Havana Noir (33 page)

She continued: “The hours of forced labor were abusive. Everyone worked in agriculture or as domestics, with a miserable salary of five pesos a month, two sets of tops and pants, a blanket, and two pairs of rope and rubber sandals. The diet consisted of rice, cornmeal, dried beef, codfish, and a few tubers. Those who worked in the countryside lived in barracks where they slept in hammocks made of rope and hemp. It seems crazy, but it feels like we’re going back to those times. In the days of our pilgrim ancestors, the labor contracts were for ten years and then you could go back to your birthplace, if that’s what you wanted, so long as you could pay the passage. But our compatriots didn’t leave. They chose to stay on in Cuban land and make this our home. Sometimes I ask myself how it’s possible, after nearly two centuries of such hard work and sacrifice, that new slave masters could arise like this to displace us again.”

She went on: “The ancestors who came from Amoy, Canton, Shanghai, and Manila created strong communities, well-organized, which preserved our symbols and our religion, always obeying and respecting Cuban laws and customs. They also enthusiastically set about to learn all manner of trade and honorable work, and in due time they greatly improved their economic fortunes. By the end of the 1850s, there were Chinese-owned businesses in Havana: restaurants, laundromats, grocery stores, fruit and vegetable stands, ice cream shops, and small lots for cultivation by the riverside.

“Everything was achieved with long hours of sacrifice. The Chinese work day isn’t like that of Westerners. To this you add a tenacious management style that has always allowed us to save for the future. Another thing that has always characterized us,” she explained, and Mamá paused and looked me directly in the eyes, “is our loyalty and respect for others. In the long struggle for Cuban independence, we Chinese threw ourselves into the fight with vigor and valor alongside the liberation army. General Máximo Gómez, talking about our people, once said, ‘There’s never been a Chinese traitor, or deserter, in the Cuban army.’ And as a sign of appreciation of our courage and fidelity, a park was built in the capital to honor Chinese veterans.”

At this point, Mamá paused again and pointed to the fortlike Torreón, its impenetrable stone walls.

“Loyalty, my son, is very important. Unfortunately, your father’s expedition was betrayed.”

So there it was…finally. It had taken a lot for her to tell me, and she’d certainly danced around it for a long time, but the moment had come to reveal the truth: There was a traitor among our people.

“In every ethnicity, although it’s not common among ours, there are greedy and unscrupulous people who envy other people’s achievements and riches, and this causes them to commit terrible acts. Your father was a prosperous merchant and I, so it seems, an attractive woman. There was no lack of envy in our community. Do you understand me?”

She looked at me and I smiled.

Then she caressed my shoulders with her hand and we walked back to the house. We moved without hurry, enjoying the evening, the views, the strange and black emptiness of the neighborhood, the moon. Mamá was quiet until we reached the front door of one of our neighbors.

“Isn’t this Mr. Lin’s house?”

That’s all she said, and that’s all I needed. She gave me a knowing look and I answered by nodding and smiling again.

Captain Correa returned to Cojímar the next day. Since he’d practically moved in with us (Mamá made sure he was comfortable), he now told my mother his problems. The trip to Havana had been disciplinary. They’d asked for him so they could reprimand him because of the disappearance of some of his men. What was going on in Cojímar? How was it possible that a guy like Captain Correa—revolutionary hero and all that—was letting this happen with his troops? Poor guy, he was so disconcerted about the scolding, I felt bad for him…But there were also some things my mother had put in my head that I wanted to confirm. Papá had been a jeweler. When the Communists impounded his business, he managed to hide two bags full of diamonds and other gems. Mr. Lin, like all the others trying to escape, knew these details and was the only one who, on the agreed upon day, did not show up at the port at the appointed time.

“Your father was a prosperous merchant,” my mother had said, “and I, so it seems, an attractive woman. There was no lack of envy in our community…”

Two days later, they found Mr. Lin’s head at the foot of El Torreón, his tongue cut out. All of Cojímar headed to the port to see it. I went with my mother, and while everyone else whispered and gossiped, I studied my mother’s face and the movement of the militia men with feigned indifference. Standing there, checking out everything, I had the feeling the circle was finally closing. If I wanted to take the final revenge for what had been done to my father, I needed to up the ante. Captain Correa would begin to put the pieces together soon…

That night, he came to our house but he didn’t get drunk, although he did have his usual tumble with my mother. After she pretended to fall asleep, Pirigua got up, and thinking I was in my room, he moved toward the patio, which was quite large and had guava, mango, and anon trees that my father had planted. I tiptoed after him. The door to the patio was in the kitchen, and to get there we had to cross an open-air vestibule; the moonlight fell on his wide back and his tangled black hair. He was actually quite a strong man—at another time he might have intimidated me. But so much time shoveling dirt and carrying that wagon from one place to another had hardened my extremities to such an extent that when I flexed, you could see my muscles moving. I knew I could beat him if I had to because, more than brute strength, I had accumulated so much rage that Captain Correa, or even ten of him, could not possibly stop me.

