Quimbombo – A historical novel set in 1933 Havana, Cuba.

Copyright 2010 by Ochosi Shea. www.quimbombos.com

Table of Contents
Prologue
1 The Bohio
2 Blackys and the Hams
3 Cyclone of August 1933
4 Overturned Rail Cars, Money and Pistols
5 The road to Tia J’s
6 Tia J’s Mansion and Rico
7 Evening Meal
8 Marta & Maria in the Kitchen
9 Marta & Rico, drinks in the Library
10 Evening stroll and porristas
11 Marta and Osh flee
12 Downtown Havana
13 Destination La Beneficencia
14 Iggys Apartment
15 Cuban rum
16 Romance
17 Politics and plans
18 Revolutionaries
19 Hotel Nacional
20 El Morro
21 Cell mates
22 The Sergeant
23 Rico’s offer
24 The trial
25 Firing squad
26 A Creole boy and sharks
27 Running
28 Abuela and Lexa
29 Tia Talta and the dove
30 The Castro family
31 La Florida and Zari
32 Yemaya celebration
33 Lazarus
34 The boat is back
Prologue
I’ve watched the odd shell for generations. From the time one of my sister Oya’s ancient cyclones
pushed the mysterious object up out of the coral reef bottom onto the sugar sand shores of Yorubaland
I’ve been drawn to an incredible sense of life entangled with the patterns of helices and the colors of
creation in the now mineralized exoskeleton.
And so was the eye of a remarkable carver of African art drawn to the sand during the daily walk along
the shore where Atlantic blue meets Yorubaland green. Worked under the awl and bathed with a
consecration of plants and prayers the shell took on a new life in the shape of a small dove with one
tiny quimbombo seed embedded in its chest.
Generations later a large wooden boat, the Feloz, anchored offshore and the young woman given
charge to care for the amulet was swiftly branded, tied with ropes and led past the large deck cannon
and cast iron food pots to darkness below the grated deck. The shell was swallowed over and over,
carried safely to term and brought ashore somewhere along the north coast of Cuba.
From time to time I would encounter the amulet during sweaty Carib bata or when the masses
launched tiny, candled worship boats carrying offerings for my affections. However the once bright
energy had dimmed as if the dove had gone to sleep, until Marta was born. Though far away on the
western end of the island, separated by hundreds of miles, the once bright shell began to glow again,
highlighting the black quimbombo embryo within; even moving as the young girl approached
womanhood.
Though I make a practice of non-interference with humans the young Creole girl’s spirit calls to me
daily and so fulfilling my duties that the Creator tasks me with, I follow her around, fully and
irresponsibly aware of how involved I am about to become with her life. A life filled with pain and
hope, one pervasively similar to countless other island souls. Surely now I can understand why Obatala
left.
“I am Yemaya, Bebe, hovering over you, even as you sleep. Remember though, while doves can
provide legitimacy to change, sacred transformation occurs as a seed sprouts from earth, sunshine and
water, not from the revolver.”

