Time Dancers

“It was a bad hop, Z,” he said with a tiny smile, then turned to Owen Bramley. “Jorge Fuentes is waiting for you in Cojimar. I’ll take you there.”

We squeezed into a maroon and black DeSoto sedan Owen had purchased for Ciela to use. The heat and humidity were stifling. We kept the windows open and drove east. Cojimar was only six miles down the coast. We stopped alongside a promenade that nearly ran the length of the small fishing village. It was late in the day, but there were still a few hours of light remaining. White clouds swelled and spilled over the horizon to the west. Carolina and Opari took their shoes off and walked barefoot.

Biscuit led us to a lazy, open-air restaurant called La Terraza. We found a table where two Cuban men were engaged in quiet conversation. They were each about thirty years old and both men rose to their feet as we approached. Jorge Fuentes greeted Owen in English and shook his hand warmly, then introduced his cousin, Gregorio Fuentes. After exchanging pleasantries, Gregorio excused himself and left. There were only four or five other fishermen sitting on the open terrace. Owen put his arm around Jorge and said to the rest of us, “Jorge is the best damn fishing guide on the island.”

“No, please, senor,” Jorge replied. “This is a grand exaggeration.”

“Well, say what you like,” Owen said, giving Carolina a wink. “It’s the truth, is it not, Carolina?”

“It is the gospel truth,” Carolina answered. “And diving guide, I might add.”

“Indeed,” Owen said.

“You are too kind, senor.”

While Owen and Jorge made arrangements to rendezvous in La Coloma in one week, Opari and I walked to the other side of the terrace and let the light ocean breeze blow across our faces. The water and sky were both deep blue, with high cirrus clouds in feathered rows stretching west until they merged with the clouds on the horizon. Half a dozen fishing boats and a small yacht were moored nearby. Nothing seemed to move, and if it did, it moved slowly. The only sounds except the sea were the voices of Owen, Carolina, and Jorge. Opari took my hand in hers and whispered, “This destination is jator, my love, the very best choice.”

Biscuit still had several road games to play before the All-Star game itself and was unable to go on to Finca Maria. We decided to spend the night in Havana with Biscuit, then Owen drove the hundred or so miles to Vinales. The roads were rough but the scenery was beautiful and changing constantly. After turning north in Pinar del Rio, we entered the Sierra de los Organos and the Vinales Valley where huge masses or buttes of limestone called mogotes rise out of the green tobacco fields like silent guardians. Opari said they reminded her of the odd limestone hills of Quilin in southern China.

Winding up into the sierra, we reached the small tobacco town of Vinales. A few miles higher up, the buildings and fields of Finca Maria spread out from the narrow road. All the buildings were painted in pastels—pinks, yellows, pale blues, and greens. All had red tile roofs and open beam ceilings. The surrounding fields and gardens were lush and well manicured, and even though Owen had hired workmen to renovate everything when Carolina and Ciela bought the property, the whole place still had the feel of the Spanish Colonial era.

Six girls approximately between the ages of thirteen and eighteen came running out to meet us. They each wore simple cotton dresses and some were barefoot. They all were smiling. None of them looked like they’d ever heard of Havana, let alone lived there as virtual slaves in the bars and brothels of the poorest neighborhoods. It was clear that whatever Ciela was doing was working. They had been given their lives back.

Opari and I were given our own room in a large rambling ranch house that had served as a resort near the turn of the century. One by one, Ciela’s girls fell in love with Opari, each wanting to adopt her as a little sister. Opari spoke fluent Spanish with them and they all were impressed by her facility with languages. Ciela’s first condition on living at Finca Maria was that every girl must learn to read, write, and speak English. She also taught them basic skills in cooking, cleaning, manners, hygiene, and personal grooming. Her intention was to assure each girl a chance at living and working anywhere she wished, including America. Owen had already assisted in the emigration of two girls to Miami, where they both found good-paying jobs in the front office of a Miami hotel.

