“I’m Ivan Fernandez,” the young policeman was the first one to speak and to hold his hand out effusively to the author. “And she’s the boss, Detective Maria Duquesne.”
She was a bit irritated by her subordinate’s initiative, but it was true that she had been dumbstruck by an image that she hadn’t expected.
“Please, sit down… My place is rather small, and the imps are always rearranging things, but I combat them with a bunch of güijes. Do you know what güijes are?”
“Sure, they’re…nymphs or some type of fairy in Cuban folklore.”
Maria was surprised by Fernandez’ immediate reply. Maybe it was good she had brought him along. She didn’t have the slightest idea of what a güije was or if Larrea was pulling their leg.
“We’re here because we’ve reopened a case about a young man who came through Mariel and who died in 1992. We thought that maybe you could clear up a few things for us. First, although it would be a miracle, by chance do you recognize the person in these photos?”
Larrea looked carefully at the two pictures Maria had handed him.
“I don’t know. There are so many Cubans and Hispanics with a dark complexion like that… Well, not me so much, since I inherited my great-grandfather’s green eyes. He reminds of someone, but I can’t put my finger on it… No, I don’t think I know him. What happened to him?”
Maria told him how they had found him in the canal and about the missing baby, but she didn’t tell him about the falsified documents or about the suspicion that he had been murdered.
“So how can I be of service?”
Maria sensed that maybe the question had a double meaning and that it was directed more at Fernandez than her, but she didn’t understand completely.
“I wanted you to tell me a little about leaving Cuba, your arrival in Key West, your stay in the Orange Bowl and in Tamiami Park, because I know that he was in both places.”
Larrea closed his eyes, opened them a moment later, and then got to his feet.
“Darling, it would take me more than a lifetime to tell you the whole story!”
There was such a dramatic tone to his voice that she was grateful when Fernandez intervened.
“We understand that completely. I’ve read your novel, and I know the whole story isn’t even there, but maybe to help us out in this case you could try and give us some broad ideas.”
Larrea and Fernandez exchanged glances for a brief second, and then Maria realized what was going on. They were both gay, and the seventy-something writer and the young policeman were dancing a minuet. They were sizing up their powers of seduction and intrigue. She was just about to get up and leave but instead decided to take advantage of the situation.
“Look, Larrea, it’s just that besides being interested in this particular case, Fernandez was telling me the whole way over here how much he admires you, and what an honor it was going to be to meet you, and what it would mean to hear your statement from your own voice… So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to record if that’s ok.”
Larrea leaned back in his armchair. All of a sudden, it was as if he were rejuvenated.
“Well, in that case… Look, in 1980, Cuba was a pressure cooker. In the previous year, some of the people who had left in the beginning went back to visit, the ones that the government had called a plague and had said how badly it had gone for them… However, they were all overweight and rich (or at least that’s what they said), and everybody either envied them or hated them, or at times both. In Cuba in those days, life amounted to interminable speeches, fear from denunciations, the daily absurdity of it all, meetings, volunteer work, inefficiency, prohibitions. There was a long list of things you couldn’t do, like wear long hair or listen to the Beatles, and other things that you couldn’t be, like a homosexual for example. In the sixties, they all wound up in the UMAP camps where the government had sent them to be cured! After that came the events at the Peruvian Embassy. I don’t think it ever dawned on Fidel that ten thousand people were going to squeeze into that house in Miramar. Everybody in Cuba wanted out. So, he told them to get out! But it came with a price. He made it so that those who were leaving would have to swallow their pride.”
Maria was familiar with similar stories, but she had never heard them directly from the mouth of one of the protagonists. Despite all the years, the writer’s wounds still hadn’t healed. He began to speak more and more passionately, waiving his hands around as if they too wanted to express their indignation.
“If you could have only seen everyone swearing that they were prostitutes, pimps, queers, murderers, begging on their knees for them to stamp their papers. People took off without saying goodbye, without even getting a toothbrush, without an address or telephone number of someone they could call once they arrived, without knowing what it’s like to be a refugee, without knowing that their lives had just been split into two no matter how bad what they were leaving behind had been, without thinking, because the only thing they felt in every muscle, in every pore in their skin, was the need to flee… And then came the hours in the camp, El Mosquito, without any place to take a piss or shit, and those dogs that you thought were going to attack you. And later on those boats crammed with people, and that stench of sweat and vomit, those sobs, and cries, and prayers…until you finally saw the coast, and even though we had lost the feeling in our legs we stepped onto the wharf, and some men in uniform took us by the arm, and they smiled at us and told us ‘Welcome to the USA,’ and they gave us a Coke and sandwiches and apples, some of us had never seen an apple before, and then they put us on a bus, or at least that’s what happened to me, and they took us to a stadium where they gave us cots, and cartons with toothbrushes, toothpaste, and things like that. People were dumbfounded, as equally thrilled as they were tired, absolutely exhausted as if they had never slept before, and then they began to call out names from a list, and they finally called mine, and they put me on another bus, and they took me to another camp where they began to ask me things and take down information until I found a relative, and it really was a miracle but he came looking for me and took me out for a steak and a beer and he told me, ‘Hell, Manny, you’re finally free!’ And you know, in moments like those, damn, you don’t know what to make of it, of being free. It makes you dizzy. You don’t know how to be free because you never, never had the chance to choose.”
