Читать книгу The Miracle of Saint Lazarus - Uva de Aragón - Страница 10
ОглавлениеDay 2—Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Maria arrived at her home in El Doral eager to cook. That was often the case when she was nervous or worried, but these days—even before Patrick had gone off to college—she seldom ate at home. That’s why she had looked for other ways to alleviate her stress, like going to the gym or having a couple glasses of wine. She glanced in the refrigerator and only found a yogurt, skim milk, some whole wheat bread, turkey, cheese, and some vegetables. The choices in the freezer and pantry weren’t much better. She was about to give up, but she wound up grabbing her wallet and car keys and headed off to the nearest Publix.
A couple hours later, the aroma of sofrito flooded her house. She immediately thought of her mother and smiled, holding back the tears. Even though she knew perfectly well how to make picadillo, she searched for the old cookbook by Nitza Villapol. When she opened it, she found a sheet of paper with a recipe for a spinach quiche in her mother’s unmistakable handwriting.
She sautéed the onion and pepper in the olive oil, threw in a can of tomato sauce and removed it from the stove. Then, just as she was seasoning the ground beef, an uncontrollable fit of crying overcame her. It happened like that at times, coming in waves, like the ones when she used to go to the beach and the sea was rough, and they made her feel like she was drowning. Maybe that was why she didn’t cook that often anymore… The smells unlocked her memories.
She poured herself a glass of Merlot and sat down to relax before finishing the picadillo. In recent years, she had thought a lot about her mother’s life. As the daughter of a physician-professor and a housewife, Maria Cristina Fernandez Oviedo had belonged to Havana’s upper middle class. She had studied at private schools, spent her summers at Varadero, and belonged to one of the most exclusive clubs in the capital. She was fifteen years old and dreamed of becoming a physician, like her father and grandfather, when Fidel Castro took over and her life changed in an instant.
Less than two years later, her parents decided to get her out of Cuba through the Peter Pan program, by which fourteen thousand Cuban children fled the country between 1960 and 1962. When she arrived in Miami, they sent Maria Cristina to a convent in San Antonio along with other children. The Church’s protection didn’t last long because shortly thereafter she turned eighteen—the age at which the program ended. The nuns didn’t throw her out in the street right away. She lived there a few more months until she put together some savings from her work, and she and some of the other girls who were in the same situation were able to rent an apartment. Since that time—except for a few months after Maria was born and until a few months before her death—Maria’s mother had always worked. She never got the chance to study medicine as she had dreamed of doing, but she did complete her nursing degree and became head nurse at the Intensive Care Unit at Baptist Hospital.
Her mother had seldom talked about what she had left behind on the Island. Maria now regretted not having asked her more about her life back in Cuba, especially about her grandfather. Her mother had never gotten the chance to see him again. Two months after she left, he died of a massive heart attack at the age of fifty-seven. Her grandmother joined them by way of one of the Freedom Flights in 1967, when she was only one year old, and since then she had practically raised Maria while her parents studied and worked. When her grandmother passed away in 1987, her mother held her tight and said over and over:
“I’m not going to die yet, I promise… I promise.”
She hadn’t understood her mother’s anguish until now, now that she felt that same sense of desolation, that feeling of being an orphan that came from her absence.
Thank God she still had her father! He had always been her hero, her role model. In recent years, however, she had come to appreciate her mother’s inner strength, her quiet demeanor, and at the same time her tenacity to resolve everything, to forge ahead, to keep the family together, and to instill values.
The buzz of her cell phone brought her back to reality. It was a message from her colleague David, telling her that he was close by if she wanted to go out for a drink. Instead, she invited him to come by and share some picadillo with her, which he gladly accepted.
She immediately put the ground beef into the skillet along with the raisins, olives, wine, and spices over a low heat. She did the same with the rice once the water had boiled. She set the timer for twenty-five minutes and went to take a shower.
When David rang the doorbell thirty minutes later, the table was set and dinner was on the stove. Dressed very plainly, and with her hair up in a ponytail and just a touch of makeup, Maria didn’t look like she was forty-nine. When she glanced at herself in the mirror, right before she opened the door, she thought to herself: I need to lose ten pounds. This damn curse of Cuban women who have such a big ass! And she smiled as she thought about her grandmother, a Spaniard, who used that word much more often than her father would have liked.
David and Maria had started their careers at the same time in the Miami-Dade County Police Department. At one time, they had worked together as a team. In other times, like now, they were at separate stations. Both had been married and divorced. David had two sons, more or less the same age as Patrick. In all the ups and downs of their respective lives, their friendship had never wavered one bit. It was easy for them to talk because they had so much in common. Although David’s father was American, he felt more kinship with his mother’s side and saw himself, like her, as a Cuban American.