“Zari is right. A good bohio, companions, fresh air, blue skies and food from the earth and sea are the
most important things in life.”
Chapter One
Habana, Cuba. 28 de Augusto, 1933.
“Justo will be home soon, probably drunk and complaining of the spicy quimbombo I am preparing”,
she sighs, pressing her fingertips into tired, closed eyelids. ‘I so hope he’ll be in a good mood tonight.’
Her eyes flash open, distracted by the strange chorus of wind singing through a thousand cracks and
the loud clattering of rain on the rusty tin, heavy drops signaling arrival of the storm’s first spawned
clouds and the bad I-ching reading Chinese Joe gave her today at Nacional. She quickly moves across
the front room floor to look in on her resting bebes. Her son and daughter lie wrapped securely in a
worn quilt on her big bed in the back room. “My bebe’s are beautiful,” she whispers.
“Justo will be soaking wet so I doubt if he’ll be in a good mood,” Marta frowns and wiggles her toes.
“Hot, wet feet want out”, she mutters, pushing off her broken-in strap leather pumps with moderate
heels, tugging at her white cotton socks, tossing them alongside the bedroom wall, not taking the
moment it would require to turn them right-side out then walking softly across the weathered wood
floor to bohio’s front room cooking corner.
“Where is the ginger root? My stomach is not forgetting the rolling waves this afternoon on the harbor
ferry, Joe and then what the babysitter’s stupid oracle prediction. Oya is pushing the storm our way.
Mama Yemaya, Mama Yemaya,” she pleads, “tell your sister to blow the storm another direction and to
leave us alone. I do not like the dark, dark clouds I saw this afternoon on the ferry ride across the
harbor after work and the rain will not make Justo a happy man with his visitors arriving tonight.” Ever
so faint wrinkles appear in the center of her young forehead, slowly retreating as her smile returns.
Her name is Marta Angel de Cespedes; she has twenty-three years, two children, Ria and Osh and her
man, Justo. They live in a small wood and barnicled tin bohio along the northern seashore across
Habana Harbor, northeast of El Morro Castle. As typical of most bohios, their home stands
inconspicuous and in stark contrast to Habana’s colossally exquisite Hotel Nacional, downtown along
the Malecon where she serves as a dining room waitress and backup room service maid.
“Good job today, Marta, ten dollars tips,” she whispers, patting her waistline, the corners of her lips
turning upwards ever so slightly. “I know how to work the clientele; the right touch, homemade
lemongrass body fragrance, hair brushing across Mr. Kennedy’s shoulder at his favorite dining room
table, hip pushing into his soft shoulder” she nods affirmatively, “yes, I am grateful to have my job.
While plants and hierbas are the bohio of my heart the bright lights and excitement of Hotel Nacional
are the passion of my eyes.”
“Mama Yemaya, I will go out and gather white ginger lilies for you when the rain passes. First though, I
must make my tea and prepare food for my hard working and good-looking husband who will walk
through the door any minute now. Enjoy the violet flowers of the abre camino today,” she adds,
running her fingertips across a fresh cut spray of the flowering shrub, the bitter leaf fragrance evoking
coveted memories. Pausing to straighten her stained cotton apron, she grimaces, “Ayaaah, I hope
Justo is not too drunk tonight.”
Here in Cuba the liquor of choice is rum, made from sugar cane. Across the ocean, back in Yorubaland
the drink of choice is distilled palm wine, a drink people compare to tart gin, though Obatala will have
nothing to do with palm wine. Here in Habana, liquor fuels daily life here as much as the peso and sex.
Maybe made from different ingredients, however liquor though is still liquor. Justo loves his Bacardi.
Justo also loves his women. I tolerate Justo with hesitation, much as I do Chango or Oggun. The only
reason I put up with Justo though is because Marta has affection for him, as I have affection for those
other two. The hot fifty-five gallon metal barrel turned wood cook stove is now steaming mildly,
“fuming like a moderately stoked Babaloo,” she usually says, smirking at the thought of a sweaty faced
Santero, calling the Orisha’s with a well worn and beautifully carved bata. Obtaining necessary home
furnishings in Habana demands adaptation and the eye for creative reuse, but this is nothing new for
the majority of the island Creoles and old metal drums make good cooking stoves.
”I love the smell,” she inhales, filling her lungs with the soup's spicy, fragrant vapor. The aroma
quickens her heartbeat and she savors it, slowly releasing the quimbombo essence, allowing the spirit
