“Normally, he’s at his church,” said Rita. “But, during Carnival, he gives the blessing at the start of each new day’s parade, so I’m not sure where he’ll be.”
“All the same, we need to find him.”
Rita didn’t hesitate. “The let’s be off!”
32
A visit to Father Pasqual’s church revealed that he was not at the church.
“So where can we find him now?” asked Qui.
The junior priest, an Italian named Chimino, replied, “Undoubtedly in the parade. Fancies himself a ‘man of the people’ with their typical love of partying. Actually, you just missed him. He’d been ahhh…recuperating but-”
“Recuperating?” asked Rita, concerned.
“From last night’s festivities,” Chimino reassured her.
“Oh boy, we’re in for a search now!” Rita exclaimed.
They walked toward the sound of the revelers hoping the Father would be easy for Rita to spot. As they passed the gateway to the Santa Ifigenia Cemetery, dominated by a memorial to Cuban soldiers who’d fought and died in Angola, Qui slowed for a better look.
Noticing this, Rita asked, “Have you seen Marti’s tomb?” Hearing a no, she said, “Let’s look, it’ll only take a few moments.” She led the visitors to the impressive tomb of Cuban national hero, revolutionary, and writer Jose Marti, a crenulated hexagonal tower, each side representing one of Cuba’s six original provinces. The round mausoleum designed so that the sun always shone on Marti’s casket-adorned with the Cuban flag-impressed JZ as much as it did Qui. Rita, who’d explained all this, crossed herself, and stood silent.
Ten minutes later, Rita recognized Father Pasqual in the midst of a weaving conga line. She then rushed ahead of Qui and JZ to drag the priest free of the dancers.
“Rita, why’re you pulling me away? You know how seldom I indulge!”
“It’s important, Father.” She guided him to Qui and JZ where she introduced the young priest as Father Gabriel Pasqual.
Rita stated, “Father, Qui here is a PNR detective-”
Still breathless, Pasqual inhaled deeply and asked, “Santiago PNR? I thought I knew them all.”
“No, no, no, Havana PNR.”
“Havana, really? On official business?”
“Yes,” replied Qui.
Rita added, “And Mr. Julio Zayas is a security officer with the American Interest Section. Father Pasqual knows everyone and everything that goes on in Santiago.”
“Not quite, but I try to remain informed,” the priest replied turning to the two. “Obviously, you’re not here to celebrate Carnival, so tell me what brings you to Santiago?”
“It’s a rather involved story,” said JZ.
“Can we talk privately?” asked Qui.
“I know a place,” the older man replied. “Come along.”
They were soon ensconced at a table back in the church offices, where Pasqual asked, “So tell me what sort of intrigue brings you to me?”
“It has to do with this antique,” said Qui, lifting the lock from its black pouch to place it on the table.
Father Pasqual stared at the relic as though it were a curse, but he said nothing. Qui wished that she could read his mind at this moment.
Rita said, “We need your help, Father.”
Qui added, “It’s important. Lives have been lost.”
“And, ours are at stake,” JZ dryly commented.
“So it’s come home after all these years,” Father Pasqual muttered as he rose and scanned the wall of books. “Wait a moment.”
The other three stared at one another. Rita, familiar with Pasqual’s habits, put a finger to her lips cautioning silence.
Finally, Pasqual erupted with “Here you are.” Returning to the table, he sat and opened a thick volume he’d removed from a bookcase that stretched to the ceiling. Searching, he located a particular page and smiled. He turned the book to face them, pointing at a photograph.
“It’s the same photo, your father’s!” said a surprised JZ.
“Your father is Tomaso Aguilera?” asked the priest. “He placed a finger on the caption designating the photographer’s name.”
Shocked, Qui could not answer. She nodded thinking small island world…that someone so far from Havana might know so much about her father, but then his photos were known the world over. Still, Qui silently vowed on returning to Havana to learn more from her father and Benilo about their past.
“Father,” asked Qui, “what book is this?”
The priest flipped back to a title page that read Historia El Sanctuario de Nuestra Senora de la Caridad del Cobre. “You bring home a bad memory, reminder of things long past.”
“This is so infuriating. You’re being about as much help as my other reluctant witnesses,” replied Qui.
“Your father and Arturo Benilo.” At the surprised look on her face, he added, “They called me earlier and warned you might turn up here.” He smiled, “Been expecting you.”
“Yes, my father and Benilo. They wouldn’t speak of whatever it is that happened at the basilica.”
“You’re asking us to stare at one of the darkest moments in the Revolution. When soldiers swept out of the hills and took over El Cobre.”
JZ urged the man to continue.
“War is wrong. Killing is wrong. That lock is like the murdered having come back to tell their story.”
“A story too long buried and never told,” Rita bitterly added.
“What do you propose we do, Father?” Qui asked. “We need answers before someone else turns up dead.”
“Let me assure you, you’ll only stir up a hornet’s nest going to the basilica with this.” He pointed at the lock.
Rita jumped in, “I’ll take you two up there.”
“No, Rita, I’ll take them.” The look exchanged between Rita and the priest spoke volumes; neither wanted the other taking risks. “Go home. You’ve done enough.”
Father Pasqual gathered up the book as Qui gathered up the lock and replaced it in its black sleeve. Rita said farewell and left them in the hands of the priest.
The most important shrine for Cubans and the most famous church in the country, the sanctuary at Cobra, rose up from Moboa Hill to greet visitors. To take their minds off the bone-jarring ride as the 1959 Volvo rattled up the steep incline, the taxi driver began telling his passengers the history of his vehicle, in which he took great pride. As he caressed the dashboard, Ramon began, “She’s the 120…the Amazon, built in 1959. First car in the world with three-point safety belts, still used today-a revolution at the time, just like here in Cuba!”
“How remarkable,” Qui replied facetiously. Hanging on to the back of Father Pasqual’s front seat, Qui eyed the holes in the worn upholstery. Alongside her, JZ winced and leaned forward to avoiding bumping his head against the roof with every bounce. The two smiled at one another as Ramon continued his soliloquy.
“My Amazon was brought here by a sugar-cane owner, who gave it to Fidel as a gift, hoping the Beard wouldn’t seize the family cane farm.”
After an especially tooth-jarring bump, Father Pasqual asked, “Ramon, you said you were going to replace her shocks. What happened?”
“Sorry Father…no parts. Have to hand-make them, takes time. Next week…maybe.” Ramon shrugged and grunted when JZ’s weight against his seat delivered a jolt, causing him to scan the rear-view mirror and apologize, “Sorry. Everyone OK back there?”
Through clenched teeth, JZ replied, “Fine except for my head…my arms…my knees…my butt.” Looking down at Qui, who’d slid into him for at least the tenth time, he asked, “How about you Qui?” Intensely aware of her warm skin, her scent reminded him of their previous night together. The rollercoaster ride kept his attention focused on protecting his head. Just as well, he thought ruefully.
“Oh, just wonderful,” Qui said. Ready to focus on anything other than the bumpy ride, she quickly added, “Ramon, how did you come by the car?”
“It’s a long story that’ll make the return trip more interesting. But now,” he continued, “to enhance your spiritual experience here in El Cobra,” he said to the young couple, obviously taking them for newlyweds on holiday, “there's an inn behind the church, Hospederia de la Caridad.”