After three hours we drive past the old zoo outside Varadero. The car has held up, though it coughs and shakes like an old man. It’s hot out. The Cuban sun is sweltering. This heat of a furnace, it sticks to you and you wear the heat like a skin until the night comes and you can peel it off. Angelita looks at the black bars of the zoo as we pass, meeting the eyes of the people who have decided to live in those abandoned cages. They don’t shout at us as we pass. They don’t make a sound.
But Fidel and Ché smile at us as we make our way into the city. They’re plastered on the corner of every building and against every billboard, their faces fading in the Cuban sun. Beneath them are the words Patria ó muerte, venceremos. Our country or death, we will win. Angelita reads the phrase aloud to us as we pass, but the words have no meaning to her.
We stop before an iron gate, and in front of it there are three milicianos, standing in their green-olive khakis and black boots. The two to the side have machine guns slung across their chests, and the one directly in front of the gate has a silver pistol in a holster. He shows his teeth at us, rotted and yellow from tobacco, teeth the color of bile and piss. Behind him there is a plane sitting on the tarmac of Varadero Airport.
“Passports!” he calls out. He is sweating, standing in the sweltering sun, stopping cars all day in his green uniform and he looks like he wants to hate us.
“Passports!” he says again. One of his men puts the machine gun to my face.
“Don’t move!” he shouts, when I lean toward the glove compartment.
“They’re there,” I say, pointing to the compartment. “The passports and papers are in there.”
“You.” The gun barrel moves to Maria. “Get them.”
Maria opens the glove compartment. Her eyes are closed and she’s whispering to herself. Maybe she’s praying. The miliciano doesn’t seem to care. He snatches the papers from her and brings them to the man with the yellow teeth. Angelita stares at the machine gun with the same fascination she had when she had stared at the Curandera three years ago.
What is she thinking? We will be ravaged by worms. Lo Juro! Lo Juro! Lo Juro!
“Out of the car!” The man with yellow teeth orders, as he looks over the documents. Maria and I climb out of the car, arms raised. The men with machine guns pull our bags from the trunk.
“You walk from here, worm. The car stays.” He looks at me with hot eyes, and standing so close to him I can smell the ash lingering in his throat from his last smoke. “Do you think you’ll find paradise in El Norte? Do you think you will be happy? The gringos hate us. They will drive you down into the earth! You will eat their shit, gusano. Do you know that? You are a shit eater! Comemierda!” The man with yellow teeth suddenly notices Angelita sitting still in the backseat, and he calls to her.
“Afraid, niña? Your parents are gusanos. Are you a gusano? Are they making you leave the country?” He clicks his teeth together and clucks his tongue at the air. “You do not have to go if you do not want to.”
Angelita only stares at him.
“Niña bitonga! You little elitist worm!”
The men with machine guns throw our bags against the curb, where the Russian asphalt grabs at them with greedy tar hands. Two changes of clothes. Three pairs of underwear. One hat. One book. Maria’s bag clunks with the sound of something hard inside—something metal. The man with yellow teeth frowns at it.
“What have you got in there, gusano?”
Without any warning one of the machine gun men drives the butt of his weapon into my stomach. I fold over and crumple to my knees as air escapes me. The other machine gun man opens the bags and tosses the contents in front of me, a pile of clothing, hats, books. Two changes of clothes. Three pairs of underwear. A hat. A book. Nothing else. A framed photograph of Maria’s grandmother looks up at me, the old woman’s eyes as sad as a dying country.
“Abeulita.” Maria grabs for the photo. The man with yellow teeth pushes her with his boot, knocking her down beside me. Both of us look up at him like cornered animals.
He clicks his teeth and clucks his tongue again. A thin smile spreads across his face.
“You cannot take this,” he says. The photograph belongs to the Revolution, I expect him to say. Your grandmother belongs to the Revolution and she cannot go with you. But instead all he says is, “I could revoke your exit permits now. You cannot take this.”