filled steam to saturate her senses, moisten her eyes and clear her nose.
"Ke-ge, ke-ge, ke-ge, I also love my iron pot," she repeatedly whispers the call, a prayer of thanks to
the unseen deity of metal and railroad tracks and more.
Oh, Oggun. You are the one Orisha I sometimes tolerate but stay aggravated with most of the time.
You may be the husband of Achabba but I have many paths. I am watching your gifts of iron pots to
the young Creole girl. I will find out what you really want from her. Hear what I say for I am the
mother of all Orishas and have seen your troubles in the past.
Strewn across Marta’s kitchen table lie remains of the stew’s ingredients; rosemary, basil, slices of
lime, peppers, marjoram, parsley, garlic and the star of the show, freshly picked from her small but
lush seashore garden, the tender, prickly quimbombo pods. “Quimbombo is the secret to a long,
healthy life and is my link to La Florida,” Marta whispers, nicking the tip of her finger with the small
cutting knife.
“Cosechas lo que siembras”, she vocalizes the ritual daily curse against her adopted historic city, the
money and thugs, student revolutionaries and shadowy, corrupt governmental officials permanently in
debt to General Machado who is who he is only because of absurd brutality, City and sugar, and the
knife guilty of slicing her fingertip only moments ago.
“Cosechas lo que siembras”, she cries again shivering in revolt with the fleeting memories of the old
half-fingered hand sliding up her arm as she poured the finest café Cubano found on the island for
those seated around an ornate oval mahogany dining table in Nacional’s Presidential suite yesterday - a
table so large she still wonders how it was brought to the fourteenth floor. “Undeniably,” she says,
pauses and continues, “I prefer Mr. Capone’s crude and rough honesty over Machado’s beady eyes, cold
eyes hiding behind small round, gold-framed eyeglasses. The old butcher was a bastard.”
“Yemaya, I must repent. Here I am safe from prying eyes and listening ears and can complain so easily.
Tonight though, I will be grateful for what I have.” She nods. Inside her bohio she is hidden away from
the perspiration soaked bosses busily rustling around the restaurant and casino floors in musty smelling
suits. She is far away from the neurotic supervisors pacing the brilliant, gleaming waxed floors of the
newly constructed luxury hotel. The tolerated but despised buttock-squeezes are over for the day and
she should be secure within the thick weathered walls of her own unique and hand-built Cathedral del
Playa.
“Where is my man?” The crease in her forehead belies her calm demeanor.
Justo’s artwork adorns the bohio’s interior walls. Hand-made furniture boast of his artistic genius, an
eclectic mix of the Catholic saints, pomegranates and naked girls. The choice of paint is not the soft,
pleasant pastels but rather brilliantly electric oil-based hues giving rise to a frequent bragging, "the
front room is more stimulating than Nacional’s cafe Cubano”, her own brightly colored style of
Nacional’s architectural exquisiteness.
Marta smiles, her friends and neighbors are jealous of the handmade eye-catchers; the mason jars, tin
cans, baskets, wooden crates and pallets each fashioned into an imaginative work of brightly painted,
but creatively functional art.
And now a pleasant rush of warm humid breeze flows around her legs and up under her skirt as the
front door opens and closes. "It's hot, Justo, pero it is muy buena. Can I fix you a cup?" He is home
from the cigar factory and turning to face her short, light-skinned Spanish husband, she runs her tongue
over her upper lip with slow, deliberate strokes, smiling. He is a handsome man and her heart races,
encouraged on by her hips, heart and guilty conscience – having hidden away another satchel of
gleaned casino chips.
"Quimbimbo again?" he asks, frowns and grumbles, sitting down on a stool beside the weathered table
fashioned from a cable-spool, drumming the tobacco leaf-stained hand across the sun bleached top,
unable to so quickly shelve the daily Partagas production pressures and thoughts of an impending illicit
transaction.
"Si, with no fresh crab from Nacional,” she says, knowing her husband will not touch crabmeat from the
harbor, remembering his pitiful and violent response to a meal of Morro crab cakes and the subsequent
story of why Habana’s own Morro crabs are so delightfully plump and juicy.
“Morro crabs pick the bones of foul, wasted political prisoners; this Marta, is the national joke of our
island and you know I don’t eat crab,” he says shaking the rain from his dark hair. "I’ll enjoy the rum
first and eat later. Like the storm it will be gone after tonight. But es bueno; I will have nine hundred
