Disclaimers:
Not written for profit. The lead characters often look and sound like THEM.
This is an ALT story, and several languages are used profanely. Unpleasant
m/f sexual contact this chapter only.
Thanks
to Prof of Xena Warrior Lesbian, and to Jessica Michallet for coming on
board as beta-readers and editorial advisors for this story. Thanks to
the Masked Punctuation Goddess. A special thanks to Old Warrior for test
driving this story.
Note
to readers: In scenes set in the United States, I use the convention of
italicizing dialogue when - in bilingual contexts - characters choose to
communicate in Spanish. In scenes set in Cuba, I invert that practice:
when characters opt for the use of English in dialogue, it is italicized.
Noche
de ronda
que
triste pasas
que
triste cruzas
por
mi balcón.
Noche
de ronda
cómo
me hieres
cómo
lastimas
mi
corazón.
Luna
que se quiebra
Sobre
la tiniebla
de
mi soledad.
A
dónde vas?
Dime
si esta noche
Tú
te vas de ronda
como
ella se fue
Con
quién estás?
Dile
que la quiero
Dile
que me muero
de
tanto esperar
que
vuelva ya
que
las rondas no son buenas
que
hacen daño, que dan penas
y
que acaban por llorar.
Agustín Lara, "Noche de Ronda", (Used without permission.)
Chapter 7 - Dream of Serpents
The
next day, a Sunday
Not
again. Please someone wake me up. So friggin' ashamed. Yeah that's me,
all right. Jesus I looked dorky in that plaid school uniform. C'mon Murphy,
pull out of itÉnope, here we go. I'm scootin' up those stairs as fast as
my little legs will take me. I have the Archies lunchbox that I have
been wanting for months - the one that Louise Sproull got from sending
in I don't know how many Cheerios box tops. It's taken me a while but it's
mine today and I'm gonna show it to Willie and Ruthie. But more than that
- more than wanting to show them my prize - I'm runnin' hard because today's
the day that Da comes home. He's been in the hospital for three months.
Actually, he's been in two hospitals. He was in one for a month right after
the machine fell on him and then he was in another one for two months to
teach him to move again. When I get upstairs I carefully hide the lunchbox
in the front hallway under some old board games that no one plays with
anymore, because I haven't thought of a good story to tell Ma yet about
how I got it. When I run into the living room there are two strangers there
- two women with briefcases who are wearing glasses and gray skirts- and
my Da is lying on a bed that they've put right there, right in the living
room. My Ma is there too, and so are Connie and Bridget and Ceci. I don't
see Willie and Ruthie. I come right up to Da and hug him, and he gives
me a big fuzzy chin kiss right on the nose, and he tells me I am his Baby
Bee, which embarrasses me because I'm already seven years old and there
are these ladies I don't know here who are listening to us. Then they aren't
listening - they are asking Ma questions about how much money we have and
what she made us for breakfast this morning and what we ate for dinner
last night. I am still looking at Da. I'm walking around to where he got
hurt the worst. His right leg looks like one of those old sticks that come
up on L Street beach, which is where I go to float on my back and pretend
to be a little boat. It's all twisted and thin and there are parts that
look like a monster took a bite out of it. I am at the end of him, where
nobody can see me and I decide to play a joke and tickle him. He always
screams when I tickle him and then he runs and catches me and tickles me
back for a really long time. I don't understand, because I'm tickling him
very hard and he isn't laughing at all. And then I don't know why but I
try a little bit of my fingernail - I scrape it along the bottom of his
foot. Nothing. He is looking at the ceiling and coughing a bit - I think
he's forgotten that I'm here because he is praying to Jesus to keep his
lungs clear and says he's sorry that he smoked for so long, and I know
that we aren't supposed to know that he smokes. Ma always makes him go
outside under the stairwell of our building but we know what it smells
like because we all smoke. I wonder if Ma has something wrong with her
nose that she never catches us or says anything. I don't know why, maybe
it is the devil inside of me - Ma says that I belong to him sometimes -
but I pull out this pin from my uniform pocket, which I used to prick Howie
Curtis in music class today, it really made him scream and Sister said
he was getting better on the high notes. Please somebody wake me up.
So friggin' ashamed. At least watch from a grown-up place. Fuck. I
make a little hole between Da's toes and a few drops of blood come out
but he isn't moving or saying anything. I thought that he would whack me
for sure. Ooof. Now I'm getting slapped but I don't think it's from the
pin, because nobody saw. It's Bridget and she's telling me that everything
is my fault. She stops hitting me because Ma and the two ladies are coming
back into the room. The uglier of the ladies asks "Is that Barbara?" And
Ma says yes. And the lady says "She doesn't look malnourished but the reports
have been very clear: parents have been letting us know that this child
has increasingly reported not getting meals. And thank you for showing
us her closet - it appears that the report that she didn't have any clothes
other than her school uniform isn't true. The school nurse said she found
no evidence of the reported beatings when she examined her today." I thought
Mrs. Flinn was checking me to see if I'd gotten the chicken pox from playing
over at Sally McHarty's house. I almost kicked her when she said she needed
to look at my bottom. I can't believe they all told their parents. I just
really wanted the lunchbox and I figured if they felt really sorry for
me I could ask Louise for it. Scam 'em and wham 'em like Willie and Ruthie
say. And they should know, they get lots of stuff from stuff they tell
people. They even get cigarettes for us by telling Brother Andrew that
they are gonna tell about him showing us his wiener unless he gives us
a pack every week. Ceci and Bridget and Connie don't get a lot of stuff.
They pray the Rosary to get things and they say that I should too. Well
I tried it, and look at Da's leg. It didn't work. That's Connie dragging
me down the stairs after the ladies leave. She's yelling at me that the
saints need to help her and Ma so that they don't kill me for being such
a liar and getting the family in trouble. I'm a little worried at first,
because I think that she's gonna take me into an alley and really wallop
me, and then I remember "No this isn't Ruthie, it's Connie - she won't
hit." She pulls me into the church, which is empty except for these two
ladies praying real loud in Italian to one of the saints. I wish we had
a secret language that God would listen to too. Connie says she's gonna
light a candle for me and she wants me to light one too, and she gives
me a nickel to put into the box next to where they leave you the matches.
