Afternoon had passed into that nowhere zone between day and night, the time of day you’d turn on your headlights without being sure it was necessary. But there were no headlights or cars on the dirt road leading away from the convent, and I was alone with the young nun. I waited until we reached an isolated bend in the road before jamming the Beretta in the small of the phony Maribel’s back. It was surprisingly easy to threaten a nun.
I was really past caring whether I would go to hell or not—besides, I wasn’t sure she really was a nun. It’s not as though they have physical marks you can check. I realized just how desperate I felt when I instantly considered how long Barbara had already waited for me. I might have blown my window of opportunity; she might even have long since lifted anchor and headed home. I couldn’t blame her if she had. I wanted nothing more than to return to the Mamita, cross the Florida Straits, go to Papi’s house, and collapse in bed—all this in about ten to fifteen minutes.
The young girl stopped and looked over her shoulder slowly, as though she’d almost expected to be found out. When she did, I saw beads of sweat appear on her forehead. I didn’t care how hot it was—real nuns didn’t sweat. It’s something Catholics know intuitively.
I took a step away and kept the gun pointed at her. “Where is she?” I asked.
She tried acting again, a bad move. She would need years of lessons from Mother Superior. “Who?” she asked.
“The real Maribel—or whatever the hell her name is. The girl with the birthmark that I came here for.”
I got a little closer and pointed the gun at her face, knowing that would get my point across. All women share an instinctive fear of having their faces injured. I also thought it wouldn’t hurt to let her see my frustration and desperation—it would be dark soon, and Barbara and I had to leave. If she wasn’t halfway to Florida by then, I thought. Then I told myself to stop it. If that was true, then it was over for me.
The girl looked into my eyes and saw, I’m sure, total desperation. She didn’t have to be the best judge of character in the world to know I wouldn’t tolerate any more bullshit from her. I didn’t know if she was behind Mother Superior’s trickery, or if she was just along for the ride. It didn’t matter. She was in my way, in either case.
I saw her consider her options: running away from me and risking getting shot in the back, putting up a fight, or simply giving in. I don’t know what I would have done if she’d simply decided to attack me. I was too tired, too weak.
The girl threw her bag down to the ground petulantly, obviously angry that the plan had fallen apart so quickly. “She’s been locked in a room at the convent the last three days,” she said angrily. “Ever since she heard you were coming she wanted to go with you, but Mother Superior wouldn’t allow it.”
She couldn’t keep her eyes from the gun barrel. “We’re going in after her,” I said. “Is there a way we can get to her without anyone seeing us?”
I took the safety off the gun, figuring she had seen enough movies to know what the gesture meant. It worked. The young girl threw her arms in the air, her eyes wide.
“There’s a way, there’s a way,” she said. “Through the back halls—there’s a door there. It’s used mostly to take the garbage out to the dump behind the back wall, so no one spends any time there.”
Pointing the gun at the ground—there was no reason to be unnecessarily rude—I asked, “And Maribel’s room is close to that?”
She gave her bag a desultory kick. “Yes. Two doors down.”
“Come here,” I said, and her features froze. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. My sister is a nun.”
I pushed her toward some ficus trees behind tall weeds by the side of the road. Using my belt, I tied her hands together in front of her, then took off my socks and wrapped them around her mouth for a gag. Finally, and I really hated to do this because I knew it would be really uncomfortable for her, I took off my brassiere and tied her to one of the sturdier trees. I don’t think Wacoal intended that their product be put to such a use, but it was Swiss-made so I knew it would be reliable. I hoped God would forgive me for tying up a nun, even a phony one.
Now that my belt was gone, the oversized pants I borrowed from Barbara were falling down. I’d already cuffed them about six inches, and now I had to tie the waist into a knot to keep them from falling around my ankles. I walked quickly down the road back toward the convent, thinking that if I lived to tell someone about all this I would omit describing the wardrobe I was forced to wear during my adventure.
It was almost dark now, the sun gone below the horizon, leaving only a dusky glow. I passed a single traveler on the road, an old man in a straw hat, and I shoved the gun in my pocket and kept my head down as we passed. I could feel him staring at me, but he continued on his way, humming softly to himself.