dollars to buy more." Tilting the jar up high, warm golden liquid flows over his lower lip. He swallows
and blows a steady stream of pungent breath in her direction. "Quimbombo again? How many nights
now have you fixed sopa de quimbombo?"
"We eat it when it is in our garden," nodding as would an obedient housewife with something
apparently important to say. "Quimbombo is good for the children and it is a holy plant too. Son las
mas santos en El Monte que en el cielo. Did I tell you how the plant was brought here to Cuba?" Her
black eyebrows are raised high and she massages the side of her aching waist, wanting to remind him
she too is filled with exhaustion.
"Si, si. I know the plant is from Yorubaland," his head moves slowly back and forth. "I know the seeds
rode in a slave ship Osainita's hair like head lice and I know the plant is Holy to you, Marta; this you
have said countless times. But quimbombo, quimbombo is slimy and encourages the craps. You know
what I like: coffee and bread for breakfast, butter when I sell a load of rum; rice, eggs, papas or
plantain for lunch and black beans for supper.” He dips his finger into the liquor, lifting it out, up
above his tongue. An amber tear drop quickly forms below his nail, reflecting the candlelight with
countless sparkles and growing larger with passing seconds until it breaks loose, cascading downwards
into his mouth.
"Hidden not rode, Justo and sacred like your Christiano chalices." She moves the blue tin painted with
large yellow stars next to an aqua-green wooden fish crate itself detailed with scenes of la mar and
standing on its end, steaming ever so slightly from the oven's heat. Her eyes glance back to the picture
of the water and waves, thought flashing ‘he calls me la mar sometimes.
”La mar, la mar. The phrase touches her heart because I am her goddess and la mar is my domain.
Some call the shallows ‘el mar’ but they are wrong, for the warm inviting waters of the shoreline are
my womb and this is why she is drawn to la mar for she is mine.
Wiping her hands across her apron, she pauses, half-heartedly asserting, "piojo does not come from an
Osainita; they come from your casa chica's thick hair." She squints, unashamedly curious, studying the
lines on his face, assessing the impact of her oft-used cliché, but distracted slightly by the sounds of
the gathering wind outside their shanty.
Leaning forward she places her hands on his shoulders, rubbing her cheek over his coal black hair. "Hair
is a good place to hide many things and a good place for many things to hide in, including strange
fragrances." Lips puckered she adds defiantly, "sabila, tell her sabila will keep her hair clean and it
doesn’t smell like a Paris whore from Nacional. I do not understand why you see that girl."
"Good rum." He swirls the jar round and round, eyeing the waves of golden liquid spiraling up in light-
filled currents against the glass jar's lip. "No tengo una casa chica, Marta, y no tengo piojo," he says,
exhaling rapidly and focusing on the golden Bacardi climbing the interior of the twirling jar; brushing
away her inquisitive probes with his own ethanol-prompted momentary denial of reality. "Mira, mira,
the blond curls of hair twisting in the wind across Jesu Christo's neck," and placing the jar upon the
table, he sneezes three times in rapid succession, wiping his nose with his forearm.
"Bad weather outside tonight," she whispers and adds, “ajo; the quimbombo has plenty of ajo in it. Ajo
will help keep you healthy, keep the piojo away from you, me and the bebes.”
“Typical late summer weather.” Justo lifts and tilts the jar once again above his mouth. “Good rum.
Someone is going to be happy with this shipment and we are going to be happy with the burlap sack of
silver pesos.”
“The money is good, but it’s the cyclone, Justo. My stomach hurts, bad; my knees are stiff and my
back aches and I am concerned for the children. It is possible the storm will turn and come here.
Don’t you think we should spend the night somewhere inland for the sake of the Bebes?”
Summer cyclones are a common occurrence in Cuba and the island inhabitants innately look for the
subtle signs of weather changes for indications of deadly winds and floods. I blame the storms on the
anger outbursts of my unpredictable sister Oya.
“The cyclone is headed for North America, Marta.” Justo shakes his head. “You must want some of
this; let the cane relax you,” he says, holding the jar up and out from the table. He wipes his sweaty
forehead with fat, tobacco stained fingers, blinking as perspiration mingles with brown leaf residue,
eyes betraying a recognition of the barely discernable but definitely lingering, much-too-sweet orchid-
type scent picked up late this afternoon from somewhere within Partargas’ thick brick walls.
