Fifty Grand

Here, five centuries ago, the Aztec nobleman Cuauhtaoctzin saw the Holy Virgin. The bishop demands proof. An image of la virgen morena appears on the nobleman’s coat. A church is built and then a bigger one and finally an entire complex. In 2002 Pope John Paul makes Cuauhtaoctzin a saint. The context for a doubter, for a daughter of the Revolution, for a Cuban: when Cuauhtaoctzin sees the Virgin, Aztec civilization has just been destroyed by Cortes-the Aztecs and their gods are on the run and Cerro Tepeyac is the most important shrine to the brown-skinned female harvest goddess Tonantzin. So you could say worship of the goddess continues in another form.

Dad never believed in any of that stuff, nor Ricky, and Mom believes too much. Her ghosts and goblins are another inoculation against a moment of revelation.

The plaza of the basilica.

An old church, earthquake-damaged, being held up by scaffolding. Side churches and temples. The new church, which looks for all the world like an unfinished terminal at Jose Marti Airport. But this is where the pilgrims are going-this is where Maria haunts the building. I’m now wearing a black beret to cover the bandage above my ear. I take it off when I go inside.

Midnight mass, but only a few empty seats in the swooping basilica.

I am unaccustomed to religious services and the thing is still in Latin despite Vatican II. Men and women beside me, kneeling, standing up, reciting the rosary. I copy them. Stand when they stand. Kneel when they kneel.

Where is the Maria?

What is it that they have come to see?

A girl comes by with a collection plate. I throw in a few pesos and am given a picture of the dark-skinned Virgin. I realize that it is the double of a big picture behind the altar. The focus of the church. The mother of Jesus, the goddess protector of all Mexicans, of all women.

For many Cubans, of course, the dark Virgin is Ochun, the sensuous Santeria goddess of love and protection.

When the ceremony is over, I light a candle and place it as close to the image as I am permitted.

I bow my face.

“Accept this candle on behalf of another,” I whisper.

The Virgin sees. Understands.

A moving walkway means that no one is allowed to remain directly under the image. It seems like a joke, but it isn’t. The devout are in tears. Mothers are showing the Virgin barren wombs, deformed babies, terminal cancers.

Crying, candle smoke, prayers.

Too much.

I back away and run outside.

Take a breath.

My head hurts. It’s a reminder. A centimeter to the left and that.270 round would have smashed my skull. A centimeter to the right and it would have been a clean miss and Briggs would have gone for a chest shot before I’d even heard the crack of the first.

A policeman asks me if I am ok.

“Fine. Too many people,” I tell him.

“You should have seen it last week, the holy day of Guadalupe is December twelfth.” He waves at the plaza. “There were two million out here.”

The subway.

Basilica to Martin Carrera to Consulado to the airport.

My plane is at four.

The airport. The special Cuban line. The ticket.

A delay. Newsstand. A headline in the December 18 Miami Herald: “Wire Service Report: Fidel Hints at Retirement.”

The plane. Cubana flight 131. Take off over the glittering city. Circle to gain altitude, and already the lights are lost beneath the nighttime haze; only the beacons on Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl peeking through the dark.

East across the forests of Yucatan.

I take out the image of the Virgin Maria. For a while we shared a name, you and I.

I rest my eyes, even sleep a little.

I feel the plane descend and a stewardess asks me to return my seat to the upright position.

I open the window shade.

When Columbus saw Cuba for the first time the landmass was so large that he knew he had made it to one of the islands of Japan. He landed near Gibara and brought the astonished Taino Indians gifts and respectful greetings for the Japanese emperor. When the shogun refused to show up, Columbus gave the Indians instead the cross and slavery and smallpox and death. Cortes took the cross from Cuba to Mexico. The old gods fell and the father god took their place. Wise Cuba threw off the shackles of all the religions, found truth in Hegel, Marx, Engels, and Fidel Castro. The very first thing we learned in school was that religion was the opium of the masses.

And yet.

I am copied in your eye, lady of Guadalupe, lady of the moon.

Accept this candle for another, blessed mother, generous to virgins…

Havana.

The bay surrounded by mist.

A pink sea.

The plane descends.

I put Maria in my pocket.

Dark when we took off and not quite morning when we land at Jose Marti.

Yawns, a smattering of applause.

The Jetway is broken and takes a long time to dock to the plane. I thank the pilot and the stewardess and walk down the ramp back into la patria.

As soon as I enter the terminal building and before I even make it to the metal detectors I spot Sergeant Menendez, the DGI spy in Hector’s office.

He nods to two men in blue suits.

“Chivato cabron,” I say under my breath.

They arrest me.

“What’s the charge?” I ask them as they lead me outside into the dark, warm, drizzly Havana rain.

“Treason.”

Treason. Yes. The great catchall. And one of the many, many offenses in Cuba that carries the death penalty.

“Come on. Get in.”

I get in the car, a Russian police Lada.

The engine turns over.

The lights come on.

The engine dies.

“Everyone out,” the driver says.

The rain again.

A gun in my face.

“Help us push.”

“No.”

“Do it or I’ll shoot you.”

“You won’t shoot.”

The smell of earth. Fruit rotting in the fields. The sea.

“Forget it then.”

The men push, the car moves, the clutch slips, the engine catches, the men jump in, and, having no