Ruins (13 page)

The Canadian poked his head from the back through the two front seats. “Hello,” he said, slow and nasally enough that everyone understood. The neon-green strings coiled around his ears.

“What the fuck are you doing, old man?” Yoandry said, not paying attention to the Canadian and grabbing Usnavy by the shirt.

“Nothing,” he responded, respectfully eyeing the hammy fist the boy had laid on him as well as the one that he was twirling in the air. Yoandry smelled so strongly of cigarettes that it overwhelmed the salt from the ocean.

“Just driving, like good citizens,” a flustered Diosdado answered for them, smiling nervously, his voice cracking. “We’re showing our friend here the beautiful beaches of our country.” He pointed to Burt, who was now sitting up, but slanting forward in such a way as to hide behind the driver’s seat and keep his girlfriend from seeing him.

Yoandry leaned in to look more closely at the foreigner and gasped. “Oh god,” he said.

Burt grinned, embarrassed. “Sí, sí,” he mumbled, managing to sound alien even in that simple syllable.

“You know him too?” a flabbergasted Diosdado asked.

“He’s my sister’s boyfriend,” said Yoandry, disgusted. He let go of Usnavy but left his other meaty fist up on the windowsill for all to see. “What the hell is going on?”

“Ah, so you’re her brother? How wonderful!” Diosdado chirped with another one of his patently false smiles, his voice unnaturally bright and cheery. “Burt here wanted to surprise your sister with his visit! Burt,” he said, gesturing for the Canadian to straighten up, to get out of the car even. He signaled toward the girl. “It’s her, yes, your love!”

Burt grinned like a fool, addressing Yoandry, who surprised Usnavy by responding in English—it was fractured, he could tell, it was all twisted metals, but it was English nonetheless and obviously functional.

“Okay,” said Burt to whatever it was Yoandry had told him. “Okay,” he said again, then yanked the door handle and, waving at his excited lover back at the beach house, struggled out of the car and dashed toward her. He had managed to produce a box of Belgian chocolates out of thin air that he now had tucked under his arm.

Diosdado leaned back in his seat, relieved. “Usnavy, let’s park the car, let’s stretch our legs, please.”

Usnavy ignored him, turning to Yoandry instead, who was still standing in the middle of the otherwise deserted road: “Is your sister being true to him?”

“What?” The boy grabbed him again, this time practically pulling him out the car window.

“Usnavy! That’s none of your goddamn business!” said a horrified Diosdado. Then, after a quick glance at Yoandry’s fists: “Besides, of course—look at that girl! The picture of fidelity!”

But Usnavy was undaunted. He imagined them—him and the boy—as African warthogs, capable of killing even lions with their tusks, but convinced that in a fight among themselves there would only be shoving and snorting.

“Let go of me,” he said, forcefully shaking the boy off and grabbing his wrist. “I asked for a reason, and it’s not because I think your sister’s a whore.”

“You’d better let go—and you’d better talk fast, old man,” Yoandry cautioned, pulling his arm back and aiming his fist even as Usnavy held on to the other.

“That foreigner, you know what he was paying us for? To watch your sister, that’s what. So here’s my advice: Whether he has a reason to worry is not my concern. But make sure that whatever is going on, he doesn’t have a reason to think he should be concerned. Follow me?”

He wanted to add something about Yoandry’s dishonesty at the lamp shop the other day, about the way he’d tried to trick him because of his ignorance, but instead, he let go of the boy’s wrist. In this particular situation, he knew whose side he was on: Yoandry’s sister, after all, was Cuban.

Diosdado held his breath.

Yoandry stared off at the foreigner, now on the steps of the beach house, making his case to his sister and offering her chocolate, piece by piece. He pondered for what seemed an eternity. “Okay,” he finally said, lowering his fist. “I hear what you’re saying, old man.”

Then the boy pirouetted as if he were one of those herculean Russian ballet stars who no longer came to the island, and headed back to where the Canadian and the girl were hugging and kissing, celebrating their reunion.

