Cuba blue

32

A visit to Father Pasqual’s church revealed that he was not at the church.

“So where can we find him now?” asked Qui.

The junior priest, an Italian named Chimino, replied, “Undoubtedly in the parade. Fancies himself a ‘man of the people’ with their typical love of partying. Actually, you just missed him. He’d been ahhh…recuperating but-”

“Recuperating?” asked Rita, concerned.

“From last night’s festivities,” Chimino reassured her.

“Oh boy, we’re in for a search now!” Rita exclaimed.

They walked toward the sound of the revelers hoping the Father would be easy for Rita to spot. As they passed the gateway to the Santa Ifigenia Cemetery, dominated by a memorial to Cuban soldiers who’d fought and died in Angola, Qui slowed for a better look.

Noticing this, Rita asked, “Have you seen Marti’s tomb?” Hearing a no, she said, “Let’s look, it’ll only take a few moments.” She led the visitors to the impressive tomb of Cuban national hero, revolutionary, and writer Jose Marti, a crenulated hexagonal tower, each side representing one of Cuba’s six original provinces. The round mausoleum designed so that the sun always shone on Marti’s casket-adorned with the Cuban flag-impressed JZ as much as it did Qui. Rita, who’d explained all this, crossed herself, and stood silent.

Ten minutes later, Rita recognized Father Pasqual in the midst of a weaving conga line. She then rushed ahead of Qui and JZ to drag the priest free of the dancers.

“Rita, why’re you pulling me away? You know how seldom I indulge!”

“It’s important, Father.” She guided him to Qui and JZ where she introduced the young priest as Father Gabriel Pasqual.

Rita stated, “Father, Qui here is a PNR detective-”

Still breathless, Pasqual inhaled deeply and asked, “Santiago PNR? I thought I knew them all.”

“No, no, no, Havana PNR.”

“Havana, really? On official business?”

“Yes,” replied Qui.

Rita added, “And Mr. Julio Zayas is a security officer with the American Interest Section. Father Pasqual knows everyone and everything that goes on in Santiago.”

“Not quite, but I try to remain informed,” the priest replied turning to the two. “Obviously, you’re not here to celebrate Carnival, so tell me what brings you to Santiago?”

“It’s a rather involved story,” said JZ.

“Can we talk privately?” asked Qui.

“I know a place,” the older man replied. “Come along.”

They were soon ensconced at a table back in the church offices, where Pasqual asked, “So tell me what sort of intrigue brings you to me?”

“It has to do with this antique,” said Qui, lifting the lock from its black pouch to place it on the table.

Father Pasqual stared at the relic as though it were a curse, but he said nothing. Qui wished that she could read his mind at this moment.

Rita said, “We need your help, Father.”

Qui added, “It’s important. Lives have been lost.”

“And, ours are at stake,” JZ dryly commented.

“So it’s come home after all these years,” Father Pasqual muttered as he rose and scanned the wall of books. “Wait a moment.”

The other three stared at one another. Rita, familiar with Pasqual’s habits, put a finger to her lips cautioning silence.

Finally, Pasqual erupted with “Here you are.” Returning to the table, he sat and opened a thick volume he’d removed from a bookcase that stretched to the ceiling. Searching, he located a particular page and smiled. He turned the book to face them, pointing at a photograph.

“It’s the same photo, your father’s!” said a surprised JZ.

“Your father is Tomaso Aguilera?” asked the priest. “He placed a finger on the caption designating the photographer’s name.”

Shocked, Qui could not answer. She nodded thinking small island world…that someone so far from Havana might know so much about her father, but then his photos were known the world over. Still, Qui silently vowed on returning to Havana to learn more from her father and Benilo about their past.

“Father,” asked Qui, “what book is this?”

The priest flipped back to a title page that read Historia El Sanctuario de Nuestra Senora de la Caridad del Cobre. “You bring home a bad memory, reminder of things long past.”

“This is so infuriating. You’re being about as much help as my other reluctant witnesses,” replied Qui.

“Your father and Arturo Benilo.” At the surprised look on her face, he added, “They called me earlier and warned you might turn up here.” He smiled, “Been expecting you.”

“Yes, my father and Benilo. They wouldn’t speak of whatever it is that happened at the basilica.”

“You’re asking us to stare at one of the darkest moments in the Revolution. When soldiers swept out of the hills and took over El Cobre.”

JZ urged the man to continue.

“War is wrong. Killing is wrong. That lock is like the murdered having come back to tell their story.”

“A story too long buried and never told,” Rita bitterly added.

“What do you propose we do, Father?” Qui asked. “We need answers before someone else turns up dead.”

“Let me assure you, you’ll only stir up a hornet’s nest going to the basilica with this.” He pointed at the lock.

Rita jumped in, “I’ll take you two up there.”