I'm gonna keep the nickel but I do want to light a candle. There are lots
of altars but I really like girls the best, so I skip all the boy saints
and Jesus. I'm gonna do a Mary today, although Joan of Arc is my fave.
Sister Dierdre who used to be an actress before she got called did the
whole story for us, including the horse screaming as the flames came up
around him. The Marys are all plaster with painted on clothes and faces.
But whoa! There is a new one today, one like the boy saints that the Spanish
people brought when they joined the parish. It has real clothes, with real
beads and ribbons running all around it. She is covered in blue and white
shiny gems and her hair is like a wig - very black. Our Lady of Regla.
Like Regular. Funny name, so I laugh. Well I know Ruggles is a stop on
the Orange line of the T. I wish I was a better girl so I could leave the
nickel too, but I'm not. It must be the devil in me. So I just light the
candle. She is riding on these plaster waves and there are little angels
floating over the water. Shit Chela, you've always known me, haven't
you? Oh fuck, this is new. This is new. Hang in there little girl.
I am shaking because the devil is really here - just like in the movie
I wasn't supposed to be watching last night because it was too grown up.
He laughs really loud like a bad Santa Claus and my candle blows out. He
has a silver dollar and he puts it in the box and picks up the matches.
He is going to burn the Mary and I start screaming for help but Connie
doesn't hear me. I try to put my nickel in the box but it won't go in.
I don't know why I think it will help. I want him to burn me instead but
he is flying around her really fast in circles and everywhere that he touches
her little flames come out, and the Mary has woken up. She is screaming
louder than Sister Dierdre when she showed us how the horse died. I start
patting the parts that are burning and it hurts my hands bad, really bad,
but I don't want to stop. I don't know who is screaming louder anymore,
me or the burning MaryÉ
"Ma'amÉ.ma'am, wake up. You're disturbing the other passengers. Also I
need for you to put your seat back up. We've started our descent into Boston."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Los
Cocos
Chela sat expectantly at the picnic table, with the honey rolls spread
on a wax paper sheet before her. It was a warm day and the visitation yard
was full. She looked around her, taking in the numerous clusters of family
groups - islands of love that broke through the austerity of the institution
and made her feel acutely estranged from her kin. The prospect of making
the trip to Los Cocos on a regular basis to maintain contact with the exception
to this pattern - with Tomás - depressed her. She nodded politely
to a nurse who approached her to leave two containers of milk and a bowl
of sausages on the table. At least what they said appears to be true.
They are even serving good food to the visitors. The people who are skinny
here are sick, not starved. She had been waiting for a half hour before
the back door of the massive sanatorium building swung open and her brother
walked out, accompanied by a male nurse. Look at him, Chela thought
to herself. Nothing affects him - he is peaceful and smiling, as always.
"Chelita," said the youth warmly as he straddled a bench. "You have barely
given me time to settle in! This is Armando, and he is going to be taking
care of me here. I told him that if you were my visitor, there would be
honey rolls."
Chela watched in mild irritation as the older man tentatively prodded one
of the pastries with his fingers.
"You know, compañero, this is my brother. You don't have to sit
here to make sure we don't have relations!"
"Chela!" chided Tomás gently. "I invited him to come. He has been
telling me about how the food for visitation is better than what they give
the staff so I wanted him to share the meal with us."
"And, compañera," rumbled Armando through a mouthful of sausage
and pastry, "the compañerito has really helped me understand some
problems I'm having with my family. His knowledge of what is happening
is incredible. Word is spreading through the entire facility that a very
powerful young babalawo has been interned here. I understand if
you wish to speak to him privately - let me just have a little milk." He
drank clumsily from a funnel-shaped paper cup, letting a few drops of the
liquid trickle down the sides of his acne-scarred chin before swiping them
up with the sides of his finger and licking it. "I'm so sorry. I'm behaving
like an animal," he confessed bashfully. "I don't remember the last time
I had any real milk. We get some watered-down stuff for our children, but
this is the real thing. All right, I will be headed back in then. Have
a good visit. And compañero Stevens? Anything your godparents want
to bring you for your altar will be fine with me. I'll make sure it goes
through untouched." He bowed his head politely to both Chela and her brother
before retreating into the main edifice.
"You see, Chela?" smiled Tomás as he twirled a sausage with his
fingers. "This is perfect for me. Juan and the other members of my house
are going to visit and keep teaching me here, and this is a place where
the power of the Orishas is very badly needed. The people in this place
are desperate for peace and for company. I can provide that for them."
He paused and looked carefully at the puffiness under Chela's eyes. "She
has gone awayÉ"
"For two weeks," she whispered in response. "And I cannot imagine how it
will be if she leaves me for good. Even this brief separation is breaking
me. I am surprisedÉ I have always been able to pull myself together and
do what needs to be done. When Papá left, when I had to leave school,
the businessÉ"
"I know that this is different, Chela. All those other things you mention
- even our father - they were never part of you the way she has become.
I hope that it ends well," said her brother sadly. "I wish I knew what
your fate means and how to influence it, but Juan has always said that
your path was shrouded in uncertainty and pain. I can only love you - and
pray."
"Well, I am going to influence my fate." Chela forced the words out through
her frown. "Starting with the fact that I have to get back to reality.
She has come and she may go, and in the end I have to be prepared to be
alone once again. I have to remember how to surviveÉ Tomás, you
have not told meÉ how did you get sick? Were you working as a jinetero?"
"Why would I do that, Chela? There was no need. You always provided well
for us, and I am not interested in parties. But yes, there is a part of
me that feels very much like a woman and I met a handsome older boy on
the beach about a year ago. We were together for a few months - just being
sweethearts and playing together sometimes - before it became clear that
I was being drawn in another direction. The orishas can be jealous, Chela.
I think this is their way of keeping me focused, giving me this virus.
In any way, I will be all right here. I have work to do."
"Work." Chela spat the word out bitterly. " I have to think about getting
back to work. To Vedado. To the Malecón." Tomás shook his
head.
"Your work is figuring out how to stay with her, Chela. But you always
were stubborn. Listen to me." He waited for her to meet his eyes. "You
are different now. Everything that used to be easy will be hard, and things
that once seemed impossible will come without effort. Since you don't believe
me, you will have to learn this on your own."