I reached my old friend the mango tree and again climbed it—as high as I could this time, to see better over the convent walls. Toward the top I heard squeaks of protest from the branches supporting me. I think if they’d given way I would have simply lain on the ground until someone came to arrest me.
But the tree held, and I was able to glimpse the far end of the convent’s quadrangle. All seemed quiet, which was very good. If Mother Superior had received word that the Mamita was still in Cuban waters, she would have suspected that I didn’t fall for the fake Maribel’s story.
Before coming down I had a last look around. The view was better than before, when I was simply hiding lower in the tree. Craning my neck, I could see the city of Sagua la Grande in the distance, with lights interspersed across the dark land. When I was ready to begin my descent, something caught my eye, and I trained my binoculars on it. It was a clearing, ringed in low lights. I wasn’t sure, but I thought it was La Libertad, the square Papi told me about. I decided to believe it was true. I needed a good omen.
I was reluctant to leave the tree, when the moment came, but the convent might not remain quiet. I had to hope the new friend I’d tied to a tree told me the truth, and that my brassiere would hold out a little longer. I took a deep breath for courage before setting out.
The lights were on inside the convent, but none of the sisters was out in the courtyard. This time of day, I figured, they would be either in evening prayers or seated together in their dining hall. Hopping out of my mango tree, I crept along the side wall, listening for any activity.
Behind the property was a long, vacant lot leading out to the sparse wilderness. I walked carefully, trying not to step on too many branches, and felt my way along the convent’s back wall. As I advanced I started to smell a stench, and took a look down.
I was up to my ankles in trash. Squinting into the darkness, trying to make my eyes adjust, I saw that garbage was everywhere: food remnants, coffee grounds, dirty rags. Apparently Mother Superior hadn’t inspected the garbage dump in quite a while, because the nuns were dumping their trash just outside the convent. Looking up, I saw that the only windows looking out the back were on the second floor, safely away from the stink.
Crunching through the debris, I came to an open stretch of dirt and soon reached a single back door. If it was locked, I suddenly realized, I had no secondary plan. But I couldn’t have come so far to find a locked door.
It was locked. I pushed against it, finding it incredibly sturdy, made of thick wood on tarnished brass hinges. It would have taken a battering ram to get me inside.
I sat in the dirt and felt like crying. After everything I found myself sitting like a beggar in the trash, locked out from Michelle’s mother, who was probably only yards away. What was I going to do, return to Miami and tell the Morenos I could have saved their daughter, but the security at the Order of the Holy Rosary was just too tight for me to breach?
Then I remembered something Esteban told me once: “When you’re completely stuck, do something completely obvious.”
In the trash, like a beggar, I thought. I mussed my dirty hair over my face, rubbing some grime onto my face for effect, gripped the Beretta beneath my peasant shirt, and knocked loudly at the door. I heard a single set of footsteps approach from inside.
The door opened, and a woman about my own age peered out warily, her body set in silhouette by a single lamp from the hall behind her. “Yes?” she asked.
“Could you spare a scrap of bread for a humble traveler passing from one town to the next?” I asked in a gravelly voice, mumbling as much as possible and kicking at the ground.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you,” the nun said, leaning closer.
I must have hesitated too long before answering, because she stepped back into the hallway and reached into the pocket of her skirt. After fumbling around for a moment she pulled out a long, dark, cylindrical object. In the darkness of the doorway I couldn’t tell what it was, but I could safely assume it wasn’t good for me.
She clutched the object possessively and took a half-step back toward me. I didn’t dare give myself away by speaking again, so I tried to look as harmless as I could. Ideally, she was about to invite me in for a three-course meal, but I guessed those kindnesses happened in the Bible rather than communist Cuba.
Keeping an eye on the dark object, meeting her eyes as she moved another foot closer without speaking, I realized this bride of Christ was a phenomenally brave woman. She was willing to confront a stinking, ragged stranger in the darkness alone. Then again, she might have had reason to feel safe. I was fairly certain that the object she held was a gun, or maybe a thin club. And when she drew near I saw she was a foot taller than me, and about a hundred pounds heavier.
