by Jerome du Bois and Catherine King
4. Two Pioneras, The Seed Pool Plan, And "Marta's Prophecy"
May 27, 2005: From MININT, transcript of a telephone conversation between Guillermo Gorgojo and Rosa Blanca Azul, La Pionera:
RBA: Digame.
GG: Rosa? Guillermo.
RBA: Professor, how are you?
GG: I'm fine, fine . . . My condolences about the visa denial.
RBA: Yeah, thanks, Guillermo, but it really seems unfair.
GG: Well, it's not like you haven't been abroad before.
RBA: It's unfair! They're not bringing anybody else home!
GG: Wait, wait. You were here already. And you would begrudge the others the . . . benefits of overseas residencies? Rosa, Rosa . . . is that you?
RSA: (pause) You don't understand. This was my first solo show there . . . (trails off)
GG: En El Yuma.
RBA: Dammit! I know they're the big enemy! But it's a big deal to me, a career maker. I'm in my thirties, I've been around for a dozen years, and that twerp Yoan Capote is already talking like a rock star.
GG: He dresses like one, too. No es facil, eh? . . . You just miss the shopping. Wasn't it the Americans who denied your visa, not . . . others?
RBA: Yeah, but --
GG: Think about it. That could be good news. In the meantime, I need to drop by with something that might help . . . compañera.
RBA: Compañera? Wow, I haven't heard that word in a long time. Not since UJC.
GG: Just not on the phone, okay? How about I bring some dinner over later?
RBA: Dinner? Perfect. I have some new things to show you, too.
[End of transcript]
From the fourth diary of Marta O'Gorman [16, member of the Prodigy Program from Santa Clara; lives with her grandmother, a respected santera] dated January 6, 2005, first entry and excerpts:
I begin a new year with a new diary, and Flash No More got me a good book to hide it in. This is how to make a Marta-style diary. Take this hardbound copy of Lenin's Collected Speeches in your hands. Rotate it toward you so it's upside-down. Open the book and turn the few precious blank pages until you reach the text. Hard to read, right? Now you're ready to write between the lines. That's why I asked for this Lenin: there's plenty of space between the lines. . .
This is going to be a busy year. The guys and I have been talking forever, it seems, like all Cubans, but after four years it looks like we're really going to do something. Because of who we are -- smart kids selected by the state, but still able to work under the layers, under the radar, between the laws -- as Beny says, "committing only the correct crimes" -- because of our luck, good and bad, our connections, and because of Yasmani and his sealed chambers against prying eyes and ears, we can do this one big thing, and see who picks it up. If it works, a new Cuba; if not, we think of something else. We're pretty safe. And I started it all, or my bad luck did. . .
I remember how I began my first diary: "Those fuckers!" I was twelve, and my hair was as long, thick, glossy and black as my hero's, Sacagawea, who I discovered when I was six. Long and black and beautiful, until someone cut it off on the bus coming home from school. To sell it. I never found out who. Nobody on the bus saw anything. Oh, sure. I was furious. At the time I couldn't put it into words -- Yasmani and Flash No More and Beny helped me become articulate -- but now I can say that's when I first realized Cuba had become Cannibal Island.
. . . I never shed a single tear for a single hair. That night we four sat on the beach north of El Santo, as we had for years, since we all got together as kids. To get away from our neighbors! Our families were strong and intact, but everybody else . . . We had gotten sick and tired -- even at eight, nine, ten -- of looking into what Beny, a couple of years later, called the iron marbles -- all those dead eyes: our weary aunts, uncles, and in-laws -- oh, all the adults we knew: teachers, bus drivers, farmers and even cops -- worn down and stunned, paying glazed attention as the television shows them how fry grapefruit skins into steak. So we would trudge in the dark, in the black night on the road we knew so well from Enrucijada to El Santo, and further, to the scruffy, undulating, grass-thatched sand dunes, and then to the beach and the black ocean beyond.