Chela was stunned. Tomás not only seemed markedly unsympathetic
to her statements of resignation, but he had lectured her and was now standing
up to leave.
"I'm sorry, Chela, but I really have to get my altar ready, and I don't
think you are open to hearing what I have to say right now. I will be watching
and waiting, cariño. And you make sure you take care of yourself
until she gets back - you have a responsibility towards her."
"I can return tomorrow," she said urgently to his back.
"One week, Chela." He turned and waved. "I will see you in one week and
not before. And if you see Mamá and our brothers, give them my regards."
A lone pastry remained on the table. A toddler from another family group
- a tiny girl wearing a bright pink dress - teetered over to Chela, pointing
with interest at the leftover delicacy. Chela sighed and carefully placed
the food in the child's cupped hands, then watched her walk back towards
her mother, her chubby legs holding her in precarious balance as she swayed
side to side in her gait.
She walks like I feel. The earth and its gravity betray me and all I
feel under my feet is the tilt, the tremors - I am riding an earthquake
every day. Barbara, forgive me, but I need to know where the edge lies
before I over-step and go careening down. I have to see what is left untouched
now that your wildfire has swept through.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Boston,
Logan Airport
The coffee pot in the "ready room" had been left on all day, and the distinctive
odor of burnt beans wafted through the air. Two men sat at a card table
playing slap jack to the soundtrack of Prince's 'Purple Rain'. The door
cracked and a fair-haired youth excitedly called out to them.
"Head's up! The American Airlines flight from Santo Domingo just got in.
I'm on Richards." The door closed.
Slap! The heavier of the card-players - a spectacled, bald man clearly
the far side of forty - grunted in satisfaction at his move in the wake
of his partner's distraction.
"And it's my call! You lose, Agent Cousins. Let's see. Not only was your
'bastard' a bit off yesterday, but I'm gonna puke if I have to do 'Mother
Teresa' another day in a row."
"Crap," muttered the younger loser. "This one comes with a bullshit detector
if the advance press is on target."
"You're worrying too much," laughed the other man, as he scooted his chair
back and stood. "You gotta understand, Bob. We are gonna go meet an insect.
Then we are gonna study it. Then we are gonna pull its wings and little
legs and antennae off one at a time. And then, Bob, then we are gonna go
pin its pathetic little body in our specimen case along with all the other
little insects that have passed through our lovely laboratory. This isn't
acting, Bob. It's science."
"You're right," conceded Bob, breathing deeply and placing his hand on
the his co-worker's shoulder. "And in the long run, what she does or doesn't
do is of little consequence. OK. Grab your coffee. Ernie?" He grinned and
reached for a cup of coffee, as the music prompted him into the pre-session
ritual.
"Yes, Bob?"
"Is the water warm?"
Ernie guffawed, spilling some of his coffee as his body shook with laughter.
"Yes, Bob."
"Shall we begin?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Crap. This is why I should have a cell phone. I need a friggin' lawyer
and I should let Eladio know I'm going to be late. I wonder what they're
doing to Cynthia. I didn't know someone could go that pale and still be
among the living. Yep, just get in the driver's seat. The people holding
you are just run-of-the-mill bacteria and you are a two-week course of
augmentin. You are Barbara, Warrior Antibiotic. You will prevail in this
crappy little petri dish.
She shivered and realized that the room was probably intentionally kept
at an uncomfortable temperature. She was sitting at an empty table, across
from two chairs, and had been separated from her possessions, including
the paperback history of Cuba she had been trying to read on the plane.
Fuck, good thing Chela has the toys. ChelaÉShit. I miss you, my baby.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of two men, who hurriedly
placed a stack of manila folders and a tape recorder on the table without
speaking. One of them appeared tentative in his movements, letting his
larger partner select a chair first.
"Barbara Murphy?"
"You already know that," she replied bluntly to the more aggressive man.
I am in such a proctology mood, pal. Back off.
The man ignored her comment and flicked the recorder on.
"You know, ma'am, I could get you some coffee," offered the younger man,
his voice expressing a hint of gentleness. "It's probably not better than
what they had on the plane, but it might make this go faster for you."
"I want a lawyer. I don't know what this is about, but I know that I'm
entitled to a lawyer." The recorder was turned off. The large man sighed.
"You're right." He leaned back in his chair. "This is Agent Robert Cousins
and I am Agent Ernest Townsend, and we belong to a special investigations
section of the U.S. Treasury Department."
Treasury Department? God, don't let me laugh. Jeez, seven years worth
of receipts. Is it April 15 yet? I didn't think so...
"And you are being detained under suspicion of - among other things - having
violated provisions of U.S. law barring trade with the enemy. You are entitled
to a lawyer, but I had really hoped to get this business with you over
with quickly. I guess we'll proceed to number two on our to-do list, Agent
Cousins, while we wait for the citizen to get a lawyer. Let's go formally
impound her luggage for detailed inspection on the unit. I mean it's going
to take at least a month to go through some of those things."
Fuck. Holy crap. Our research notes. All the data. We are screwed. The
project would never recover.
"Are you sure that's necessary, Ernie?" asked Bob. "I mean, I know that
these women have return tickets for two weeks from now. That could really
throw their plans off."
"You know what, junior?" began Barbara icily, glaring into the man's friendly
face. "I have no fucking respect for the little butts that get the suck-up
assignment in these situations. Fine. No lawyer and my stuff doesn't go
where the bad luggage goes. I can connect the dots."
Ernie laughed. "I'm so glad to be dealing with someone who's bright."
"I'm really sorry that you are perceiving this as a more hostile situation
than it needs to be," protested Bob. "I can understand being nervous."
He reached for the recorder, but Barbara was faster, placing her hand over
it.
"The friggin' game with the recorder stops now. It's either on or it's
off."
Ernie continued to respond jovially to her interventions, grinning broadly
as he reached for a pen.
"I'm not a technology man myself, Doctor. I'd much rather take my own notes.
Leave it off, Bob. So, Doctor Murphy, we have it on very good information
that beyond your 'research activities' you have spent a fair amount of
your personal financial resources in Cuba over the past few months. Our
tracking of bank transfers from your accounts suggests that this is the
case. Now you did know that you are barred from spending any money in Cuba
under current law." There was a long pause as Barbara considered her response.
