After Pilar bathed and changed into a cotton dress, she went to her mother’s room. Maria was tired and sullen. Pilar tried to cheer her up, telling her that Miguel would be fine. “We will be in Cuba tomorrow and will get word back to Papa,” Pilar said.
The five sat down to dinner. Maryse had prepared pasta with seafood. Lucien opened two bottles of wine and offered a toast to his guests. For the next hour, he and Salazar took turns telling stories about gambling in Havana and even impressing the women with a tale of meeting the notorious gangster and casino owner Meyer Lansky at a home near the construction site of the new Riviera Hotel. When the main courses were finished, Maryse cleared the table and brought coffee.
The talk turned to the following day. Lucien said that he was in contact with friends and that they would radio him in the morning if any authorities were on the route to Santiago. “The Cuban authorities are stopping many boats, looking for gun runners who are aiding the rebels,” he said.
Pilar was only mildly worried. She had convinced herself that the US authorities would not have notified the Cubans about a boat carrying two women coming from Haiti. The plan seemed solid.
Throughout dinner, Maryse seemed emotionless. Pilar sensed that she was listening and understanding, even if she didn’t speak English. Pilar remembered how when she first arrived in Miami, even though she often did understand what was said, she was hesitant to speak a new language. She couldn’t be certain, but somehow it seemed that the girl’s ears perked up at any mention of Cuba.
Pilar insisted on helping Maryse clear the dishes, and Lucien did not object. As soon as they were in the kitchen, Maryse attempted to communicate with Pilar. She opened the door at the rear of the kitchen, revealing a tiny room with a single bed and a floor lamp. Maryse beckoned Pilar inside.
It was clear to Pilar that something was wrong. Why did Maryse live in this small room in such a spacious house? There had to be at least six bedrooms. And she sat at the table with them at dinner.
Maryse grabbed Pilar’s wrist and pointed to her watch. She then held up her hand with her thumb and the adjoining finger close together.
“Time . . . little time,” Pilar said.
Maryse nodded. Then she said, “Maria . . .” Maryse made a horrible face and slowly slid her fingers across her throat.
Horrified, Pilar could barely bear to comprehend what she was seeing. “They’re going to kill my mama?”
Maryse poked her finger into Pilar’s chest and then back into her own chest.
“They’re going to make me like you, a servant?”
This time she shook her head no. Maryse held out her arms as if bound at the wrists.
“A slave . . . you’re a slave?”
Maryse vigorously nodded. And then she whispered, “Cuba, Cuba, Cuba.”
“You, me and Mama go to Cuba?” Pilar saw Maryse’s beautiful smile for the first time. “When?”
Maryse clasped her hands together, put them on her left shoulder, then cocked her head and suddenly sprung her head up.
“First thing in the morning?” Pilar didn’t need to ask how.
At dinner Lucien had told them the sad story of how Maryse’s mother died not too long after her birth. Then when her father died on his fishing boat, Lucien had taken her in and given her a home when she was fourteen. “When we fish, she runs her Dad’s boat, and she’s likely to catch more than me,” he’d chuckled.
What Lucien did not mention was that Maryse had two older sisters whom he had tricked into a life of childhood prostitution at a bordello somewhere near the US Navy Base in Cuba. Nor did he tell them that when no company was in the house, Maryse was forced to perform whatever deviant sex acts tickled his sick mind.
Pilar told her mother nothing of her conversation with Maryse, but once Maria was asleep, she rolled up the window shade. This was the way Pilar always made certain to be up at first light. Before she fell asleep Pilar thought through her plan for the morning, trying to prepare for every possible contingency.
As soon as the first rays of light hit Pilar’s eyes she slid off the bed. She checked to make sure that her father’s Smith & Wesson was fully loaded. Then she returned the gun to her bag.
Pilar dressed and packed her things. Glancing out the window, she noticed that the Montecristo was nowhere to be seen. Now she was certain that Maryse was right. Salazar had left them behind.
Pilar tiptoed to her mother’s bedside. Gently putting her fingers on Maria’s lips, Pilar whispered, “Mama, wake up.”
