“And, ours are at stake,” JZ dryly commented.
“So it’s come home after all these years,” Father Pasqual muttered as he rose and scanned the wall of books. “Wait a moment.”
The other three stared at one another. Rita, familiar with Pasqual’s habits, put a finger to her lips cautioning silence.
Finally, Pasqual erupted with “Here you are.” Returning to the table, he sat and opened a thick volume he’d removed from a bookcase that stretched to the ceiling. Searching, he located a particular page and smiled. He turned the book to face them, pointing at a photograph.
“It’s the same photo, your father’s!” said a surprised JZ.
“Your father is Tomaso Aguilera?” asked the priest. “He placed a finger on the caption designating the photographer’s name.”
Shocked, Qui could not answer. She nodded thinking small island world…that someone so far from Havana might know so much about her father, but then his photos were known the world over. Still, Qui silently vowed on returning to Havana to learn more from her father and Benilo about their past.
“Father,” asked Qui, “what book is this?”
The priest flipped back to a title page that read Historia El Sanctuario de Nuestra Senora de la Caridad del Cobre. “You bring home a bad memory, reminder of things long past.”
“This is so infuriating. You’re being about as much help as my other reluctant witnesses,” replied Qui.
“Your father and Arturo Benilo.” At the surprised look on her face, he added, “They called me earlier and warned you might turn up here.” He smiled, “Been expecting you.”
“Yes, my father and Benilo. They wouldn’t speak of whatever it is that happened at the basilica.”
“You’re asking us to stare at one of the darkest moments in the Revolution. When soldiers swept out of the hills and took over El Cobre.”
JZ urged the man to continue.
“War is wrong. Killing is wrong. That lock is like the murdered having come back to tell their story.”
“A story too long buried and never told,” Rita bitterly added.
“What do you propose we do, Father?” Qui asked. “We need answers before someone else turns up dead.”
“Let me assure you, you’ll only stir up a hornet’s nest going to the basilica with this.” He pointed at the lock.
Rita jumped in, “I’ll take you two up there.”
“No, Rita, I’ll take them.” The look exchanged between Rita and the priest spoke volumes; neither wanted the other taking risks. “Go home. You’ve done enough.”
Father Pasqual gathered up the book as Qui gathered up the lock and replaced it in its black sleeve. Rita said farewell and left them in the hands of the priest.
The most important shrine for Cubans and the most famous church in the country, the sanctuary at Cobra, rose up from Moboa Hill to greet visitors. To take their minds off the bone-jarring ride as the 1959 Volvo rattled up the steep incline, the taxi driver began telling his passengers the history of his vehicle, in which he took great pride. As he caressed the dashboard, Ramon began, “She’s the 120…the Amazon, built in 1959. First car in the world with three-point safety belts, still used today-a revolution at the time, just like here in Cuba!”
“How remarkable,” Qui replied facetiously. Hanging on to the back of Father Pasqual’s front seat, Qui eyed the holes in the worn upholstery. Alongside her, JZ winced and leaned forward to avoiding bumping his head against the roof with every bounce. The two smiled at one another as Ramon continued his soliloquy.
“My Amazon was brought here by a sugar-cane owner, who gave it to Fidel as a gift, hoping the Beard wouldn’t seize the family cane farm.”
After an especially tooth-jarring bump, Father Pasqual asked, “Ramon, you said you were going to replace her shocks. What happened?”
“Sorry Father…no parts. Have to hand-make them, takes time. Next week…maybe.” Ramon shrugged and grunted when JZ’s weight against his seat delivered a jolt, causing him to scan the rear-view mirror and apologize, “Sorry. Everyone OK back there?”
Through clenched teeth, JZ replied, “Fine except for my head…my arms…my knees…my butt.” Looking down at Qui, who’d slid into him for at least the tenth time, he asked, “How about you Qui?” Intensely aware of her warm skin, her scent reminded him of their previous night together. The rollercoaster ride kept his attention focused on protecting his head. Just as well, he thought ruefully.
“Oh, just wonderful,” Qui said. Ready to focus on anything other than the bumpy ride, she quickly added, “Ramon, how did you come by the car?”
“It’s a long story that’ll make the return trip more interesting. But now,” he continued, “to enhance your spiritual experience here in El Cobra,” he said to the young couple, obviously taking them for newlyweds on holiday, “there's an inn behind the church, Hospederia de la Caridad.”
“Yeah,” added Pasqual, “eight pesos.”
“And they welcome foreigners, so long as you abide by the strict rules, Mr. Zayas.”
“There’s not much to their rooms,” commented Pasqual.
“Bare, yes, but well-kept rooms,” Ramon countered.
Cooped up in the Volvo for the past half hour, JZ longed for a four-wheel drive vehicle with a powerful air conditioner and a working suspension system. Sighing, he caught a glimpse of their final destination: the cathedral stood in splendor, framed by deep green forest, lodged amid the foothills of the Sierra Maestra near the old copper mines. The same mines that gave the area its name- El Cobra.
Glancing over, Qui looked to where he stared and saw the same stunning sight. Ideal photographic opportunity. She imagined her father here with his camera, snapping shots of Fidel’s guerillas in their mountain camp. “Not surprised this place beckoned my father’s interest.”
“Or tourists,” replied JZ.
“Or pilgrims,” added Father Pasqual. “The faithful come in droves from across Cuba to pay homage to-and ask for protection from-the Black Madonna who is kept inside.” At this, Father Pasqual and Ramon made the sign of the cross.
Ramon murmured, “Blessings from the Virgen de la Caridad.”
Father Pasqual explained the Black Madonna’s mysterious appeal along with a bit of her history. “She is the protectress of Cuba, and her image-cloaked in a glittering gold robe-is seen daily throughout the country in every shop window.”
Ramon added, “She is our Ochun.”
“A parallel figure from Afro-Cuban worship,” added JZ. “Goddess of rivers, gentleness, love, and femininity. Dark-skinned and dressed in bright yellow garments. Sort of a mix of Madonna and sensuality.”
“So you have studied our country after all,” Qui said as the Volvo lurched around a corner.
“My roots’re here too, Qui,” retorted JZ.
Father Pasqual continued, “In 1998, the Pope himself visited our humble shores, and he blessed the shrine, calling the Virgin ‘ La Reina de los Cubanos ’.”
“Queen of Cubans,” JZ softly translated.
Ramon added, “The Holy Father donated a rosary and a jeweled crown to further adorn our Madonna.”
“According to legend, the Black Madonna, our patron saint, was rescued from the sea at the Bay of Nipe in 1611 by three young fishermen-”
“I heard it was three miners,” said the taxi driver.
“Depends on who's telling the story, I suspect,” Qui added.
“Either version,” replied an annoyed Father Pasqual, “our saint was about to capsize in a storm, and the fishermen saw that our Madonna wore a sign around her neck-”
“Really? A sign, around her neck?” JZ inquired.
“Identified her, right Father?” added Qui.
“You know, she doesn’t speak.” Pasqual shot them a look of irritation at being interrupted yet again. “The sign read: YO SOY LA VIRGEN DE LA CARIDAD.”
“I am the Virgin of Charity.” JZ again translated for himself.
As the cab came to a standstill and stalled, a thin plume of smoke rose as they peeled themselves from the
