Ruins Page 7

  “In fact, Tiffany didn’t come up with the idea of the lamps at all,” said the sparkly man, looking over at Yoandry for confirmation.

  The boy had obviously heard the story many times. “That’s right,” he said, nodding vigorously. He could have been in the congregation of some visiting evangelist preacher from Harlem or Atlanta, shouting amens.

  Amazingly enough, the sparkly man claimed the stained-glass lamps were actually his own grandfather’s idea. “He worked for Tiffany as a gaffer, a glass blower,” he explained, gesturing as if he were exhaling into a long pipe. “And one day, bored, he took some of the discarded glass from other projects and he made a lamp with an exceptional shade. Electricity was coming into vogue then, it was a big deal. The shades had to be different than before, with the old oil lamps. They had to be opaque. People say it was Thomas Edison who gave Tiffany the idea for the lamps, but it wasn’t, it was my grandfather. And then Tiffany stole the idea.”

  “So your grandfather was American?” Usnavy asked, not paying strict attention, distracted by his own concerns, remembering the ongoing exodus in Cojímar and wondering then why the sparkly man was still in Cuba. With an American relative, he could probably claim U.S. citizenship. Even if there were still people like Mayito, who could resist his wife’s entreaties from the U.S., what some people wouldn’t give for that!

  “American? No, no—he was an immigrant to New York, an Italian glass blower from Murano who was hauled in to save Tiffany’s fortunes when things got rough,” the man said with a laugh.

  “And a Jew,” added Yoandry, rubbing his fingers together as if bill after bill were going through them.

  The sparkly man chuckled. “This is important only because—I don’t know if you know—glass blowing is an old Jewish art.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Usnavy, uneasy. He was now feeling totally trapped by the sparkly man and Yoandry, a reluctant audience to their story—a show he sensed he was not fully understanding, or perhaps worse, wasn’t meant to understand. “So you’re Jewish … Italian then …?”

  “I’m Cuban,” the sparkly man said with a thump to his chest. “My grandfather and his entire immigrant crafts guild came to Cuba when Tiffany was hired to do the interior design for the Presidential Palace in the 1920s. I was born here, right here in Havana.”

  “You mean Mr. Tiffany worked on the Museum of the Revolution?” Usnavy asked, appalled. “But there’s no stained-glass there.”

  The sparkly man and the clerk looked at each other for a suspended second then burst into laughter.

  “Not now there isn’t!” exclaimed Yoandry, his face wide and red from the hilarity.

  Usnavy stood up; he’d had enough.

  “Don’t be offended, compañero, we’re just laughing at life’s absurdities, not at you,” the sparkly man said and gently touched Usnavy’s elbow. “Forgive us, we lost our manners. I wanted you to understand why I know a little about lamps. You see, it’s in my blood.”

  Usnavy noticed the guy’s hands were long and tapered, his nails shiny and healthy, the fingertips full of razor-thin scars. His fingerprints—the map of his hand—must change all the time, thought Usnavy.

  That evening, Usnavy was late for his domino game. First, he had to rush to the bodega to store the injured lamp. There was no room in the tenement on Tejadillo, and besides, he didn’t want to tell Lidia and Nena that he’d gotten it by rummaging in the trash, like their awful neighbors; he didn’t want to relive that terrible moment when he’d told them the bike was stolen because of his carelessness and he’d caught the two of them looking at each other knowingly, worriedly.

  At the bodega, his coworkers looked at him and the lamp askance and asked if he was all right. Conscience-stricken, Usnavy just muttered and lowered his eyes and hurried out again. He raced home for a dinner of salty white rice under the lustrous light of the magnificent one (the signature—damn it, he’d look for it later, when he had time) before making his way over to the comfort of the game and his friends.

  “How I wish I had my bike,” he complained under his breath as he moved along. The blister on his foot was growing, now a bubble of delicate skin that grazed the shoe’s leather and caused him to wince with each step.

