Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (7 page)

But what did it matter? Regardless of where we left from, I loved the Malecón and always would. So much of my life revolved around this sturdy seawall and its sweeping vistas. It was here I came to realize I had fallen in love with Rigo and wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. It happened one night in late November. There were no lights sprinkled across the sky that night, just a thin canvas of clouds. I looked up and saw his face flashing before me, burning through the harbor sky. From that moment on his face wouldn’t stop flashing across the expanse of my mind, racing back and forth between my heart and head and leaving no room for doubt as to how I felt: I loved him.

These were the lifelong memories I would always treasure of the Malecón, the way its essence was ingrained into mine. Those who visited our island admired the majesty of its views; those who grew up here appreciated its mystery and magic. Whether we leaned forward against the wall, sat on it restfully, or laid back and gazed up, the Malecón of Havana
was intrinsically Cuban. How many dreams had come to life at this seawall as I stared at the sky that blended into the sea? How many plans were hatched here as I heard the whispering sounds of the water? And how many things, both good and bad, had developed or drowned here—desire as well as doubt?

I felt restless again, in the throes of that anxiousness that had gripped me earlier. Dusk was gone, but determination clung on. The evening air turned ever cooler and I longed for warmth. But as I stood and clasped my arms and even shivered in place, something other than a tingly breeze pricked away at me: gusts of hesitation, breaths of uncertainty, the slightest jabs of doubt started poking away. And these entanglements of emotion were bad enough, but now I felt the pangs of a nascent and nagging doubt.

It had to be the news my friend had given me. I must be fretting about our vessel, the Maloja, and whether it would be finished in time, whether it would float all right, whether Amalia would be feeling well enough by tomorrow, and whether Rigo might not just put a halt to everything. It had to be all these pulsings of preoccupation. How I longed to believe this even if something more powerful kept pulling at me, something more terrifying tugged at my heart. It was not the sight of Rigo that came to me at the moment, but of Amalia’s parents gnawing and gnashing away at each other; the sight of those fretful family faces flittering all about. Mostly, it was the sight of Amalia’s father as he knelt at his daughter’s bedside and wept.

Was he right? Had we really thought this through? Had we considered all the consequences of leaving home and family never to return? I looked up for an answer, gazing at the sky as it slumbered impassively atop the water. Those bands of color had fully dispersed. No longer did they share a cozy bed in the night sky: the charcoal had clearly won out and churned the other two out. And that sprinkling of light had faded as well, receding behind a curtain of newly formed clouds to become the captive rays of a hidden white sun. The harbor sky fascinated me as it always did, but it was not Rigo
I saw or a feeling of love dawning on me. Instead, it was the image of my older sister Pilar and a growing sense of guilt. It was her face flashing before me and an ever-encroaching dread about abandoning her. But why was this striking me now of all times? Why was raw exhilaration being doused by some insidious dusk of doubt? For some reason a flimsy veil of incertitude was trying to cloak me in a partial darkness.

I didn’t know what to make of it, but I wouldn’t give in. I’d be strong and remember Rigo’s words to me earlier: we were committed now, no turning back! Not even a sense of duty toward Pilar could make me retreat. How could I? How could I entertain a scintilla of doubt after what Rigo and I had gone through the last couple of years? Not just us, but my father, my sister—everyone in the family. Yet, as much as we all had suffered during this Special Period, Pilar was all I cared about. The mere thought of leaving her certainly left me feeling wretched and raw, but first thing in the morning Rigo and I were out of there. No turning back!

For the second time that night, tears filled my eyes. This time they did not stage a quick retreat. This time they marched straight down my face. No moving backwards. Not as the last few years in Cuba flashed before my eyes against the backdrop of a bad dream. Not as they unfolded like a giant flashback above a graveyard lit dimly in charcoal and ash. And not as I decided to bring an end to this never-ending wake and discard all the deaths in my life: the hardships, the frustrations, all the tragedies that had visited us.

