THE ASHEN HOUR
At the ashen hour, that peculiar time of the day when night hasn’t fallen yet but you can’t see the edge of things, when the whole world seems to have gone underwater, my mother sometimes came to me. It wasn’t a dream, for I kept my eyes open the whole time, nor a childhood fantasy. It was a betwixt and between state, a rip in the fabric of reality, the glimpse of a mirage.
I remember one evening when the house felt quieter and emptier than usual. The blue glare of the television was the only light in the living room. I tiptoed outside and sat in the backyard under a mango tree while Mamina, my grandmother, busied herself in the kitchen. She was making congrí—black beans and rice, cooked together, with cumin and tiny pieces of bacon. I smelled fried chicken too (fried in lard, of course!) and my mouth watered.
I was getting hungry but soon forgot about the food. My mother approached quietly, her feet not quite touching the gravel path. I looked up and knew instantly that it was her, though I could not remember her face.
“¡Mamá!”
She knelt by my side and caressed my hair. A smell of roses engulfed me. I waited for her to explain those years of absence, to apologize and say that she loved me. But Mamina’s voice always broke the spell.
“Merceditas, where are you?”
My mother never came. The ghost of my nine-year-old self stayed under the tree, waiting for her.
CHAPTER ONE
January 29th, 1986
Dear Rob,
Yesterday, I had the privilege of meeting Fidel. He visited the army unit where Joaquín works and went around inspecting the headquarters, mingling with everybody and shaking hands. Yes, El Comandante is so close to his people! And he had minimal security. A Barbados delegation had come with him, and I was asked to be their interpreter. A great honor indeed, but I got nervous and fumbled my words so many times that Fidel ended up talking to them directly. (His English is much better than my Spanish.) He was very gracious about it. Today’s paper ran a photo of the visit, which I’m enclosing. You’ll see me close to El Caballo. “The Horse” is one of many nicknames people use for Fidel, some more respectful than others.
THE LONG-LEGGED BLONDE CROSSED the street toward a house with the name VILLA SANTA MARTA displayed in wrought-iron letters over the gate. Her chin-length bob framed a slightly square pretty face. She wore blue jeans and a tie-dye T-shirt. Two men who lingered outside the grocery store broke off a discussion of the Industriales team batting average to observe her. Three women interrupted their dissection of a friend’s divorce to watch her as well. All eyes followed the blonde as she walked through Villa Santa Marta’s front yard and until the house’s heavy door closed behind her.
“Who’s that chick?” asked the oldest woman, her nose high in the air like a hound picking up a fresh scent. “First time I’ve seen her.”
“Joaquín’s new girlfriend,” another woman answered officiously. “She’s been living here for a week.”
“Eh! What about Berta?”
“That’s over, chica. But this one . . . she doesn’t look Cuban, does she?”
“She looks Russian.”
“That would be right down Joaquín’s alley,” a guy spoke up.
Everyone nodded.
Inside the house, the blonde stood under a blue pendant lamp in the middle of a huge living room. The faded grandeur of the place still impressed her as it had the first day. She approached an upright piano and played the first chords of “London Bridge.”
Though the piano needed tuning, it had a rich, warm sound. There was a blue vase on top, next to the portrait of a dark-haired woman with a pearl necklace. The frame, heavy and ornate, looked like tarnished silver. The wall behind the piano was covered in paintings. The landscapes of marinas and countryside scenes didn’t impress the blonde, but she examined the portraits trying to discover a resemblance between their faces and Joaquín’s. If there was any, it eluded her.
Through the picture window, she saw people waiting in line across the street—the same people who had stared at her when she passed them. Her new neighbors. In due time she would join them at the grocery store queue, and they would get to know her.
She smiled and two dimples appeared on her cheeks. How fast things had moved! Less than a month ago she had been a guest at Hotel Colina in El Vedado, thinking of the handsome lieutenant who
had swept her off her feet after the Triumph of the Revolution parade on January first, but not believing that their relationship (if you could call it a relationship) had any future. After all, she was an American—a “Yankee,” as they said here—who had come to Havana for eight days. But the days had turned into weeks. And the weeks would turn, hopefully, into months, and the months into years . . .
She remembered the first time she had locked eyes with Joaquín. He was still wearing his full-dress uniform and approached her as she wandered near Revolution Square, having just watched the parade. He had approached her and said something she didn’t understand—her Spanish wasn’t that good, and there was a lot of noise with so many people around. But she instinctively knew it was something sweet and smiled at him. Later, he had offered her a ride in his jeep. When they said goodbye at the Hotel Colina entrance, he had kissed her hand. He had returned the following day with a big bouquet of roses and invited her to Coppelia, the ice cream parlor that was only a few blocks away.
“If you could just stay . . .” he had said over a chocolate sundae, taking her hands in his.
At first it sounded absurd, but as days passed, she realized she was falling in love with him. As for staying, why not? She could start a new life here, seeing that she wasn’t too happy with the one she had led at home. When the day she was supposed to leave came, she simply tore up the return ticket. Joaquín had taken her to his house and promised to move heaven and earth so they could be together.