Maria was groggy. “I’m so tired, what time is it?”
“It’s time to get away from here as fast as we can,” Pilar whispered.
“Why?”
“We are going to be kidnapped by Lucien,” Pilar said.
Maria sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. “That’s ridiculous. How do you know that? Salazar would never allow that to happen.”
“Maryse told me when we were doing the dishes last night.”
“But she only speaks Patois.”
“And Salazar is gone.”
Maria rushed to the window. Her heart was racing. What had they gotten into? Who was this Lucien guy? Why would Salazar do such a thing to them?
Pilar told her to quietly pack and wait in the room. Pilar walked down the stairs and through the kitchen to the rear where Maryse’s room was. Maryse was sitting on her neatly made bed. At her feet was a small satchel.
Maryse pointed out the back door. “Boat,” she said, indicating that she would meet Pilar at the fishing boat they had parked next to the day before.
Pilar quickly ascended the stairs. She grabbed both her bag and Maria’s. “We must go now,” she said. Maria followed her down the stairs and out the kitchen door. They walked just behind the tree line. If Lucien happened to peer out his window, he would not see them until they had reached the dock, and it would be too late for him to catch them.
Maryse was waiting for them at the last tree before the dock. She held up the key and pointed to the fishing boat. The three moved quickly across the lawn to the dock.
But just as they reached the dock, the women stopped, frozen in place. The menacing figure of a furious Lucien rose from under the gunwale of the fishing boat where he had spent the night. In his right hand he held a bullwhip; in his left, a machete. His glare was aimed at Maryse.
Lucien shouted, “You ungrateful black piece of shit! Is this how you betray your lover? A quick death is too good for you. I am going to feed you to the alligators.”
Although it was in English, Maryse’s face revealed that she clearly got the gist.
Pilar reached into her bag and pulled out the short-barreled Smith & Wesson. She stepped to the left to remove Maryse from her line of fire. Her eyes focused like a laser on Lucien’s right hand, the bullwhip at this distance being the bigger threat.
“What do you think that little toy can do to me,” a smirking Lucien said.
He jumped off the boat and walked forward, raising his right arm in the air and twirling the whip.
Without hesitation, Pilar fired three rapid shots. The bullets struck Lucien in the chest. His eyes bulged, and he fell backwards onto the dock, blood spurting out of the three deep cavities perfectly patterned like the holes in a bowling ball.
Maria and Maryse stood motionless, their mouths agape.
Pilar’s hands shook. She had just killed a man. She felt sick to her stomach, though she knew that she had just rid the world of a monster. Taking a deep breath, she muttered under her breath, “Thank you, Papa.”
Maryse grinned. She moved over to Lucien’s body, which had stopped convulsing. Using both hands, she pulled hard as she rolled him over three times like a sack of potatoes and pushed him off the dock into the water. She then threw the machete in the boat and climbed aboard to prepare the boat to get underway. Smiling now, she kept saying “Cuba, Cuba, Cuba.”
Maria, still in shock from the rapid succession of events that morning, was standing on the dock. Pilar untied the boat. “Mother, we have to
get out of here,” she said.
Maria burst into tears. Pilar helped her into the boat and jumped on behind her. Maryse started the engine. As she pulled away from the dock, she hugged the shoreline. As the boat left the inlet of Lucien’s estate, the Island of Tortuga was dead ahead. The next turn would take them far to the left of the island. Once clear of the western tip of Haiti, they were surrounded by a calm ocean with Cuba only fifty-five miles away. Pilar was at first amazed that Maryse knew where she was going, but after giving this a moment’s thought she realized the Maryse must have been planning this escape for months, maybe even years.
For the next three hours Pilar tried to comfort Maria, who was struggling with the fact of the death of that evil man and how Salazar could have led them into that trap. Maria kept trying to rationalize what had happened, but Pilar knew the worst was true. Salazar had taken them to Haiti to sell her into slavery. As she pieced together Salazar’s words from the previous day, Pilar also found reason to wonder if he had something to do with her father’s arrest.
