Cubop City Blues (14 page)

JOHNNY LUNA'S
SEVEN TRIES

O
n September 23, 1995, Johnny Luna settled into the bow of the
Ana María,
a twenty-foot launch he built for the voyage, and took his last look at the city of Havana, illuminated dimly by the first rays of dawn. It was Johnny's seventh attempt at crossing the Straits of Florida, and having consulted a babalawo in Arroyo Arenas, he was certain that the
Ana María
would land him, if not in Miami, then somewhere along the Florida Keys, where he could claim his right to political asylum. He had spent six months in jail after his previous attempt when the raft he'd put together had fallen apart in rough water three miles from shore, and he and his two companions were forced to swim back, landing on the Malecón just as a patrol drove by. If he failed again, he was certain that the authorities would make him rot in jail. That's why he had consulted the babalawo and paid a hefty amount, in dollars, for a Russian outboard motor that sputtered and smoked whenever he started it but otherwise ran beautifully.

Despite the care he took in building the boat from plans left behind by his grandfather, Alepo Rodríguez, the great shark fisherman who had been swallowed by the waves off Jaimanitas in 1952, and despite the babalawo's blessing, none of the friends he approached would join him. Johnny had acquired a reputation as a salao, a fellow forever mired in the salt of bad luck, and crossing the Florida Straits was a serious matter. If the storms and sharks didn't get you, the Coast Guard would, and they'd put you in the same jail cell with a gang of pederasts. At least two of those friends spread the news, and when Fefa Manguera, the head of the neighborhood defense committee, heard that El Salao was at it again, she gave a big, raucous laugh but didn't bother reporting Johnny to the higher-ups or paying a visit to his mother to ask the usual impertinent questions. Only Obdulio Martínez, the dim-witted teenage son of a garbage collector who lived down the street, agreed to accompany Johnny.

Johnny ignored the neighbors' sly half smiles as he walked by, the occasional shout, “Bacalao salao,” coming from one of the balconies overhead, and went about his business with the aplomb of a seasoned sailor. Mornings he waited in the rationing line to get whatever food he and his mother were entitled to—split peas one day, dry mackerel the next. On a good day they might have some meat or a ham hock, or a half pound of rice. Afternoons he'd go to his aunt's house in Lawton to meet up with the cheese man or the egg man or the pork man. Black-market vendors required dollars, and if he didn't have any, he'd simply head in the direction of the Malecón and walk along the sea wall, looking at the ocean as it stretched all the way to the horizon and beyond, where the Promised Land lay. Everyone was leaving the island. Why couldn't he? He was home by six usually, when his mother served him a bowl of watery split-pea soup or, on bad days, a mayonnaise sandwich and a glass of sugared water. After eight o'clock, when his mother went to sleep, he'd leave the house again and walk through the streets of Havana, never taking the same route twice in a row, to the old garage where his uncle Berto hid his 1956 Chrysler Imperial, waiting for the day when the revolution was finally over and he could drive it proudly down the street like the old-fashioned capitalist he fancied himself to be. The garage was about forty feet deep and the Chrysler was all the way in the rear, up on blocks and quietly rusting away. In the front, unbeknownst to anyone but Obdulio the dimwit, Johnny would work through the night building the
Ana María,
a boat so sturdy nothing but the most extreme act of God would sink it, and even then, Johnny would think while taking a cigarette break, the Old Man would have a real struggle on his hands.

And so, Johnny became a creature of the night. Often he could hear, or thought he could hear, a faint murmur settling over the crumbling city after midnight. Off in the distance a dog barked or a radio played; outside the garage two lovers spoke.

My love, did you bring the banana?

Yes, darling. Here it is. For you.

Johnny listened to them while Obdulio slept in the backseat of the Chrysler and salivated, whether from lust or old hunger he didn't know. All conversations in Cuba devolved into matters of food.

Give it to me, Papi.

Johnny dropped the hammer he was holding against a metal bucket and made a loud noise. Obdulio woke with a start.

¿Qué pasó? he said, sitting up and looking through the rear window.