Oh, Rob, the friend who had invited her to Cuba, had been so horrified! He was part of a San Diego–based anti-embargo group called Compañeros de Cuba and had always wanted to visit the island. When he found out that it was possible to fly from Tijuana and skip the State Department’s lengthy permit process to travel to a communist country, he planned to spend the winter break in Havana. “They don’t celebrate Christmas, so it’ll be a different kind of holiday,” he had said. She had decided to go with him on a whim, and look where it had taken her! But when she announced her intention to stay, Rob had been beside himself: This is crazy! I can’t go back home without you. What are your parents going to say? She shrugged. Some people simply didn’t get it. And Rob wasn’t in love, was he? Of course he wouldn’t understand, but he had sworn eternal silence. She knew that he would never betray her.
She had promised him to write every week. That morning she had started a letter about her amazing meeting with Castro. Well, the meeting hadn’t turned out too amazing after all. Actually, it had been quite embarrassing. But still. Rob would appreciate the story.
She walked through
the dining room and stopped to peer inside the china cabinet. It wasn’t locked, but she didn’t feel comfortable opening it. She admired from afar the porcelain dishes with golden rims and the baccarat wine glasses. A fifteen-branch chandelier with a solid bronze ring hung from a detailed, decorated chain. Tarnished as it was, the lamp looked stunning and cast a soft glow over a dovetail oak table long enough to sit twelve people. The matching chairs had curved legs. Despite the beautiful furniture, the room wasn’t inviting. It was too big and had no natural light.
The phone rang. It took her a while to locate it on a marble-top credenza that occupied a corner of the living room. The phone had a rotary dial. On the gray circle in the middle, a number, now illegible, had been scrawled in black ink. She lifted the heavy handset.
“Hello.”
“How are you doing, Sarita?”
It was comforting to hear Joaquín’s voice, though she winced at being called Sarita. The ending -ita meant “little,” which didn’t fit her, at almost six feet tall. She preferred when he used Spanish pet names like mi amor and corazón.
“Fine.” She thought of saying she had been snooping around but didn’t. “Are you coming home soon?”
“No, I’m sorry. I have a meeting at six but will get there before seven, I promise. I’ll take the jeep. Is everything okay?”
“Oh, yes. I took a nice walk around the neighborhood.”
“That’s great. See you soon, mi amor. I just didn’t want you to get concerned.”
They said their goodbyes, and Sarah studied the handset before putting it back in the cradle. Everything in the house was ancient, likely made before she was born, but she found a special kind of beauty in those items from bygone times.
The kitchen, located at the other end of the building, was the most hospitable area. Big, like all the other rooms, but not oppressively so. It was painted white, farmhouse style, with granite countertops. The breakfast nook was furnished with a solid-wood scallop-edged square table, also white with a hint of gray, and four chairs with chunky legs. A green capsule Frigidaire purred in a corner. The countertops were granite, not Formica like in her parents’ house. The place reminded Sarah of her grandmother Pauline’s kitchen and made her feel at ease.
Had her grandma been alive, Sarah would have told her about her Cuban adventure. Instinctively, she touched the locket with Pauline’s picture that hung from a chain around her neck. Her grandma would have approved. Her parents, sadly, wouldn’t. How mad they would be if they found out . . . They had monitored her constantly during the last few months, and she was now worried about them. Or rather, worried about them
worrying about her. She had given them so much trouble lately, more so after her involvement with the Sanctuary movement. But it was trouble for a good cause, she reminded herself, even if they didn’t see it that way.
She drank a glass of water and ate the leftovers of the previous night’s supper—rice, beans and fried tilapia. A salad would have been a good addition, but she didn’t know where to find vegetables, which weren’t sold at the bodega across the street. Still hungry, she ate two slices of bread with butter.
An old cuckoo clock read 3:55. Three more hours until Joaquín came back! Sarah looked for something to do, but she had cleaned the house the day before. Supper—rice and beans again—was ready on the stove. She would make two omelets later. She stepped out to the backyard.
Villa Santa Marta (a fancy-schmancy name, she thought) was nothing if not massive. The backyard looked like a neighborhood park, with mango trees, a stone fountain crowned by a statue of the Greek goddess Athena and rustic benches scattered around. It didn’t have any lights, though, which made it a scary place at night. Fortunately, a tall wrought-iron fence surrounded Villa Santa Marta, and Joaquín had assured her that Miramar was a safe neighborhood. Nearby was a smaller square building that was also part of the property. It stood like a lonely sentry between nothing and nowhere.
Sarah walked under the trees, but soon felt tired and sleepy. She had been up since 6 A.M., when Joaquín had left for work. She returned to the house and crossed the somber dining room toward the marble staircase. Joaquín’s family must have had a lot of money, she had assumed, but it felt intrusive to ask.
She was halfway up the stairs when a current of cold air engulfed her. She tried to remember if she had left a window open on the second floor. Then her right foot slipped, her ankle twisted and she fell down as if someone had pushed her. ...
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