I pushed back now. I resisted these newly festering qualms and told myself it was all very normal. This dusk of indecision was only natural and would soon begin to disintegrate until it fully dispersed. Miracle or not, whenever anyone arrived at a monumental decision such as this, it was only typical to be plagued by all sorts of second thoughts. By seeds, by shadows, by visitations of doubt. That was all this signified. Under such difficult and trying circumstances, it was perfectly natural to be hampered by and fall prey to and be visited by doubt.

3

visitations

august 14

flashback in the night

T
hree days prior, on August 11 when I first
mentioned leaving, there had certainly been no doubt.

I thought Rigo would be thrilled by the prospect of fleeing Cuba, even on a homemade raft called the Maloja. He too hated life here and felt dead inside, he just never acknowledged that death openly. He buried it deep within and fed his foolish hope.

But if anyone had legitimate cause for abandoning his homeland, my husband did. All his life he had wanted to be an architect, dreaming of erecting skyscrapers and other towering structures. Even when I was twelve and Rigo was nineteen, when most guys that age spent their free time
playing baseball or hanging out with friends, I, the neighborhood pest, could find him sketching and illustrating or making schematics of all the fantastic ideas firing off in his head. Science fiction, he used to call the drawings. Rigo intrigued me so, which made it easy to fall in love with him.

He realized his dream of becoming an architect, studying at Cuba’s premiere Instituto de Arquitectura. Rigo possessed such talent that he was the first to be selected for a spot in Havana’s internationally renowned institute and even graduated at the top of his class. My husband showed such promise throughout his studies, and his professors held him in such high esteem, that right before completion of his degree and becoming fully licensed by the state, Rigo was informed of an exciting new project. The Ministry of Economic Development not only wanted him to help design this project, but possibly lead it: a series of new luxury hotels along the beaches of Santa Lucía, Cuba’s pristine archipelago off the northeastern coast of Camagüey.

Rigo reacted in a manner less than thrilled. “Camagüey? But I just got married. Will my wife be able to join me?”

“No!” came the resounding reply. “There aren’t the funds for that. You can come home one weekend a month if you want, but that’s it. Are you interested or not, compañero?”

Rigo sensed it might put a strain on our new marriage, but he was interested, more than interested. He was so excited he couldn’t sleep nights, and on many occasions, I’d find him awake at two or three in the morning sketching and drawing and drafting blueprints when he should have been resting by my side. This project along the beaches of Santa Lucía had received such staunch approval from the highest levels of government that the ministry decided to accelerate its launch. A couple months ahead of schedule, Rigo received word to start packing. The ministry was dispatching a planning committee to Camagüey’s northeastern coast.

“We want to see some of your schematics,” they told him. “And right away.”

Rigo couldn’t wait to break the wonderful news. Of
course, I was upset. We’d been married less than a year, and I didn’t want him gone from me. I never felt more whole or complete than when I had him at my side. Not to mention that Camagüey seemed so far away: a tedious ten-hour train ride from Havana. But I figured this was our punishment, what we got for growing up in the same neighborhood and knowing each other all our lives. Even so, I remained passionate and loved him with all my heart. I was only twelve when I fell in love with Rigo, and he was nineteen. I knew I was much too young for him, but even then I wanted to marry Rigo some day and spend the rest of my life with him.

True, Rigo wasn’t the most handsome of men, but he did have strong hands and a great body that I worshipped. More importantly, he possessed a humble heart and loved his family. He was loyal, affable in nature, and everybody liked him. He had glowing reports from his professors, all of whom had very strong ties to the ministry, and it was easy to see why they selected Rigo for this project. He had the talent, personality, and drive. Rigo was the full package. That was why it made no sense when, out of nowhere, the night before he was all set to go, after fully preparing his suitcases and packing some pre-preliminary sketches he wanted to take on the expedition, Rigo received the most upsetting call of his life.

“Start unpacking, chico,” officials informed him matter-of-factly. “The trip is off.”

Rigo refused to believe it, he
couldn’t
believe it. He thought it must all be a practical joke and somebody would call back right away and confess. But nobody called or stopped by or sent any other form of communication. Maybe he’d done something wrong. Maybe he’d offended the wrong person or had inspired jealousy among a superior. Rigo was so intent on being a part of this project he called back and agreed to work for free if necessary.