Nothing. Go back to sleep, Johnny answered and kept on working until his eyes closed involuntarily and he dreamed of Miami Beach nightclubs and gorgeous tanned women with large, shapely breasts.

Johnny, it must be said, had a wife, but she was one of those women who consider sex an unpleasant marital duty to be performed twice monthly without abandon or fanfare, like getting an injection. During the three years they were married, Johnny's wife had grown dull and morose, feeling betrayed that Johnny had not made good on his promise to get her pregnant. She was subject to fits of resentment that took the form of burning Johnny's coffee so that it became undrinkable or salting his food to such a degree that he had to spit it out. When she finally went to live with her sister in Cotorro, Johnny was ecstatic. In fact, he celebrated that night by drinking a bottle of rum and running the Russian motor until it whined and rattled.

Mayami, Mayami, Mayami is so good, Mayami, Mayami, Mayami, come to me, Johnny chanted, dancing around Obdulio, who hooted and leaped like a warrior about to wrestle a lion.

In six months the
Ana María
was finished, and it was such an exemplary picture of a seagoing vessel that Johnny entertained the thought of selling her for a thousand dollars and staying in Havana until that son-of-a-bitch Fidel died. With a thousand dollars he could fix up his uncle's Chrysler. With a thousand dollars he could approach that girl with the long legs and jet-black hair who lived on the corner of Manrique and Lagunas Streets and call up to her, Come on, sugar, let's take a drive around the city. With a thousand dollars he'd be a big man in this godforsaken city. But those thoughts stayed with him only two nights. By God, he said to himself on the third night, I'll make it to La Yuma or die. With a renewed sense of purpose he went off to Santa Fe, the little fishing village in the outskirts of Havana, to observe what time the Coast Guard patrols passed by, and he did so for two weeks, hiding behind a stand of sea grape, swatting at mosquitoes and recording the times on an old school notebook.

Rather than tell his mother directly, he decided he would leave a letter for her to read, reassuring her that he would send for her as soon as he was settled. She still loved El Comandante as she had loved Johnny's father, who disappeared for weeks at a time, showing up to take her money and beat her up. Fidel is the most wonderful man in the world, she would say raising her eyes to the ceiling. After reading the letter, his mother would cry for a day, then go downstairs to gossip with the neighborhood ladies and forget about her son. At least this is what he told himself.

In preparation for the voyage, he had been gathering provisions, buying some, borrowing others, and, when he had no other choice, stealing the rest. In the forward compartment of the
Ana María
he stowed five jugs of water, several bags of stale bread, a block of farmer's cheese, and seven cans of sardines. Along the sides of the boat he placed a stolen flashlight, two oars he had borrowed from his uncle, a fishing line with several hooks and sinkers that Obdulio's father had given them, an old knife from his mother's kitchen, a compass and an ancient sextant, both stolen from the naval museum in La Cabaña, and one hundred liters of gasoline that had cost him several hundred dollars. Also on the boat, well hidden from view for now, was a small American flag he hoped to wave once he got within view of La Yuma. In a frivolous moment he decided to take the leather seat of the Chrysler, cracked and brittle with age, and glued it amidships with marine epoxy so that Obdulio could sleep comfortably on the way across.

At midnight of the appointed day, Johnny and Obdulio waited for Obdulio's father, Manolo, to arrive with the garbage truck he had commandeered to transport the
Ana María
to the little cove in Santa Fe. At twelve thirty Johnny grew worried; at one o'clock he was desperate. At one fifteen Obdulio's father finally showed up, not in the twenty-five-footer with a canvas cover he had promised, but in a small Moskvitch pickup with a six-foot bed. Johnny's heart sank several levels. He sat on the front fender of the Chrysler and felt tears welling in his eyes, but he contained them.

Manolo, Johnny said to Obdulio's father. How are we going to load a fifteen-foot boat on that cockroach?

Don't worry, asere, Manolo said. We'll do it. I brought enough rope so we can tie it securely on top. No problem.

Obdulio's father was determined to have his son in the United States so he could send remittances home.

What are people going to think when they see a Moskvitch with a boat twice its size tied on top?