Pirigua crossed the vestibule, passed by the dining room, and arrived at the kitchen. Ours was colonial, much longer than it was wide, and from where I was I could see him struggling with the back door. He opened the lock then went out to the patio. When I got to the kitchen, I stopped to grab a long butcher’s knife. With weapon in hand, I looked out the window and saw Captain Correa heading down the stone steps, past the outhouse and sink, and straight for the guava tree. He knelt and started to dig at the earth with his hands. So my suspicions were dead on: Papá’s jewels had been returned.

I came up to him without him hearing me. He was breathing heavily and had dug quite a bit already. He had powerful hands and he moved them well, excavating large chunks of dirt. When I thought it right, I let him know I was there. He was so terrified that he gasped and stood up in one single movement.

“What the…?”

“Just a little foolish Chinese boy,” I said, then plunged the knife deep into his belly.

“Aaaaggghhh!”

I grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled up with all my might. I practically lifted him off the ground.

“Just a little Chinese faggot,” I said, and I helped him down, feeling his blood and viscera ooze through my hands.

After he died, I cut him in pieces and went to get the shovel and wagon. From the very same hole Pirigua had been digging, I shoveled the dirt onto the bloody load that Captain Correa—great revolutionary hero and my father’s killer, jewel thief and oppressor of women, dirty Communist s.o.b.—had become. I mixed the flesh and the dirt and pushed the loaded wagon out the back door of the patio.

Armed with an icy calm, I went down Real Street until I got to the foot of El Torreón. If anybody saw me, they did nothing to stop me; as I’ve said, everyone in Cojímar was already used to my comings and goings at all hours with the wagon full of dirt, and no one paid any attention anymore to the Wong boy, that effeminate fool who just smiled stupidly whenever anyone insulted him or laughed at him.

I went to my private cemetery near the port. One by one, I unearthed the heads of all those among Captain Correa’s men who’d disappeared. I buried Pirigua’s remains with the others, and with the seven heads in my possession, I headed back to El Torreón. I was exhausted but satisfied.

Oh, revenge can be so sweet!

I set the heads out like they’d done with my father and his friends. I sat down in the center of the circle of rotting heads and waited until dawn. At first light, they found me. Someone sounded the alarm, and when the first militiamen showed up, I stood up and put the knife to my own throat.

“For my father!” I screamed as loudly as I could before the stupefled crowd so that they would know exactly what was going on.

But they didn’t let me kill myself. They shot me three times: once in each knee, another in my chest. They fell on me like a herd of rabid dogs, but I fainted.

Now I’m being held in this windowless cell where the rats are eating me alive; but I don’t mind. There’s not much time left. My mother didn’t survive my imprisonment; she poisoned herself as soon as she heard the news of my capture and realized our settling of scores was complete.

Translation by Achy Obejas

ABIKÚ
¹

BY
Y
OHAMNA
D
EPESTRE

Alamar

I
’m the assassin. I did it for a bit more space on the floor tiles, 845.1 centimeters to be exact, not just the lousy seven tiles where my bed stood. Yeah, even though seven’s supposed to be a lucky number.

Everybody else had a bigger slice, although not equal in size. My miserable little seven tiles didn’t provoke anything; no one even had an opinion about them.

My mother was the number one accumulator of space. Her territory extended from the biggest bedroom to the bathroom, kitchen, balcony, and then stopped there, at the very foot of my bed. All that measured exactly 372.5 centimeters of tile space. And 372.5 centimeters of tiles entitled her to:

1. Walk by with the excuse of needing to go to the bathroom whenever the owner of the seven tiles was making love with her husband so she could peek at his thing.

2. Say:
Wrap it up or you’re screwed
.

3. Stick her nose in every single discussion because she believes the owner of the seven tiles is useless.

4. Ask where everybody’s at all the time.

I killed her, she didn’t let me think.

The second one was my brother-in-law. His territory extended from the smallest bedroom all the way to the couch, which he usurped during the heatwaves, because as a paying tenant he thought he was first in line. All that measured exactly 225.6 centimeters of tile space. And 225.6 centimeters entitled him to:

1. Stare suggestively at the owner of the seven tiles.

2. Bring undesirable friends over and act like a clown.

3. Shout to the world that he has more buying power than the owner of the seven tiles.

4. Listen in whenever seven tiles made love.

I killed him, he didn’t let me think.

The third one, my sister. Her territory was in the same room, but as a wife and homemaker her territory extended 191.0 centimeters, which was enough. And 191.0 centimeters entitled her to:

1. Have complete authority over the TV, the radio, and to scream at everyone about everything.

2. Hang clothes out to dry in the best spot on the balcony.

3. Demand that the owner of the seven tiles’ bed be made by 5 in the morning, because the brother-in-law has company and the bed can be seen from the living room.

