunken, and well into her seventies. Yet there was an intimidating quality about her that caused Adrianna to hesitate.

“Auntie … it is I. Adrianna … your niece. Your brother Rudolfo’s daughter.”

The old woman stared at her, horrified. “Rudolfo is dead. Don’t talk to me about the dead. It is bad luck.”

Adrianna turned to Martinez, momentarily confused. She switched to English. “What do I say to her? Does she even know about my aunt Maria?”

“I understand what you are saying,” the old woman snapped. “Don’t think you can fool me by speaking in English. Why are you talking about my communist sister, may God forgive her treacherous soul. And who are these men? They smell like Castro’s police.”

Martinez stepped forward. “Ah, your nose is good, senora. At least for me.”

The old woman let out a grunt. “Even an old woman can smell swine. Why are you bringing my niece here? Has she been arrested?”

“No, I assure you, senora. No one has been arrested. I have brought your niece here to speak to you about your sister’s death.” Martinez spoke to the woman in Spanish.

The old woman snorted and looked at Martinez with contempt. “I can speak English, you know. You think I am not educated, but I am. And do not try to fool me. My sister is not dead.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You communists are not clever enough to kill her.”

“Senora …”

Another wave. “I saw her only yesterday.” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I had just awakened from a dream, and she was standing there in the room. Ochun was with her. It is how I know the paleros have her.” There was a sly smile, then her eyes turned hostile again. “It is all Juanita’s fault, may her cursed heathen soul bum in hell.”

Adrianna stepped forward and took her aunt’s hand. “Tia Amelia, may we come in? I so much want to speak with you.”

The old woman’s eyes remained suspicious. Then she seemed to surrender to the inevitable. “You may come into my house. But you remember. Nothing in here is yours. My father gave me this house when he and Rudolfo left Cuba. It is all mine, even though my communist sister will tell you differently.”

They followed her into the dark interior, down a long hall absent of any light, passing several closed doors as they moved toward the rear of the house. The hallway was narrow and confining, the heat trapped inside it oppressive. Whatever paint was left on the walls was peeling badly, mostly from areas where pictures had once hung. A heavy odor of mildew and decay seemed to permeate everything, to come from deep within the structure itself, almost as if the house was mourning what it once had been.

They passed through a final door and entered a large kitchen. It had the look of a place heavily lived in. There was an ancient wooden table with six sturdy chairs, set apart from the cooking area. A pedal-operated sewing machine sat before a tall, wide window that looked into an overgrown garden, behind which stood the carriage house and servants’ quarters.

Amelia waved at the chairs, waited for them to be seated, then stared at the one empty seat beside her niece before reluctantly sitting herself.

Adrianna reached out and took her hand again. “Tia Amelia, tell me about this Juanita you spoke about. Was she the nana you and Tia Maria and my father had as children?”

Amelia pulled her hand away, then pushed herself up and went to a small bookcase next to the door they had entered. She returned with a photo album and began turning the pages.

She let out a long, somewhat nervous breath when she reached the photo she wanted, and jabbed a finger at it. “Here,” she said, pointing to three small children gathered around a large black woman, a bandanna around her head, a cigar protruding from her mouth. “Juanita Asparu,” Amelia said. “A daughter of Obatala.”

Adrianna looked at Martinez. The major gave her a helpless shrug.

“Obatala is one of the orishas, the African gods,” he explained. “There are two hundred and thirty-six gods and goddesses, about thirty who are very important. Obatala is among the most powerful. All children belong to her. As a daughter of Obatala, this Juanita would be able to give a child to another god.”

“Yes, yes.” Amelia’s voice had grown insistent. “When she was just a child, Maria was given to Ochun by Juanita.” She gave her niece a cunning smile. “This is why the communists could never kill my sister.”

Devlin leaned forward, bringing the old woman’s eyes to his. “This Ochun, this is the person who was with your sister?”

Amelia gave Devlin a look of contempt. “Ochun is not a person,” she snapped. “It is like this policeman says. She is one of the orishas.” Her eyes flicked to Martinez, as if asking why he had brought such a fool into her home.

Devlin refused to give up. “What did this Ochun look like?” he asked.