“No, Rita, I’ll take them.” The look exchanged between Rita and the priest spoke volumes; neither wanted the other taking risks. “Go home. You’ve done enough.”

Father Pasqual gathered up the book as Qui gathered up the lock and replaced it in its black sleeve. Rita said farewell and left them in the hands of the priest.

The most important shrine for Cubans and the most famous church in the country, the sanctuary at Cobra, rose up from Moboa Hill to greet visitors. To take their minds off the bone-jarring ride as the 1959 Volvo rattled up the steep incline, the taxi driver began telling his passengers the history of his vehicle, in which he took great pride. As he caressed the dashboard, Ramon began, “She’s the 120…the Amazon, built in 1959. First car in the world with three-point safety belts, still used today-a revolution at the time, just like here in Cuba!”

“How remarkable,” Qui replied facetiously. Hanging on to the back of Father Pasqual’s front seat, Qui eyed the holes in the worn upholstery. Alongside her, JZ winced and leaned forward to avoiding bumping his head against the roof with every bounce. The two smiled at one another as Ramon continued his soliloquy.

“My Amazon was brought here by a sugar-cane owner, who gave it to Fidel as a gift, hoping the Beard wouldn’t seize the family cane farm.”

After an especially tooth-jarring bump, Father Pasqual asked, “Ramon, you said you were going to replace her shocks. What happened?”

“Sorry Father…no parts. Have to hand-make them, takes time. Next week…maybe.” Ramon shrugged and grunted when JZ’s weight against his seat delivered a jolt, causing him to scan the rear-view mirror and apologize, “Sorry. Everyone OK back there?”

Through clenched teeth, JZ replied, “Fine except for my head…my arms…my knees…my butt.” Looking down at Qui, who’d slid into him for at least the tenth time, he asked, “How about you Qui?” Intensely aware of her warm skin, her scent reminded him of their previous night together. The rollercoaster ride kept his attention focused on protecting his head. Just as well, he thought ruefully.

“Oh, just wonderful,” Qui said. Ready to focus on anything other than the bumpy ride, she quickly added, “Ramon, how did you come by the car?”

“It’s a long story that’ll make the return trip more interesting. But now,” he continued, “to enhance your spiritual experience here in El Cobra,” he said to the young couple, obviously taking them for newlyweds on holiday, “there's an inn behind the church, Hospederia de la Caridad.”

“Yeah,” added Pasqual, “eight pesos.”

“And they welcome foreigners, so long as you abide by the strict rules, Mr. Zayas.”

“There’s not much to their rooms,” commented Pasqual.

“Bare, yes, but well-kept rooms,” Ramon countered.

Cooped up in the Volvo for the past half hour, JZ longed for a four-wheel drive vehicle with a powerful air conditioner and a working suspension system. Sighing, he caught a glimpse of their final destination: the cathedral stood in splendor, framed by deep green forest, lodged amid the foothills of the Sierra Maestra near the old copper mines. The same mines that gave the area its name- El Cobra.

Glancing over, Qui looked to where he stared and saw the same stunning sight. Ideal photographic opportunity. She imagined her father here with his camera, snapping shots of Fidel’s guerillas in their mountain camp. “Not surprised this place beckoned my father’s interest.”

“Or tourists,” replied JZ.

“Or pilgrims,” added Father Pasqual. “The faithful come in droves from across Cuba to pay homage to-and ask for protection from-the Black Madonna who is kept inside.” At this, Father Pasqual and Ramon made the sign of the cross.

Ramon murmured, “Blessings from the Virgen de la Caridad.”

Father Pasqual explained the Black Madonna’s mysterious appeal along with a bit of her history. “She is the protectress of Cuba, and her image-cloaked in a glittering gold robe-is seen daily throughout the country in every shop window.”

Ramon added, “She is our Ochun.”

“A parallel figure from Afro-Cuban worship,” added JZ. “Goddess of rivers, gentleness, love, and femininity. Dark-skinned and dressed in bright yellow garments. Sort of a mix of Madonna and sensuality.”

“So you have studied our country after all,” Qui said as the Volvo lurched around a corner.

“My roots’re here too, Qui,” retorted JZ.

Father Pasqual continued, “In 1998, the Pope himself visited our humble shores, and he blessed the shrine, calling the Virgin ‘ La Reina de los Cubanos ’.”

“Queen of Cubans,” JZ softly translated.

Ramon added, “The Holy Father donated a rosary and a jeweled crown to further adorn our Madonna.”

“According to legend, the Black Madonna, our patron saint, was rescued from the sea at the Bay of Nipe in 1611 by three young fishermen-”

“I heard it was three miners,” said the taxi driver.

“Depends on who's telling the story, I suspect,” Qui added.

“Either version,” replied an annoyed Father Pasqual, “our saint was about to capsize in a storm, and the fishermen saw that our Madonna wore a sign around her neck-”

“Really? A sign, around her neck?” JZ inquired.