  Even under normal circumstances, when it came to walking, Usnavy was not a typical Cuban. Most Cubans loved to stroll, to saunter about as if an actual destination were a second thought. But he hated walking, hated getting lost in the crowds, hated the way the air hung on him, sticky and hot. On foot everything took longer, especially now that the government was allowing artists and craftspeople to gather in certain parks in Old Havana and on the Malecón. People spilled onto the streets without regard, treating the sidewalks as storefronts or vitrines, showcasing their meager fruits, cheap watches, and spare parts (the rusted pedal from a sewing machine, for example, or the handle from a meat grinder). With the heat and humidity gripping him, Usnavy considered every gesture an exhausting struggle, as if he were living in slow motion.

  “Guapón!” Frank yelled, pointing at his watch.

  Usnavy was out of breath. He’d had to fight the crowds milling at the bus stops, as well as a bread line at a nearby shop, plus all the usual hustlers. The blister, he knew without looking, had burst; his skin was raw down there.

  On his bike he could have avoided all of this. Since cars had practically disappeared because of the lack of fuel, on a bike the streets were now like thoroughfares. How he missed cruising downhill on his Flying Pigeon—how he yearned to glide on the open roads, the wind in his hair. (He never thought about driving a car, never imagined himself free behind the wheel, never longed for it at all.)

  “What’s the matter with you? This, now that we need you?” Frank said in mock reprimand. Frank loved to jab, loved to poke; most of the time, he didn’t mean to hurt anybody, but sometimes he plain relished making people squirm, whether from pain or embarrassment; it was as if he couldn’t tell the difference.

  Usnavy threw himself down at the domino table, gasping like he never did when he rode. Why did his lungs prefer one mode so clearly over the other? Under the table, he discreetly pulled his foot out of his shoe, resting it on top, letting the burst blister breathe.

  Without Obdulio, there were just four of them now, the exact number required to play. Sure, they could have had anybody else join in—in fact, it was perfectly common for neighbors to drop by the game to watch or ask in, and when one of the friends wanted a break, they’d let somebody else play (usually Oscar Luis, a former geologist turned cab driver who lived nearby). But by having the fifth man be one of their own—Usnavy—the friends had always kept complete control of the game. If somebody they didn’t like showed up, they stalled. An extra man could make the wait last forever. Conversely, an extra man could pressure a stranger out of the game faster, if he got in at all.

  The guys who watched regularly—the sapos, as they were affectionately called—all knew the rules, nobody had to tell them, and part of the entertainment value of the game resided precisely in how the friends dealt with strangers who showed up unexpectedly. That was grist for the best stories to tell later, at home to the wife or lover, at work the next day, or even later, right there on Montserrate, when the looming stars allowed the tale to go however it needed.

  Yoandry, the sparkly man, and their Tiffany tales had nothing on these guys, thought Usnavy, who loved going home and regaling Lidia with accounts harvested at the domino games.

  “All right, you and Mayito,” Frank ordered Usnavy. They were each, in their own way, dealing with Obdulio’s absence. In Frank it manifested in a gruffer than usual style, his eyes floating, averting contact with everybody.

  “Ah, c’mon, give me a break,” Mayito protested, speaking unexpectedly. “No offense, Usnavy, you’re my brother but you’re salao, man. These days you lose every single time. The thing with the doubles the other day—that was the topper.”

  “I’m not salao,” Usnavy said, “not anymore.” How could he explain? It w
ould be easier to decipher the mystery of the rock-hewn churches at Lalibela, where angels were said to have worked side by side with African artisans.

  “What do you mean not anymore?” asked Frank, leaning back, a grin erupting on his big rubbery Anthony Quinn face.

  “I mean … Look, I just know I’m not salao anymore, okay?” No one would understand—especially these guys, who believed in nothing. But in his soul Usnavy knew that, in spite of everything, that broken lamp would bring him luck. It had to. It had hit him on the way home from Lámparas Cubanas: Now that Obdulio had left, things were so horrible, there was no other way to go. It was a matter of time.

  “Okay,” Frank replied, “whatever you say, guapo.” He winked at Diosdado, who ignored him. “Let’s try out your new luck.”

  Just then a group of foreign tourists sidled up to the game, smiling and nodding. The sapos stepped back with a sudden meekness, parting so that the tourists had a ringside view. Frank reclined and smirked, his cigar held extravagantly between his teeth. One of the foreign women ran up and posed, her flushed face above his shoulders while Frank leaned back, macho and sure, and another tourist took a picture, its unnecessary flash blinding everyone. Mayito squinted and rubbed his eyes. Usnavy thought he was going to be sick, the flickering light stirring the acids in his nearly empty belly.

