His face shut down completely. “I told you?died before I was born. Crossing over.”
The waitress returned with the drinks and a straw basket full of warm platano chips and a pottery bowl of mojo criollo.
“I ordered for us. You don’t mind?” She smiled, shrugged, and took a plantain chip and dipped it in the sauce. She ate and sighed, closing her eyes. She took another. And another.
He watched her eat and drink. In five minutes she had consumed half the basket and finished the daiquiri. Paz polished off the rest of the chips, except for the half-dozen or so the child took. He ordered another round. “You’re hungry.”
“Oh, yes, ” she said, her eyes lit with a crazy light.
Then came a plate of frituras de cangrejo and bowls of cold sopa de aguacate, and then a beefsteak palomilla, with mounds of curly fried potatoes, with plates of black beans and rice on the side. The child ate the fries and some rice and beans, whined briefly, and fell asleep on the banquette, with her head on Jane’s lap. Jane ate most of the fries and most of the rice and beans. Paz looked on admiringly. “You’re a good eater.”
“It’s good food. I haven’t had a square meal in two and a half years. Actually, the fact is, I shouldn’t be hungry at all. I’ve been on uppers for the last twenty-four hours or so. I should take some more, but I can’t bear to. This is so pleasant. Thank you.”
” De nada. Why are you taking uppers, if I may inquire?”
“You may. It’s so I don’t fall asleep until all this is over. He can get to me if I’m dreaming, in a way that could put me in his power more or less permanently.”
“I thought you said he couldn’t get to you. You had … you know, those charms, or whatever.”
“Yes, in the m’fa.” She waved a hand. “This world. But in sleep we open a door to m’doli, a world between the real world and the world of the spirits. Spirits can visit us there, that’s what a lot of dreams are, and it’s also the arena where magic takes place?a borderland. I have to meet him in m’doli, but awake.”
“And how do we do that?”
“More drugs. I have some of the stuff made up. But as I told you, I need allies.”
“Yeah, that’s what I don’t get …” He broke off and stared.
A striking figure was wending her way through the dining room, a mahogany-colored woman dressed all in yellow silk, with a fresh white gardenia placed in the coils of black hair piled on her head. She stopped at several tables and exchanged a few friendly words with the customers. Then she arrived at their table. Paz stood up, embraced the woman lightly, kissed her cheek.
“How are you, Mami?”
“I’m fine. I’m working myself to death in the kitchen of my restaurant because I have a son who doesn’t care about me, but otherwise I’m just fine. Who is this woman?”
“Someone from my work. She’s an important witness. Shall I introduce you?”
“If you like.”
Paz stepped back and switched to English. “Mother, this is Jane Doe. Jane, my mother, Margarita Cajol y Paz.”
Jane rose, nodded, extended her hand, looked into the woman’s face. There was no doubt about it. She felt a warm tingling in her hand; the woman must have felt it, too, because she pulled her own hand abruptly away. The expression on Margarita Paz’s face changed from its habitual cast of superior dissatisfaction to amazement, and then to something much like fear. Paz watched this with interest, having never observed this particular face-show before. He was about to prime the conversation to discern its cause, when his mother made a hurried excuse in Spanish and bustled off.
Seated again, Paz asked, “What do you think that was all about? Usually she hangs around and gets your pedigree and when we’re going to get married.”
“Perhaps she knew I wasn’t good enough for you in one glance. How long has your mother been involved in Santeria?”
He frowned. “Who said she was involved in Santeria? She hates that stuff.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She’s a straight-up Catholic. I had a girlfriend once, in high school, gave me one of those little statues. My mom found it, and chewed me out, and trashed it. Why did you think she was into it? Because she’s a black Cuban?”
A challenging tone here. “No, not that at all. As it happens, I saw her at Pedro Ortiz’s ile a couple of nights ago.”
“That’s impossible.”
The waitress dropped off a tray of guava tarts and Cuban cookies, a couple of Cuban coffees, and two brandies.
