morning.”
Elena felt a shiver down her spine, a numbness, a sense of loss.
Shock, for the third time in my life
. Locking eyes with the police officer, she nodded reflectively, pursed her lips, interlaced her fingers on her lap, swallowed hard. “An accident?” she asked.
“We’re not sure yet. He died from a broken neck and a head injury. He may have taken a fall, or he may have been murdered.”
“You’re sure it’s my brother?” She sounded unnerved.
“We’re positive, comrade.”
“Can I see him?”
“Actually, if you are his only relative in Havana, you must identify him. His body is at the IML. Tomorrow morning …”
“Where?”
“The morgue. You can go there tomorrow morning. At eight. It’s on Boyeros and the Luminous Fountain. Are you his only relative?”
“In Havana, yes. There’s our mother … and father.”
“Can you notify them?”
“Well, I can call my mother, but my father is in prison.”
To conceal his surprise, Trujillo unclasped his briefcase, opened his diary, drew out his ballpoint. He cast a baleful eye at the informers, but they were staring at Elena as if it were news to them too. Both had moved to the neighbourhood years after Elena’s father was sentenced and nobody had bothered to tell them the story.
“Tell me his name and where he’s serving time. Maybe I can get him a special pass to attend the wake and the funeral.”
“His name is Manuel Miranda and he is at Tinguaro.”
Trujillo took his time writing the three words. Tinguaro was a small, special prison fifteen kilometres to the south of Havana for those who had occupied high-ranking positions in the Cuban party, government, or armed forces before being convicted for some non-political crime. Men deserving special consideration because they had won battles, done heroic deeds, followed orders to the letter, been willing to die for the Revolution. Yes, the name Manuel Miranda definitely rang a tiny bell at the back of his mind.
“I’ll see what I can do, comrade. Now, I need to examine your brother’s personal belongings. His papers, clothing, anything that can shed light on what happened to him. Comrades Kuanand Zoila are here as witnesses. We would appreciate it if you could take us to his bedroom and any other room where he kept his things.”
Elena was shaking her head emphatically, two tears sliding down her cheeks. “I don’t have the key to his bedroom. We … well, Captain, he put a lock on the door to his room. I don’t have the key to it.”
Trujillo produced Pablo’s key ring. “Do you recognize this?”
Elena nodded. The last shadow of doubt evaporated.
“It was found in a pocket.”
“Come with me, please.”
When Elena switched on the light, the visitors saw a filthy mess. Ten or fifteen cockroaches scurried in search of hiding places. Under a table supporting a colour TV and a VCR were a roll of tissue paper, old newspapers, and a broken CD player; a pile of soiled sheets and towels and underwear lay on top of the unmade bed; slippers under a writing table; three ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, several empty and crushed packets of Populares on the floor; shoes and socks all over. It reeked of human sweat and grease, and dirt.
As Trujillo professionally searched the bedroom and the embarrassed witnesses stared, Elena, leaning in the doorway, occasionally fighting back tears and biting her lip, wondered why she and her brother had become enemies, when the split had begun, what part of the blame was hers. Memories kept coming, the way waves wash over a beach, only to ebb away and be absorbed by the sand.
Elena couldn’t recall the rejection she must have felt from the beginning. She was three when her mother had come home with a screaming, crying, red-faced newborn demanding her mother’s full attention. Had the baby sensed that she hated him? Was it possible for an infant to sense repulsion?
Her sources were family stories, funny anecdotes told by her
Elena felt a shiver down her spine, a numbness, a sense of loss.
Shock, for the third time in my life
. Locking eyes with the police officer, she nodded reflectively, pursed her lips, interlaced her fingers on her lap, swallowed hard. “An accident?” she asked.
“We’re not sure yet. He died from a broken neck and a head injury. He may have taken a fall, or he may have been murdered.”
“You’re sure it’s my brother?” She sounded unnerved.
“We’re positive, comrade.”
“Can I see him?”
“Actually, if you are his only relative in Havana, you must identify him. His body is at the IML. Tomorrow morning …”
“Where?”
“The morgue. You can go there tomorrow morning. At eight. It’s on Boyeros and the Luminous Fountain. Are you his only relative?”
“In Havana, yes. There’s our mother … and father.”
“Can you notify them?”
“Well, I can call my mother, but my father is in prison.”
To conceal his surprise, Trujillo unclasped his briefcase, opened his diary, drew out his ballpoint. He cast a baleful eye at the informers, but they were staring at Elena as if it were news to them too. Both had moved to the neighbourhood years after Elena’s father was sentenced and nobody had bothered to tell them the story.
“Tell me his name and where he’s serving time. Maybe I can get him a special pass to attend the wake and the funeral.”
“His name is Manuel Miranda and he is at Tinguaro.”
Trujillo took his time writing the three words. Tinguaro was a small, special prison fifteen kilometres to the south of Havana for those who had occupied high-ranking positions in the Cuban party, government, or armed forces before being convicted for some non-political crime. Men deserving special consideration because they had won battles, done heroic deeds, followed orders to the letter, been willing to die for the Revolution. Yes, the name Manuel Miranda definitely rang a tiny bell at the back of his mind.
“I’ll see what I can do, comrade. Now, I need to examine your brother’s personal belongings. His papers, clothing, anything that can shed light on what happened to him. Comrades Kuanand Zoila are here as witnesses. We would appreciate it if you could take us to his bedroom and any other room where he kept his things.”
Elena was shaking her head emphatically, two tears sliding down her cheeks. “I don’t have the key to his bedroom. We … well, Captain, he put a lock on the door to his room. I don’t have the key to it.”
Trujillo produced Pablo’s key ring. “Do you recognize this?”
Elena nodded. The last shadow of doubt evaporated.
“It was found in a pocket.”
“Come with me, please.”
When Elena switched on the light, the visitors saw a filthy mess. Ten or fifteen cockroaches scurried in search of hiding places. Under a table supporting a colour TV and a VCR were a roll of tissue paper, old newspapers, and a broken CD player; a pile of soiled sheets and towels and underwear lay on top of the unmade bed; slippers under a writing table; three ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, several empty and crushed packets of Populares on the floor; shoes and socks all over. It reeked of human sweat and grease, and dirt.
As Trujillo professionally searched the bedroom and the embarrassed witnesses stared, Elena, leaning in the doorway, occasionally fighting back tears and biting her lip, wondered why she and her brother had become enemies, when the split had begun, what part of the blame was hers. Memories kept coming, the way waves wash over a beach, only to ebb away and be absorbed by the sand.
Elena couldn’t recall the rejection she must have felt from the beginning. She was three when her mother had come home with a screaming, crying, red-faced newborn demanding her mother’s full attention. Had the baby sensed that she hated him? Was it possible for an infant to sense repulsion?
Her sources were family stories, funny anecdotes told by her
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