Because Burt kept the Daewoo with him at the beach to drive his girl around, Usnavy and Diosdado were forced to walk back to Havana—a long, mostly silent march. The sky was a glorious red and purple behind them, the sea a bottomless blue that looked almost black, like the rich feline grays and purples on Usnavy’s magnificent lamp at home. There was barely any traffic, and what few vehicles chugged by were jammed with other, earlier riders. Usnavy, his foot on fire, kicked at a small rock, which skipped ahead of him.

“Why’d you do that, huh?” Diosdado whispered, meaning not his friend’s clumsy play but the way he had confronted Yoandry. Diosdado was tired, the skin on his face sagged, his goatee like a prickly cactus.

Usnavy shrugged. There was no way he could explain, not to Diosdado, not now.

“I don’t know, I really don’t know.”

After the confrontation, a guileless Burt had paid them, Diosdado thirty dollars for coordinating the day, Usnavy twenty for driving. The single bill was folded in half in Usnavy’s pants pocket. He had expected to feel excitement, a rush of hope—anything—if he ever made that much money, but instead he felt a strange, almost aching void in his chest.

“It just wasn’t necessary,” Diosdado said. He was practically gasping as they went up a hill.

Usnavy nodded and looked off toward the horizon, searching for paratroopers. There is not one other country in the world, he thought, that lives like we do: always looking over our shoulders, wondering if the black dot in the sky is an enemy plane or a bird. And the worst part was that if the invasion were here, on the northern shores of Cuba instead of in Haiti, he knew too well that there would be more than a few locals who would look over their shoulders as well, but mostly to see when they could feel free to cheer, when they could let loose with cries of hallelujah and hurrays.

“Do you ever think about Africa?” Usnavy asked suddenly.

“Africa?”

“Yeah, Africa.”

Diosdado shook his head. “Can’t say that I do.”

“I do,” confessed Usnavy, “all the time.”

“You mean Angola?”

“No, no,” said Usnavy, who had wanted to volunteer for that struggle but was kept from doing so because of his flat feet and back pain. “I mean, Africa—its vastness. Maybe it’s because I’m part Jamaican, I don’t know. I think about its destiny.”

Diosdado said nothing.

“It’s a curse, really,” Usnavy continued. “Maybe the plagues, the famines—sometimes I wonder whether all that isn’t the price of having once participated in selling its own sons and daughters.”

Diosdado shook his head and kept walking.

After a while, they could see the outline of the city, a smoky crown on the water. Usnavy kicked at a small rock again, but this time his shoe caught on something and the sole flipped open, his toes caked, wiggling like greasy maggots. The dried blood from the blister was black.

Diosdado chuckled. His own shoes were a gift from his child, a pair of Reeboks that hugged his ankles and kept him steady. “My …” He glanced up at the city, with its huge swatches of absolute night from the government-imposed blackouts. “My son … you know, well, now … Reina … she—I’m still getting used to it—I’m not sure at all how I feel about any of this, you can’t imagine, really … He’s coming for a visit.”

Usnavy swallowed hard. He knew better than to touch or even look at Diosdado now. He kept walking, putting one aching foot in front of the other, regardless of how unwieldy it was with the sole that now flip-flopped as he advanced.

“Well, that’s good,” he finally said.

“We’ll see.” Diosdado arched his eyebrows.

They were almost home.

“I really wish I had my bike,” Usnavy lamented, sighing.

“Yes, yes,” said Diosdado, putting his arm around his friend’s shoulders.

IV.

T
he next morning, a depressed Usnavy
tossed about on his crackling, leaf-thin mattress. Rather than lay in the dark, he’d turned on his lamp, its vivid colors spilling into the room, washing over him. Yet today there wasn’t much comfort in the light: Instead of heat from the reds and imperial gold, he felt only the icy stare of the purples and whites. The feline eyes seemed to indict him in some way. Usnavy was strewn on his stomach, away from the lamp, resting his head in the folds of his arms. He hadn’t shaved in two days and his face was stubbly, his armpits rancid.