He was exhausted, and Maria could see that Fernandez’s eyes had teared up.
“That’s a very moving story,” Maria commented. “Look, do you remember if they took your fingerprints in Tamiami Park?”
“I think so. Yes, I’m almost certain.”
“And do you remember if there was someone, maybe among those who came or maybe who was already there, who was in the business of falsifying documents?”
Larrea smiled.
“You know that where there are three Cubans, there’s at least one shady person.”
“But do you remember someone in particular?”
“Yeah, there was a couple, a man and a woman…they were like everybody else, but when they got close to people and saw that they were worried…”
“Worried? Why?”
“Well, for a lot of reasons…maybe they had a criminal file back in Cuba and they were afraid they weren’t going to let them in, maybe they had been a member of the militia or even a member of the party until the previous day, maybe they were minors or didn’t have family here who could sponsor them. There were so many things that they wanted to cover up.”
“And do you remember anything else about this couple, maybe someone whom they helped?”
“As I told you, they were just ordinary folks…and it was so long ago. But he went by some nickname… I don’t know, Tiger, Gimpy, Monkey… I don’t know. Those types of nicknames are so common in Cuba… I don’t remember.”
“Try. Please,” Fernandez pleaded. “Go ahead, at least for me, sin
ce it’s one of my first cases.”
“Well, if you leave your number, and I can remember, I’ll call you.”
No sooner had Maria given him her card than Fernandez offered his as well. Larrea looked at it, gently ran his index finger over it, and placed it in his wallet.
“I’ll keep it right here so the fairies won’t hide it. I promise I’ll try to remember. Sometimes things come to me when I’m sleeping… How strange, right?”
Maria got up to leave. When they were already at the door, Larrea put his hand on her shoulder.
“Wait. I just remembered something else. That couple helped a friend of mine that had some type of problem or another. His name is Jacinto…Jacinto Bengochea… He’s a writer, and he lives in New York. Wait just a minute and I’ll go get his number.”
Chapter 9
Days 6 and 7—Saturday and Sunday,
November 7 and 8, 2015
After lunch, Maria had almost fallen asleep watching a rerun of Law and Order when she heard the lock on her front door begin to open. Only her father, her son, and a neighbor had the key, and she was just about to take out her pistol when the door opened, and she saw Patrick in the doorway.
“Mijo, what are you doing here?”
“Mami, I got up early and drove all the way here without stopping. I don’t have class on Monday until late in the afternoon. I came down to spend the weekend with you.”
“That’s wonderful, but it couldn’t be that there’s some party tonight or that you want to see some girl, could it?”
“Well, maybe that too…” Her son’s smile lit up the living room, which he had reached with just two big leaps, and then he gave her such a big hug that it almost took her breath away.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I felt a little homesick.”
“Well, let me know next time.”
“If you have plans,” he said with a sly expression, “I can go to abuelo’s house.”
“No…I wish! I just like to know when you’re on the road.”
“Just so you can worry about me?”
“Well, yes, and so I can have more food in the house…”
“Don’t worry about it. Give me some money, and I’ll go do the shopping.”
“Well, how kind of you! Este huevo quiere sal.”
“You sound just like abuelo with all those Cuban sayings.”
“You know very well what that means.”
“Yeah. This egg wants salt.”
“No, you want something.”
“Don’t be so negative, Mami. I don’t need money… Look, it’s true that there happens to be a party tonight over at Pete’s house, and I was missing my friends here, and some others have come home too, but tomorrow I’ll spend all day with you and abuelo. If you want to, we can go out to eat, but the truth is I’m dying for some of your chicken and rice. Oh man! And sweet plantains too, even if they’re the frozen ones from Publix.”
“Your grandfather would love that. I’ll call him right now.”
The weekend was a constant coming and going of all of Patrick’s friends. Finally, at noon on Sunday her father arrived with all the ingredients: chicken legs and thighs marinated in Sazón Badía, one large onion, green pepper, Valencia rice, tomato sauce, roasted peppers, olives, and enough beer to boil the rice and for them to drink too.
“You have bijol, don’t you?” he asked before anything else.
“Of course I do, Papi. What Cuban kitchen would be without annatto spice? And I have all the other spices you could want: oregano, bay leaves, garlic salt…”
“Ok, fine.”
The truth is that Patricio could have never prepared an entire dish of chicken and rice by himself, but he helped his daughter, just as he had always done with his wife, and both of them pretended that he was the better chef.
