Authors: Robert W. Walker
“Stem cell research.”
“Ah, yes,” Yuri muttered. “Foolishly banned in the US.”
Because Fidel had made an enormous commitment to medical research over the years, Cuba was at the vanguard of cancer, HIV-AIDS, and stem cell research. Fidel had recently brokered his own deal with a private California company and the US in order to jump-start the FDA approval for a cure for skin cancer, and approval of several vaccines effective against the entire family of herpes virii.
“Do you have any proof of this?” asked Sergio. “Anything at all.”
“Only my word, and now I fear for my own life.”
Sergio nodded. “We’ll take her back to the B&B until things settle.”
Yuri agreed with a grunt, still lost in thought.
The trio stepped out the door where Jorge Peña confronted them. “What’s going on here, Sergio? Ms. Suaro?”
Wednesday afternoon, two and half days after leaving Havana
As the Sanabela neared its final destination, Santiago de Cuba, Estrada had pointed out the Basilica del Cobra nestled in the mountains above the nearby village of El Cobre. The basilica was known worldwide for its full-sized statue of the Black Madonna. What made this particular rendering of Christ’s mother exceptional was her color. “Home of copper mines and our Lady, the Black Madonna,” Estrada said, crossing himself. “Cobre…copper, still a big export.”
Curious, JZ asked, “Just how large is Santiago?”
“Over 400,000 people live here,” replied Qui, “and, it’s the hottest place on the island.”
“Hot in more ways than one,” added Estrada. “The liveliest music, the hottest food, and these people are passionate. Festivals and dancing all the time.”
Soon, the three of them saw in the distance Cuba’s second largest city sitting atop a cliff in front of the gorgeous Sierra Maestra mountains and overlooking a breathtaking aqua-blue bay. It appeared a remote, hard to reach area.
“Coming by sea wasn’t such a bad idea after all,” Qui muttered staring at the beauty of this approach. The city still retained its colonial landmarks, notably its cathedral—the largest in all of Cuba—alongside crumbling forts standing sentinel over the harbor.
Estrada, who claimed he had ‘children’ here, pointed out a university building saying, “I have a daughter, Esmerelda, who teaches history there.”
JZ piped in, “I know a bit of the history of this city myself. Founded in the 1500s, fought over by the French and English buccaneers, it became a center for smuggling. A haven for French Haitians during the slave revolt.”
“I’m impressed! I thought Americans only cared about American history.”
“I was just getting to the Spanish-American war and the USS Maine.”
“When we became an occupied country, not unlike Afghanistan and Iraq. Soldiers still on our soil.”
“For which we pay your government.”
“Checks Fidel refuses to cash.”
“True enough. Cashed just the first one.” JZ smiled at her and joked, “I’ve heard he uses ’em now to paper his bathroom.”
“I’ve heard when the check arrives, he uses it to light a cigar.” She smiled back at him.
“I thought he gave up cigars.”
“He doesn’t smoke. He just lights it, and waves it around for the cameras.”
JZ and Estrada laughed at the image.
“Still, I just hope you American’s have learned some diplomacy since 1898.”
“1898. Ancient history, Qui. Ancient history.”
“Ancient history to you Americans maybe. Not to us. Everyone’s invaded us and claimed rights here they were not entitled to. The French, the Spaniards, you Americans.”
JZ nodded. She did not have to go into details about U.S. ships establishing a blockade in Santiago’s harbor where they trapped the Spanish fleet in this very bay. The siege here ended abruptly when a desperate and ill-conceived attempt to escape resulted in the annihilation of the fleet, followed by the surrender of the city.
“Isn’t this where Fidel began his revolution?” JZ asked.
“Yes, he attacked Batista’s army garrison here.”
“The army garrison, yes.”
“Now it’s a retreat for high government officials. A place to play away from everyone’s eyes.”
Qui and JZ watched Luis’s crew expertly dock the Sanabela with barely a bump.
“Where to from here?” asked JZ of Qui as they walked into the pilothouse.
Qui grabbed the lock from its hiding place and replied with a shrug. “Like you, I’m a foreigner now. Never been here before. First, let’s buy some clothes. Second, I want a bath, a long relaxing bath. Third, food, no more fish!”
“Perhaps we should draft Estrada as our guide?”
“My cousin, Rita, a widow now, makes and sells clothes for the festivals,” Luis told them. “She’ll have something you can wear, both of you.”
“OK, that takes care of clothes. How about a roof over our heads and some food?”
“Rita will find us places to stay.”
“Can she be trusted?” Qui asked.
“She’s family.” Estrada smiled and added, “Real family, blood ties.”
“Good enough for me. Let’s go.” JZ responded, hungry for anything but fish, and ready to burn his clothes.
Jotting a note, Estrada handed it to Qui, saying, “Here’s Rita’s address. Put yourself in her hands. Tell her we’re family.”
“Are you sure, Uncle?”
“What? That we’re family? Of course we are!” He grinned at her.