“This is the tastiest picadillo I’ve ever eaten in my life. And these plantains!”
“I can’t take any credit for the plantains. They’re from Goya and come frozen.” Maria was pathologically honest.
They chatted for quite some time, she seated on the sofa and David in the armchair. Before long, he got up and sat down beside her. There is something about the body language between a man and a woman that sends a signal. Maria knew that David wanted to make love. She had always denied it, fearing that a romantic relationship might hurt their friendship. He seemed to read her mind:
“The two of us are very alone… We’re very much wedded to our work… Nothing is going to alter our friendship.”
She felt very vulnerable. She knew that they weren’t in love and that it was unwise professionally speaking, but she also knew that David would never hurt her.
When she felt that tingle between her legs that marked the onset of desire, she knew she couldn’t resist any longer, and she let herself be gently pushed toward the adjoining bedroom.
Day 3—Wednesday, November 4, 2015
She was happy that David hadn’t wanted to sleep over. It was one thing to sleep with a man and another to spend the night with him. She couldn’t explain why, but it was different, and she wasn’t ready yet for that next step.
She got dressed quickly and made herself a shake with yogurt, strawberries, and protein powder. She stopped along the way to get her coffee and was at the office before nine in the morning.
She began to go over the list of contacts that Gladys Elena had given her and she decided to begin by calling her mother. The phone rang a few times before a woman’s voice answered, a voice that seemed to belong to someone younger than she had imagined. Maria identified herself and asked when she might be able to meet with her.
“My daughter told me that I could count on you calling me. Look, I’m driving right now. I still work… It would have to be some evening or on a weekend… Does tomorrow after eight o’clock suit you?”
Maria would have preferred to see her that very day but she jotted down the address and assured her that she would be there the next evening.
It took her longer to find the one who had been Raimundo Lazo’s boss, but, once she got a hold of him, he immediately told her that she could see him anytime except between two and four when he took his siesta. She didn’t waste a minute and took off to meet with Joaquin del Roble who lived in The Palace, an assisted living community for the elderly. There were several in the city. Don Joaquin—which is how his name appeared on the list that Gladys had given her—lived in The Palace Royale, located on 1135 SW 84th Street, in the Kendall area. It took Maria twenty-five minutes to get there. She found several tall buildings surrounded by immaculately manicured gardens. The clock showed eleven in the morning when she made her way into the lobby. It was quite beautiful and would have seemed like a luxurious hotel if not for the abundance of the elderly. Some were seated and chatting in groups while others were by themselves, reading or simply sitting idly. A few others were coming and going in all different directions of The Palace Royale, which offered them all types of amenities: a hair salon and barbershop, a business center, an art studio, a theater, a bar, and a wonderful dining room that punctually offered them three meals a day. The ideal way to spend your old age, Maria thought to herself with a certain skepticism since it all seemed a bit depressing despite being clean and somewhat ostentatious.
Don Joaquin was waiting for her to arrive and came up to her before she had barely gotten in the door. He was a man of small stature and, despite the fragility of his advanced years, one could tell that at one time he had been strong and tough. An abundant head of gray hair crowned his ample forehead. His eyes were bright although they’d lost their sparkle. His thin lips formed a smile when he greeted her:
“Detective Duquesne? Joaquin del Roble, a pleasure to meet you,” and he kissed her hand with such elegance that it moved Maria.
“If you’ll follow me, I think we’ll be more comfortable in the library. Almost no one goes there… People don’t read like they used to.”
He walked slowly but with a sure step. She quietly followed him, thinking of her father and how she would never want him to live in a place like this, which besides must cost a fortune.
They sat down in two comfortable armchairs and, just as Don Joaquin had predicted, the room was rather empty.
“So tell me, how can I help you?”
“Well, we’ve recently reopened the case of the accident involving Raimundo Alberto Lazo and his missing daughter, whose body was never found. Her mother believes that she saw her recently and is positive she’s still alive. It’s my understanding that he used to work for you. I know it was years ago, but anything you could possibly remember, no matter how small the detail, might help me. Look, I’ve got a picture of him here and another of the two of you together, in case that helps jog your memory.”
Don Joaquin took a brief glance at the photos. He shut his eyes, as if he wanted to delve deep into his memory and bring his recollections back to life.
“I remember him vividly, and the accident too. Those are difficult things to forget. Let’s see, where to begin…”
“Do you mind if I record our conversation and take notes?”
His blue eyes reflected a deep sadness.
“Go ahead and record. No one cares anymore about the life of an old codger like me, but to tell you about Alberto, I’ll have to tell you my story too.”
Maria made a note of the fact that Gladys referred to him as Ray, but Don Joaquin knew him as Alberto.
“I hope you have a lot of time because it’s a long story.”
“I have all the time in the world, and if you get tired I can come back another day.”
