When I saw him, just a few meters from me, first face to face and then in profile, I couldn’t believe my eyes. No, no, no. No way! It wasn’t possible. I remember I took my glasses off so I could see him better. Mother of God, what was that? I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Jesus Christ! I couldn’t get over it. I elbowed a man sitting to my right and asked him if that was really the guy, the one in the brownish-gray suit, if he was the accused, the one who had allegedly committed a dozen or more murders. And it turned out that, in fact, it was him. Wow! The way he looked had nothing — I mean nothing — to do with what I’d thought he’d look like based on our phone calls. He was identical to the police sketch! Everybody knows now: a light-skinned mulatto, with very light naps, a flat nose, and very big round eyes, like a frog’s, and a total thug look. He appeared to be in his fifties, although he was probably younger and life had just treated him badly. It was easy to see he was a lowlife from a million miles away. He looked less like a laborer than an outcast, a ratty vagabond or beggar, maybe an alcoholic or pot smoker, hungry, brutish, a dumpster diver, totally awkward in a suit... And then... his name! That was the worst of all, at least for me. They referred to him as citizen Policarpo Meneses Landaeta, alias “The Beast from Macagua 8.” Oh! I don’t know what hurt more, Policarpo or the Beast! Of course, on this island we can’t hope that a rapist will be called Peter Kürten, alias “The Düsseldorf Vampire.” You can’t ask for pears from an elm tree. Which is not to say that Policarpo, topped off with the Beast (not to mention that Macagua thing, whatever that was, followed by its enigmatic little number), wasn’t taking things just a bit too far.
No one else in that courtroom seemed the least bit perplexed. All around me, people were making faces: of disgust, of anger, of fear, of satisfaction, of justice served and morbid curiosity. But none of surprise. I suppose that for most Cubans, it must be a relief that a murderer should reflect back what they think a killer should look like. That is, that he should be black, ugly, on the older side, badly dressed, and look like a dork. And the fierce Beast of Macagua 8 certainly fit the bill. He was practically typecast! Only I couldn’t imagine him saying that he loooooved anything; or that the night before he’d had a stupendous Cabernet Sauvignon from a particularly good year; or that, now that psychoanalysis was no longer in vogue, men could fall in love with their mothers again without fear of being called fags; or that he was basically green, with antennae and all the rest; or that he was a much better poet than Jim Morrison, that blockhead; or that this or that film by Pasolini struck him as too eschatological — that it was impossible to get to the good part, the part with the torture, without your stomach turning and a strong desire to slap the director and run him over — ha! ha! — with a flaming Ferrari Testarossa... among other things. Truth be told, I simply couldn’t connect these and other comments he’d made in the dead of night with the mute ghost in front of me now. In the end, I told myself, though I pride myself on knowing human nature, that I’m just another superficial person, filled with prejudices, and very depressed. I looked disapprovingly on the malevolent Policarpo, sighed, and went out to smoke a cigarette. But I didn’t stay out of the courtroom long, and I was right to come back, I believe, because that trial held many other surprises for me.
Of all the witnesses, the one who made the greatest impact was, without a doubt, the victim who had gotten away from the guy near the Prince’s Castle. Right now, I can’t remember her name, only her story, which stunned me. She was a Chinese mulatta, more or less my age, with straight hair and light eyes, pretty actually, but who could never pass for white, not here or in Hong Kong. And that in itself struck me as odd, because he’d often bragged that he’d never “burned oil” in his whole life. In other words, he didn’t like black women or mulattas, nothing at all coming from Africa. He was no jackoff perverted peasant, he said, to have to go fuck animals. Certainly that was somewhat offensive or, as they say now, “politically incorrect,” but it was also good news for so many young Cuban women. I can’t say what other women might think, but as far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t be in the least bit insulted if a killer didn’t find me attractive enough to be his victim. And I’m absolutely sure the guy wasn’t kidding about this. The revulsion that laced his voice every time we touched on Afro-Caribbean topics was so deep, so visceral, that I could practically smell it over the phone line. Later, when I saw the relatives of the other victims, I noted that they must have been white. Hmm. What the devil made him change the menu at the last minute? Ufff, who knows! Of course, in the end none of this mattered one bit, I thought. By contrast, I have indeed “burned oil,” and the difference — what they say is the difference — is in fact nil, just idle talk, myths. But that was nothing. The most astonishing aspect of all this was still to come.
She — the one who got away — was a nurse who worked at Calixto García General Hospital. The night of the incident she was working the graveyard shift, but at about 2:15 in the morning, her grandmother called to say that her young son was having a hellish asthma attack. She left immediately through the large door on Avenue of the Presidents, which is only used by Calixto staff. As might be expected, there wasn’t a soul out... or so it seemed to her. She didn’t pause to contemplate the scene but ran over to Carlos III Street, to see if she could find a ride to Lawton.
But she didn’t get very far. She’d barely rounded the monument to José M. Gómez when some lunatic popped out of nowhere, grabbed her from behind, and put a knife to her throat, threatening to cut her if she uttered a single word.
At that moment, all she could sense was an odor, like a dead rat — so she said — coming from the criminal, his breath reeking of alcohol, rotten, as if that revolting swine had more cavities than teeth in his mouth. And, at least as far as she could see, there wasn’t a single cop anywhere — not even a casual transient! — no one to ask for help. So she didn’t resist.
Without quite letting go, the ruffian eased his hold on her and removed the knife from her throat. He was bigger, stronger than her. He put an arm around her shoulders and, as if they were on a romantic evening stroll through Vedado, he forced her to cross Avenue of the Presidents.
“Giddy up, whore,” he whispered in her ear. “Giddy up or I’ll make mince meat out of you — and don’t look at me!”
The nurse was so terrified, she peed her pants. But as soon as they stepped onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street, the Prince’s Castle side, in a moment of sheer valor or temerity, she swiftly turned toward the criminal. And that’s when, under one of those bluish spots from the mercury bulbs of the street lights, she saw his face. An absolutely horrifying face, she said, that she’d never, ever forget.
Furious, the guy punched her so hard in the stomach that she tumbled to the ground.
“You fucked up now, whore!” he hissed, kneeling next to her. “Who the fuck told you you could look at me, huh? Now you really fucked up! Cuz I’m a freak, absolutely fucking freaky...!” And he threatened her again with the knife. “See? Freaky! Hee, hee, hee!”
He pulled her by the hair, practically lifting her off the ground, and dragged her to the thicket around the Prince’s Castle. He raped her there, in the shadows. Understandably, the victim didn’t offer many details during that part of her testimony, only the most necessary in order to clearly establish the case. I mean, I put myself in her place and the truth is that I can’t imagine having to talk about all of this in front of an audience. By the end, he had her flat on the ground, on her back. Although she felt a very acute pain, as if her insides were being burned by hydrochloric acid, she explained, she didn’t lose consciousness for a single moment. All she thought about was surviving. She lifted a rock from the ground and held it in her right hand without the guy ever noticing. A few minutes passed, though it seemed like years to the nurse. When the maniac finally ejaculated, she took advantage of his momentary weakness to smash him with the rock, as hard as she could, right on the head. Bam! She left him groggy.