“Identified her, right Father?” added Qui.

“You know, she doesn’t speak.” Pasqual shot them a look of irritation at being interrupted yet again. “The sign read: YO SOY LA VIRGEN DE LA CARIDAD.”

“I am the Virgin of Charity.” JZ again translated for himself.

As the cab came to a standstill and stalled, a thin plume of smoke rose as they peeled themselves from the interior. Qui and JZ stretched while Father Pasqual, not to be sidetracked, continued speaking. “With the Black Madonna held firmly in their grasp, the three fishermen, struggling against the waves and the blasting storm, miraculously made it to shore with the statue.”

“Since then,” added Ramon, “pilgrims-who lots of times…make the last twenty…or thirty feet here…on their knees…”

Pasqual finished for him, adding, “-they pray to her image and place votos-”

“Mementos-” Qui put in.

“-and offerings of gratitude for her miracles,” finished the cabbie.

“Small carved wood images from animals to boats,” said Pasqual.

“Along with prayers for those who’ve tried to make it to Florida on rafts,” added Qui, “and failed.”

Pasqual nodded in earnest to this. “Your American author, Mr. Zayas, Ernest Hemingway-”

“ The Old Man amp; the Sea, yes.”

“-his fisherman in the story made a promise to God. Do you recall it?”

“I…I’m sorry, I do not.”

“Ahhh…well, Hemmingway had the old Cuban promise to visit the shrine if he could only land his marlin-and when Hemmingway won his Nobel Prize for Literature, he donated it to our Black Madonna.”

Ramon said, “I’ll get my Amazon ready for the trip back; she’s thirsty and so am I.” He pointed to a nearby village nestled among the trees, leaving no doubt as to his intent.

“I read that the statue was once stolen?” asked JZ as they walked toward the rear entry to the basilica having come by way of a service road, thereby avoiding the 254 steps linking the village of El Cobre to the cathedral’s front entrance.

Father Pasqual replied, “Stolen, yes, but later recovered. Those who stole it…let’s just say horrible things befell them. Steps were taken. It’ll never happen again.”

“What sort of steps?” asked JZ, ever conscious of security matters.

“It once stood in the hermitage created for it,” said Father Pasqual. “Everyone could approach and pray at will. She was unadorned and unprotected.”

“So, where is she now?”

“On the second floor,” the priest pointed at the cathedral, adding, “up the back stairs, encased in glass, air conditioned. Untouchable. When Mass is said, at the push of a button, there she is, bejeweled and enshrined, the Virgin. You must see her.”

Having been alerted by Father Pasqual’s phone call, Father Francisco Cevalos stood like a sentinel at the door. “My young colleague and friend, it’s so good to see you again. So who are these important people who get the easy route into Basilica de Nuestra Senora de la Caridad del Cobre?”

“Gotta be the longest name for a church I’ve ever heard,” JZ commented as he shook hands with the tall older priest. “Julio Zayas.”

“Almost a letter for each step out front,” added Qui. “Detective Quiana Aguilera, Havana PNR.”

Eyes widening at hearing Quiana’s title, Father Cevalos turned to JZ and asked, “And you, Mr. Zayas, your accent says you’re not Havana PNR.” He quizzically raised an eyebrow.

“I’m with the American Interest Section.”

Turning to Pasqual, Cevalos said, “Gabriel, you can’t legitimately beat me at chess, so you bring in reinforcements-with badges?”

The two men enjoyed a good laugh, and as Father Cevalos waved them inside, he said, “I overheard Father Pasqual giving you a lesson about our Madonna when I interrupted. Let me finish for him.”

The group entered the shadowed cool interior of the cathedral, following Father Cevalos whose voice echoed off the high-ceilings as he led them behind the alter through passageways few people ever saw. “Our Black Madonna might be untouchable now, but on her day, September eighth, she is carried in pilgrimage for all to see. Not everyone can make the climb. Since you come with Gabriel’s blessing, let me show you our Lady.”

The group climbed to the second floor and walked along narrow silent hallways until arriving at a locked room. Flourishing a key, Father Cevalos opened the door, swinging it wide for them to enter. In a moment, Qui and JZ stood in silent awe before the Black Madonna. Wearing a crown encrusted with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, with a golden halo above, she held a cross of diamonds and amethysts. In the glass case, the statue appeared beatific and serene as if she whispered the words-peace, hope, love, and charity. Her liquid-black eyes bore into Qui’s, transfixing her.

Father Pasqual turned to his friend, commenting, “She has been entranced by the Lady.”

Cevalos replied, “I wonder if Detective Aguilera was called here by the Lady to begin with.”

Noticing Qui’s silence, JZ wondered what she thought of Father Cevalos’s profound words, or even if she heard them.

Startled, Qui now stared from JZ to the two priests. “She’s given me a message.”