“So, as you have probably noticed, I’m a Spaniard. Well, an American citizen, but that’s just a formality… My father was the mayor of a small town near Zaragoza when the Civil War broke out. I was fourteen, and the war was horrendous. You can’t imagine. My father was a prisoner for two years, and, during that time, he was abused, suffered from starvation, cold, and beatings, saw his friends die, and, in the end, they shot him too. My mother, brother, and I had it hard during those years. I didn’t think she’d ever come out of it. Finally, at the beginning of the 1940s, an uncle of ours, who had taken off to Cuba some time before, managed to get us there. Once in Havana, my mother sewed…or rather, she made hats for high society women. My brother and I were in charge of delivery and collection. I worked more because my brother was a deaf-mute. He passed away some time ago…”
He paused for a second, and sighed before continuing on:
“Anyway, it was hard during those years, and my mother decided to try our luck in New York. My uncle thought we were crazy, but it turned it out well. My mother—who would have imagined it—got married again to a man with an important job, and we were able to get an education. I studied electrical engineering, but I didn’t pursue a career in it, rather I wound up working with technical translations. I got married, but Antonia and I didn’t have any children. The poor thing. That caused her so much pain. Within just a few years, from 1970 to 1979, I lost my mother, stepfather, brother, and Antonia…and I found myself alone. New York was full of memories… Besides, I hated the cold. I sold everything, and I came here to Miami by the end of 1979.”
Listening to his story, Maria was fascinated as she thought about how Cubans always spoke as if they were the only ones who had gone through a national calamity, and how this gentleman’s story was like so many others’.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to recount my whole life. You’re probably wondering what all of this has to do with Alberto, but it was a necessary introduction so that you can understand what happened later.”
Just then, some bells began to ring without stopping.
“It’s lunch time. Around here, Americans eat so early…at twelve. Would you like to stay? They allow me to have guests, but I’ll warn you, the food’s not that great.”
Maria wasn’t too sure. The invitation wasn’t too appealing but she was so interested in his story that she decided to stay. Don Joaquin wasn’t kidding. The fish with boiled potatoes and green beans couldn’t have been more bland. The best part was the bread, the salad, and Jell-O with whipped cream for dessert. Worse still, they shared the table with two old chatterboxes and Mr. del Roble couldn’t continue his story.
“I assume it’s getting close to nap time. If you prefer, I can come back after four o’clock.”
“Wonderful. I’ll meet you back at the same place at four fifteen if that’s ok,” he said as he once again elegantly kissed her hand.
Maria had three hours to kill. Once in the car she looked over her emails on her phone. None of them was important except the one from Dr. Erwin. She opened it anxiously. It said that he had been able to extract DNA from a brush that they had found among the items belonging to Lazo, but that it would take more than two weeks before they had a definitive result. She sent him a reply, thanking him.
She couldn’t decide whether to go over to the nearby shops at Dadeland or head back to the office… She decided instead to go see her father. On the way over, she stopped for a Cuban coffee to go… Papi’s coffee is terrible, she thought to herself affectionately.
Her parents had always lived in the Westchester area, in the southwestern part of the city. It was a middle-class suburb where many Cubans had settled. Recently, there were also a lot of Hispanics from other countries too, so much so that there were hardly any Americans any more.
“Wow, well what a wonderful surprise,” her father said as he greeted her with a sincere smile. She knew he was lonely, and she tried to take care of him the best she could.
The coffee had gotten cold, so her father warmed it up in the microwave, one of the few things in the kitchen he knew how to use. They sat there in silence, enjoying their coffee as well as each other’s company.
She told him a bit about the case, but, without realizing it, she fell asleep in the recliner that her mother always used to sit in, and which despite all the years that had gone by still seemed to smell like her.
She woke up startled, fearing that she had slept through her appointment, but it was ok. She hadn’t slept that long. She had just enough time touch up her hair and makeup and to hug her father goodbye.
Don Joaquin was waiting for her in the foyer. He was wearing a pullover sweater over the shirt he had been wearing that morning. Once they were settled back in the library, and she had turned on her tape recorder, he continued:
“As I was saying, I got to Miami at the end of 1979… I was getting to know the city, considering if I should buy a piece of property and where, deciding what to do with my life, when all that business at the Peruvian Embassy in Cuba took place in April 1980, followed by the Mariel Boatlift. Being Cuban, you no doubt remember it well…”
“Of course.”