In the short week that followed, we took three long bicycle rides and hikes through the Vinales Valley and among the mogotes. Our guide was “the best damn guide in the valley” according to Owen Bramley. His nickname was “Indio” and he led us to several limestone caves and underground rivers inside the mogotes themselves. The entire Vinales Valley was spectacular and time went quickly. On a clear Sunday morning, Owen, Carolina, Opari, and I said good-bye to Ciela and the girls, then left to meet Jorge in La Coloma. It was Indio who drove us south in the big DeSoto. He had a younger brother living in La Coloma, and when he mentioned that his brother had been born mute, Carolina thought of Georgia and insisted Indio accompany us.

On the trip, Owen and Indio discussed the current political and social situation in Cuba. “This dictator Machado,” Indio said, looking out at the poverty in each passing village, “he must exit, he must be removed. The end is near. There will come revolution, senor.” Owen nodded and agreed with Indio, but quietly and without passion, which was unlike Owen, and he was sweating profusely. Opari noticed the same thing. Carolina never mentioned it and kept her conversation limited to where we were going and what we might see while we were snorkeling. Then she heard Indio say Machado had closed all the schools indefinitely and her attention shifted. She could not believe he would deny the children of Cuba an education. To Carolina, it was an intolerable and criminal act of involuntary starvation. Owen said he would “have a chat with a fellow in Washington” and see what could be done about it.

But I never got to find out who the fellow was and we never went snorkeling. Just as we arrived in the small coastal town of La Coloma, Owen turned white and his breathing became rapid and shallow. Indio asked if he was all right and Owen couldn’t answer. Indio sped to the home of his brother, Luis, and we rushed Owen up the steps and through the door. Inside, there was a couch piled high with rubber fins, rubber goggles with glass lenses, nautical maps, nets, and two spear guns. Indio and Luis cleared the couch with one motion and we laid Owen Bramley down.

Carolina removed Owen’s wire-rimmed glasses and wiped his face and neck with her handkerchief. Indio found a wet towel and Opari laid it across his forehead. His eyes were closed and he was barely conscious. Luis set a small electric fan on an end table and positioned it to blow on Owen’s face. Then he asked Indio a question by signing with his right hand. Indio answered, “Si, si, rapido!” Luis turned and ran. I assumed he left to find a doctor.

A few minutes passed. Owen’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then opened suddenly. “My God,” he whispered and focused on me with great difficulty. “I am going out like Solomon, Z.”

“You are not going anywhere just yet, Owen Bramley. Do you hear me?” It was Carolina. She took one of his freckled hands in hers and kissed it. “You’ll be fine. We’ll rest here and then I’ll take you back to Finca Maria when you can travel. You only need a little rest, Owen. Just a little rest.”

I glanced at Opari. She was staring at me, shaking her head back and forth. That was when I knew Owen was right, he was dying like Solomon. Opari had seen it a thousand times in a hundred different countries. She would not be wrong.

Luis had to travel to Las Canas to find the doctor. By the time they returned the sun had set and Owen Bramley had died in Carolina’s arms. He slipped into unconsciousness shortly after speaking to me and woke once, just as he was about to take his last breath. He opened his eyes and mumbled, “Kites…kites.”

Carolina cried silently but openly. All of us did. Luis’s front door was standing ajar and Carolina sat motionless, staring out across the asphalt road toward the sea a half mile away. She said nothing. She let her tears swell and roll down her cheeks without wiping them away. I thought back to that unknown crossroads somewhere in the depths of China. A train was under repair and on the other side of the train in a wide field full of laughing children, I saw kites rising into the air, one by one. Owen Bramley was making them. Maybe that’s where he was now.

Carolina closed his eyes and kissed his eyelids. “Good-bye, Owen, good-bye,” she whispered.

Beside me, in a low, mournful drone, Opari chanted, “Lo egin bake, lo egin bake.”

Solomon used to say Owen was “one of those damn Scottish men; he will pay you no mind and get the job done and done right.” That was true and much more. In all the years I knew him, Owen had never once asked who or what the Meq were, yet he devoted most of his life to helping us. He was “remarkable,” as Owen himself might say. I reached for his wire-rimmed glasses on the end table and carefully fit them over his ears and nose. He looked