"You're not Treasury," she said evenly. "You could never have gotten access
to my account information prior to an actual case being built against me
- and Treasury doesn't have agents in Cuba watching how people spend money
and the timing is all wrong. You move too fast."
"I am really impressed." Ernie tapped his pen and looked knowingly over
at Bob. "Well, I am sorry we are not taping this because I think she's
gonna be fun. On the other hand, our bosses wouldn't be pleased to hear
how quickly you won at masquerades, Dr. Murphy."
"We are with the National Security Agency, Barbara." Bob persisted in conveying
a quiet civility to the trapped woman. "And there are a number of reasons
that we find your trip to Cuba problematic. Starting with a pattern of
very questionable acquaintances. We could start with Irene O'Hara, who
has been tried twice for sedition and is a lifelong member ofÉ"
"Wait, let me do it," interrupted Barbara with a growl, as she stood up
from her seat and leaned menacingly across the table. "Am I now or have
I ever been from the heart of Southie, which would make Irene O'Hara a
blip on the screen of 'problem acquaintances.' I mean there was Penny Cassidy's
mother who used to always be sloshed when she'd have our Brownie troop
over for baking lessons, and the entire fire station crew from P Street
who would pee out the second story window every time there was snow to
play 'competitive firehose.' Yeah there's a fucking conspiracy - when Southie's
done with the Union you're gonna think that little spat with the Confederacy
was small time fun. Don't play with me. This isn't about Irene."
"Well, there is the matter of your connection to Martin Stevens," said
Ernie malevolently. "I understand you bat for the other team, Dr. Murphy,
and that you have a piece of Cuban ass that you enjoy giving the occasional
business to. And she is a hard workin' girl, now isn't she? It's rich -
a guy who took out some very fine agents in the service to their country
has his daughter grow up to suck Commie cock."
Breathe. Chela. They know about Chela.
"Jesus, Ernie," whispered Bob as he glanced towards the closed door. "You're
gonna get us sent back for another weekend of diversity and sexual harassment
training if you keep that up."
"Well, March Madness will be over by then, Bob, so I won't give a shit
about coming in and eating donuts while they teach us to speak politically
correctese." Ernie noted with great satisfaction that Barbara had sunk
back into her chair and that her knuckles were tightly wrapped around the
armrests. Gotcha, my pretty. "So I take it your new squeeze has
told you about him."
"He's dead," Barbara forced out. Shut up. The best option is to not
say anything, not reveal anything. But it sounds like they already know
more than I could have imagined. Someone has been feeding them information
about us. I'd bet my stethoscope. Fucking Alex.
"Yes, I was really sorry to hear that he had passed, even if he was one
of our most wanted fugitives. That was a terrible accident," intoned Bob
with concern.
"Well, I wasn't sorry, Bob." Ernie waited for Barbara to look up at him.
"I was really pleased to hear that we arranged for that little problem
with his brakes in Switzerland." He reveled in the sharp intake of air
that Barbara was unable to suppress. "Good, you should be worried. Here's
what I think, Dr. Murphy. I think you already know that we have someone
on your tail in Cuba - that you have no secrets. And I think you've already
guessed that Martin Stevens is old history for us - that we want something
new. What you don't know is that Kansas is playing UConn in two hours and
I want very much to be out of here. So I am going to make a guess. My guess
is that I should just tell you what I want and show you a very big carrot,
because it will take me longer than that to identify which of my many sticks
is shaped just right to beat your goddamn ass."
"I really think you should treat her with more respect, Ernie," started
Bob, before two fists hitting the table from opposite sides silenced him.
"We're done with that now, Bob. Shut up," glowered his colleague.
"What is it you want?" asked Barbara quietly, removing her clenched fist
from the tabletop.
Ernie shifted in his chair to make himself more comfortable. He folded
his hands on the table before him.
"Before I tell you, you need to know that dealing with you is not necessary.
It's optional. But it is efficient. We will get this data whether you decide
to cooperate or not. Your presence in Cuba is temporary and places you
in some locations that are advantageous to us. I would rather not use contacts
that are long-standing if I don't have to, and your being there means I
don't have to."
"I understand."
"We need someone to carry out some data related to livestock immunizations.
It's warehoused at the Ministry of Health."
Her mind whirred. So I would be solving one big problem related to starvation
only to contribute to another one.
"Again, this data transfer will happen regardless of your participation.
But it is better for both of us if you play along. You see, Barbara, I
have a "Get-Out-Of-Cuba-Free" card ready for Marcela Stevens if you can
help us. I think you know that it is extremely difficult to get Cuban nationals
out, but we can do this. I can get her a temporary work pass into Guantanamo,
and our internal contacts can make sure she gets through the Cuban end."
"Even if this were true, she would never leave her family." Goddammit!
Why did I say that? Don't give them anything. Goddammit! Rank, name, serial
number, nothing else. They aren't gunning for cereals and legumes. Time
to drop big hints with Santos to prioritize vegetable proteins, cuz my
guess is that this is not the time to invest in Cuban beef and pork.
"All the more reason to work with us, Dr. Murphy," broke in Bob. "It will
be harder to get the minors through the checkpoint, but we can figure something
out."
Bite that tongue, dammit. NoÉ noÉ check it out. Options. You need to
know all the options. "This country excludes people with HIV from immigrating.
She has a brother interned in their sanatorium. Is that going to be a problem?"
"Damn. Los Cocos. Now that is a problem," winced the agent. "Those patients
aren't allowed out without an escort. We would have to get the escort through
to Guantanamo as well. Of course, he or she would go back. I could see
this working out better than the work pass scenario, though. Arranging
for special treatment on the Base for an acquaintance you vouch for, and
who is properly escorted, and - of course - accompanied by the family.
We can arrange for an exception to the immigration policy."
They didn't know about Tomás. Assume that they know only about
time on the clock - time spent on the project.
"And you know, Murphy, I can hear you thinking from here," growled Ernie
with a sinister grin. "Don't even think of telling the Cubans. If you do,
we'll make sure that Marcela Stevens is implicated in the eventual data
leak. It will not go well for her."
