Happy That It's Not True (24 page)

              “What’s wrong Cara?” Priscilla said. 

              “Matt Schultz is the guy I wanted to see,” Cara said.

              Sheryl held her glass with both hands to calm her attempt at public speaking.  “And so I asked him if he would marry me—and can you believe—he said no?”

              There were groans of disappointment.  Cara and Priscilla looked at each other with a mutual feeling of hopefulness.

              “But then—just five minutes ago—he said yes!”

              The people cheered loudly and Cara closed her eyes.  “I’m not having a good day—can we go?”

              As Cara turned around she noticed Matt standing not far behind her, sharing the same look of heartbreak. 

              The sharp sound of Sheryl’s amplified voice startled them.  “Matt would you come up here, Hun?”

              Matt tore his eyes away from Cara and pensively made his way through the crowd to accept his betrothment.

              “That was him?” Priscilla asked.

              “Yeah—that was him.”

              “Tell me I’m imagining things—but it sure seemed like there was something between you two.”

              “I think I’m going to be sick.”

              As Priscilla escorted Cara out of the pavilion, Matt’s unintelligible voice could be heard along with clapping and laughter.  The Latin percussion once again resonated as if following and mocking Cara.

              “Please don’t be embarrassed—I totally understand,” said Priscilla.

              “Well, I guess that’s it—they’re getting married,” Cara said consoling herself with a smile.

              “That’s just how life is.”

              “At least you get to see me suffer a little after what I put you through with Diego.”

              “Oh—Cara—no—don’t say that.  Wanna grab a bite?”

              “Not hungry, but I’ll tag along.”

...

              Priscilla savored the soft crust of a tuna melt as Cara sipped on a soda, sharing a booth at a quiet diner.  Cara took the opportunity to carefully study Priscilla’s face—silently speculating on how Diego could’ve walked away from her beauty. 

              “Sure you don’t want to order something?” Priscilla said. 

              “No thanks.”

              “All right—so what’s the deal with Diego—is he gay or something?”

              “I’m sorry—at the time, I had no idea he was in love with someone.”

              “Huh—and he didn’t even try to pursue all the options.  Glad someone was decent enough not to waste my time.”

              “Like that guy you told me about?”

              “Let’s not talk about him.  As for Diego—he’s a good guy. I got angry at him though.”

              “A-aw.”

              “It’s just that we were really hitting it off—did you see that drawing he did of me?”

              “No, I didn’t.”  Cara’s eyes glinted with surprise.

              “He’s very talented.  He wanted to give it to me—as a gift.  I was mad and told him to keep it—now I wish I’d kept it.”

              “I’ll sketch you sometime.”

              “You’re an artist?”

              “Yeah—I like to draw.”             

              “What a talented family.  So who’s Diego in love with?”

              “A co-worker—she’s got problems.  I guess Diego is waiting for the right time.

              “She Asian?”

              “Yeah.”

              “Diego has good taste,” Priscilla laughed.

              “I met her.  She’s really nice—she wants to help me with my education.”

              “So tell me, why did you have that meltdown at work today?”

              “Oh, I just hate people invading my privacy—my stepfather once came into the bathroom while I was taking a shower—that’ll probably creep me out for the rest of my life.  Being videotaped at my old job—I feel like big brother is always watching.  Sorry to bother you with all this.”  

              “Glad you can confide in me.  I guess I can sort of be your shrink.  I’m a programmer—I have to debug stuff all the time.  Every system needs to be debugged.  I wonder what’s more complicated—computers or people—probably people—right?”

              “I guess.  I’m glad you came tonight.  I probably won’t be your coworker for long.  I’m gonna look for another job.  I’ll be starting school in the fall.”

              “I’m gonna miss you,”

              “I’ll miss you too.”

Chapter Twenty Six

            
 
Late in the evening, Octavio was reading from an anthology of poetry.  It was the large paperback with scraggy edges that he had kept from his junior college days.  He remembered his professor once telling the class that when a person reads poetry, they should be so moved as to faint.  Octavio had never even felt close to experiencing such appreciation of art or loss of consciousness.  For many years, he had read the book, hoping that one day the poetry would speak to him. 

              Alex was a much better student.  Octavio envisioned him finishing college and going much further.  Octavio remembered the time that Alex tried to explain the first law of thermodynamics, that energy could not be destroyed.  He postulated that consciousness was energy, and when we die, it also could not be destroyed.  Yes, Alex was very smart, but poetry?  Maybe that was Cara’s dominion.  She was in touch with her emotions.  Perhaps her life was made of perpetual fainting.

              Octavio read about the Ancient Mariner and the sailors who had been trapped by the Doldrums: 

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean. 

              The words reminded him of his life in Afghanistan, precarious surroundings painting a spiritual rut.  And inevitably, his thoughts turned to his own father, the old naval officer, the ancient mariner of his life, the one people had referred to as El Viejo—the old man. 

              He remembered what El Viejo had once told him—that hell was circular—that they had designed it that way.  It was hard to believe that there was a worse place to be than Afghanistan, but his father was proof that a worse hell actually existed.  Afghanistan was merely a beautiful country with beautiful people that happened to be at war.  But El Viejo’s account of the Presidio Modelo in the Isla de Pinos, the second largest of the Cuban islands, had left him forever an optimist, grateful that his suffering in this life would be limited.