I realize he wants me to beg. He wants me to plead and cry and ask him to let us through that iron gate. He knows I will do it too, beg from the asphalt like a worm caught after the rain, shriveling in that hot, damning, Cuban sun.
But I never get the chance. The man with yellow teeth notices something else in the contents of our bags. A white face and a blue and red uniform stare up from underneath children’s underwear.
“What is this?” the man with yellow teeth says as he picks up the Superman comic. He holds it pinched between a thumb and a finger, as if it were contagious. Suddenly he no longer wants me to beg. Now he stares with hating eyes again and spits at me, “Basura Yanquis!” American trash!
He positions his hands as if to rip the comic in half, a smile on his face. It was ours, I want to say. It does not belong to the Revolution. We can take it with us. It’s on the list. I don’t protest, though; I don’t say a word.
The silence is broken by Angelita as she shouts from the backseat of the Volkswagen. I’d never heard her shout—and I hope never to again. It was a bullet, whipping through my brain, splattering my thoughts into a million places against the paredón, another victim of the firing squad.
“STOP!” She cries. A shriek—a command—a sentence—an execution.
They do. All of them. They don’t move a muscle as Angelita steps from the car and gives the man with yellow teeth a sideways look. She is not angry.
“Take your guns and point them in your mouths,” she tells them. The man with yellow teeth looks at her for a second, almost amused, before he snaps away the leather clasp at his waist and brings a silver pistol barrel up to his face, clamping his teeth around the metal. It’s okay, I tell myself. The gun belongs to the Revolution. Those tobacco-colored teeth belong to the Revolution. The bullet belongs to the Revolution. He belongs to the Revolution.
The others are doing the same, some struggling to wrap their lips around the muzzles of their rifles. There is no more amusement anymore. Maria is crying, sobbing and praying for herself, or for the militiamen, or for the country. It’s okay, I tell myself again. I realize I am praying too. Gusanos, I think as I talk into the road. We will all be ravaged by worms!
I swear! I swear! I swear!
Angelita looks at the man with the tobacco teeth one last time and commands them to fire. All I hear is the sound of a country screaming. The men fall to the pavement, their faces black and red and shattered.
I can’t find the strength to move. Maria stops sobbing, out of fear of damnation or I don’t know what. We could run now. We could get into the car and drive through the checkpoint without Angelita. We could leave this country without her. We have exit permits, we could flee to America and be free. But the idea scares me and I cannot act. We will be ravaged by worms. Can she read my thoughts? Two changes of clothes. Three pairs of underwear. A hat. A book. Are my thoughts even my own, or do they too belong here, in this land, owned by the Revolution?
Angelita ignores us. She is staring at the man with the yellow teeth, who doesn’t have any teeth at all now. She kneels over him, hypnotized by the sight and poking at the flesh. The wound is a deep hole, and I’ve never seen such blood. Angelita doesn’t mind.
She dips two fingers into the man’s mouth. She’s entering a church like that, Little Angel, dipping her fingers into the Holy Water of that man’s neck, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. She joins her clean hand to the dirty one, and washes them in the blood.
Other men in green-olive khakis are running towards us now, pouring from behind the iron gate, machine guns raised at Angelita. She tells them to stop and they
do. Lowering their guns, they watch us, helpless and confused. Finally she stands up and looks at me. Emotionless. Merciless.
“You can get up now. We can go to America now,” she says as she picks up her comic book.
Maria and I remain as we are, too terrified to move. Angelita takes a few steps toward the gate, wiping the street sludge off Superman and not caring that she’s replacing it with blood. It takes her a moment to realize we aren’t following. When she turns, I want to hide my eyes. I want to scrape my way through the sludge and pavement and disappear forever in the broken earth below. She cocks her head.
“You are going to take me with you. We will go together,” she says. “Promise me that.”
I swear, I tell her. Lo Juro. Lo Juro. Lo Juro.