Blow me. You don't know what I'm thinking. Because I don't know what
I'm thinking. But I do know that it hasn't crossed your mind that I would
stay. And I do know I need to get back to Chela as fast as I can. And that
we need options. This is only an optionÉ
"If I decide not to?"
Ernie shrugged. "Yeah, I'll be pissed. This would be better all around
from my perspective. But I'm not the one who's gonna be saying adios to
their lezzie girlfriend. Their lezzie whore girlfriend. You know, that's
not a profession where people age very well. What will she do later, huh?
And let's leave 'later' aside. What will she do now, huh? You think she's
gonna wait very long for you?"
They don't know Chela. And they don't know I would stay. Keep the option
open. You can fix the harm after you get her out. It would take them months
to make anything happen with that kind of information.
"How fast can you get her out?" She carefully voided all emotion from her
voice.
"Your project winds up at the end of April," replied Ernie. "She'll be
at Guantanamo by the end of May."
Bingo. Yes. Another option. And it really harms no one. The Hippocratic
Oath wins again.
"So, what do I do? Break into the Health Ministry under cover of night
and hack into their computers?"
Both men snorted. Bob coughed, trying to dislodge the sip of coffee that
had gone done the wrong passage.
"You've been reading too many adventure novels, Doc," chortled Ernie. "No,
I'm afraid this will be very uneventful for you. Bob, get the folder ready
with everything she needs." He looked at his watch and smiled. "Yes, ma'am,
we will be home for tip off."
In an unusual gesture for them, the two women embraced.
"Holy fuck, Cynthia. Are you all right?"
"I didn't enjoy their going through my suitcase like that, and then making
me wait forever to call a lawyer. But yes, I'm all right. I hope they choke
on the cigars. I'm sure they smoke them themselves. Did you call your lawyer?"
"No, it never got that far," lied Barbara. You will fix it for her later.
Stay safe. "Let's get out of here."
"You're staying with Eladio Torres, right?"
"Yeah. We can share a cab to Harvard Square. I've gotta pick up the T-Bird."
Not to mention a hell of a buzz.
Agents Townsend and Cousins watched the women stroll away towards a uniformed
Customs agent who stood next to their baggage.
"Do you ever feel sorry for them?" asked Ernie, as they turned to walk
to the elevator.
"No," replied Bob simply. "And it's not like anything really changes for
her. But us, buddy - us - we've had another good day at the office."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Later
that night, Cambridge
Eladio tentatively reached out to stroke the green, spiked back.
"Ay, Hércules. What shall we do with that crazy woman of yours,
eh? At least we have spent this time together as two older men, speaking
of manly things and eating meat together. Well, I will go and finally put
that soup away. She is clearly not coming tonight."
As if on cue the large clock in the kitchen rang in the midnight hour.
As had become his custom, the iguana turned slowly on his wire perch to
face the source of the clanging. It watched as the old man shuffled out
of the foyer and up to the stove and put on a pair of oven mitts. Eladio
headed towards the refrigerator with the pot of soup. Conditioning prompted
the reptile to bob his head excitedly at the sound of the appliance opening,
and he was disappointed to see the man returning to the foyer empty-handed.
"Good night, Mr. Green," quipped the old man, as he started up the
stairs to his bedroom. He was halfway up to the second-story of the house
when the doorbell rang.
"At last!" he cried, rushing to answer the door. When he opened
it, he found that it was indeed the missing Barbara Murphy, but she was
not alone. The physician, obviously intoxicated, was leaning precariously
over the shoulder of a Harvard University police officer.
"MmmLadio, toldem I wazzunt gonna drive, that I mailed mmmsel the keys
to the T-Bird affer I opened the door," mumbled the crumpled form.
"And ma'am, as I have explained, it can be considered a DUI even if you
don't have the keys. I am giving you a break because you were in one of
our parking lots and you have a courtesy faculty appointment. We'd rather
keep these things in house when we can. Dr. Torres?" The officer could
barely conceal his contempt as he moved to transfer the weight of the woman
to the small elderly man.
"Yes?" answered Torres as he reached for Barbara's arm.
"Wouldn't drive drunkÉ worked traumaÉ seen it," sighed the woman, as she
cautiously stepped forward.
"When she's clear-headed, give her this card. It's the tow and impound
service we use." Eladio struggled to reach for the card without dropping
his hold on Barbara. "And, ma'am? You're lucky to still have a license,"
concluded the officer. He felt no obligation to help the old man negotiate
the steps with his heavy human burden and hurried back to his cruiser.
Barbara was more attentive to her surroundings after the exposure to the
cool spring air. Eladio was furious. She could tell by the stiffness of
his facial muscles and his reddened earlobes. And it was clear that her
final destination for the evening was the living room couch. She pitched
forward onto it and kicked off her shoes.
"I'm not going to say anything tonight," Eladio scolded crisply.
"But this is very unacceptable. Beyond appearances, you came close to
committing one of the worst acts a physician could carry out - putting
the safety of others at risk." His tone was tempered by the tenderness
with which he set about covering her with a thick wool blanket. Then he
could hear that she was softly muttering something, and he knelt down to
better understand her words.
"LadioÉ"
"Yes, my friend. I am here."
"Ice creamÉ"
"It's very late, Barbara, and I don't know where I would go at this hour
to find anyÉ"
"No! CubaÉ ice creamÉ"
"I told you that you would be disappointed there, my friend." Eladio
watched curiously as his comment prompted Barbara to throw back the top
of the covers and attempt to sit up. Well, I never! She is crying!
"They have the best thereÉ best I ever hadÉ need itÉ need her for the rest
of my lifeÉ"
The effort to speak outdid her and she fell back. The snoring began instantaneously.
Oh no! thought Eladio sadly. She has gone and fallen in love
with one of them. He stood up, reaching down to gently stroke her cheek
before turning and meeting the gaze of Hercules. "Your woman is in big
trouble, Mr. Green. Like so many of us, she appears to have left her heart
in Havana."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Five
days later Vedado
What is wrong with me? thought Chela despondently as she sat on
the darkened curb around the corner from the Hotel Nacional. I have
really gone out of my mind to have let her affect me this way. It is not
rational. This business means nothing in regards to my feelings for her.