“Well, one day I get this call from this young man and he asks me if I’m from Villanueva de Jiloca… I thought it was strange that he knew what town I was from. He also asked about my brother, using his nickname Juancho—which is what we always called Juan—and I could tell he was upset when I told him that he had passed away. He told me his name was Alberto Gonzalez, that he had just arrived from Mariel, and that he needed to see me. He didn’t tell me why. Since I’m usually a bit cautious, I didn’t want to give him my address. I told him I’d meet him at a restaurant, some place where we could have a big lunch. Since he seemed reluctant, I told him I’d treat. He finally told me that he was staying at the camp in Tamiami Park, and he didn’t have a penny to his name and didn’t know how to get around. Even though I wasn’t able to get it out of him why precisely he had called me, and I even imagined the worst, I went over to see him. You can’t imagine my surprise when he told me that he was my brother’s grandson… He told me that Juancho had had a daughter in Cuba and that for a while he used to send some money when he lived up in New York, but they hadn’t heard from Juancho since the sixties. Alberto’s mother was thirty-nine at the time, and he was nineteen. Alberto had taken off because he couldn’t take it any longer. She had given him his grandfather’s name as well as mine. Someone in the camp had helped him look up the numbers in the phone book and, on the third try calling one of the Robles, he came across mine.”
“The truth is the whole thing seemed like a soap opera, but there was something about his features that reminded me of my brother. I also remembered a photo of a young girl that Juancho had in his wallet when he died, and tying up the loose ends and judging by the ages and dates, the whole story seemed to be more and more possible. Besides, the young man had good manners. He seemed sincere. So I made the necessary arrangements, which weren’t many, and I got him out of there and took him to live with me. He turned out to be a godsend until…well…I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”
Don Joaquin kept coughing while he was talking and then explained that he had put on the sweater because he had a bit of a cold and they kept the air conditioning set very cold. After a while he had such a fit of coughing, he couldn’t stop and he turned red. He couldn’t breathe. Maria didn’t know what to do. He took out a piece of candy, clumsily removed the wrapper and, once he started sucking on it, the cough went away little by little.
“Maybe you’ve overdone it today. I’m really interested in your story, a whole lot, but you have to take care of yourself… Maybe I should leave. Do you want me to call someone? Would you like me to accompany you to your room?”
Once he had recovered, he got up and looked at Maria with a mischievous smile.
“How about a drink? That’s the best cure for a cough.”
She was surprised by the English pub-style bar and the elegant music that was coming from the piano. A woman with a pronounced mouth moved her agile fingers over the keys from which one could hear notes from an ample repertoire, ranging from jazz to old boleros.
“She’s really good. I’ll introduce you later on,” Don Joaquin promised, as he noticed Maria watching her intently.
“I always have a Scotch at this time of the day. I take mine neat. What you would like?”
“The same, but on the rocks.”
They sipped their drinks in silence. This “old codger”—as Don Joaquin had referred to himself—stirred up Detective Duquesne’s curiosity, admiration, and a certain sadness that she hoped wasn’t going to turn into pity. It was a feeling that she preferred to reserve for innocent victims of so many crimes.
“So where were we?”
“You had agreed to be the sponsor for Alberto Gonzalez, and you had gotten him out of Tamiami…”
“Oh yes. Well, that led me to buy a small house, but one in a nice neighborhood…they call it West Gables…on Tangier Street. Are you familiar with the area?”
“Of course I am. It’s very nice.”
“While Alberto was studying English, I made arrangements to get a license and start a company selling alarms. In those days there were some incidents involving the boatlift people, or the ‘Marielitos’ as people called them. There weren’t a lot. The majority turned out to be decent people, but simply put, people were scared and there was a lot of demand for alarms. The business took off. Alberto learned very quickly. I thought we should find a lawyer that could help take care of his status in the United States, but that was the only thing that he was never very clear about… He kept telling me that a friend of his had a lawyer who was going to fix everything, and that he had already taken care of the paperwork. The truth is that I should have been more on top of things. I’ve always respected the law. He gave me his social security number. I paid him through the payroll, and I seldom thought about it.”
“Excuse me. The name on the social security, it was Alberto Gonzalez?”
“No. It was Raimundo Lazo. He explained that Raimundo Alberto was his given name and Lazo his maternal name, and that in filling out the forms the Alberto and the Gonzalez names had both somehow been deleted. These things happen in the United States all the time, so I didn’t pay much attention to it.”
Maria felt that her cellphone kept vibrating nonstop. She peeked at it and saw that it was Bill, her ex-husband. Fearful that something might have happened to Patrick, she excused herself and went to the bathroom where it was quieter and she could talk. She was relieved to find out that her son was fine. Bill had called just to complain about the expenses that had piled up with the beginning of Patrick’s second year in college. She let him know abruptly that she was working and that they’d talk later.
When she returned, Don Joaquin was standing and waiting for her.
“They just called for dinner. I would invite you, but eating here twice in one day would be too much of a sacrifice for such a beautiful young woman as you…”
Maria could feel herself blush. Despite his years, Don Joaquin had not forgotten how to flirt with women.