“Consider it volunteer labor,” he said, determined to get his foot in the door and wanting to know what he’d done.

“You haven’t done anything,” officials assured him. “You have a sterling record and a bright future in this country. All we can tell you is the project has been put on hold—indefinite hold.”

If this was meant to make him feel better, Rigo felt himself drowning in devastation. He’d never experienced any form of disappointment in his life, and this crushed him. But he suspected something else at play here and meant to find out. He visited someone who would know and whom he trusted implicitly: a professor who taught North American form and design with an emphasis on the twentieth-century architecture of San Francisco. Of all his six years of intense study, this was Rigo’s favorite class.

As expected, the professor knew precisely what was going on, and there was, indeed, something brewing behind that thin explanation they had doled out for his student.

“Well, chico,” his former professor began. “The project is on hold all right; that part is true.”

“There’s another part?” Rigo asked. “What and for how long?”

“Forever,” the professor bluntly informed him. “You didn’t hear this from me, Rigo, but there’s been a big change of plans around here, real big.”

“What type of change of plans?”

“I know I can confide in you, Rigo, just as you can always confide in me. Still, I have to stress the confidential nature of this. Effective immediately, all projects on this massive a scale will be granted to companies of foreign governments.”

“What!” Rigo asked in shock. “No!”

“Yes, chico. The ministry has conducted a resource planning study and concluded that Cuba lacks the means to execute so enormous a project, that it lacks the skill to put in effect so grand a scheme. They’ve decided to outsource.”

“Outsource
?
”
repeated Rigo, barely able to pronounce the word in his thick Cuban accent. “What in the hell is that?”

The professor explained the idea behind outsourcing and how, just now, the concept was barely taking form and still highly experimental. But soon it would set a trend for the future, whether a country was Capitalist, Communist, Democratic or a Dictatorship.

“Like it or not, it’s the way of the future,” he said sadly. “Only one good thing will come out of this outsourcing.”

“What’s that?” Rigo asked.

“Local jobs, albeit low-paying jobs.”

Rigo apologized for his outburst and for his use of foul language, even though, in Cuba, foul language was not the exception but the norm. Still, he had meant no disrespect to his favorite instructor and felt ashamed. And had shame been the only emotion Rigo grappled with it might have been easier to pick up the pieces, but it was not. Again came defeat: a sweeping defeat; a dizzying, demoralizing defeat that descended on him and totally displaced him. For weeks my husband functioned in a daze, moping around the house and doing absolutely nothing. I’d never seen him so sedentary or morose. I knew not how to help. I couldn’t reach him. It pained me to take so drastic a step, but I had no choice. I’d have to call the one person I hated resorting to in any time of trouble: my mother-in-law Mihrta. I knew she could help, but I also knew she’d find a way to make me feel useless in this crisis—and she did. I’d never seen her more animated or in higher spirits than the day she came over to see what ailed her baby.

“He’ll have to move back home for a week,” Mihrta announced. “Maybe two.”

“But he is home,” I protested. “We’re married, remember?”

“Of course you are, mija. I mean his
home
home, not his adopted home. Now don’t worry, one week won’t kill you. Just think of how you’ll have your husband back to normal and good as new.”

Mihrta had never liked me and decided that even when I
was twelve, she should be brutally blunt with me. “I know what you’re after,” she said one day. “Just stop wasting your time, mijita. My son is too old for you, and he’s not going to wait around.”

But she was wrong. Rigo
did
wait, and she’d never forgiven me for it. Just as she’d never forgiven me that, upon our marrying, we decided to move in with my family rather than his. Like every newlywed couple in Cuba, we had to choose living with one set of in-laws or the other. No such thing as marrying and having your own place, much less owning your own home. Not with all the severe housing shortages, especially in Havana. After my father’s death it made no sense to move in with Rigo’s family, which included two younger brothers. Mihrta blamed me for that decision too.