Fifty Grand

“She’s lost weight,” I tell Ricky.

“She trades her supply-book tokens for candles and spells from the priestesses.”

The room’s full of stuff like that. Lucumi gods and goddesses straight from West Africa. I recognize some, but most are utterly unfamiliar. And not just Lucumi-an eclectic mix from many pantheons: a brass Ganesh and his mother, Saraswati; a porcelain Virgin Mary; prayer flags from Tibet; a huge carved wooden Apollo.

Mom starts mumbling to herself over the tarot.

“She’s gotten worse.”

Ricky shakes his head. “No worse. She’s doing ok.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“You don’t see her as much as I do,” Ricky says with a smile to show that he’s not criticizing.

“Those bitches really got their hooks into her with this shit. I’ll tell them to leave her fucking ration book alone,” I say angrily.

“I bring her food, she’s ok,” Ricky says.

“Quite the little saint,” I say with a grin but also an edge.

Silence. Seconds turning into minutes. Claustrophobia. Get up. Walk around. I note again that Dad’s ashes are gone from the mantel. I don’t even want to think what she did with them.

More time. More suffocating seconds. God, I hate this place.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stay here,” I say.

Ricky nods. “At least tell Mom you’re leaving the country.”

She’s dozing now. I kneel in front of her and take her hands and kiss them. She looks up, a little sparkle in those yellow eyes.

“My darling,” she says.

“Mom, I’m going now. I’m going away for a while.”

She nods and then, as if the veil has lifted for a moment, she says: “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Ricky walks me to the landing. “Don’t forget your letter,” he says, and hands me the forms from the Interior Ministry. Of course it requires a fee, but once paid, I’ll have that rarest of rare things-permission to leave Cuba. An exit visa. A key to the prison door.

I hold it to the light and then I kiss it.

“How did I get this? You pulled some strings, didn’t you?”

He shakes his head. “Even if I was fucking the minister’s private secretary I wouldn’t ask him for something like this. We’d all be headed for the plantations.”

“Then how?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s a mystery.”

“Yeah, it is.”

The Last Act.

The wee hours.

After all the tails have gone to bed.

Bang at my apartment door.

Who the fuck?

Open it.

“So you went above my head?” Hector says bitterly.

Rum breath. Bleary eyes.

“I swear I didn’t.”

“Ricky then?”

“I didn’t ask him to.”

“Own initiative, eh?”

“He says he didn’t do anything.”

He pushes past me, sits on my bed. “Can’t stay, told Anna I was getting some air. Have a drink,” he says and passes me the flask.

“No, thank you.”

“Fuck Ricky and fuck you, Mercado. If you don’t come back from the United States I’m finished. My family. Your family. All of us.”

“I’ll come back.”

He shakes his head like a wet dog. “I could still tell them, you know. I could still tell the DGI or the ministry that you’re going to La Yuma. I could tell them you’ve talked to me about defecting,” Hector snarls.

“You wouldn’t do that, Hector.”

“No?” he says.

“No,” I insist.

He balls his right fist angrily and thumps it on the bed. For a second I see him tossing the joint. Neighbors in the hall, phone calls, Hector pulling rank. But the fight’s been ground out of him. He sighs. “No, I won’t turn chivato, not now,” he says.

He takes another drink, gets heavily to his feet.

“Can’t stay,” he says.

In the doorway he grabs my wrist, tugs me close. “Forget about it, Mercado.”

I break free using first-week police aikido.

“Damn it,” he says and stares at me, mentally wounded.

“Listen to me, Hector, I’m not dumb, I’m going to go to you-know-where, but I promise I will be back,” I tell him. “Now, you should go home, Anna will be worried.”

He looks at the floor and doesn’t move.

“You’re a poet, Mercado,” he says.

“I don’t know how that rumor got started.”

“Ever read Pindar?”

“No.”

“Homer’s contemporary, except he really existed. He says, ‘The gods give us for every good thing two evil ones. Men who are children take this badly but the manly ones bear it, turning the brightness outward.’ ”

“I don’t see-”

“You can’t fix everything. You have to let things go. Don’t go to America. I’m begging you, Mercado, please don’t go.”

I don’t reply.

I don’t need to.

He nods, turns, and walks along the corridor. I hear him shuffle down the stairs, and from my window I check him for tails until O’Reilly becomes Misiones and he’s finally swallowed up by the boozy Havana night.

7 DESPIERTA AMERICA

Too late, Hector. Too late now, my friend, to heed your words. I’m here and I’ve killed human beings and that chance to turn your brightness outward is in the distant past.

I suppose I must have been awake, but it was only on the third or fourth iteration that I became vaguely aware of the voice.

“Maria… Maria…vamonos.”

What?

“Maria, vamonos.”

Maria? Who is Maria?

“Maria, vamonos.”

Oh, yeah, I’m Maria.