Without a word she moved on me, swinging her arm and the object directly toward my head. Before I could react I heard a click—and I was blinded by a flashlight beam focused directly on my face. I reacted with pure reflex.
I pulled the gun from beneath my shirt and beaned her with it. She fell like a stringless marionette, and I bent over her to make sure she wasn’t severely injured. I would have to spend the next year doing penance, but it had worked.
The nun was fine. I stuffed her in a small utility closet, knowing she would wake up with a bruise and a scary story to tell the other sisters. Behind her the long hall was completely silent, so I moved quickly, finding the second door. It was also locked.
From down the hall I heard voices, and I went into a crouch with the gun drawn. Then I stopped myself. This was ridiculous—what was I going to do, hold the entire convent at gunpoint? I’d sinned enough for a lifetime in the last day, and I didn’t have a taste for more. So I leaned against the wall, waiting for them to come for me. I would surrender and plead my case to Mother Superior. If she wouldn’t allow Maribel to come, then it was over.
The voices didn’t come any closer, and I began to recognize a steady, rhythmic quality in the sound. Then it came to me: evening prayers! Mother Superior was leading her charges through their nightly ritual. They had no idea I was there.
And to think I was ready to give up. I turned to the door and saw that there was a key in the hole. In a second I had it open, closed it behind me, and faced a frightened beautiful young girl crying alone in the dark room. She looked at me with a gleam of recognition and a spontaneous, heartrending smile.
She had a birthmark running from just behind her jawbone down her neck.
Maribel and I hugged and kissed, more in desperation than anything else. We had never met before, but we both knew our immediate present and futures were linked together.
‘I’ll tell you everything you want to know later,” I whispered. “For now, you have to help me. What’s the best way out of here?”
Maribel opened her mouth to answer, but before she could we heard footsteps approaching. I dived for the small space between the bed and the stone wall. For once I was glad to be tiny. A bigger person would never have fit.
I heard the door open, and felt Maribel’s tension from the bed where she sat in silence. Then the door closed and locked from the outside. Someone was just checking up on her, and was apparently satisfied that everything was in order. That meant they hadn’t found the Mamita, the girl tied to the tree, or the poor sister sleeping among the brooms and pails. What a trail I was leaving.
I emerged from my hiding place, motioning for Maribel to stay quiet until the footsteps outside were completely gone. “What’s the best way out of here?” I asked again.
“Down the hall, in the shower room. There’s a back door we can use,” she said quickly. I must have looked surprised at how fast she answered. “I’ve had a lot of time to think, locked in here. I prayed you would come for me, and I know what to do.”
She took a look around the bare room, the place of her captivity. I scarcely listened to her. First we had to get out of the room. “We’re locked in,” I said. “Did you think about that?”
“The lock is so old that you can turn the key from the inside,” she said, smiling. “I did it once with my fingernail, and the key fell out. Maria Rosario found it and put it back in, so I wouldn’t get in trouble.”
She was still smiling. I didn’t know how she found humor in all this, but more power to her, I thought. At least she was contributing.
Maribel sat down on the cement floor and settled herself in front of the door. “This place is centuries old,” she said. “Nothing works.”
I stifled a laugh—maybe I was a little giddy myself—when she spit on her hands and blessed herself before putting her little finger into the lock as far as it would go. She grimaced in pain as she tried to turn the key. Apparently it wasn’t as easy as she described. After what seemed like far too long I heard a muffled click.
Maribel stood, her finger in her mouth. “Okay,” she said from the side of her mouth. “We can go now.”
She wiped her hand on her skirt, and I saw a bead of blood seeping from her little finger. I opened the door and stuck my head out into the hall, looking left and right. There was no one there, so I grabbed Maribel’s shoulder and pulled her from that miserable room. She took the lead, walking quickly to the left past three closed doors before stepping inside a room.