Finally, Pilar heard Maryse screaming, “Cuba! Cuba!” She emerged from below to see mountains appearing as low hanging clouds on the horizon. Not long after, a lighthouse came into view. They were actually seeing Punta de Maisí, the easternmost point in Cuba.
They were almost home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Santiago was a welcome sight to Pilar and Maria. As they made their way through town that afternoon, Pilar marveled at how much it seemed that the city had grown since she was last here. Some new apartment buildings had been added, and the streets were crowded with pedestrians.
By the time Maria and Pilar reached their former home, it was nearly dusk. They were tired, dirty, and scared, but felt a sense of relief as the farm came into view. Three dogs, all that remained, remembered them and came running out to greet them on the road with a few celebratory yips, instead of the menacing growls and barks reserved for strangers. Pilar happily danced around with them, greeting each one by name with a hug at the center of the dog tornado. Even Maria, who normally insisted that they didn’t jump up on her with their filthy paws, allowed an exception in this case. This was a special occasion, and she figured order would be restored again soon enough.
Maria’s joy at finally being safe at home was tempered somewhat when she noticed a light on in Jorge’s house as they approached from the road. Although she was anxious to see him, part of her dreaded confronting the pain she knew he must be experiencing following the loss of his only child. But having come so close to losing Pilar—and her own life—her perspective changed. She was a survivor. They all were—she, Pilar, and Jorge—and right now, that’s what mattered. Their ordeal was behind them and now it was time to begin healing.
A familiar board creaked as they stepped onto the porch. They heard music and giggling coming from inside the house. Maria peeked through the window before knocking, and shocked by what she saw, turned quickly to block her daughter’s view. But it was too late. Pilar stood frozen, bearing witness to the sight of her Uncle dancing with not one but three women, all four of them, as naked as the day they were born. He had a bottle of rum in one hand and was using the other hand to explore the contours of one of the nubile young women.
Maria took Pilar by the hand and pulled her forcefully off the porch, away from the scene of debauchery.
“Uncle Jorge is busy. We’ll come back later,” said Maria.
Perhaps out of curiosity, or maybe because she simply didn’t believe her own eyes, Pilar kept trying to get around her mother to take another look.
“What’s he doing, Mama?”
“He’s grieving.” Maria pulled Pilar away from Jorge’s house, towing her down the trail that led to their old house.
“He is?” Pilar looked back over her shoulder as the music became quite faint.
They had purchased some food in town. “Let’s go have something to eat. We’ll see your uncle in the morning.”
As they approached the stream crossing, Pilar thought she smelled something burning, not unusual between May and November, the season during which the cane fields were purposefully set ablaze by the farmers in preparation for the harvest. The preharvest burn eliminated much of the green and dry leaves as well as the tops and straw off the stalks, reducing the amount of manual labor required. But this smelled far worse than burnt cane stalks.
After they crossed the bridge, they were confronted with something even more shocking than what they had just seen at Uncle Jorge’s home. The house where they had lived, where they expected to stay until Miguel sent for them, was gone. Just a pile of burnt timber and ash was all that was left. It was a scene of utter devastation.
Maria took a deep breath, attempting to hold it all together but was not successful. She began to sob and fell to the ground. She felt she could stand no more. Pilar, took a more pragmatic approach, spinning on her heel and walking briskly and purposefully towards her uncle’s house.
Maria’s weeping grew fainter until Pilar heard only the sound of her own footsteps as she closed the distance between the stream and the house. As she approached, the music once again grew louder, as did the giggling. On the porch she heard the creaky floorboard again before she began her insistent, loud knocking. The music stopped, and then there was the sound of four pairs of shoeless feet shuffling behind the door followed by the voice of Uncle Jorge. His voice was a little unsteady, and his tone communicated a forced nonchalance.
“Who is it?” he inquired weakly.
“It’s your niece, Pilar. What happened to my house!?”
Maria, Jorge, and Pilar sat together at the kitchen table. Jorge held his head down over a cup of rum. Maria and Pilar stared at him patiently as he composed himself and the words he would use to explain what had happened.