We felt comfortable in the dark -- no cops, no "snore," no patrol boats, no tourists -- and overhead the jillion stars kept us company, all the way down to the horizon. Sometimes we would build a small fire in the shelter of a dune. Beny the astronaut would keep interrupting with "Look! A meteor!" or "Hey! There's Mars!" I think I recognize his uptilted chin more than any other part of his round moon face.
That night, as I told them what happened on the bus, Yasmani reached out and roughly ruffled my crop. "At least you don't look like La Pionera anymore," he teased, and we all laughed because they knew how much I hated our precious new Cuban Art Favorite with her cheap bleach job. I would go on and on about the endless images of her in the Pioneer Girl uniform. Still! She's a grown-up! She thinks she's Sacagawea, but she's really La Malinche. The bitch. And so on.
I never grew my hair again; I keep it short. The very next day Flash No More got me some gel (I still don't know where he gets stuff) to spike it up into a bunch of cones -- what he calls The Black Pineapple. I wore it to school and you should have seen the looks. I still wear it that way sometimes. . .
[End of diary entries]
From the Historical Journal of La Fuerza, recorded on microcassette on January 6, 2005:
I've learned a lot from the nautilus. Seven years ago, when I was nine, my father escaped to the United States. He, my mother, and my two older brothers all decided it was the only way. The crops were uncertain, the government was always mean -- the fines, always the fines! -- and never let you get even a little bit ahead. If he made it, he could send the precious dollars, the remesa we needed to survive. Nobody asked my opinion. In any case, he made it, and it was crucial to everything that's happened since. The remesa provides the umbrella.
His leaving drove me to the beach beyond El Santo, where I would sit looking north, pretending I could see beyond the hump of Capo Fragoso to Miami. But after awhile I would get distracted by the waves and the things they brought to me: crabs, starfish, shells, dead fish. I would turn them over and over in my hands. Once I came across a small hammerhead shark, sliced across the belly somehow. I dragged it home and buried it near an anthill (my big brother's idea), and when the ants were done I had a fine skeleton to sketch. I drew everything I found at the beach -- everything natural, I mean. I didn't care about the soda bottles or flattened inner tubes or condoms from who knows where, since tourists didn't come out our way; too rural, rugged, and swampy.
I realized, after a few months of beach visits, that I wasn't going out there to moon over my father; I was going for the sea life, and the ocean, and all its gifts. One was the nautilus: my life. My father was in an earlier, smaller chamber now, sealed off, and I was building a new one, made of calcium and geometry. You have to, to survive.
Because my father left, I went to the beach. Because of that, I became obsessed with sea life and illustrating it. Because of that, I became a regular visitor, especially early in the mornings. Because of that, two years later, when I was eleven, I found the two bales of marijuana. (This was a miracle. The south side of the island -- the Jamaica route -- that's where you heard the stories about the finds.) Because of that . . . many blessings, most of which are under and behind and below and invisible, and nobody knows because this is Cuba, where everybody's nose is in your face and they want to know why you have one more handful of rice than they do -- and if there's something in it for them if they betray you. What a sad place!
So we never let on, we never let them see that extra handful. Our little farming family is as skinny as everybody else; just healthier. And richer.
It's all about chambers and layers and the shell game. Everybody's watching, and since nothing is certain I won't give details, but I must record that the links here -- my father leaving, the remesa setup, the marijuana and its seeds, my mother's wise farm management, and my brothers' occupations (they were The Farmer Brothers, music producers; they also acted as tourist guides) -- have made The New Mango possible.
Whatever your game --beans, corn, tomatoes, fixing cars, bottling soda, or dealing excellent weed-- just assume you're doing it under every kind of eye, and make what you need to make invisible.
We weren't hustlers. My brothers dealt marijuana. Solo. No sex, no cigars, no moneychanging, no alcohol, no gambling, no lottery, no hard drugs, no fencing. Just special marijuana grown from special soil. We lived lean, and we hid our profits away. It was all about survival, for almost three years. We were just in a holding pattern, treading water, waiting for . . . we didn't know. Change? His death? Our crops diversified, our deliveries became complicated, but the neighbors never knew just what we were turning all those green-gold dollars into. . .