Jane said, “I saw her. Your mother. Not only was she there, but she was an oriate, a ‘made’ woman. You know what hacer el santo means, don’t you? I saw her mounted by Yemaya. No, don’t shake your head. Listen! I want you to listen to something.”
She recited, almost chanting, “He-went-into-the-river-and-killed-the-crocodile was the one who cast Ifa for ‘Is it profitable to take a caravan to the north?’ Ifa says it is foolish to leave the farm before the rains. Witches are coming to carry off the eldest child. She said her strength was no match for evil-doing. He said seek the son with no fathers. He said the woman will leave her farm and help. He said the bird with yellow feathers is of use. Four are necessary for the sacrifice: two black pigeons, two white pigeons, and thirty-two cowries.”
“What’s that, a poem?”
“In a way. It’s a divination verse. Ifa gave it to me when I asked him what I should do about my husband. I already made the sacrifice. Three allies are named. I have a yellow chick at home. I just met a woman who left a farm, and is made to Yemaya, the sea goddess. My husband is terrified of the water. Now, tell me about your father.”
“This is crazy.” He tried to smile, but it jelled on his face.
“It’s true. Tell me about your father!” He was shaking his head, mulish. She slammed the table with her hand, making the crockery tinkle, and drawing looks from nearby tables. She hissed, “Do you want to stop him or not? Tell me!”
And, surprising himself, for he had never told anyone, he told her. “I was fourteen, we lived above the restaurant on Flagler. She sent me down to the office to get the ledger. She was doing some accounts. Being a nosy kid, I paged through it and I noticed that besides the regular payments for rent and utilities and purveyors, there was a monthly four-hundred-dollar payment to a guy named Juan Javier Calderone. Yoiyo Calderone. You know who he is?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You were Cuban you’d know. He’s a political guy, his father was a real old-time Batistiano big shot. From Guantanamo, as a matter of fact. A homey. Came over with a shitload of money right after the revolution. My mom’d never mentioned she knew him, so I asked her. Nothing. A loan. Mind your own business! She wouldn’t look me in the eye, and believe me, my mom loves to look me in the eye. So I knew something was off.” He drank some brandy. There was clammy sweat on his forehead; he didn’t look at her, but past her, at the bright fishes in their tank.
“Anyway, I didn’t let it go. I looked up Calderone’s address, and one Saturday I took my bike over to his house. A big white mansion on Alhambra in the Gables, tile roof, a big lawn with a big tall flame tree in the middle. A crew was working on the grounds, real dark guys, just like in the old country. There was an iron gate on the driveway that was open because of the gardeners, and I walked up the driveway and through another gate and there I was on their back patio. A big pool, cabanas, everything perfect. There were two kids in the pool, a boy and a girl. The girl was blond. I stood there staring like a jerk. The two of them were sitting in deck chairs, Calderone and his wife. She was younger than him, and blond, with blue eyes. And then the woman gets up and notices me. She asks me what I want, and I say I want to see Juan Javier Calderone. He gets up and comes over, asks me what I want, and I say I’m Jimmy Paz, I’m the son of Margarita Paz. Okay, I could see he was my father, I could see it in his face, and I could see he could see it in mine, that it was true. Then this look comes over his face like he just stepped in dog shit, and he puts his arm around my shoulders and he goes, Oh, really? Come along here and we’ll talk. And we go through the little gate to the driveway, and when no one can see us, he whips his arm around my throat, he’s choking me, and he drags me behind some big bushes. He goes, Did she send you? Did that chingada whore send you? I couldn’t answer. He goes, ‘Listen to me, you little nigger bastard, if you ever come here again, or if your chingada mother ever tries to contact me again, the two of you will end up in the bay. Do you understand? And make sure that every goddamn penny gets paid back or I’ll take your fucking nigger slophouse back and kick you out on the street like you deserve.’ Then he pops me a couple of good ones on the ear and kicks my ass out the gate.” Here a long sigh, some silence, and then he said, “Shit, Jane, you ate all the torticas.”