Pirigua crossed the vestibule, passed by the dining room, and arrived at the kitchen. Ours was colonial, much longer than it was wide, and from where I was I could see him struggling with the back door. He opened the lock then went out to the patio. When I got to the kitchen, I stopped to grab a long butcher’s knife. With weapon in hand, I looked out the window and saw Captain Correa heading down the stone steps, past the outhouse and sink, and straight for the guava tree. He knelt and started to dig at the earth with his hands. So my suspicions were dead on: Papá’s jewels had been returned.
I came up to him without him hearing me. He was breathing heavily and had dug quite a bit already. He had powerful hands and he moved them well, excavating large chunks of dirt. When I thought it right, I let him know I was there. He was so terrified that he gasped and stood up in one single movement.
“What the...?”
“Just a little foolish Chinese boy,” I said, then plunged the knife deep into his belly.
“Aaaaggghhh!”
I grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled up with all my might. I practically lifted him off the ground.
“Just a little Chinese faggot,” I said, and I helped him down, feeling his blood and viscera ooze through my hands.
After he died, I cut him in pieces and went to get the shovel and wagon. From the very same hole Pirigua had been digging, I shoveled the dirt onto the bloody load that Captain Correa — great revolutionary hero and my father’s killer, jewel thief and oppressor of women, dirty Communist s.o.b. — had become. I mixed the flesh and the dirt and pushed the loaded wagon out the back door of the patio.
Armed with an icy calm, I went down Real Street until I got to the foot of El Torreón. If anybody saw me, they did nothing to stop me; as I’ve said, everyone in Cojímar was already used to my comings and goings at all hours with the wagon full of dirt, and no one paid any attention anymore to the Wong boy, that effeminate fool who just smiled stupidly whenever anyone insulted him or laughed at him.
I went to my private cemetery near the port. One by one, I unearthed the heads of all those among Captain Correa’s men who’d disappeared. I buried Pirigua’s remains with the others, and with the seven heads in my possession, I headed back to El Torreón. I was exhausted but satisfied.
Oh, revenge can be so sweet!
I set the heads out like they’d done with my father and his friends. I sat down in the center of the circle of rotting heads and waited until dawn. At first light, they found me. Someone sounded the alarm, and when the first militiamen showed up, I stood up and put the knife to my own throat.
“For my father!” I screamed as loudly as I could before the stupefied crowd so that they would know exactly what was going on.
But they didn’t let me kill myself. They shot me three times: once in each knee, another in my chest. They fell on me like a herd of rabid dogs, but I fainted.
Now I’m being held in this windowless cell where the rats are eating me alive; but I don’t mind. There’s not much time left. My mother didn’t survive my imprisonment; she poisoned herself as soon as she heard the news of my capture and realized our settling of scores was complete.
Translation by Achy Obejas
Abikú[6]
by Yohamna Depestre
Alamar
I’m the assassin. I did it for a bit more space on the floor tiles, 845.1 centimeters to be exact, not just the lousy seven tiles where my bed stood. Yeah, even though seven’s supposed to be a lucky number.
Everybody else had a bigger slice, although not equal in size. My miserable little seven tiles didn’t provoke anything; no one even had an opinion about them.
My mother was the number one accumulator of space. Her territory extended from the biggest bedroom to the bathroom, kitchen, balcony, and then stopped there, at the very foot of my bed. All that measured exactly 372.5 centimeters of tile space. And 372.5 centimeters of tiles entitled her to:
1. Walk by with the excuse of needing to go to the bathroom whenever the owner of the seven tiles was making love with her husband so she could peek at his thing.
2. Say: Wrap it up or you’re screwed.
3. Stick her nose in every single discussion because she believes the owner of the seven tiles is useless.
4. Ask where everybody’s at all the time.
I killed her, she didn’t let me think.
The second one was my brother-in-law. His territory extended from the smallest bedroom all the way to the couch, which he usurped during the heatwaves, because as a paying tenant he thought he was first in line. All that measured exactly 225.6 centimeters of tile space. And 225.6 centimeters entitled him to:
1. Stare suggestively at the owner of the seven tiles.
2. Bring undesirable friends over and act like a clown.
3. Shout to the world that he has more buying power than the owner of the seven tiles.
4. Listen in whenever seven tiles made love.
I killed him, he didn’t let me think.
The third one, my sister. Her territory was in the same room, but as a wife and homemaker her territory extended 191.0 centimeters, which was enough. And 191.0 centimeters entitled her to:
1. Have complete authority over the TV, the radio, and to scream at everyone about everything.
2. Hang clothes out to dry in the best spot on the balcony.
3. Demand that the owner of the seven tiles’ bed be made by 5 in the morning, because the brother-in-law has company and the bed can be seen from the living room.
4. Play Parcheesi until 1 in the morning.
I killed her and ripped out her daughter’s tongue, because she screamed too much at bath time. Who could think with all the racket?
I could stack up my humble seven-tiles entitlement in one tiny little corner. And seven tiles entitled me to:
1. Sleep (whenever possible) and shut up.
2. Shut up and eat.
3. Scream at my husband, since he had only 0.0 centimeters of tiles.
And 0.0 centimeters of tiles entitled him to:
1. Put up with everything and anything.
2. Snitch.
3. Keep 845.1 centimeters of tile, plus my seven, of course.
I have my territory marked out like a sacred animal. My pee and shit ooze out from my seven tiles and beyond my cell, past the bars. The guard tells me it stinks in here, that it’s impossible to eat. I keep an eye on him. His foot falls on a mark I made with my own hands.
Translation by Achy Obejas
About the contributors
Alex Abella is an EMMY-nominated TV reporter and screenwriter. His experiences in the world of law and law enforcement inspired him to write a legal thriller, The Killing of the Saints, a New York Times Notable Book. Abella’s latest work, Shadow Enemies, is a nonfiction account of the plot by Adolf Hitler to unleash a wave of terror in the United States. He was born in Havana and now lives with his wife and children in the suburbs of Los Angeles.