But things had already started changing three years before, on the night we examined Marta's newly-cut hair . . .
[End of entry]
Friday, May 27, 2005, 8:30PM: From MININT, transcript of electronic audio surveillance at residence of Rosa Blanca Azul; conversation between subject and Professor Guillermo Gorgojo:
RBA (opening door; music in background): ¿ Que bola, Guillermo?
GG: Hey, girl. You're looking good. Well-fed.
RBA: Oh, thanks a lot, Professor. Come in, anyway.
GG: No, I mean it, you do look good -- but you can always eat more. Here -- (rustle of plastic) -- here's some dinner.
RBA: (taking it) From Dollar Taco? ¡Que sabrosa!
GG: I have a few tucked away.
RBA: Thanks. I'll get some drinks. . . What's that you have there?
GG (sound of package dropped on table): That's for later; interesting stuff. Are you sure your place is secure?
RBA: (returning footsteps) Of course. What's going on? Sit down. Why would they bug me? Who am I?
GG: Who are you? One of the best-known of the current crop of Cuban artists, the New Inventado Movement, who has been abroad six times, sometimes for a year at a time. No matter how much the government supports you, and they have -- how many awards have you got? twelve? -- still, you've been off the island a lot, among los extrañjeros. Shit, I'd bug you.
RBA: But it would be stupid! I don't do anything. I'm a patriot! Besides, I've always come back, haven't I?
GG: Vamos bien, eh? Look, you don't have to convince me. It doesn't matter anyway, not with this. A lot of this stuff is from MININT. You know who Carlos Lage is, right?
RBA: Mierda! The next (pause; sotto voce) Castro, maybe. That's who . . . ?
GG: Yes . . . He wants you to investigate this kid out in Santa Clara, an art student who made a subversive poster --
RBA: Yeah, I read something about that: Abajo Fidel! wasn't it?
GG: Good, why don't you yell it louder?
RBA: Oh, come on, Guillermo. What does Lage mean, "investigate"?
GG: Well, read the evaluations, look at some of the kid's earlier work -- it's quite good, if you like super-realism -- and then set up a meeting with Yasmani -- that's his name, Yasmani Oliva -- at the school, and find out what the hell motivated him. I mean, he doesn't step out of line for fifteen years, he scores perfectly during his evaluation year, and then -- bam! He goes right up against it. So Lage wants to know why. And he wants him back on track. This isn't the first case, you know.
RBA: Really?
GG: Yeah, there's been several. One boy, I forget where, fifteen, refused to perform his Che speech, and shouted out instead . . . (whispers) "The Revolution is a failure." Again, a kid right on the cusp, fifteen/sixteen . . . Lage's curious, I guess.
RBA: Carlos Lage's got his eyes on me, huh? Wow. "Back on track"? I'm not his teacher, what about his teacher? His mother?
GG: Girl, Carlos Lage's very concerned, okay? You said it yourself, he's got his eyes on you. No, don't say more. We probably need those drinks.
RBA: Uh-huh . . . I see. Okay, but, I think I need something stronger. Let's sit over here, away from the window . . . I just got delivery today. (rustling sounds) My guy says this is from a brand-new source. You want some? It's supposed to be excellent weed.
GG: Are you kidding? Do you have a pipe? Do you know how long it's been? I can't afford this stuff. I'm not some hot-shit artist like you, just (raising his voice) a loyal Party member and hard-working professor. (lowering voice) Who trained you, and all those . . . What's that smell?
RBA: Here, let me open the bag.
GG: Le zumba el mango! It smells like mango! Let's . . .
RBA: Pipe's right here . . .
GG: Where did you get this pipe? It's beautiful. Is that gold along there?
RBA: It sure is. I got it in Madrid, the last trip.
GG: You know, I don't think I've ever touched real gold.
RBA: Here you go.
(a few seconds later)
GG: Mmm. This is the sweetest . . . it fucking tastes like mango! Thank you, Rosa, this is nice, this is really . . .
RBA: You're welcome. And you're right . . . This is really new stuff.
