Tubes of face paint form a deliberate circle on Tomás’s dresser. His paintbrushes are gelled stiff and white.
Next door is my old room, where Mami’s altar stands concertinaed on unsteady legs against my wardrobe. I touch the altar and rickety bells ring from somewhere inside. My room is exactly the same as it was when I was still at university; completely and obsessively black and white. Mami has not allowed any changes, and she has not allowed any of Tomás’s friends to sleep in my bed for fear of bad luck. The black ceiling was laboriously painted, with Amy Eleni’s unquestioning help, over a long weekend. The floorboards are white, but the rug is black and so are the bedcovers. The wardrobe is white, the bookshelves are white, and every book on them is covered in black paper and laminate.
I did all of this at the end of my first year of an English Literature degree, when note-taking had worn me down and I realised how I hated books and would kill the spirit of all novels if that power was mine. I believed that God must and would in his mercy kill me rather than let me survive the summer and start the next term. I didn’t think about switching courses; I didn’t want to. Papi is not so badly wrong when he says of Cuban women, ‘Siempre el drama.’
Papi and Tomás were at the library when I took out a pot of black paint and started for my bedroom windows. But Mami had been lurking and watching me and had decided, Not in my house. She ran into the room to wrestle me for the paint pot, shouting, ‘Loca, tu estás loca!’
At the foot of the altar, Papi has set down debris removed from his and Mami’s bedroom — a framed picture of the Holy Child of Atocha, smaller than the one on the sitting-room wall, and Mami’s silk-lined, gold-painted incense box. I open the box to make sure that her Santería beads — devotional chains in Elegua’s colours — are still there; they lie intact at the bottom of the case, beneath a bed of folded rice-paper flowers. The collar is a rope of heavy black and red, strands of beads coiled like a sated snake. I close the box and catch Brigitte’s photo in the act of fluttering from altar to floor, return it to its place beside the photo of my Bisabuela.
Brigitte, expert escapee. Brigitte got out of East Germany, got out of Cuba, left Chabella behind. Brigitte is a white-gold blaze, and it’s not just that the photo of her was developed badly. Her platinum-blonde bob flicks over her face and half hides her sharp smile. A brown hand is on Brigitte’s shoulder, but Chabella has cut the rest of herself out of that picture because it is the only one that she has of Brigitte. Mami remembers that maybe it was a problem with her Spanish, or maybe it was the thin drama of her red-lipsticked mouth, but Brigitte spoke and smiled with a great deal of tension. She measured out her murmur as if she didn’t have much time to say what she needed to say, but understood the importance of clarity. When she said, ‘Please. . I need some more soap,’ it was an event.
My grandmother, Abuela Laline, didn’t understand or trust Brigitte’s knife-edge stability. But Chabella did. Of Brigitte, Chabella has said, ‘People like Brigitte are made for guarding the world from harm. They stay in a room with whatever is bad and they hold the door closed from the inside.’
Laline spoke stiffly to Brigitte, always formal. Laline had to tolerate Brigitte because Brigitte was her husband’s guest. I suggested that maybe Abuela Laline didn’t like Brigitte because she thought that Abuelo Damason was carrying on another affair right under her nose. Chabella shook her head. She said, ‘No, everyone could see it wasn’t like that with them. Brigitte was. . I mean, the way she looked at my Papi, the way she spoke to him, it was man to man. Yes, she was clever, but my Mami was very clever too, and yet when she met eyes with my Papi her cleverness didn’t stop her will from sort of stepping back. So I don’t know what it was with Brigitte. When I say “man to man” I don’t mean that Papi and Brigitte sat up smoking and drinking together or anything. Because she was. . I mean, you never saw her without lipstick, you never smelt her, you only smelt perfume. She re-dyed her hair as soon as a little darkness came through at the roots. When she arrived, she couldn’t even lift her own suitcase out of Papi’s car; I had to do it because your aunts and your abuela had gone into hiding upstairs so that they could watch Brigitte from the windows. But my Papi kept saying to her, “When you came towards me at the train station, more than anything else I wondered whether I would be able to beat you in a fight.” ’
Brigitte didn’t laugh or seem annoyed when Chabella kept asking her her age; she just calmly gave my Mami variations on the theme of: ‘As you can see, I’m much older than you, nicht wahr?’
To fifteen-year-old Mami, Brigitte maintained — in ‘take it or leave it’ tones — that she had been shot by a jealous boyfriend while at university.
‘I don’t want you to make any generalisations about German men,’ she said, ‘but every single German man that I have been involved with has been too. . obvious. This boyfriend, I knew he was a very jealous man, and I knew that he thought you have rights to something as long as you want it more than anyone else. On top of all this he believed that the largest acts speak in a new and transcendent tongue. And so yes, very boringly, when I wanted to leave him he did try something — a large and wilful act.’
Chabella rebuked her: ‘Ay Brigitte, he shot you, you know! How can you say “boringly”?’
Abuelo Damason brought Brigitte home because he was good friends with someone in Santa Clara who cared about her. The someone was a man who knew she needed to get across into America before he could breathe out and believe that all was well with her. But Brigitte needed some time before she would try to leave from Jose Marti airport; she shared Chabella’s bedroom for five months. Brigitte swished around in tweed skirts with flipped hems, nylons with black diamond seams and open-toed pumps, and she let Chabella use her make-up without asking. Without saying a word, Brigitte managed to convince Chabella and her Papi that Chabella should have stopped wearing knee socks and strapped shoes at thirteen. Brigitte needed it to be completely dark when she slept. She didn’t like to wake up all at once, so she wore a black eye-mask at night and had grown expert at finding her way around without taking it off. Chabella grew used to seeing her flitting about the house with only the light pressure of her right hand on the wall to show her uncertainty.
Brigitte called Chabella moquenquen, made her the universal child just as their housemaid Maria did. Moquenquen said in Brigitte’s accent sounded cold at first, almost sarcastic. When Chabella tied on her white headscarf to go to Santeria Mass, Brigitte didn’t ask her where she was going but said, ‘Please, say a prayer for me. I, too, like to fight on every level. I am also the type to throw coins into wishing wells.’
Brigitte and Chabella would lie wounded by the heat on their bedroom floor some noontimes listening to Elvis Presley, then to The Platters with the volume turned low. Brigitte’s understanding of English was far better than Chabella’s, but She still refused to divulge which of the songs told the truth about love. She gave Chabella copies of Das Kapital and The Communist Manifesto. Chabella still has the books; they are in German and were cherished, but not by Chabella. The books’ pages sprout hair-like shreds, rubbed bald by a finger running underneath each line again and again.
Brigitte said of the books, ‘Isabella, such thoughts! But. . what had been made of them. . ah. Zerrissen. I am. . estoy en el conflicto.’