I would have struck Justo dead by now except for Marta’s adoring naivety of his wide smile and his
uncanny ability to not only provide daily essentials, but his willingness to share his illicit smuggling
spoils with her without account. But for his well disguised fear tonight of those with whom he trades
rum for pesos he would insist Marta take the bebes into town tonight.
“Rough day at work, Bebe?” she queries, believing her husband’s thoughts have not caught up with his
body, his mental focus lingering over the pressures of the oak leaf rolling tables, confusion compounded
by the truly unimportant casa-chica she suspects as a close neighbor and co-worker of her husband.
Justo nods and rubbing his eyes, tilts his head and says, “Come on, Marta, try some of this, it is a new
batch. Es muy bueno.”
“No, no thank you and I know the rum is from a new batch. I also know it is the reason you would not
leave for higher ground tonight if the storm gets worse,” she says squinting, her face wrinkling in
response to uneasiness beginning to churn below in her stomach. “Maybe it is only me, Justo, maybe
the combination of the rum runners, the hams and the cyclone – maybe it is too much. Maybe I will
wrap the children up and go someplace else – maybe Tia ‘s. Do you care if we leave after we eat?”
Justo exhales loudly, thoughts bouncing from the bag of shiny coins to be scattered across their table
to the ominous approaching weather, then back to thoughts about having never completed a rum
transaction with Capone’s new gang. “Look, Marta. We are going to get some wind and rain. It may
get rough outside, but we will be safe here. We need to make sure everything stays tied down and
nothing happens to the hams1. Those hams are our life tonight, our future. The Ocho shipment is the
largest I’ve ever pulled together. Two truckloads. I will need your help tonight when they arrive. And
you are one hell of a shot with a pistol.”
Al Capone’s Caribbean smuggling operation is extensive and profitable, and the demand for Bacardi in
North America has never been greater. I’ve seen Capone. I am not impressed with thuggery and
violence. He should be careful and quiet with his smuggling boats and not catch Oya’s eye.
She smiles, colorful thoughts drifting back to her Papa and the finca, La Florida, then frowning with
acknowledgment of his purposeful distraction. “Dios mio, Justo, I know we need the money and how
good it would be to have that kind of cash. Pero, think clearly. We have our Bebes, Ria and Osh.
Think, Justo, what is really more important, the rum or the children? The Ocho can be replaced our
children cannot. I think there is a real possibility the cyclone will turn and head to Habana. Dios mio.”
Voice trailing off into hard silence, she lifts her right palm up high into the air, acquiescence thawing
quickly under the heat of a growing irritation.
“Marta,” he says and sighs, “I told you the cyclone is not coming here, but more importantly we are
trading with a different group of runners tonight. They work for the Yankee Capone2; and they
certainly are not the typical Creole smugglers we’ve dealt with in the past. I truly do not trust them –
they are dangerous.”
She rolls her eyes remembering the flirting with Mr. Capone in exchange for casino chips as strictly
business. “What am I to do? She asks, holding her fingers in the shape of a pistol, whispering, “bang,
bang!”
He scowls. “Remember last February3, Marta. The same group coming tonight, they murdered the
mayor of Chicago - Cermack was his name - while he was with Roosevelt in Miami and then they framed
a Cuban, a Cuban, Marta! Senior Zangara, who was executed, you remember don’t you? If Senior
Capone was angry with the North American president for wanting to legalize whiskey, think what his
gangsters will do to us if we are not here tonight with the hams.”
She takes another slow, deep breath, the cool and salty evening air slowly stoking glowing embers of
conviction inside her chest. “We can leave and go to Oriente; no one will bother us in Santiago; you
love Santiago and we won’t have to worry about Capone’s gang or the cyclone.”
“We stay.” He blurts out then his shoulders sag. “Five hundred hams. The blacky4 will be here
tonight, I swear to you.” Glancing around the colorful room he licks the thick, rum soaked mustache
1During prohibition, rum was smuggled into the United States through Cuba, the Bahamas and from other
Caribbean Islands in burlap sacks. The sacks were stuffed with straw to prevent bottle breakage. These sacks were
known as ‘hams’. Al Capone allegedly was one of the main rumrunners of the time. Prohibition ended in the
United States in December of 1933 with the 21st Amendment to the Constitution.