  A second woman—quite possibly the guide—then put her hands on Diosdado’s shoulders (an unexpected, disturbing familiarity), prepping to model for the photographer.

  But, to everyone’s surprise, Diosdado shook her off. “No,” he said firmly, looking at her over his bifocals, his eyes like simmering coal. “No,” he said again, but the tourists argued with him in English.

  Frank tried to negotiate. “C’mon, what can it hurt?” he said to his friend, shrugging.

  But Diosdado remained firm: “No, I said no.”

  “But why not?” Frank pushed. “You afraid of ’em, is that it? Are you an Indian or something and think they’re going to steal your image, or what?”

  “Frank, leave him alone,” muttered Mayito.

  “Why do I have to explain myself?” Diosdado demanded.

  All the while, the tourists pressed, snapping away at the dominos on the table, at Frank acting tough, at the guys from the neighborhood, with their ragged pride and awkward postures. Finally, one of the tourists defiantly focused his lens on Diosdado and teased with the possibility of shooting him against his will.

  Diosdado again raised his eyes above the rim of his glasses. “You guys are just going to go along with this, aren’t you?” he said to the sapos. “Why? Because they’re foreigners? So what?”

  Usnavy laughed but he was on Diosdado’s side. He remembered the American missionary and his Cuban converts down by the cathedral and, without thinking at all, started to clap, first slowly, then more feverishly. And then the sapos—the autistic kid the loudest of all—followed, their rhythm full of spite, pushing the tourists away from the table, crowding them out until the only camera shot they would have had was of the Cubans’ backs.

  Frank, however, did not clap. Long after the tourists walked away, he sat there darkly, his eyes fixed on Diosdado. As Mayito noisily stirred the dominoes to begin the game, Usnavy realized Frank wasn’t going to let the incident go. In the meantime, Diosdado leaned back from the table, his broad brow furrowed, unusually intense behind his blurry bifocals. It seemed to Usnavy that Frank and Diosdado had always been going at it.

  “Anybody hear from Obdulio?” Frank asked, his cigar going up and down in his mouth. The way he asked indicated to Usnavy that the question was rhetorical, that somehow Frank had already managed to find out—in just a few days—how it was going for Obdulio in his new life in Miami. Diosdado squirmed in his seat.

  “He made it, no? I mean, that’s what I heard at the bodega,” said Usnavy, too eagerly, then saw right away that he had inadvertently played into the set-up. Initially, he had been relieved to hear that Obdulio had arrived safely but then he had gotten all tangled up: He really wanted to wish him well though he was sad, hurt, flustered, maybe—to his horror—even a little jealous that, suddenly, Obdulio no longer shared the same worries. No doubt Obdulio wouldn’t be worried about what his family would have to eat.

  “Yeah, all the way to Key West—no problem at all,” said Frank as he selected his dominos one by one from the scrambled pieces. “Got picked up at the beach by his brother, like he’d been on a fishing trip or something ordinary like that.”

  The sapos gave each other quick, knowing looks. Usnavy wondered how many of them were calculating their own odds against the currents of those ninety miles, how many would be up on that rocky beach in Cojímar that very night, testing their buoyancy and courage. Thousands of Cubans like them had already made their way to the Florida shores that summer, joined by almost as many Haitians fleeing their own island—in Usnavy’s mind, a place of real nightmares, a wasteland of wanton violence and rampant disease. (He could understand why those people left Haiti, that made sense to him.)

  In recent days, there had been reports that the U.S. was planning to invade Haiti and Usnavy, wary of how expansive the assault might be, had allowed himself at scattered moments to fret about whether they were safe in Cuba, and what might happen if the Americans changed course and dropped on their coasts instead. With so many people leaving, everything was already so uncertain. Who would be left to put up a defense?