We all know this. It is as if I have been infected by a set of sensibilities
I can ill afford here - like getting a fancy poodle for a pet when Havana
demands that one have a streetwise mongrel. She reviewed her intentional
return to the life of the jinetera over the past five days, a return during
which she had failed to earn a dollar. It was a good thing that I am
not, in fact, wanting for cash right now - then it would be double the
disaster. Bad enough that things just aren't working.
She had managed to enjoy a few drinks at the expense of her escorts, but
every night had ended in the same fashion. After meeting with the clients
- drawn from Jonas's infamous list of contacts - she had managed to keep
up her end of the conversation to a point. After all, none of the men had
turned out to be psychotic like Dmitri and three of them had actually been
interesting in terms of their jobs and hobbies. But Chela found that she
was utterly unable to project the illusion of intrigue and romance that
was required to succeed in these encounters from a business standpoint.
Her boredom and dissatisfaction - her desire to be some place else and
with someone else - were legible on her face, and in the buyer's market
of Havana nightlife there were better performances available to the men.
They had politely (these were Jonas's friends after all, and their civility
was predictable) declined her company after a few hours and moved on to
more promising delights. Jonas. He will be returning later this year.
Will I not be able to work with him? I have to be able to do this. I have
no guarantee with her except for my heart to be broken.
She looked up at the sound of people coming down the pitch-black alley,
and could see the faint light of several cigarettes which marked their
positions as they moved towards her. She briefly considered moving away,
but found that her feet were rooted in place, a pair of heavy weights at
the end of her legs which failed to answer to her mind's commands.
They were immediately in front of her now, three young men - foreigners
by their dress - barely visible in the soft glow cast by a lighter. Then
two of them continued on past her. The third remained behind, intrigued
by the sight of the young Cuban woman.
"Oh, come on, Klaus, for crying out loud. We have dates waiting for
us at the club!" complained one of the men as they doubled back.
"You come with us?" the man named Klaus addressed her in a friendly voice.
Chela shook her head.
"She's probably sick, Klaus, to be sitting on a curb alone like that.
I know you're Mister Ever Ready, but this is too much." Klaus laughed
but when he replied his voice was steeped in irritation at his companion.
"You think I can't tell when they're sick? And what's wrong with a little
appetizer before our main course? You all sound like pathetic one-shot
specials." He turned back to Chela. "You want some dollars, right?"
Chela found her head mechanically nodding yes. This is what is left,
where there is no pretending. Where there is only the raw transaction -
dollars for release.
"Can you talk?" the man now sounded annoyed at her as well. She nodded
again.
"She's probably crazy, Klaus. Come on, let's go." Klaus shook his
friend's hand off his shoulder and placed his own over his own crotch.
"Why don't you go on if you are so worried about her?" he replied.
"I'm not going to be the one missing out on this beautiful face. Who
cares if she's crazy? She's hot. And I'll let you know I've gotten fantastic
head from crazy women before." He turned back to Chela. "You have identity
papers?"
Chela reached for her purse.
"That's all right. Leave them be." Klaus looked back at his friends. "There
you have it. When they are sick the authorities take their documents. She
has papers. Therefore she is not sick. It's elementary!"
"I'm not going to wait around for this,"
muttered one of Klaus's companions. "Come on, Paul. And Klaus, I hope
she bites it off and that we get to split that piece of cinnamon you're
standing up to do this."
"Ahh, you bite me," called out Klaus defiantly at his departing friends.
He returned his attention to the woman, who remained immobile on the curb.
I wonder if she really is crazy. Well, let's see how crazy.
"How much for a blow job?"
I don't know. What did they tell me when I was starting? "Twenty
dollars."
The man roared with laughter. "Beautiful, for twenty I get more." He continued
to rub his growing erection through his pants. "Fifteen." Chela nodded,
willing herself to stay still as he moved closer.
"Condom?" she asked quietly.
Astonished, the man stepped back again. "Unbelievable," he muttered
to himself. He shook his head in frustration.
"You have condom?" he asked.
"Do you? Do you have an American condom? Or a German condom?" she countered.
Klaus reached into his back pocket, extracting his wallet. "Condom. But
only ten dollars then," he said firmly.
Chela nodded, taking the small package from his hand. "You pay first."
Her mind registered the money being pressed into the space between her
breasts and the sound of Klaus's zipper being pulled down. Not one smile.
Not one look. Not one unnecessary word. Ten dollars cannot buy the woman
that Barbara Murphy loves.
The
dark circle of hair was slowly widening before their eyes, as Barbara's
hands framed the woman's straining flesh. "You'd better get up here closer
if you want to be part of the welcoming committee, Chelita! This one is
coming out right now," she tenderly crowed. They were in a small village
where they had stopped to rest on the way back from Pinar del Río.
The family practice physician in charge of the health of the little community
had alerted them to the impending birth and invited the quartet of researchers
to accompany her. The young couple, expecting their third child, had requested
that the American physician perform the delivery, sensing that the participation
of the foreign doctor would somehow positively affect their child's fate.
The labor had progressed far by the time the band of clinicians trooped
into the tiny hovel that was the family home. Now the birth was imminent.
The father sat in a corner of the room, comforting the two older children
and quietly narrating the event to them in terms they could understand.
Chela cautiously came forward at Barbara's invitation, gently placing her
hands on her lover's shoulders and peering over her head. The pregnant
woman cried out painfully between loud pants that sounded like the inflations
of foundry bellows. "That's it, compañera," cooed Barbara. "You're
doing a great job, the little head's almost all the way out. I saw a bit
of ear that last push!" She was smiling, ecstatic to be sharing this unusual
moment with Chela. "This is the best part of my job, Chela. And I haven't
gotten to do it since my residency." She tossed the comment - in English
- quietly over her shoulder as she continued to guide the baby's crown
through the tight portal. Then it all happened in a sudden outpouring of
flesh and fluids - a small form spilled into Barbara's waiting hands. It
writhed slowly, slightly shaking its puckered face side to side with the
tip of its tongue emerging from between bluish lips to taste the air. Then
she - for now Barbara had wiped off the tiny torso to reveal the absence
of a penis - sucked in her first breath and blew her outraged cry at the
physician's face. "Yes, darlin'. That is the effect I have on females,"
quipped Barbara, laughing. "You have a beautiful new daughter, compañera,"
Chela informed the mother, who struggled to sit up to see the fruit of
her labor. "Thanks be to the Virgin!" the woman exclaimed, then a worried
look crossed her face as she realized the implications of her words. "Don't
worry, compañera," smiled the local physician. "I won't tell - and
technically, yes, this little one is certainly a virgin." "Doctora," the
woman gasped, directing her speech to Barbara. "What is your baptismal
name?" "Barbara Jane," replied the American as she tied off and cut the
cord. "That will be her name, so we remember this blessed occasion when
you passed by our home." The mother forced the words out through her exhaustion,
as she lay her head back down. Then Barbara handed the swaddled infant
to Chela and gestured for her to place it on the woman's chest. They stood
together side by side for a long moment, looking down on mother and child,
before Barbara left to wash her hands in a tub of water left right outside
the door. Chela followed her, permitting herself the liberty of fondling
her lover's hair as Barbara knelt and scrubbed up to her elbows. "That
was amazing," she whispered. Barbara looked up, her eyes sparkling. "It
sure was, my lover. And just think - she has my name and temperament and
your skin color. Watch out, Cuba!"