4. Play Parcheesi until 1 in the morning.

I killed her and ripped out her daughter’s tongue, because she screamed too much at bath time. Who could think with all the racket?

I could stack up my humble seven-tiles entitlement in one tiny little corner. And seven tiles entitled me to:

1. Sleep (whenever possible) and shut up.

2. Shut up and eat.

3. Scream at my husband, since he had only 0.0 centimeters of tiles.

And 0.0 centimeters of tiles entitled him to:

1. Put up with everything and anything.

2. Snitch.

3. Keep 845.1 centimeters of tile, plus my seven, of course.

I have my territory marked out like a sacred animal. My pee and shit ooze out from my seven tiles and beyond my cell, past the bars. The guard tells me it stinks in here, that it’s impossible to eat. I keep an eye on him. His foot falls on a mark I made with my own hands.

Translation by Achy Obejas

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

A
LEX
A
BELLA
is an EMMY-nominated TV reporter and screenwriter. His experiences in the world of law and law enforcement inspired him to write a legal thriller,
The Killing of the Saints
, a
New York Times
Notable Book. Abella’s latest work,
Shadow Enemies
, is a nonfiction account of the plot by Adolf Hitler to unleash a wave of terror in the United States. He was born in Havana and now lives with his wife and children in the suburbs of Los Angeles.

A
RTURO
A
RANGO
is a novelist, essayist, and screenwriter. He is the author of two short story collections and his novels include
Una Lección de Anatomía, El Libro de la Realidad,
and
Muerte de Nadie.
Since 1996 he has been managing editor of
La Gaceta de Cuba
, arguably the island’s most influential cultural magazine. He is also a screenwriting professor at the International Film School in San Antonio de los Baños, Cuba. He resides in Cojímar, a suburb of Havana.

L
EA
A
SCHKENAS
is the author of
Es Cuba: Life and Love on an Illegal Island.
She has written about travel, literature, and life at large for the
Washington Post, San Francisco Chronicle, Los Angeles Times,
and
Salon.com
. She is also included in the books
The Best Women’s Travel Writing 2006, Travelers’ Tales Central America,Travelers’ Tales Cuba, The Unsavvy Traveler, Two in the Wild,
and
Beside the Sleeping Maiden: Poets of Marin
. In 2000, she lived in Havana for more than ten months.

M
OISÉS
A
SÍS
is the author of fourteen books, including
Cuban Miami,
coauthored with Robert M. Levine, and many articles on scientific and social subjects, including Judaism. He won several national prizes in literature and science in Cuba, and he is a graduate from the University of Havana, the Open International University for Complementary Medicines, and Florida International University. He was born in Havana and lives in Miami.

A
RNALDO
C
ORREA
is one of the founding fathers of Cuban noir. A mining engineer by training, he is the author of two highly praised novels published in English by Akashic Books,
Spy’s Fate
and
Cold Havana Ground.
He lives in Havana.

M
ABEL
C
UESTA
is the author of the books
Confesiones On Line
and
Cuaderno de la Fiancée,
both published in Cuba. Her stories and essays have appeared in magazines in Cuba, Spain, Brazil, Mexico, Honduras, and the United States. She lives in New York.

Y
OHAMNA
D
EPESTRE
is the author of the prose collection
D-21,
and her writing is included in a number of anthologies published in Cuba and Puerto Rico. She is also the principal storyteller for Ommi-Zona Franca, a hip-hop performance group. She lives in Alamar, Cuba.

M
ICHEL
E
NCINOSA
F
Ú
received a degree in English Language and Literature from the University of Havana; he is a member of the Saíz Brothers Association and the Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba. His books include
Sol Negro, Niños de Neón, Veredas,
and
Dioses de Neon.
His work is included in anthologies published in Argentina, Spain, Mexico, Brazil, the United States, and Cuba. He has been honored for his writing in Cuba and abroad. He lives in Havana.

M
YLENE
F
ERNÁNDEZ
P
INTADO
has a law degree from the University of Havana and has worked as a legal consultant and editorial coordinator at the Instituto Cubano del Arte e Industria Cinematográficos. Her first book of stories,
Anhedonia
, won the 1986 David Prize in Cuba. Her first novel,
Otras Plegarias Atendidas
, received the Calvino Prize in 2002 and the Cuban Critics’ Award in 2003. She lives in Havana and Ticino, Switzerland.

C
AROLINA
G
ARCÍA-AGUILERA
is the author of eight books, the first six of which are a series featuring Lupe Solano, a Cuban-American private investigator who lives and works in Miami. García-Aguilera, a private investigator herself, has been the recipient of many literary awards, including the Shamus and the Flamingo. She was born in Havana and lives in Miami.