He didn’t make eye contact, gazing into his cup. “It was an accident,” he said. “I was angry, but I didn’t mean to burn it down. I’m sorry, Maria. I didn’t expect you to come back.”
Maria whispered, motioning toward the three women, who were now dressed and sitting in the main room talking quietly amongst themselves. “Who are those women?”
“I had nobody. Things have been very difficult. You’re living in the US with all that stuff now, all that money. You have no idea what it’s like for me.”
Pilar interrupted, “Papa is in trouble. Some men came. They took him away.”
Jorge swallowed a mouthful of rum. “I’m in trouble, too.”
Maria snorted, interjecting, “Obviously.”
Jorge continued. “Miguel made his choice; you all did. There’s nothing I can do about it now. There’s fighting in the mountains. This whole country is falling apart like it’s the end of the world. Soldiers are shooting people for just standing there. Lots of people would be happy to trade places with Miguel. At least he still has his life. Go back to Miami.”
Pilar interrupted. “We can’t go back, Tio Jorge. They might lock us up, too. Papa said to wait for him here.”
Feeling the rum, Jorge briefly found a soft spot in his heart for Pilar, but as he silently looked at her, he saw his own daughter, and it was too much to bear. It was a matter of his own emotional survival now. He took another swig and once again hardened. “You can stay here tonight but that’s it,” he said. “I’m not responsible for your situation.”
“But we’re family!” Maria shouted.
“My wife is dead!” Jorge shouted back. “My daughter is dead! They were my family and you left me!” He poured another cup of rum, held up the bottle. “This is my family now!”
Maria leaned over and quietly spoke to her daughter. “Pilar, go to sleep, baby. I’ll be in shortly.”
Pilar got up and left the room. She went into one of the back bedrooms and shut the door.
Maria gestured toward the women in the living room. “Them? Are these whores going to take care of you? Are they your family now?”
Jorge laughed. “Until I throw them out of here, yes. They are my family now.”
Then he turned very serious, leaning close to Maria and speaking very softly. “How would you feel if your husband and daughter were both taken from you? Would that hurt, Maria?”
“Of course, Jorge. I share your pain . . .”
Jorge interrupted her. “No, you don’t get to share it.” He shook the bottle in his hand violently. “This rum? Those whores? They don’t share it either, but they numb it, and that’s enough for now. This is my life, my pain. I’ll deal with it how I please.”
Pilar was alone in what used to be Alicia’s bedroom. She filled her nostrils, trying to remember her cousin’s smell, but the perfume of the women in the other room now permeated the whole house; not a trace of Alicia remained in the air of the room. She opened the closet door and ran her fingers over the small dresses that still hung in the closet, trying to remember how she was ever tiny enough to fit into them herself. It now seemed like another lifetime ago, but she and Alicia once shared everything—clothes and even a mother. She sat at the small writing desk, her knees barely fitting underneath. She was a giant in a miniature world, like Alice in the book by Lewis Carroll she had read in school. She opened a drawer and thumbed through some crude drawings, one of a house surrounded by palm trees under a sun with dogs and other animals identified by name with little arrows pointing them out. In the foreground, two little girls with toothy smiles and ribbons in their hair labeled Pilar and Alicia radiated innocent optimism, ignorant of the danger and tragedy the future held.
Pilar noticed a little pink envelope in the drawer. She carefully opened it and found Alicia’s birth certificate inside. Pilar took the drawing and the birth certificate and placed them, along with a hair ribbon, into a little girl’s purse made of hand-tooled leather that had been hanging on the headboard. These things were all that she had to remember her cousin by now. She looped the strap over her head and went to the door, pressing her ear to it to listen.
She could hear her mother speaking quietly. The words were muffled, but she imagined by the soothing tone exactly what her mother was saying as she reasoned with her uncle, calming him, reminding him of the bond they shared. Then she heard an unintelligible burst of drunken energy, deep and rough, from her uncle, the kind that knows no hope and doesn’t care to listen. Alone in that room, she understood how he felt. There was no hope left in this house except for what was held in the little purse.
The Girl from Guantanamo Page 8