I followed, and once inside I was almost overpowered by a strong odor of mildew. It was the shower room, and mildew grew freely at the bottom of the plastic curtains, creating strange patterns—deranged Rorschach tests that would tax any psychiatrist’s powers of analysis. We paused for a moment, both scared that someone might have followed us in. I saw the door Maribel had told me about, in the back of the room.
“The door was cut out years ago when men came to install plumbing for the convent,” Maribel whispered as we edged across the tile. “Mother Superior said it would be disruptive for men to come and go through the front gates. They were supposed to seal the wall when they were done, but they never got around to it.”
“Lucky for us,” I said.
With one strong pull, I yanked the door handle toward me. Nothing. I felt tears well up in my eyes, and Maribel looked at me in shock. I remembered that doors in the tropics, especially if they haven’t been used in years, tend to swell and become impossible to open.
Maribel pushed me out of the way and frantically pulled on the handle. Then I shoved her aside and did the same. When she was on her second try, the door gave a little. When we both pulled at the same time, it finally opened.
We ran nonstop for at least a mile in the heat through the rough underbrush. Maribel never once asked me what we would do next.
* * *
Barbara was waiting on the Mamita‘s deck, the boat’s engines quietly running and the anchor out of the water. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see us.
She helped Maribel and me out of the dinghy, pulling me to the deck with complete ease. The rest seemed to have done her good. “I was fast asleep, and I dreamed I saw you running to the Mamita,” she said, staring at Maribel. “I came up to the deck, and there you were.”
With a quiet sob, Barbara took me in a crushing embrace. Over my shoulder, I saw her still looking at Maribel, and then I realized: the birthmark. “Don’t say a word,” I whispered. “She’s coming with us.”
We cruised almost silently, Barbara steering as I stood on the deck with binoculars, looking for patrol boats. The seas were quiet and still, the night air crisp and redolent of sea salt. Maribel was below, stretched out on a bunk, and I’d ordered her to stay there for a while. We had a final job to perform before we had the luxury of getting to know one another.
I started to drop chum over the side of the Mamita, watching for the sharks that I knew would come. Within minutes we had a small pack following us, gulping greedily at the food and snapping for more.
With Barbara’s help, I pulled Dr. Samuels’s body out of the fish locker and unceremoniously dumped it over the side. Barbara returned to the helm, gunning the engines to take us out of Cuban waters.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked when she saw me watching the sea behind us. “He’s with the sharks now, with his own kind.”
I watched the wake of the Mamita for a few moments until there was no trace left of Allen Samuels and the sharks had had enough. Barbara put the sailboat on autopilot and joined me, breathing gently and evenly. She reached over and held me, respectful of my feelings. As I turned to go below, she said, “Lupe, wait, there’s something I want to show you. Look.”
Barbara took a deep breath, accommodated her stomach so she could maneuver with more ease, and squatted as close as she could to the fish locker which ten minutes before had served as Dr. Samuels’s final resting place on earth. She pushed aside some old, rotted burlap bags at the bottom, and presented me with what looked like a shoe box, wrapped in plastic.
“Go ahead, open it.”
Carefully I peeled back the layers of dark green and opened the box. I gasped as I saw the neat piles of hundred-dollar bills.
“The Morenos’ money?” I asked.
“Alberto hid it here. I found it before we left Key West, while you were with your boyfriend,” Barbara informed me, a self-satisfied look on her face. “You see, Lupe, you’re not the only one with secrets.”
“We’ll have to tell the Morenos,” I said, as firmly as I could.
“Of course. It’s their money,” Barbara answered as she wrapped the plastic around the shoe box and returned it to its hiding place. I couldn’t help but think that those bills would carry the smell of rotting fish for a long, long time.
I crossed myself and said a silent prayer: for Regina, Alberto, for Tomas and Pedro, and for the soul of Dr. Allen Samuels. I don’t know what sorts of punishments await those who commit evil in the world, and what rewards await the good, but I prayed anyway. And I watched my homeland, the birthplace of my ancestors, recede completely from view. I wondered if I would ever see it again.