2Al Capone’s organization created an extensive rum smuggling operation during prohibition, bringing liquor in from
Cuba, the Bahamas, Puerto Rico and Jamaica.

3FDR was the target of a January 1933 botched assassination attempt in Miami’s Biscayne Park. The Mayor of
Chicago was killed. A Cuban was convicted and executed for the crime.

4The rum was smuggled into United States on sleek fast boats called ‘blacks’ or blacky, similar to the speedboats
used to smuggle drugs today.
hairs hanging down over his upper lip, nods and eyes glaringly unfocused, adds, “They will be here
soon. Only then can we go.”
“Only then we can go?” She raises her voice. “If the blacky comes for the rum tonight in this weather,
then let the locos get it themselves. You can leave them a letter telling them where to place the
pesos, if you remember how to write after all the ron you are drinking; but I do not think anyone will
be landing a boat on our beach in this weather.” She pauses, then pointing to a small window, says,
“Listen to the wind, Justo. They would have to be loco to be in a boat out there now; loco-loco-loco.
No, no, the runners will come tomorrow at sunset instead of tonight.” Her hands move swiftly across
obtuse angles through the air, accentuating her growing anger.
“No.” Justo grunts and stepping closer to Marta, continues, “I know they are coming tonight,” he says
licking his lip again in slow defiance.
She moves her head slowly from side to side.
Justo glances down, aims his booted foot and kicks a small shell across the floor. Standing now and
pacing the length of the room, he turns to face her, the first crack in his previously impenetrable
façade appearing. “Where would you go; over to Nacional? How would you get into the city?”
The tightness in her chest loosens ever so slightly. “I can always get a ride, Justo. You could meet us
at Tia J’s later tonight or tomorrow. I think we all should leave, but I am especially concerned about
our bebes. I want them to be safe.”
Wrinkles form in the center of his forehead and pulling a long cigar from his stained khaki pocket, he
nods, avoiding eye contact.
Time has allowed me to learn of the many different qualities a human heart may hold. Forged under
the concern, or lack thereof from the birthmother to the undertaker, framed within a pre-existing
culture of environmental, social and political currents flowing vigorously around the soul, and ever so
slightly molded by spark of individuality from within, the development of a human heart is ever so
predictable. Justo, for example, may believe he is the mysterious, private type – the one who can
never truly be known. But Justo is clear to me, clear as the golden Ocho within the Mason jar he
clutches. The face of Justo’s heart is one of false guilt – the absurd genetic type taught by his Catholic
bishops. Marta has been good for him though, offering him a glimpse of the primordial beauty found in
the reality of nature, providing him with an alternative to his European dualistic soul-body concept.
And so today his heart’s face is twisted, called to from a variety of different spirits, some concerned
for the safety of Marta, Ria and Osh, others for fear of his own life, desire for more pesos, and the Holy
Spirit he invites into his chest.
“Philippe, the boss at Partagas lives down the street from Tia J. You’ve seen his house before. But,
no, no, there will be no rides out there tonight, Marta. It is still too dangerous; too much fighting
between the Batista gang, students and porristas. Are the bebes asleep?”
She frowns, momentarily overwhelmed with the intricately strong but not fully understandable
complications woven into her own life, framed by a true, sincere passion for her man and strong
maternal love for her children, and sighing says, “I believe so. I can look and see.”
Justo smiles, happy with the flanking maneuver’s temporary distraction. “No, no, don’t! You might
wake them, better if they sleep. I am going to step out on the porch. You can too,” he says and
pauses, “let’s see how bad it really looks out over the ocean.”
She is confused now; torn between comfortable familiarity of her husband, the mysteriously powerful
desires Justo’s illicit funds create within her heart and a primordial maternal fear for her Bebes’
welfare. Staring at her masculine husband, glancing at the back room doorway and down at the floor,
then moving to the front door, she steps outside barefoot on the damp, rough wooden deck. “For a
moment, Justo. But only for a moment.”
Marta’s heart still wears the face of a child. Raised by a cane plantation’s bruheria, her spirit is
painted with nature, passion and a strange innocence; innocence tainted with runoff of the dirty
streets of Havana.
Justo follows her, holding a glowing match to his rolled tobacco. “It is amazing how Carmen can twist
and tie leaf so perfectly – not too tight and not too loose; with one hand. Do you want a cigar?”
Marta’s spirit crashes to the floor. “No, no thank you.”
“Very smooth.”
“The smoke or one-handed Carmen?” She asks and turns her head to hide a glare, glancing up quickly
to scan the darkening horizon, internal turmoil firing on all cylinders.
“She has two hands.” Justo spits over the handrail. “You are jealous,” he says, uncomfortable with his
rum-induced desire to speak about his female friend but not willing to allow his wife the pleasure of an
acknowledged confession of a casa-chica.
“Maybe so.” Her shoulders shrug and she touches her mouth with the three middle fingers of her left
hand, casting out a baited statement. “You talk of Carmen often.”
“Ayaah, Marta. Look at the lightning’s dance.” He waves his hairy finger out across the horizon and
the Straits of Florida, ignoring the reference to Carmen. “Powerful, mira!”
The Atlantic breeze is warm and laden with moisture and the dance of static electricity swiftly scribes
brilliant white calligraphy over the deep purple-black sky.
“Lightning is sensual; si? You know Carmen is my ride to work and her papa is my rum partner.”
“I know she is your ride, Justo and I appreciate her help. But as for her dirty Papa, why is he not here
to assist you tonight? There are many people downtown who want him dead.”
Shaking my head, expressing my frustration at her humanness, I breathe into my body her dark
whispers. From deep within she is reciting the tale of her soul, a slave to the city, surrounded by the
expansive and generous freedom of the ocean and sky, dependent on her husband’s smuggling revenue,
pretending his casa-chicas are imaginary, enscripted to her present life by choice imagined as no-
choice. I’ve witnessed the pattern too many times and soon her thoughts will drift to ancestors
chained within wet, wooden ships, riding the same waves generations ago, arriving here to live out a
hard life in the cane fields and inviting in the desire to return to her plantation home.
“Mira, mira, Justo. Look at those flashes. Lightning is art of the Orishas; of Chango and of Oya. But
those clouds frighten me; they approach with a purpose. They are big and dark and look angry, much
like I should be about your annoying casa-chica.”
“Carmen saves me a hell of a lot of walking and is my best roller at Partagas. You should watch her
work a chaveta5 between two fingers, smoother than an overhead fan. She can roll perfect Cohibas6,
Montecristos, and Bolivars. Carmen understands the Partagas way. She helps my crew define Partagas
and puts money in our pockets.” Justo holds his fingers together out in front of his face, surprised by
the fluidity of his argument.
I sometimes wonder why men were ever created. As I have said before, the steady rhythmic lapping of
my waves across a sandy beach produces all the crescendos I ever need.
“Si, Justo,” she says and sighs, momentarily ceding hesitant acceptance of the ageless tradition
attributed Cuban men and their casa-chicas and obvious lack of intimacy with the large coveted leaf.
“Look out there. The storm is about hundred kilometers away at least. I told you it was going to pass
us by.”
“I hope so, but the energy here is dark and forbidding.” She stares into the fathomlessly deep dark
evening sky.