Earlier, he’d heard the bustle of Nena readying for school, and Lidia carefully tiptoeing around him as she helped their daughter. But when he finally lifted his lids, thinking Nena would be gone and he and Lidia might finally talk, he discovered he was by himself in the darkness. Quickly, he turned on the magnificent lamp, as if hoping its beam would reveal Lidia’s warm, doughy body hiding under a pillow or safely curled on the bed. But the light came cold this time, remote as a Saharan night.

When he looked up, he realized some of the lamp panels were dirty again and, grabbing his special silk cloth, rushed to polish them. On a few, a layer of moisture had turned the fresh dust from the hole in the ceiling into a sticky grime and Usnavy had to do some serious scrubbing.

When he and Lidia had first gotten together she told him he reminded her of Aladdin, rubbing on his lamp. But he couldn’t see it at all—Aladdin’s lamp had been an oil can, nothing more, and this was a piece of art, no matter its provenance.

Besides, it had never occurred to him in the past to wish for anything. As he buffed, being especially careful around the loose panels, he thought of everything that he had been wishing for lately—including his still fervent desire to accidentally bump up against Mr. Tiffany’s signature somewhere on his lamp—and replaced it all with a yearning for reconciliation with Lidia, for peace with Nena, for Obdulio’s safety so far away, for understanding between Diosdado and Reynaldo; as an aside, he wished for a box of Belgian chocolates. Then, as if unable to shake a newly acquired virus, he asked for a good pair of bikes to buy and, yes, for more dollars.

Usnavy stopped polishing.

His eyes stinging, he stepped from Nena and Lidia’s bed to his own without letting his bare feet touch the floor (which looked wet anyway, although this could have been the screen of tears in his eyes) and lowered himself slowly to his ratty, newspaper-lined mattress. Then he cradled his head in his tired arms and sobbed.

Usnavy was lolling on the bed, his face streaked, when he heard a knock at the door.

If my anguish were weight, it would be heavier than the sand of all our beaches
, he thought.
Where, now, is my strength? I have lost all my resourcefulness
.

The knocking continued.

“What?” he shouted, his voice hoarse. As if an echo, his stomach rumbled. He felt his guts twisting, pushing between the lining of his belly and the bed sheet.

“Usnavy?”

He flipped over. “Who is it?”

“It’s Yoandry, and Burt—from yesterday.”

What could they want? Usnavy asked himself, annoyed. He was thinking about not answering further, or telling them he was busy, when he suddenly realized they might be there to hire him as a driver again. Forgetting all his ambivalence, Usnavy leapt from the bed, his naked feet splashing into the cold puddle on the floor.

“Just a minute,” he called out, cringing because of the water on his naked soles. He looked up for the leak but couldn’t see anything through the light.

As he pulled on his crumpled and smelly clothes, he fingered the crisp twenty-dollar bill folded into his pocket. Looking around, he flipped the switch to turn off the lamp’s bright beacon. In a flash, the tiny room went black, muted blues and pinks exploded in front of his eyes, and he leaned against the wall, famished, waiting a moment until the dizziness passed. Then he cracked open the door a tiny sliver, trying not to gaze directly into the brilliant blaze of day outside.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the blank presence of the two men—Usnavy couldn’t see them yet, his eyes still adjusting, “I was sleeping. What can I do for you?”

The two men looked like white globs, barely discernible from the sunlight. There was a movement among them, a slow-motion gesture of some sort, the sound coming from them like a dying tape recording.

“I told Burt about your broken lamp,” said Yoandry. He was puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette that dribbled not just ashes but tobacco. As he spoke, he exhaled and used his fingers to extract bits of leaf from his tongue. “I think he might be willing to pay more than five dollars for it.”

Usnavy said nothing. He was hiding behind the door, comparing the stink of his own body to the cloud of nicotine Yoandry always carried with him.

“You know, we could both make money off it … I’d get, you know, a commission,” the boy said, but he was clearly anxious.