  “Felicidades, Obdulio, mi hermano,” a teenage boy called out to their exiled friend as if Obdulio were across the street, down the block, or passing by on a bicycle. “Remember us, don’t forget us—send us something!” He formed his hands into a prayer and laughed, immediately joined by the others in his desire and resignation. Usnavy knew they were dreaming of Belgian chocolates and Schick razors, Motorola radios and Michael Jordan.

  Almost instantly, Usnavy wondered how many of these guys had been involved in those unseemly riots earlier in the month, when hundreds of people had started yelling and fighting with the police on the Malecón. After the first flush of rage, some of the protesters had smashed cars and store windows, looting like rioters in American cities. Usnavy had been appalled. The rabble had been shouting epithets at El Comandante—“Down with the tyranny!”—until The Man himself showed up, stern and strong, and then the chant changed abruptly to vivas and hurrahs.

  “I know Obdulio was going to check in with Reynaldo once he got there,” said Frank. “Diosdado, you heard anything from your son?”

  Usnavy decided to keep as quiet as possible. He could tell Frank was circling Diosdado, intoxicating himself with the very idea of his prey.

  “No,” Diosdado said sharply. “Who starts?” he asked, adjusting his bifocals and staring at his pieces as if each little dot made up a larger picture, like a constellation in the sky, Orion or Pegasus. It was Usnavy and Mayito against the tense partnership between Diosdado and Frank.

  “Did Obdulio have Reynaldo’s phone number?” Frank dogged on. “You gave it to him, didn’t you? I know he was going to ask you for it.” He scrunched up his nose, as if the smell of the blood was already too strong, an ache almost.

  “Are we playing or what?” Diosdado demanded, eyeing Frank over the rim of his glasses. The sapos stiffened at Diosdado’s frosty rejoinder. On the bottom half of his bifocals, his pores looked like moon craters.

  “We’re playing,” Frank said, throwing down a double nine like a dare. He had a huge, malleable grin on his face.

  Mayito quickly followed with a nine-eight and Diosdado tapped the other end with a nine-two. Usnavy dropped a double eight. Mayito’s eyebrows arched instantly.

  “Man, I thought you said your luck had changed—you’re not packed with doubles again, are you? Because if you are, we’re stopping the game right now, got it?” Frank demanded of Usnavy.

  The sapos giggled. Usnavy did too. He actually had a pretty good hand. Frank threw down his piece, followed immediately by Mayito. Then Diosdado made his play, an eight-two on Usnavy’
s double, without a word.

  “No commentary tonight, guapo?” Frank asked.

  “I’m tired,” Usnavy said. “I’ve been running around all day.”

  The spectators muttered among themselves but Usnavy couldn’t tell if it was curiosity or disappointment. He could hear the sloshing of upturned rum bottles, the gurgling of sloppy drinking even this early in the evening.

  “Oh yeah? Tired from what?” Frank asked as he played.

  “Errands, just errands,” Usnavy said.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his friends with knowledge of the injured lamp and Mr. Tiffany. But their whole lives, they’d been the ones with the street smarts, not him. He wanted, for once, to do something that might surprise them, something that could actually earn him respect instead of just affection. Besides, he was still unsure about what he was doing, exactly.

  Somebody handed him a thimble full of coffee and he downed it without thinking. It was strong and black and delicious.

  Mayito placed a piece on the table and Usnavy, glad to be able to play something other than a double, smiled broadly as he took his turn. The coffee’s taste lingered on his tongue and throat.

  “Hey, maybe you’re not salao after all,” said Frank, leaning back, getting into position. The smile expanded even more, stretched until all his other features seemed to disappear behind it. “In fact, when you really think about it, guapo, maybe you were never salao at all. You got all the wonders and benefits of our socialist system, to which you subscribe like the Apostles to Jesus—except, of course, for the traitorous Judas, and maybe Peter too, because you have to wonder, don’t you, if the way he passed down Christ’s teachings was the way Jesus would have liked … I mean, with the church such an avaricious and oppressive institution …”

  There were uh-huhs but also grumblings behind him from the audience, many of whom sported around their necks crucifixes or medallions with saints (right alongside brightly beaded necklaces that connoted other, contradictory beliefs). Their grumblings were less fervor than habit, but in either case Frank’s words were unsettling, like silent lightning before the shattering of thunder.