“Let’s see. Taste the broth. You think it needs some salt?” While they cooked, they drank some Coronas, ate some pork rinds, and listened to a record by Albita. They danced, they laughed. Father and daughter hugged at times and, at others, they looked the other way so the other wouldn’t notice that their eyes had teared up. It didn’t matter that six years had gone by and that her mother would have never been in this particular house or kitchen. They still felt her presence and it hurt and, at the same time, it was an immense comfort like the taste of candy after taking bitter medicine.
They had just put the lid on the pot and lowered the heat on the boiling water for the rice when Maria’s cellphone rang. Don’t let it be an emergency down at the station. Don’t let anyone kill anybody today, was her first thought.
It wasn’t a call from work. It was Yolanda, her mother’s friend. She was speaking so softly that Maria couldn’t understand her at first. Finally, she made out that Ramon had taken off for the weekend, that Lourdes was still convinced that he was cheating on her, that she was very depressed, and she didn’t know what to do to cheer her up.
“Well, why don’t you come on over? Papi and I are cooking up some chicken and rice, and Patrick came in yesterday. Of course, there’s enough. No, no, don’t bring anything, but come over right away because the rice will be ready in a half hour, and we should eat it as soon as it’s done.”
Her father gave her a look as if he were saying “you’re hopeless.”
“Papi, they were so good to Mami. They care for us a lot, and they feel so alone these days…and what difference does it make since you and Patrick are going to wind up talking about sports?”
The “crazy” women arrived just as Maria was setting the table and finishing up the rice. Patrick came out of his room, fresh out of the shower, and doused with a half bottle of cologne. Look how handsome my son is, Maria thought to herself. And, as if the adopted aunts had read her mind, they all began to sing his praises.
“He’s gotten even taller…”
“And his shoulders have gotten broader.”
“You’re going to catch all the ladies like that!”
Patrick gave them a kiss with a big smile. It must have taken care of Lourdes’s depression because they spent the whole afternoon drinking, eating, telling jokes, and playing dominos as if it were a holiday.
Chapter 10
Days 8 and 9—Monday and Tuesday,
November 9 and 10, 2015
No one had to tell her that something had happened. Maria knew as soon as she set foot in the station that another crime had occurred. She immediately rushed to Larry’s office to offer her help.
“As much as I want you to close the case I assigned to you, we need all hands on deck right now. Head into the conference room. I’ll be there in a minute, and we’ll bring you up to speed.”
She soon learned that they had found the body of a young Hispanic man in a wooded area of Homestead. Everyone got moving. There were officers at the crime scene right away, some overseeing the collection of forensic evidence, others questioning possible witnesses, and two of them talking to family members, the hardest task of all. They asked Maria to interview the victim’s brother, who had stumbled upon the dead body. They always had to rule out family as suspects. Even though many years of working as a police detective had toughened Maria, violence against children and young people still upset her. The dead boy was seventeen, even younger than her son Patrick. They gave her two pictures: the first was of a round-faced boy with olive skin, large glasses, and a broad smile. In the second one, the same face was almost unrecognizable. His head had been sliced open, badly damaging his forehead and part of his left eye. The preliminary forensic reports showed that there were at least fifteen deep machete wounds.
The first thing she concluded was that this couldn’t have been the work of one single person. When she saw Pedro Guarda—a trembling, scrawny young man, who was barely five feet tall—she was positive that he hadn’t been involved in this brutal murder. She tried to calm him down and get some more information. Wh
en he stopped crying, Pedro told her that his brother had participated in the Job Corps program to finish high school and learn a trade. His parents were Mexican, and they had worked multiple jobs, mostly in agriculture. When they were little, they lived with their grandmother back in their hometown. Their mother and father would cross the border, work for a few months, send money back to support them, and then they would be with them when they didn’t have work. But since their grandmother was getting old, and crossing the border was becoming increasingly difficult, their parents brought them to the United States. When things got bad in Arizona, they piled in their rundown truck with all of their belongings and drove straight through to Homestead. Their father had a friend there, and he started working in agriculture right away. He would have preferred a construction job, but there weren’t any. Their mother cleaned houses there, and that’s how they got by.
“We’re illegals,” he said with such a deep sadness that Maria felt the urge to hug him. “I have a teacher who says that no one is really illegal, that we’re simply undocumented immigrants which is not the same thing, but for the sake of the case…”
“I’m older, I should have protected my little brother…” he said and started weeping again.
“It’s not your fault, Pedro,” Maria said, trying to console him.
He continued:
“Jose took after my mother. He had a weight problem that really got worse when we came to this country. I went to that same high school program last year, and I definitely learned a lot. They helped me find the job I have now as a plumber’s assistant, but Jose was going through a hard time. Other students made fun of him. You know, those bullies that are at every school. More than once, I got into fistfights to defend him. I also told him that he should start working out to lose weight, but my mother always said that we didn’t have the money for special diets, and we’d have to keep eating the same stuff. And I don’t know, I guess the worse things got, the more my brother would eat.”
The Miracle of Saint Lazarus Page 6