5 A chaveta is a small knife used in cutting cigars.

6 The Cohibas, Montecristos and Bolivar brands of cigars are all brands produced at the Partagas cigar factory
in Habana.
Striking a boot heel against a weathered porch post, he redirects the conversation; “Partagas fired the
lector7 today.”
“The wind is becoming stronger.” She pulls her thick bronze hair back behind her ears – thick, kinky
curls of a color I’ve rarely seen. “Mira, lightning bolts look like China writing.”
“How do you know about China writing?”
“Joe, Justo.”
“Who is Joe?”
“You know Joe,” she says, breaking into a smile at the thought of her short, plump Asian friend.
Working at Nacional brings her pleasure and grief, but she considers her position an honor and has
learned to tolerate patronizing tourists, soldiers and the mob. Daily interactions with her co-workers
and world-traveled guests are like a never-ending worldly dance. “Why did you fire the lector?” she
asks.
“I didn’t fire the lector, Philippe did. Partagas fired the lector.”
“Why did the lector get fired today, Justo?”
“The estupido continued to read Marx; even though the rule was well known,” Justo’s eyebrows lift, his
hand moves away from his face, “and written warnings were put in the file. The man still read Karl
Marx. You know, everyone knows what can be read and can’t be read in the factory. I never
understood why the lector preferred reading to musica. Anyway, I have always preferred musica and
have made my thoughts known many times before.”
You don’t have to think with musica; musica thinks for you while your fingers move the leaf. Reading
causes the fingers to stop while the brain is distracted into contemplating the words. Musica is like
miel, it is sweet, erotic; it flows thick and slow and is full of energy. Pero, words are like mostly
chopped cebolla; they make the eyes water and the fingers slip.
The lectors are always much too pompous, Marta. They never listen to the production people. We
have to listen to them. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to walk up to those pompous
bastards and tell them to suck on my thick Justo.”
Marta’s eyebrows lift with the excitement in his voice and the visions in her thoughts. “Si, Justo, I
have heard of Marx. Sometimes the tourists at the hotel leave books in the rooms.”
“Have you found any more casino chips?”
Her eyebrows knit closely together and she shakes her head. “Nada; I gave you all my chips.”
Lucky for her Justo is quite intoxicated for she is not a good liar and at the right moment of distraction
the northern twilight sky sparkles again; quick, repetitive flashes, prolonged jagged spikes and flashes
of light glisten against the backdrop of the sensually frightening night sky.
“Yemaya,” she whispers a familiar name and blows a stream of air through her compressed lips.
Leaning now against a wooden porch post she crosses her legs. “I want to be going soon, Justo.”
“You mean Ayaah, Marta. Shit. I would hate to be out on the water right now. Cyclones can blow up
waves from far away.” Justo strikes another match, lights the tobacco leaf and puffs hard on the roll,
holding his chin high but unable to mask a new and growing uncertainty in his eyes.
“Those rum men will never come here tonight.” She shakes her head and pulls her shoulders in front
of her chest, sharp bones pushing at her dark shoulder skin. “We should wrap the children up and
leave. Mira, the tide is up close to the base of the house piers now.”
He moves to his left and glancing over the porch rail states emphatically, “It has been there many
times before.” Walking to the opposite end of the front porch he turns to face her. “You know the
blacky will be here. They never miss a pickup. Never. Capone’s runners flow like the musica.”

7 A lector reads to the cigar factory workers as they roll, mold and cut the cigars, an age-old tradition.
“More like cebolla.” Lightning flashes again, much closer, behind the house. “Obo ka so8,” she
instinctively confesses, touching her left breast and lifting her hands to her ears and shuts her eyes
tight. The thunder’s vibrating clap echoes around the house and Justo slouches, straightens and looks
to her, a big smile on his face.
“Jesu Christo, Marta. I had forgotten about Obo ka so and Obo so,” he says and chuckles, blowing
smoke into the cool, damp wind.
She turns her head allowing the wind to blow the hair from her face. “My father’s mother used to say
Obo ka so every time it thundered. It’s a phrase from the Oyo9 tale of Chango’s retreat.”
“Obo so. Obo so,” Justo says and laughs. “Remember all of the Creoles at school? We called them the
Lucumi10or Brujos.11” He shakes his head, “Dios mio, whenever it stormed we would all yell, ‘the king
is dead, the king is dead’, and it would make the small children cry. A lot like frightening a goat.”
Dios mio himself, Justo is so obvious. Surely she can see his sarcastic jabs are being used to deflect
attention away from his own personal insecurities. But yes, I know she is learning to turn his
immaturity into stimulating conversation, a strong need of her young female heart. Youth must
experience struggle for without pain there is no growth.
“Sounds cruel to me, Justo. Pero, what would I know; I didn’t go to school, nor was I raised in Habana.
And why would you want to scare a goat? It is not good for the milk.”
“I suppose most of the plantation workers are African and don’t go to school. You have never seen the
goat game?” Justo knows the barb will produce instant aggravation and the familiar rush of empty but
momentary pleasurable gratification shoots up his spine.
“I am Cuban, Justo,” she says, veins now protruding out across her neck. “We were both born in Cuba
and live in Cuba. You and I are both Cubans. Por favor, don’t start the African argument again. I am
Cuban, Justo and you are drinking too much. Let’s leave now before the storm becomes stronger.”
“No, but really, Marta. Really, you are an African, si?”
“I am a Cuban, Justo. My relatives are a blend of many cultures. I have Portuguese, Spanish, Oyo and
Lucumi roots. We are one, Justo; we are Cuban. There is no real separation of our spirits into
different races. We are all children of Yemaya and much like the coconut. You know the saying, Justo,
about the coconut12. In the eyes of the Orishas there are; no negros de nacion13, bozal criollos14 or
cubanos15.”
She breathes in slowly, calculating her response. Janitor Joe from Nacional has taught her to separate

8 Obo ka so is Yoruba for ‘the king is not dead’. The phrase is derived from the story of Chango’s (Orisha of
lightening and masculinity) retreat and was a traditional salute to Chango (also Chango) whenever lightening and
thunder occurred. Obo so was the traditional non-believers insult of Chango and is translated the king is dead.