On this island, in the 1960’s, THESE THINGS WERE TRUE:

There were windows in the underworld with a view of paradise—a tropical sanctuary caressed by poetic mountains and the scent of salty sea air by which one could almost allow the heart to be conquered, if one could only smell past the stench of human bodies—bodies that produced a sweat that was no longer fluid but something dry and grotesque, a humiliation to Cubans who treasured bathing and personal hygiene. 

Outside—a spiritual sanctuary—the bright blue canopy of sky, pine forests and pastures.   And not far away, the black sand of Bibijagua, a cruel seduction to those trapped within the dark circle, unable to enjoy truths, rhythms and renewal—save for the times they were taken out to work in the fields, to be beaten by men with clubs, to be gashed by bayonets.  Pale hapless prisoners could look out their windows to see a beautiful world that—like a Chinese garden—invited the soul to have its deepest desires fulfilled.

There could be no escape from unseen, all-knowing eyes in a panoptical building, only the plain realization that one is naked before the turret.  Each of the four rondels had one—a weak source of light during dark and deadly nights filled with the sounds of executions. 

The guard tower was like a silent and abusive giant whose stare caused inevitable delirium, and after the unimaginable years—the psychological effects of the column standing in the center of the round building had severely damaged El Viejo’s spirit.  The human heart craves a certain amount of privacy—secrets—and fears above all else the prospect of madness.

Like a domed coliseum, five floors of humanity were forced into small-overcrowded filthy cells with insect drenched bunk beds and overflowing toilets.  There were one hundred cells on each floor with iron bars framing the view of paradise as well as the sight of rifle barrels emerging from slits in the tower.     

Many of the coughing, malnourished prisoners slept on cold floors where water dripped from leaks in the wooden conical roofs.  Fainting spells from life threatening low blood pressure were common, the result of their squalor.  The subhuman conditions and contaminated food and water at the prison caused a bacterial infection that had been eating away at El Viejo’s stomach.  His pain was as infinite as the boundaries of the soul and confirmed that God was distant and needed to be summoned.  El Viejo welcomed death and cried out to God and sometimes to San Lázaro, to intercede on his behalf. 

After days of vomiting blood, the prison guards decided to allow El Viejo medical attention.  His bleeding ulcer required the removal of half his stomach.  This was done without anesthesia.  He bit on a filthy pillow during the operation to cope with an even more horrendous agony.  His screaming seemed part of a symphony of sounds—sounds which included thousands of inmates singing hymns in unison while guards mercilessly beat them and fired their weapons at them.  The killing, tortures and dehumanization—the pain of a razor tearing at his stomach, made El Viejo want to call for an end to this world.

Sometime after his operation, it was decided that El Viejo would not have to serve the remainder of his thirty-year sentence.  He would be free.  Free to come to the United States to be with his exiled family.  Free to heal as much as life would permit.  Free to be Octavio’s father.  Yet freedom does surprisingly little to rescue the souls of men tormented by emotional suffering.   And as the medieval poet who journeyed into the underworld once correctly observed, the sun is hard to see behind the mountain.

As a child, Octavio expected his father to scream every night in his sleep.  He grew up knowing a father who never laughed or smiled.  One day, as a teenager, Octavio went to visit his father in the hospital and was startled by the emptiness in his eyes, the panic and terror.  After what El Viejo had experienced in the Presidio Modelo, was it only a matter of time until he would lose his sanity?  Had El Viejo experienced the six months in the gaveta?—the rectangle of death—or La Ratonera?  A few days later he died.  The doctors said that there was nothing physically wrong with him, except that he was depressed.

Octavio understood that his depression was different from his father’s, but also that it was the result of psychological trauma.  Hopefully, Cara and Alex would not inherit such a cruel despair.  Perhaps every generation would know less pain.  Octavio could leave this world, satisfied, believing it might be true.

...

              The next day there was another ambush.  Beyond the wrinkled red earth, mortars were being launched from the mountains.  A long convoy of pickup trucks waited on the road—ANA soldiers outside their vehicles, taking cover behind the tires as Taliban shot at them.  The rapid crackling of rifle fire and rockets raining upon them were answered by the machine guns of those who fought back from behind their trucks, many with the audacity to stand upright.

              Octavio shouted, hoping his English would be understood by the young men that could sometimes be seen smiling and laughing in the exchange of war.  “We have to deliberately draw fire, so we can pinpoint where they are!” 

              Between the whizzing of projectiles that flew past, he heard the angry drone of a rocket-propelled grenade.  The grave sounds told him that this was unlike the many daily attacks, the situation had become critical—they were outnumbered and being smothered by the enemy. 

              “You like Afghanistan?” asked an ANA soldier.

              Octavio smirked and noticed other marines laying down mortars two trucks away, Underwood frantically shouting, “Right there!  Right there!  Right there!  Yeah that’s it!  No-no!  Where are you aiming?”

              “I don’t know!” shouted another Marine.

              “Figure that out before you aim, dumbass.”

              “Well, that’s comforting,” Octavio said.  “Should’ve known this would get bad when we saw the villagers leaving the area—always a sign that the Taliban are moving in.”

              Bullets were screeching closer, making tearing sounds through the air.  Octavio also fired his weapon at an enemy he couldn’t see.  They should be here soon—how long ago did we call in the air strike? Octavio wondered.  He turned to the ANA soldier nearest him.  “How can your guys fight while they’re stoned on hash?”