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BY THE END of the summer, more than 70,000 Cubans had left the island through Mariel Harbor. Now if Elio passed by someone’s house, he couldn’t help but wonder who was missing. And who, among the thousands of Cubans who had left, would never return. He remembered Pepe asking him once if he thought it’d all be worth it. Elio didn’t have an answer—how the hell would he know? All he knew was that he wasn’t going anywhere, at least not any time soon.
It was a Thursday, the last week of September. Elio’d come back from work early on account of yet another repudiation rally. This time, though, he hadn’t hidden in the bathroom, deciding instead to sneak out through a back door, hitch a ride with a produce truck, and surprise Maria. The day was clear, bright, and not as hot as usual. It was the kind of day when one could forgive almost anything. It had been nearly a month since his father’s phone call and, although Maria had asked him more than once to try to make contact, she quickly learned to let him be.
When he plodded through the door, Maria was sitting on the checkered tile, sawing off the tips of her tennis shoes. “What?” she said, looking up at him. “My toes need to breathe.” With sunburnt cheeks, tousled blonde hair, and one leg folded under her butt, she seemed to Elio like a seafaring goddess.
“Well,” he said, kissing her damp mane, “are you surprised I’m home early?”
“Not surprised, thankful.” She grinned. “Now you can fix the iron.”
“In that case,” he said, “I’ll need your eyebrow tweezers.” He was in such a good mood that afternoon that he met Maria’s request with gusto. After all, he loved to be needed.
Finding the iron on the kitchen table near a small stack of his Lee pitusas, he sat down and started unscrewing the soleplate with the tip of a knife. He’d managed to loosen one screw but a second, smaller screw remained. He waited a few seconds for Maria to get the tweezers, then realized it’d be quicker to work with the knife. Meanwhile, Maria walked into the bedroom and began rooting about in her purse.
“Alright,” Elio said toward the bedroom. “You can forget about the hair plucker. I’ve moved on to the second screw.”
He was sweating heavily and his wrist was twitchy from each half turn of the knife, the tip of which he’d bent on his first try. Just as he was about to pull out the screw, he heard what might have been a bus outside. He gripped the knife a little tighter, but went on working, hoping the vehicle would continue on and turn at the end of the street, or stop at someone else’s house. But then it became clear that the bus had made a full stop, right on his street and way too close to his house. His hand jerked. Both knife and screw flew into the air. His good mood was gone. His heart beat in a panic. He ran into the living room and quickly closed and bolted the shutters. Staring at his front door, he didn’t know whether to call out to Maria or open the door and face them.
With the shutters closed, he couldn’t see them. But he could hear them. A swoosh-swoosh-swoosh, a slurring, a kind of loud, continuous humming. Shouting that grew louder and louder until it reached his front door. It was another rally, recoño. In the past, they’d marched on Rogelio’s house, on Irma’s, on Raulito’s, and, of course, on Elsa’s. This time, however, they were here for him. There were too many incidents stacked against him. His lack of participation at rallies, his dad’s phone call, and his dad’s arrival at the Port of Mariel had marked him—turned him and Maria into lumpen, undesirables, people who’d betrayed the Revolution.
Elio started toward the bedroom to warn Maria to hide. Then he heard one of them call out, “Gusano!” The voice was unfamiliar. Elio didn’t much care if they called him a traitor, or scum, or whatever else they came up with. But a worm? A goddamn worm? Sons of bitches, he thought. All for a fucking phone call? He wasn’t leaving. They weren’t leaving. The mob banged, and chanted, and rattled the shutters. There must have been over one hundred people on the porch, even school children. He could hear their louder, higher-pitched voices.
Elio rushed to the bedroom. “Maria,” he whispered from the doorway. “They’re here, they’re outside.” The voices on the porch rose and fell. But they didn’t stop. He thought to grab Maria, then make it out to the lagoon through the back door. If they followed the water’s edge, they could reach the turbina in no time. “Maria,” he whispered.
“I’m here,” Elio heard her say, finally. She had covered her head with a pillow and was hiding under the bed. Elio could feel dread rising in his chest, then anger. He had never seen her so scared.
“Pepe’s not coming by today, is he?” she asked, sticking her head out from under the bed. Elio felt his blood pumping in his temples. Were Pepe to show up now, he’d make a scene, demand explanations, and they’d beat him to a pulp.
“I don’t know,” he said, crouching next her.
“Here,” she said. “Take a Chiclet.”
“Where did you get that? What the hell is a Chiclet going to do for us?”
“Just chew it,” she whispered. “It’s like an aspirin. Fina’s daughter sent it to her in an envelope. She can’t chew gum, on account of her dental bridge, so she gave it to me.” Maria said. She didn’t shed a single tear, but kept her eyes fixed on him.
Before Elio could answer, he heard a loud cracking sound. He cast a glance over his shoulder. They’d pried open the shutters. Then more cracking, smashing, shattering. Crawling to the bedroom door, he looked out to the living room. A long, metal rod inserted through broken slats, scoured his living room. Everything they owned had been strewn on the floor—their wedding picture, their television, Maria’s old books.
What horrified Elio the most was the coordination. They were zombies. Yes, it was like a zombie outbreak. A mindless, undead horde of people he’d known all his life. Weren’t these his neighbors, coworkers, and childhood friends? These were days, Elio thought, when everyone looked in the mirror and saw two faces staring back at them. They were sad days, repinga.
He asked Maria what she wanted him to do. She looked straight at him. “Hit them as hard as you can,” she said. Her eyes were red, and Elio thought they would explode or burst into tears. He looked at her for a moment to see if he understood. She nodded.
Picking up the half-gutted iron along the way, he walked into the living room. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do. They must have heard him walking around close to the front door or seen him through the shutters because, right then, their shouting stopped. He walked up to the front door, opened it, and stepped out on the porch. Suddenly, everyone faced him. One long moment passed. Then together, as if on signal, they were on him.
Elio gripped the iron in his hand, but before he could use it to defend himself, a brick hit him in the face, and he was kneed between the legs. He swung the iron in the air. He heard a thud. “You’re shit!” someone yelled. “Gusano!” Elio retreated, and closed his eyes. He touched his forehead, which was bleeding. He felt like he would pass out. So dizzy he thought he would puke. His head feeling like his brain had been torn out of him. Just as he was about to tumble forward, Maria opened the door. “Get the hell away from my house! Perros!” she shouted. She’d brought him back from the dead. Then blows came from everywhere at once.
Some days later, while Elio was still at work, Maria walked to the back yard carrying her small collection of books. Her hands were bruised, and her face had a few small scratches. Worse than that, she felt shaken and angry. She wanted to erase any trace of the existence of books in her life. Books, as far as she was concerned, had brought her nothing but heartache, espejismos, and desires she’d never fulfill. The repudiation rally days before had taught her as much. There was no room on the island for dreaming. No room for Madame Bovary and Sears catalogues. No room for books.
She set the books down on the concrete floor and made a small pyre with them. Then she doused them with luz brillante, and set them on fire. She watched her precious books as they burned themselves out. When she thought there’s was nothing else to burn, she remembered Elio’s counterfeit Lee jeans. She walked back in the house and found the small stack on the table, where it’d been days before. She carried the jeans into the yard and threw them on the fire.
When it was all done, the yard was a cloud of smoke and the smell of burnt fabric and paper choked the air. Maria swept the remnants up with a broom—leaving no trace of books—or dreams—in her house.