Just then a happy Burt said something and reached over to pat Usnavy’s shoulder. The old man jerked involuntarily—just like Diosdado had done the day before—which startled the tall Canadian, causing him to back off and apologize. Usnavy understood
Soh-ree
.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you?” Yoandry asked, showing his gritted teeth. He leaned in close to him, rolled up his fists automatically. His pimply face was a huge yellow moon. “Don’t you realize this guy could mean a steady business for us?” But as soon as the boy got a whiff of Usnavy, he stepped back a bit and gasped for the less fetid air outside.

Usnavy shook his head, still trying to get his bearings.

“He’s an antiques dealer—you understand? He runs a store with your friend’s daughter’s fiancé—talk about lucky breaks, huh? Don’t ruin it for us, old man, this could be good for all of us. Now where’s the lamp? He doesn’t even care if it’s broken.”

“I don’t want to give him a broken lamp!” protested Usnavy.

To everyone’s astonishment, Yoandry aimed his shoulder at the door, but Usnavy was able to hold him back, pushing with his whole, tired body. Still, the boy managed a foot or two into Usnavy’s room. “Holy shit—what’s that?” he exclaimed, gazing upward. The magnificent lamp hung frozen and black above the bed.

“That’s none of your business,” said Usnavy, pushing the boy.

Yoandry turned and said something to the Canadian, who was all scared now. Usnavy could see him coming into view: Burt gaped dumb-founded at the magnificent lamp then made a nervous motion with his hand as if to say
Okay
.

“Listen, he doesn’t care if the little lamp’s broken,” Yoandry insisted, turning to Usnavy. “And he’ll buy that thing too,” he added, pointing at the black dome behind Usnavy’s shoulder. “Do you understand? He doesn’t care. He’ll pay us dollars, real dollars, enough for both of us—we’ll split it evenly—for the little one, and god knows what for that atrocity.”

Usnavy arched his eyebrows. “Your commission is the same as my fee? You’re kidding me, right?”

The boy whirled his eyes, surveying the woeful tenement, then smugly aimed them back at Usnavy. “How else are you going to get any dollars at all, old man?”

Usnavy stiffened. “How else are you going to get anything that easy, huh?”

With that, he pushed the door even harder against Yoandry’s shoulder, surprising himself by driving the muscle boy out of the room. As Yoandry pounded on the locked door and called his name, Usnavy felt around the darkness for his cot and threw himself on it. He thought his skull might explode from the pressure of so much hunger.

Usnavy’s stomach was acting as if it were filled with snakes, all of them coiling, swallowing, strangling each other. The magnificent lamp was not for sale. The magnificent lamp was his own peculiar patrimony; it was all he’d ever had.

He reached over and pulled open the door of the small fridge, feeling its cool mist on his forearm and the gold of its tiny light. Maybe there was a bit of rice. He felt around without looking, then realized his fingers were knuckle deep in some kind of creamy liquid.

Usnavy sat up, his hand dripping on the floor and on his bed, and peered into the icebox. There, in plain sight, was a small blanket cut in pieces, marinating in a muddy sauce. It was the only thing in the entire fridge but for a domino-sized pat of margarine and two plastic bottles of soda, both filled with boiled water.

Disgusted and appalled, Usnavy slammed the door shut. The fridge rocked against the wall and let loose a blue spark. Had Lidia deliberately fed their daughter this … this
abomination
? Or had that cunning Rosita tricked her? Lidia, Usnavy knew, was a trusting soul. But still … Lidia had to know what was in her own refrigerator! She must have fallen under Rosita’s spell, he determined, and imagined himself twisting Rosita’s neck.

Usnavy wiped his hand on his dirty pants, then licked his fingers to get the last of it. It was good, he reluctantly admitted, his stomach looping. It was damn good … He sucked his hand clean and sat on the edge of the bed.

What to do?

He abruptly yanked open the door of the fridge and pulled out the pot with the blanket. He would not eat the blanket—he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He would do this as cleanly, as stealthily, as a Maasai warrior sucking on a bull’s jugular. He tipped the pot and sipped at its edge, drinking in the brown sauce. It had onions and tomatoes and maybe a bit of cumin. It was thick and tasty, with a hint of real beef. But then the blanket pushed up against his lips as he tilted the pot to get at the gravy and he grabbed it with his teeth, pulling and slurping to absorb as much of the nourishment as he could. He could feel the sauce messily trickling down his chin and neck; he was a hysterical hyena feasting.