Qui wondered if she’d ever learn the truth of their relationship.
“My men, see them?” Estrada said, pointing at his crew leaving the boat, “they go to celebrate Carnival. I need to be with them. Keep them outta trouble. They’re my other children.”
“All right. Go, go. We’ll be fine. We’ll see you in the morning at Rita’s. Tomorrow, the basilica.”
31
With the help of the taxi driver, Qui and JZ located Rita’s place, where they found her to be a bubbly, friendly person who, on learning that Luis had sent them, could not do enough for them. “Luis’s family is my family too!” she declared. “You are the niece he talks of when he visits, Tomaso Aguilera’s daughter.”
Amazed Luis’d mentioned her, Qui thought perhaps they were related after all. “Does he come here often?”
Rita laughed in a warm inviting way, “Carnival every year, he comes to visit. But come, let’s find you clothes before you shower and eat.”
They wandered her shop as she brought out ornate beautiful festival clothes from the back; clothes intended for sale only to tourists. The money likely supported her more than her meager government salary. Qui idly wondered if she received benefits as a widow. Not one to interfere with how people chose to support themselves as long as no one was hurt and laws were not too openly flaunted, Qui admired Rita’s skill as a seamstress. The clothes were lightweight, appropriate for both the heat and Carnival.
After collecting several outfits, Rita asked her visitors to follow as she climbed stairs to her private residence. “You’ve come at a good time. My older sister finally found a man to marry her, and they are off on honeymoon visiting relatives in the hills. They’ll be celebrating Carnival in their own private way this year!” She chuckled. “They have an apartment here that I’ll prepare for you. It’s small, but enough for two.”
JZ offered what little money he had left, but Rita refused his offer. “Family takes care of family.” This aspect of Cuban life continually surprised JZ. For people with so little, they were generous and welcoming even to a stranger.
Directing them to separate bathrooms, Rita warned, “Do not use too much pressure or we’ll run out of hot water. Tonight, you go enjoy the Carnival, then come back. Carnival goes all night and day, as you can hear.” She waved toward the open windows. “I’ll make us food. Fish?”
“Oh, anything but fish! All we’ve eaten for days is fish. I think I’ve grown scales on my back!” said Qui laughing.
“Pork and morros with tomatoes from the garden.”
Qui’s mouth began watering in anticipation. “You have a garden here?”
“Not me, my daughter. She brings fresh vegetables. Now, go shower for dinner and Carnival!”
Above the sound of the water, Qui heard Rita singing, her voice a rich sultry contralto as warm and welcoming as the woman herself. Qui smiled, now knowing the real reason Luis came back each year was more than just the Carnival de Santiago. It’d been a long time on the fishing trawler without a place to properly bathe, so Qui thoroughly enjoyed washing the salt and smell of the sea from her hair and skin.
Having showered and changed into cool clothing, Qui and JZ savored a brief meal on the windswept veranda until Rita shooed them out into the night to enjoy the festival.
Feeling relatively safe so far from Havana, with those seeking their deaths believing them at the bottom of the sea, the pair enjoyed their evening of music, frivolity, dance, and rum. Awash in the sound of musical groups, the sight of parading locals with giant brightly-colored masks, and dancers wearing lavish costumes, JZ shouted over the street party.
“It’s like something out of Shakespeare’s
Mid-Summer’s Night Dream
.” Qui’s eyes sparkled at the array of colors and sights.
Qui and JZ were soon swept into the delirious ecstatic dancing that followed the parades, and JZ finally got his wish to dance with Qui. With the entire city partying around them, the evening took on a romantic, magical feel that infused the couple with childlike delight.
Exhausted by midnight, they arrived back at their temporary quarters. Rita had not exaggerated: the rooms were small with brightly painted walls covered with posters and photographs. The curtains and bed linens competed with the walls for brightness in a wild melee of riotous color. JZ stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the sight. It was as if Carnival continued inside the room.
Smiling, Qui asked, “Too much local color?”
Nodding, JZ laughed allowing her to guide him into the room. Pulling her to him in a hug, he said, “Another wonderful evening you’ve given me.” Not letting her pull away, he tipped up her chin upward and passionately kissed her.
Qui lingered a moment in his arms, savoring the kiss, then pulled away. “It’s the magic of Santiago. I’ve always heard Carnival was magical. Tonight’s proved it. So different from Havana’s carnival, where we just watch.”
“So how many miles do you suppose we danced the conga?”
“According to my feet, too many! Liliana would love this; we’ve got to bring her next year.”
Noticing the “we” in her comment, JZ wondered at the Freudian slip. “We? Hmmm… Is that some sorta invitation?”
Qui colored and turned away, pretending an interest in the passing parade outside the open window.
“JZ… There is no “we” and can’t be.”
JZ laughed at her unintended rhyme and joked, “But there can’t be no ‘can’t be’s in love, don’t-cha sees?”
At that, staring at one another, they burst into laughter.