GG: . . . I needed this . . . after last night . . . Never mind.
RBA: What? What's the matter, Guillermo?
GG: Let me have that. (long pause, then) She's there, but she isn't . . .
RBA: What? Wait. Oh. Oh, Guillermo, I'm sorry. Is it about Kiku? Is she . . . ?
GG: She's still alive. She got a message to me, kind of.
RBA: Really? How? I thought she was . . .
GG: ¿Muy loco?
RBA: I was going to say, not communicating.
GG: It's complicated. Indirect. She's still . . . detached from reality, but she's alive. And we'd better stop talking about it. The Ears . . .
RBA: Okay, Guillermo. That must be . . . I mean, I wish . . . Mierda. Here.
GG: (taking the pipe) . . . Hmmm. It really does. It tastes like mango . . . Oh, that reminds me . . .
RBA: Yes . . .
GG: Uhhh . . . have you heard recently of something called The New Mango? It's another thing La--
RBA: (in a burst of laughter) So it was you!
GG: It was me what?
RBA: You sent the card! Or had it dropped off, anyway, no? It's an art thing, no?
GG: You got a card, too? Where are you going? Wait! Give me that pipe first.
RBA: (returning footsteps) Here. Are you saying you're not behind this? Or one of your students?
GG: (long pause) It looks like a business card. THE NEW MANGO. WE ARE NEXT. Nice orange logo, good-quality printer, not lopsided; good work. . . Just like the one someone slipped under my apartment door yesterday. Lage mentioned the phrase, street gossip, nothing about a business card. And now here's two, so far.
RBA: Great; Lage again. So it's not from ISA?
GG: As far as I know.
RBA: Give me the pipe. . . WE ARE NEXT. Who's next?
GG: Who knows? It was just something he heard from his nephews. Street gossip. You remember the street, don't you? It's like a string of firecrackers.
RBA: I remember the street, Guillermo. I'm a Habanero. It hasn't been that long, you know. I'm not as . . . insulated as you think. I am out there in the classrooms, too.
GG: You're right about that.
RBA: . . . THE NEW MANGO. Nice logo, very pro . . . A drink? A song? Some subversive thing?
GG: All of the above? Subversive groups often tag themselves specifically, though, don't they? To a date? To a name? To some tragic or triumphant or vengeful event? This is generically specific, like The White Rose, to use a subversive example. Maybe The New Mango is the brand name of this wonderful shit that's making me babble.
RBA: Give me the pipe.
(a few minutes later)
GG: So . . . how are you going to get young Yasmani back on track so he can avoid wasting his talent and ruining his hands in a mine or a canefield?
RBA: Well, I could tell him how Los Carpenteros and Kcho and Alvarez and Toirac and Delgado and I have all paved the way, opened it up for the younger generation of artists. I don't know. Let me pack that again . . . I've got to read that background stuff, but . . . I've got an idea.
GG: Where are you going? Give me the pipe.
RBA: (after a minute, returning) The gallery felt sorry for me, since I couldn't get there for the opening, so they DHL'd me this.
GG: A burlap bag.
RBA: Ass! I hide it in the coffee bag for security! I just got this the other day. As I said, the gallery sent me this; they were sure they could take the expense out of future sales. Isn't that wonderful?
GG: I don't know. What is it?
RBA: (rustling sounds) Well, what do you think?
GG: (choked, but determined) That . . . is a brushed-steel laptop computer.
RBA: It's a Macintosh Powerbook G5.
GG: Is it real? Does it work?
RBA: Ass! Of course --
GG: May I remind you that I am your prof--
RBA: --it works!
(pause)
GG: Claro, this is even better than touching real gold.
RBA: You see? Even you're impressed, Mr. Communist Puritan.
GG: Oh, please, it's just that it's so rare to--
RBA: Seriously. This kid has talent, right? You told me.
GG: (shuffling sounds): See for yourself.
RBA: (long pause) It's a nautilus, a cutaway. Pues, it's gorgeous. Even still . . . the energy. The curves: they say that curves are everything . . . It's like Leonardo's waves, or something from Hooke's Micrographica. Shit. This kid could really go.