9The Oyo people are a tribe native to the Congo and Nigeria.

10 Lucumi is an ancestral heritage of Western Africa near areas of present day Congo.

11 Brujos is the Spanish word that can be translated as ‘witch’, ’ witchcraft’ or ‘worker of magic’.

12The tale of the coconut says that Cubans exhibit skin color like the coconut. There are those that are lily white
like the pure white meat inside, and then there are those who are brown like the outside husk. Under the husk is the
black portion of the nutshell and represents the darkest skin hue.

13 African Cubans who were raised speaking their native African languages.

14 African Cubans raised speaking a mixture of Spanish and the African languages.

15 Those born to Criollo or Cuban parents (What is the definition of a Cuban parent?)
personal feelings from conversations during his occasional Tai Chi lessons. Though her hot-blooded
Creole tendencies initiate sharp responses, she is aware Joe’s meditation techniques are useful in
shielding her insecurities from attack. Her face muscles relaxing, breathing deeply, she steps back
away from Justo and returns her gaze to the rapidly darkening sky.
“Yeah, yeah. Well any color skin and you would have done well, Marta, as much as you read at work.
You know so many big words and are almost too poetic sometimes. Maybe it is because you are a
woman, but have you ever considered how lucky you were, being born a Criolla on a plantation and
learning to read?”
“A Cuban, Justo. I am a Cuban. And si, I got to learn letters because my papa is the plantation
overseer. Why don’t you pour out the rest of the Ocho? Bacardi likes to argue too much; and you
should consider stopping work with those rum people. I do not like any of them, their foul language or
their big guns. I do not want them near my babies anymore,” she says, reaching out, touching his
shoulder. “We should move back to Oriente.”
“Huh? Yeah, whatever you want to call yourself. I don’t think your papa ever cared much for me. And
besides, I can’t quit. It is too much money for us and we can’t move.”
“Papa did not have a chance to understand you; you got me pregnant then kidnapped me.” She pulls
long hair back from her eyes. I hear strong rain coming.”
“You told me your Papa wanted to kill me.”
“Papa is hot tempered and he may still try to kill you one day. But, I think we still have time to leave
for higher ground, maybe town. If we can’t make it to Tia J’s, then I am sure I can get us a room in
Nacional. Leave the rum for the blacky and come with us, Justo. But, if you must stay then come to
the Hotel as soon as Capone’s men leave.” She glances up, closes her eyes and taking deep breaths
whispers the name of her plantation home, ‘La Florida’.
I know she dreams of home. She wants to go home to her rolling hills with scattered palms, a big sky
blue to her left and dark grey to her right, black smoke billowing from the Central stacks and bells on
tall posts clanging loudly. Most people dream of being places they cannot go. Me, I am happy
wherever there is blue water, and she – well, she has a lot of blue water here and a lot of growing up to
experience.
“No blacky tonight,” she mumbles once more, clasps the porch rail, twisting her palms over the
weathered, gray wood, thinking, “except for finding my Mama, maybe it is wrong for me to want to go
home. He built this house for me and this is a good home for now.”
“You should taste the Bacardi, Mar.”
She smiles, reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. “I like it when you call me Mar, Justo. Si, I
would like a small puff on your cigar now, then I want us to go.”
“Carmen may roll a good cigar, but you are my woman,” he says and hands her the Partagas. “Dios
mio.” Justo turns away. “Look out there, looks like a strong gust of wind is coming this way. Mira,
mira, the blacky is out there. Jesu Christo! Look at the boat roll. Whoa! Marta, I’m going to need
your help now, for sure. Dios mio, I told you they would come.”
The long narrow motorboat maneuvers slowly within the small cove east of their home, the hum of
engine barely audible above the ocean’s crescendo. But she also hears the burst of wind approach,
seconds before it reaches shore and knows she must cover her eyes and turn away from the sting and
the grit. Running across the porch to the door she pulls on the clasp, pushes the door moving inside.
“Hey, where are you going?” Justo yells.
Latching the door and turning she trembles, adrenalin surging, pumping through her body. Releasing an
orchestra-like howl the wind whips over and through a thousand cracks. “The children,” she whispers,
running through the front room to the back bedroom. “Jesu Christo! Oh, bebes, Mama is here. Help
us, Mama Yemaya.”
I hear her, pero I am not Jesu Christo. What can I do with Oya watching me ever so closely these days?
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