A CAPELLA
Jonathan S. Pembroke
The Maestro whipped his baton to the left in a sharp flourish, bringing the symphony to a sudden close. As the yellow aura around him faded, a light smattering of applause rose from his court. The sound annoyed him; his brow furrowed and he gazed around the tiers at the orchestra.
Chiron appeared at his elbow. “Very beautiful, Maestro.”
“No,” he murmured, “something isn’t quite right. One instrument is off-key—the fourth bass, I think. Take it to the Head Machinist. Tell him to have it tuned before sundown.”
Chiron bowed and held up the nacre case. The Maestro flipped open the lid and replaced the silverwood baton in the velvet-lined slot. He stepped down from the marble terrace; Chiron closed the case and followed. The courtiers lining the galleries stood and bowed as he exited the small concert hall. The applause faded behind him as he strode down the narrow hall, his slippered feet making not a sound on the golden floors.
Chiron paced beside the Maestro silently, to his left and just half a step behind, as custom dictated. The Maestro absorbed Chiron’s deference without conscious thought. Exactly five minutes after the last note of his orchestra faded, a new chorus of voices—his personal choir of attendants—lifted in song. The harmony drifted along behind him, flowing down the acoustically perfect halls of his court like water in a fountain.
The High Soprano awaited them in the antechamber of the Maestro’s library. Her blue silken robe was lined with the black and white piping of the Grand Chorus, and trimmed with an amber fringe that indicated that she was the head of her ensemble. Her narrow, tapering face was lined with the passage of centuries and her ebon hair was held back by a complex netting of gold thread. Her wide lavender eyes fixed on the Maestro as he entered the chamber.
The Maestro stopped and bowed. “Mistress. What brings you to my court?”
“I hear rumors of your coming concert, Maestro,” she replied in her resonant voice.
“Chiron?”
“Yes, Maestro?”
“You are dismissed. See to that troublesome bass.”
“Yes, Maestro.”
The Maestro waited until Chiron was out of earshot before he sighed and glanced at the High Soprano. “What kind of rumors?”
“Disturbing rumors. I heard you plan to use an orchestra entirely of sentient instruments.”
“I’ve made no secret of my symphony.”
“Most consider the sentients to be novelties, to be used as mild entertainment. They have not been used in a concert of this magnitude since the Third Movement.”
The Maestro raised a finely sculpted eyebrow. “So long, Mistress? I would not have guessed.”
“Nor would anyone who did not spend their time in archives. That was many thousands of years ago—before either of us heard our birth song.”
“Then it is unlikely to be considered trite or common,” the Maestro replied. “The Choral Master expects something… extraordinary.”
“Just so,” agreed the High Soprano. “There is a reason it has been an age since the sentients were used in such numbers, Maestro.”
“And what might that be, Mistress?”
“Because they are inherently unstable. It is difficult for anyone to control so many. The balances must be perfect, their wedges placed just so. The Maestro long ago did neither and the cacophony was horrific. From what I read, the Choral Master was most displeased.”
“What happened to that Maestro?”
“The Choral Master had that Maestro’s voice silenced.”
The Maestro closed his eyes and his lips danced as he mumbled the ritual song of prayer. Recognizing it, the High Soprano closed her eyes and joined in. For several long moments, the air was filled with a soft, sweet melody. They ended on a gentle high note that seemed to linger in the chamber.
The Maestro turned to gaze at the High Soprano. “Silenced.”
She nodded. He tried to envision it—tried to imagine having his affinity with silverwood stilled forever. The Maestro felt a heavy weight on his heart; it took him a moment to recognize the emotion as fear. It was a distasteful emotion, he decided, and he purged it from his mind with a fatalistic shrug. If the Great Song dictated such to be his fate, then so be it.
He faced the High Soprano. “Where that Maestro failed, I will succeed.”
“I see,” she replied. She paused—and with evident hesitation, added, “I fear for you.”
“Do not, Mistress.”