After a frenzied moment, an agitated Usnavy regained his composure and shoved the pot into the fridge, the chewed end of a blanket remnant draped over its side. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d sprinted the length of the Malecón. He wiped his mouth with his forearm in one long, defeated gesture. He needed water; he needed a torrent to wash him away.

He turned on the light and went scavenging for clean clothes in his drawer. He had a couple of extra pairs of pants, and both were laundered and ironed along with a few T-shirts and regular shirts, all neatly folded next to his clean underwear in the drawer. Lidia, it seemed, must have forgiven him.

But to his dismay, the books piled next to the drawers under the bed were like sponges, watermarks crisscrossing their sides. After so many days of leaks and puddles, still no one had moved them. It was too late to save them now: Usnavy knew the covers would peel the minute he tried to separate them.

With the taste of the blanket lingering on his tongue, Usnavy grabbed what he needed, including his toothbrush, razor, and a plastic bottle filled with the last of the water from his barrel. He headed out across the courtyard to the communal shower, the twenty-dollar bill still hidden in his pocket. When he got there he found the drain stuffed up, and Chachi using bent metal hangers to pull out inky globs of sticky hair that looked like a mammoth black squid.

“This is gonna be awhile, compañero,” Chachi said, barely glancing up at Usnavy. The frothy piles of hair sputtered on the floor next to him, rising and falling as if they were breathing on their own.

Usnavy’s stomach turned ever so slowly. He looked over at the line of waiting people, everyone carrying their own modest toiletries and bottles or buckets of water. A couple of women worked at crossword puzzles in rolled-up magazines.

“The last one?” Usnavy called out. An elderly woman raised her hand and Usnavy nodded at her in acknowledgment. “I’ve got to lie down or I’ll throw up,” he admitted. “Is it okay with everybody if I go to my room and wait there?” The line muttered indifferently.

Usnavy trudged across the courtyard, the bottle sloshing the water around under his arm, his clothes draped over the other. He tried to imagine himself far away from Tejadillo, a fierce hunting dog among sleek Herero heroes relaxing in the hot springs between the mountains and Windhoek.

Usnavy had just reached his room when Jacinto came up behind him. “Usnavy, old man,” he said, a little breathlessly, “can you help me?”

“What’s the matter?”

“I need some food. For my mother. Anything.”

As the grocer, Usnavy was used to people asking for food, for scraps, but Jacinto … never. Usnavy looked him over quickly, just enough to appreciate that all his usual swagger had dissipated. Before him was a once handsome russet-skinned man, his nappy hair like rotted cotton, his eyes wandering in an inner galaxy like satellites torn loose from their orbits.

“Are you okay?” Usnavy asked.

“My mother’s gonna die, Usnavy,” he said wearily. “I thought maybe … you might have something extra from the bodega, anything really. Whatever.”

Usnavy hesitated. He had an awful, awful thought. “I … I have something … some meat, maybe,” he finally said. “Just a minute.”

He went inside and grabbed the pot from the fridge, covering it with his dirty shirt so nobody could see. They crossed the bustling tenement without a word, as people looked up from their card tournaments, board games, and other luckless entertainments, eyeing them suspiciously but not asking any questions.

Inside Jacinto’s room, there was only a single, tiny bulb in a lamp covered by a silk shade with fringes. It shone white, like an oracle. The air in the room was pungent with the claustrophobic smell of disease. Jacinto had inexplicably put up wooden posts—like the kind crews contrived when buildings were unstable. Usnavy wanted to tell him this was a bit much on his part, that there were those invisible giants who held up the city, but just then he heard the even but fragile breathing of his friend’s mother. Where was she?

A clothesline stretched across the room on which Jacinto had improvised something of a curtain with a frayed sheet. Behind it was a bed on which the old woman lay, still as soapstone. Usnavy felt sorry for her immediately: Shrunken, her bedclothes loose and damp about her, her dried up breasts testified to the many lives she’d nurtured.