He had stopped any pretense at gentleness as he pulled roughly at her hair
to force her to take him more deeply into her throat, and she was dimly
aware of the bitter taste of the condom's spermicidal lubricant on her
tongue.
She
was awake, although it was clear that Barbara was not aware of that fact.
The American woman had dressed in the dim light of a single candle, slipping
a few last toiletry items into her bags and quietly setting them next to
the door. She peeked carefully out of her right eye and found herself profoundly
moved at the sight of Barbara - to whom she had never clearly explained
the role of the Orishas - solemnly kneeling before the small altar and
crossing herself. Chela watched as her lover stayed there, her eyes shut
and her lips moving silently, for several minutes. When Barbara stirred
to rise again, Chela quickly closed her eyes and resumed breathing deeply.
She felt a soft touch on the side of her face and lips brushing against
hers. "Chelita, wake up a minute. I have to go soon. I want to say goodbye."
Chela hummed a greeting to her partner and reached up to envelop her in
her arms, drawing her back down into the bed. " I don't want to say goodbye,"
she whispered into the straight black locks. "I don't know how to do this
either, cariño. That's why I don't want you to go to the airport.
I would rather leave you here, on this bed where we have loved each other
well." "I understand. I will think about you all the time while you are
gone, you know. And I will pray for you to come back to me." Barbara lifted
her head up to look into Chela's face and smiled. "That altar of yours.
I hope you don't mind that I've used it a few times. It's been a long time
since I asked the saints or Mary for anything. I'm really a lousy Catholic."
"That's not the only thing that it's about," started Chela, but Barbara
interrupted her. "I know, I know there are other aspects of what you believe
that are not Catholic, but for me, that's what I grew up with and what
I was disappointed by and what I fell away from. But the only way I can
get on that plane today is if I believe that miracles can still happen,
even for people who are selfish and frightened and cowardly, like me. You
know something, Chela? I love you. I love you with every bit of the imperfection
that I am." Then she laughed and shook her head slightly, confusing Chela
a bit with the sudden shift of affect. "See, mami? It worked! I already
owe them a rosary - I managed to tell you before I left."
At the end it was turning into a battle, as she struggled to terminate
the increasingly uncomfortable act and he fought to keep her in place,
striking her repeatedly on the side of the head as he blindly thrust into
her.
"I'm not so stupid that I think it all has to rhyme, Chela!" Barbara was smiling as she shaded her eyes with the sheets of paper as she lay, head to head with Chela, on the seawall where they had met. " I mean, I do read a fair amount of poetry." "You shouldn't give up, cariño," replied the Cuban woman with a note of amusement in her voice. "I just think that especially since Spanish is not your native tongue that you should give yourself the freedom to experiment with free verse - after all, these are your first poems in this language." "Chela," sighed Barbara, "I am really just a prose kind of woman. Worse, I am a tactile kind of woman - I speak through my hands much more comfortably than through my words." Chela laughed. "And Barbara, I am not complaining about how expressive your hands are. You are spoiling me. It's as if you are another Cervantes when you touch me." "Come on," complained Barbara in mock irritation. "You're not seriously comparing me to an old man on a crappy horse with a broken shield and lance." Chela quickly sat up, her upside down face shoving the papers aside and covering Barbara's view of the sky. She was scowling. "You're not serious, right? You know that that was the protagonist, Don Quixote, not the author, Miguel de Cervantes." Barbara could not hold the poker face, and guffawed, and received a light slap across the midriff. "Don't ever, don't ever make jokes about my favorite authors. And you know, someday you might find yourself on a really old horse with a broken lance and you're going to remember that you thought it was funnyÉand I hope I am the one sitting on the burro behind you laughing." Settling back onto the seawall, Chela barely caught the words "Thanks, Sancho" as they floated on the sea breeze.
"Five extra dollars. Sorry I lost where I was there for a moment." She
felt the additional bill thrust into her hand, as Klaus stepped away from
her. She could barely make out through a swollen eye what the man was holding
out in front of her face.
"Some girls like souvenirs. Swiss baby? Good Swiss stock, strong, handsome
like me." She turned away, and he laughed, flinging the condom with its
cargo of dying gametes out into the void of the alley. She heard his steps
receding, and felt herself crumple back down to the curb, barely catching
herself to remain in a sitting position. Then she felt another presence
drawing close and her muscles tensed. The touch on her shoulder made her
flinch and she prepared to scream when a familiar voice broke through the
darkness.
"Compañera. I have been looking for you since you left the bar at
the Nacional. I lost you out here in the dark." The man knelt down - concerned
at her lack of response - and was horrified to look into a face full of
tears, bruises and anguish. "Oh, compañera. Oh, Chela. Come on,
let me get you home."
She let Pedro half-carry her back to the apartment.
She was starting to come back into herself fully, the gentleness of the
man's ministrations tugging her into her everyday awareness. Pedro carefully
dabbed at some light scratches on Chela's left temple with a moist napkin
with one hand, as he held a bag of shaved ice up against the swelling on
the opposite cheek.
"I know this hurts and I really am sorry, compañera."
Huddled at the edge of the bed, Chela groaned despite the lightness of
his touch.