“I have lived for over nine hundred years—nearly an entire movement. I have seen many who have held the title of Maestro. Even when compared to that storied assemblage, your talent is nothing short of prodigious,” she murmured. The High Soprano crossed the room and stood scandalously close to him. Her pale violet eyes glowed as she gazed into his. She whispered, “It is one thing to perform here, for your personal court. They would not speak against you, regardless. It is another to conduct such a symphony before the entire Grand Chorus. You must have other symphonies you can perform. Your conventional work has never disappointed the Choral Master.”
“I must do this, Mistress.”
She lowered her eyes. “I do not understand why. I would not see you in such peril.”
“No?”
“Your absence would be most distressing for the Grand Chorus and…” The High Soprano hesitated, as if she wanted to say more but she did not. The Maestro cleared his throat in an attempt to push pass the awkward moment.
“Mistress, what did the Great Song reveal to you as your Path?” Even though the question was considered an impolite one, he suspected she would answer.
The High Soprano frowned but said, “Between choruses, I paint.”
“And on that Path, do you perform your utmost?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
The High Soprano pursed her lips. “To do anything less is an insult to the Great Song.”
“I was blessed enough to have the Path of composition.”
“That is the greatest honor,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And does it not make sense for me to pursue my Path and my art with all the vigor I may muster?”
“Ah,” she breathed. “I understand.”
He turned aside. “I must do this—I must do this for my art, Mistress. And if the Choral Master is displeased, then so be it. I will accept such consequences.”
“The Grand Chorus was correct to elect you as the Maestro.” He nodded his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. The High Soprano clasped her hands before her. “I will leave you now. I await your symphony with great trepidation—and I pray to the Great Song that you are successful.”
He bowed; the High Soprano inclined her head and left the chamber. The Maestro turned and entered his library. He paged through the vellum sheets of the composition with slender loving hands as his eyes scanned the long, elegant letters of his handwritten piece. His predecessor had dictated notes to an assistant. The Maestro frowned at the thought; why separate one’s self from the music by interjecting a third party? He shook his head, sat on a high-backed chair and pored over the notes, looking for the smallest imperfection in the arrangement. The hymns echoing down the hall faded into the background
until the only music in his head was the note that sounded as he read each symbol. His music.
“Maestro, I apologize for the interruption,” Chiron said from the doorway. His normally calm voice held a hint of alarm, the Maestro noted. Chiron bowed and the Maestro waved him forward. “Maestro, I bring grave news.”
“Is it about the bass?”
“No, Maestro. The machinists are at work now and expect to have the bass tuned within the hour. It is the second alto. A thousand pardons, Maestro, but the instrument malfunctioned.”
“What?” the Maestro exclaimed, half-rising from his seat. He lost his grip on his symphony; the sheaf of paper spread across the floor with a soft rustle. “Malfunctioned?”
“Completely failed, Maestro.”
The realization hit him between the eyes like a thunderbolt. Panic rose in his gut; he struggled to fight it down. He took a few deep breaths and said, “Very well. All is not lost. We shall simply replace it.”
Chiron looked alarmed. “But Maestro, it will be fresh; the construction will not have healed.”
“If the voice is right,” he muttered grimly, “few will notice.”
He left the chamber and went directly to the Hall of the Songsmiths. As he entered, the machinists rose from their cluttered workbenches and bowed. “Maestro,” the Head Machinist intoned, “this is a most unexpected honor. You grace us with your presence.”
“I understand the second alto has failed.”
The Head Machinist pointed at the inert shape on the floor. “A complete breakdown, Maestro. We cannot save it.”
The Maestro stared at the motionless form for a moment before asking, “Are there any possible replacements?”
The machinists hesitated and glanced at each other. Finally, one named Thiros said, “Several, Maestro. We have a fresh batch from the cultivators. They are currently slated for the mines; I will examine them but with such short notice, I cannot guarantee—”
“Never mind,” the Maestro cut him off. “Find the most suitable and bring it to my chamber. I will judge for myself.”
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