Nothing, asere, said Manolo. Because there isn't anybody out at this time of night. You think this is Nueva York?

I thought you were going to bring a big truck, Johnny said, thinking of the two lovers for no reason in particular.

Asere, what happened is somebody else took it for the night. But don't worry so much. This is going to work. You'll see.

It took the three of them an hour to load and tie the
Ana María
onto the Moskvitch. Johnny thought for sure the shock absorbers would give way, but he was wrong. The pickup merely lurched and groaned and finally settled nicely six inches from the ground. The
Ana María
lay upside down, its prow extending six feet beyond the cab and blocking all but a six-inch band of windshield. Manolo reassured Johnny that he could drive the streets of Havana with his eyes closed. Given that in those days the government shut down the city's electric power at night in order to save money, that's pretty much what they'd have to do: drive in the dark with the headlights turned off.

One pothole and there goes the front axle, Johnny said.

Manolo once again tried to calm him, then reached under the driver's seat and pulled out a bottle of homemade firewater that he passed to Johnny. Johnny took a swig and gave it back to Manolo.

That's for the trip, Manolo said, pushing the bottle away. Make sure you make an offering to Yemayá before you push off.

They drove in silence and darkness without hitting a single pothole and reached the turnoff at 2:45
am
, with plenty of time to ship out by 3:27 when the next patrol was due. As Manolo negotiated the sandy road that led to the cove, the Moskvitch waddled and almost tipped over a couple of times, then hit a rut, where the wheels spun themselves into the sand and lost traction.

Manolo hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. Johnny cursed God and all the angels, and both left the cab simultaneously, walking around the truck to gauge how deeply the tires were imbedded in the sand. Manolo dug around the two front tires while Johnny stood by the passenger door and looked at Obdulio, who was sleeping soundly inside. What he wouldn't give to sleep like that! He was already resigning himself to going back to the garage to wait for another day when Manolo stood upright and proclaimed that they would have to take the boat off the Moskvitch. Then he would let some air out of the tires and that would do the trick. Easy, Manolo said. Easy? Johnny thought. Nothing had ever been easy for him.

Suddenly he sensed someone next to him, and when he looked to his right he saw a round, bristled face looking up at him. Johnny's blood turned cold and the back of his neck tensed up.

Señor, what's the problem? The man was being overly formal, given the circumstances.

Nada, answered Johnny, too nervous to say anything else.

The man looked at the truck's wheels sunk halfway in the sand, then back up at Johnny.

It looks like something to me.

Soon Manolo joined them and asked the man what he was doing there at such an hour.

The same thing you're doing, trying to get off this shitty island.

He led them on a path through a stand of sea grape to the water, where a boat, or what passed for a boat, was waiting to shove off. The man called to two others who were helping some women and their children on board, and between the five of them—Obdulio remained blissfully asleep—they were able to unload the
Ana María
and drag it on the sand to the water's edge. The three men were impressed by Johnny's launch and wanted to tie it to their ramshackle vessel, an old wooden boat that had no motor but a sail made out of two bed sheets sewn together. Four empty oil barrels, fastened on either side, kept the vessel from sinking. Johnny said no. We have women and children with us, a man complained. He made a threatening move in Johnny's direction but Manolo intervened, thanking them for their help and offering the men two jugs of water and three cans of sardines for their efforts. They took the offer and went back to their boat, but not before the short man who had first approached them said to Johnny, Who do you think you are? This is a socialist country.

Johnny waited until the other vessel was well out to sea and out of his sight before pushing the
Ana María
into the water. She bobbed a few times; then her prow settled squarely against the waves. She was a good boat, he thought proudly. He and Obdulio took their leave of Manolo, who stood on the shore with his shoulders hunched and his large hands dangling helplessly at his sides. Johnny heard him crying and assured him that his son would soon be sending a thousand dollars home every month. Manolo's weeping grew more pronounced; then it stopped altogether. After feeling the bottom with his hands to check for leaks and finding it dry as bone, Johnny helped Obdulio on board and climbed in after him. Obdulio waved at the darkness where he had last seen his father and sat on the leather car seat, giddy with anticipation.