"Why were you following me, Pedro?" she asked warily.
The man swallowed hard before answering, and she could feel his hands tremble
slightly through her aching flesh.
"Compañera, I was worried about you. And I have been watching for
a few nights now. I don't understand - I imagine you must need the money.
I was going to offer to buy tonight myself to keep you inside and safe
- I have no woman or family to spend my pay on. I have some cash laid aside."
Alarmed at this confession, she jerked away from him. "Pedro, I could not
have consented to such an arrangement. It would be too complicated."
He tentatively placed his hands back on her injuries and tilted his head
down so she could see his face and appreciate the earnestness of his words.
"And this is not complicated? Chela, I am not blind. I was not thinking
of violating what you have with her. I am a bit old-fashioned that way
- I would not be with a woman that I had no hope of winning for myself."
Chela smiled, then winced as her skin pulled.
"I guess we didn't do a very good job of hiding it at work."
"No, you very much did," reassured Pedro. "I cheated. I have a sister who
is that way and I remember how it looked when she and her compañera
tried disguising their loveÉthey are in Miami now."
He finished with the cuts and stepped back to look at his handiwork, nodding
approvingly at the cleanliness of the torn areas. He pressed the ice bag
into Chela's hand.
'Let me get you some water, compañera, so I can give you something
for the pain." He stopped and laughed sadly. "At least for the pain in
your head. I can imagine that is the least of it. What were you thinking?
I could understand if you didn't have a good job right now. I had a girlfriend
once that did this - worked the business when she didn't need to. But then
again," he sighed and turned to walk to the sink. "Maybe chocolate really
was a necessity for her. I just couldn't afford it."
Chela waited until the man returned to stand in front of her before replying
to his question.
"Pedro, it is true that right now - tonight - I had no financial need.
But I was desperate to know, could I just jump back in to how things were
now that this big change - this Barbara - has come into my life."
Pedro considered his response while he watched her swallow the medication.
"You know," he said quietly. "I think I am in love with her too in a way.
She has such confidence and presence as a physician. When I think about
the kind of doctor I want to become she looms large in front of me - a
real heroine. Silly of me, I guess. I am just a half-starved Cuban jackass,
and I will probably end up cutting cane before I end up really practicing
medicine the way I want to - with that brilliance that she puts forth."
He looked on as Chela, exhausted, picked up her knees and got up into the
bed, pulling the covers over herself.
"Compañera," he whispered. "Would you like me to stay? I can put
some chair cushions down on the floor."
"Yes. I wanted to ask, you know. But I wasn't sure how it would sound."
" It would sound like you need a friend hereÉ I only wish I was a better
man and could offer to hold you, but you are attractive and I don't want
to disrespect you without meaning to."
She heard him settling down on the floor beside her, and thanked the Orishas
for having sent her this tangible comfort in the absence of her lover.
Chela reached down to touch Pedro's head.
"Thank you for your friendship, compañero. And I can tell you that
you are a real hero, even though you cannot see that fact."
She lay in the darkness, absorbing all that had transpired since the morning
Barbara Murphy left for the airport. It is clear then. Yes, I can survive,
I suppose, by occupying a rung lower than that of jinetera and becoming
a street whore. I can survive by turning to my friends and asking for help.
But I want more. If she insists on leaving and there is no other option,
I suppose I must find a way to go to her.
The next morning she found that she was able to write for the first time
since the American woman's departure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
was looking for a new taste.
My
exile was a hunger for home,
and
I waited to be fed.
How
I hated the sugar cane,
its
sweetness a conjure trick of evil fairies
that
cast the finished white powder like spirit dust -
all
ground up bones and flesh and hair,
the
raw material for their candy magic.
As
it grows it is not like the other delights of my field.
Its
green spears stab at the back of my throat.
Its
fibers pose scratchy barriers to my teeth and lips.
It
is a refusal of welcome -
so
unlike the open doors of mangos and guanabanas.
Its
roots soak in the blood of my fathers.
Its
roots suck in the milk of my mothers.
I
cry out as we are poured into
the
coffee cups of the Spaniards,
of
the Yankees,
of
the Soviets.
The
bitter liquid peels back our skins,
leaving
us as human bagasse.
I was
looking for a new taste.
My
exile was a hunger for home,
and
I waited to be fed.
When
I was thirteen my womb awoke
and
I wished for the power of creation,
but
what I witnessed was the birth of A New World Order
which
is the spawn of The Old World Order.
I
saw cane which is Middle Passage
saw
cane which is arms
saw
cane which is sweatshops
saw
cane which is drugs
saw
drugs which is MTV
saw
MTV which is Coca Cola
saw
Coca Cola which is cane.
I
tried to burn down the stands,
choking
the innocent birds in the acrid smoke,
and
still the stalks grew back.
Tilling
the earth with my bare hands,
I
tried to plant yams and the roots could not hold as
the
alien crop stood firm,
denying
me the fruits of my labor.
I
released insects
I
released storms
I
released anger
and
the mocking shafts regenerated,
the
growth rising up to block the light of the sun.
I was
looking for a new taste.
My
exile was a hunger for home,
and
I waited to be fed.
And
what fire and machetes and rebellion could not accomplish,
you
did.
You
come, a fugitive princess yellow-jacket
traveling
lightly between the blossoms of tenderness
and
the flowers of inspiration,
and
make out of these abstract graces
the
tangible morsels that at last sate me:
a
honey so pure and delicate
that
upon my tongue I know the flavor of freedom
the
texture of belonging
the
sweetness of my home in your arms
where
you serve the finest love for my meals.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback to ortizbriggs@aol.com. I am hopeless. Yes, I lost a bunch of mail before I could answer. I am such a ditz. I did read it all, though.
Translation of "Noche de
Ronda" ("Prowling Night") by Agustín Lara:
Prowling night/ how sadly
you pass/ how sadly you cross/ across my balcony./Prowling night/ how you
wound me/ how you hurt/my heart./ You moon, who breaks/over the shadow
of my loneliness/ where are you headed?/Tell me if this night/you are going
prowling/ as she has gone/ Who are you with?/ Tell her that I love her/
Tell her that I am dying/ from waiting so long/ to come back already/ because
prowling isn't good/ it causes damage and brings suffering/ and it ends
in tears.