GG: So what are you going to tell him? Look at these lines here: they seem pretty definite, eh? No hesitations in the curves.
RBA: I'm going to show him. I won't have wireless internet out there where I'm interviewing him, but I've got my portfolio, and . . . well, the thing itself. This G5. This is what he can have if he just gets back on track. Maybe I can change his poster from Down With Fidel to I'm Down With Fidel.
GG: (laughter) Good one. And good luck, Rosa. (long pause, then) Let me see those prints again. . . You know that Cubans have come to hate the ocean, to see it only as a barrier or a grave, or some kind of betrayal every time they see some tourist eating lobster, or a marlin leaping like a blue arc of pain just for the pleasure of some fat Swede . . . You it's know true. And yet now, in 2005, here's a young Cuban who loves the ocean, and the ocean's gifts. He can't wait to get in there, even though it's still illegal. He's . . . he's not worn down, and he seems to see something on the horizon, maybe, that we don't see, Rosa . . . I wonder what's going on?
[end of transcript]
. . . poetic hustlers on the graveyard shift.
-- Bone, Thugs, and Harmony, "First of the Month."
[From the Historical Diary of La Fuerza, recorded January 6, 2005 on microcassette and entitled "Marta's Prophecy":]
On the night of the day that Marta was scalped four years ago, we assembled for our usual secret beach meeting, on the graveyard shift, the four select students of the Prodigy Program from Villa Clara: Marta O'Gorman, Beny Manach, Flash No More, and Yasmani Oliva (La Fuerza). We were stunned, looking at her new head. It was as if the island had reached out and grabbed her by the throat. But it was when Flash No More said, "They did you a favor. They revealed the eyes in the back of your head." . . . That's when the night got deep.
We had built our fire in the shadow of a dune, and it was down to crackling red bars now. Marta's face was orange, her eyes black and blind, her black hair standing out short and shocked. She chuckled at Flash No More's remark, then frowned and sagged a little. She seemed to shrink. She began to massage her head, back to front and all around, nodding, then rocking. After a minute she began to moan, but she wasn't crying. When she began to drool, Beny leaned forward, but Flash No More stopped him with his thick black forearm. "Remember where she comes from," he said.
Meaning, she's descended from a long line of santeras. Okay, fine, Marta's intense, but this hadn't happened before. We waited as her head sank further and further to her chest, nodding, hands rubbing . . . until she tapered off and was still and her hands dropped to her lap. Then she straightened and raised her head calmly. Her voice was chillingly deep.
"Today they took my hair. Tomorrow they'll take my eyes. The next day, as I make my way with my cane, they'll take the rest; bringing the coolers and the ice, they'll waylay me by the banana tree and dress me out like a crimson canoe. They'll slice out my kidneys, my spleen and my pancreas, my liver, my lungs, and my heart, and if they had the time and tools they'd strip me of my very veins!
Then they'll leave me there like an empty purse and take off in their speedboat to Jamaica. Hah! Fools! I'm far from empty. Other Cubans will come along not long after them and find more uses for me. For my skin. For my bones. For my tendons. Cubans are resourceful people. Pretty soon, someone will cook and eat my muscles, and then finally, my brain. Welcome to Cannibal Island."
Her voice never broke the whole time, but when she finished, raised her head, and leaned over the coals, her cheeks were shiny with tears.
After a few moments Beny, who is irrepressible, asked, "Did they even take the eyes in the back of your head?"
Marta didn't miss a beat. "Those are the first ones they take. But it won't help. When they put them in their own eye sockets, they've already become iron marbles."
Then she started giggling, and hiccuping, and shaking, until Flash No More reached out and swallowed her in his black shadow briefly, and she calmed down and came back to her senses.
That was the night we decided that we wouldn't let Cuba become Cannibal Island. We had no idea how yet, but we were the smart kids, and we had other resources, and the treasure the ocean had blessed us with. [To be continued]
Posted by Jerome at July 31, 2005 09:02 PM | TrackBack