Lisa Wixon - Dirty Blonde and Half-Cuban

His mouth says “Shhhh,” but his eyes confirm. Doves and chickens dangle from the ceiling in cages, and the girl drags a stool to each spot, dropping seed into wooden tubs for the fowl. On rickety benches, we wait nearly two hours, and I drift into sleep on Limón’s shoulder. He shakes me awake in time to see, through a dramatic parting of curtains fashioned from bed sheets, the fattest man I’ve seen in my second homeland.

His belly rests atop skinny legs, and a faded Fruit Loops T-shirt stretches a Toucan Sam into comic distortion over the beans-and-rice gut. I suppress a giggle, sensing Limón’s deep reverence for the man.

The babalochasits on the ground on a straw mat, his back supported by the blood-spattered wall. Limón and I sit facing him, in chairs. The priest calls on Eleggua, the opener of doors, the bouncer at the velvet ropes of the other world. Eleggua apparently believes us to be presentable, because the babalochasmiles and welcomes me.

“Each person is the child of a particular orisha,” whispers Limón. “The babalochawill ask who claims you. My guess is Changó.” The frisky one, the god of fire and thunder.

The babalochaopens a red-and-black bag, and from it drops cowry shells into my hands. I’m instructed to shake them. When I return the dappled shells, he lays them on the ground, and records the configurations in a notebook. I sneak a glance at the paper and see him writing complex formulas of 1s and 0s. Binary code.

Limón had explained how Santería was a Yoruban religion brought to Cuba by the slaves from western Africa. Cuban slave-masters wouldn’t allow open practice of the religion, so the slaves syncretized the beliefs with Catholicism, the dominant practice of Spanish settlers, and adopted the saints as visible representations of the orishas.

Saint Anthony, for instance, represents Eleggua. And the Virgin Mary—the patron saint of Cuba, known as la virgen de caridad de la cobre—is the orishacalled Oshún. Priests also teach the veneration of ancestors, who are said to offer moral guidance from another realm. Much like the Catholic model of communication, the priests approach the orishasthrough a mediator.

After a long, silent contemplation, the babalochastares at me with a discomfiting calm. “You’re the daughter,” he says, “of Oshún.”

“Oshún?” Limón is incredulous.

“The goddess of love and beauty,” confirms the babalocha.

“Imposible!”stutters Limón. “Try again. There’s no way, not this girl.”

I shoot Limón a look and kick his foot. “Why not?”

“Oshún is the ruler of streams and rivers, and operates on a system of flow,” explains the priest. “She represents fertility, is flirtatious, and a great dancer.”

“That’s why not.”

A smile slips from the corners of the babalocha’s mouth. “Oshún welcomes you and has some work for you to do.”

“Work? Sorry, unless it pays dollars I don’t have time.”

“ Ay, coño,no joke,” says Limón, shooting me a warning.

The priest continues. “Oshún says you’ve many difficult tasks here in Cuba, and she’s proud of you. She promises to give you,” he says, pausing and leaning toward me to whisper, “everything you came here for.”

“Qué suerte,”says Limón, impressed.

“But you have to change your approach in order to receive her spirit and guidance,” the priest commands.

“Change my approach?”

“She wants you to stop thinking all the time.” The babalochareaches up for my hand and places it on my chest. “And start feeling. Oshún is the goddess of the river. Think of the rhythm of a river, and move into that flow.”

“Rhythm of a river.”

“’ Ño—anyrhythm would be an improvement,” says Limón, still shaking his head.

“You’re looking for somebody, someone close to you, verdad?” asks the priest.

Knowing Limón could easily have told the babalochaof the search for my father, I nod noncommittally.

“Her father,” prompts Limón.

“Yes, the father,” says the priest. “Oshún says your whole life your father has been closer than you think.”

“Anything more specific?” I ask. “Perhaps a phone number?”

“Oshún says your father will come to you, Alysia, when the time is right. There’s a strong female presence also. I see your grandmother, and an aunt, and some cousins. They’ve been calling out to you. It seems you’ve been placed under special protection, in spells cast by them.” The babalochapauses for a second, receiving information. “Spells they’ve cast in your favor since you were a child.”

“Are these people—” I cough and start over. “Is this family of mine alive?”

He pauses again. “Yes, they’re here living in La Habana. Tan tan cerquita.”So very close.

“Chévere,”says Limón with a somber nod.

“It seems,” says the priest, “the rain which falls from your roof is the water they step in on the way to the market.”

I feel a rush of excitement. This must be my father’s family, and to believe they live close to my home is more than I can handle. I think of how my mother told me on her deathbed my father’s family was waiting for me. But I don’t want to believe the babalocha’s words. I feel only a slight thaw in my doubts.

“Anything about my mother?” I say.

“She’s not living?” It’s more a confirmation than a question, and he closes his eyes before I nod in the affirmative. “She is with you now, watching. She wants you to know her spirit can be felt most strongly here in Havana. Does that make sense?”

I’m still not convinced, so I ask another question. “Ask her for a sign, one only she and I will recognize.”

The priest studies me a long while. The sunlight has gone from the room, and the doves and chickens rock slowly in their cages. A slight breeze blows the sheets along the wall, and I feel wind carry in a rare coolness. I rub down the goose bumps forming on my arms.

The priest concentrates, mouthing silent words, his eyes resting. I think of the 1s and the 0s floating in the air, expanding from code to consciousness and back to code again, and hope the science and earthy mysticism, with its powers rooted in herbs and stone, flowers and animals, will summon the psychic remnants of my mother.

His eyes pop open like a china doll’s, suddenly wide and alert. I lean forward.

“Monkey baby,” he says, not understanding. “A small monkey. That’s what I’m told. Mean anything?”

Shrugging my shoulders, I turn to Limón and send a smirk that suggests it’s all a ruse in the end. But suddenly the goose bumps return, and in the copse of memory I recall my childhood name, one that Limón could never know, a nickname I’d myself long forgotten.

Little monkey.

Frenetic now, I gasp and stand up, practically shouting. “Tell her I’m going to find him,” I nearly shout to the priest. “Tell her I promise! I’ll find him!”

“She knows,” he says, smiling.

“Anything else?” I ask, practically begging.

“Your mother wants you to follow your heart. She made a very big mistake once by not listening to her own voice. She hopes you will not follow her down that path.”

“Is there more?” I ask meekly. “That she said?”

“Just that—” His voice cracks. “Just that she’s sorry.”

S tanding at the intersection,I’m lightly rubbing a raw egg over my body. Careful not to crush its fragile shell, I chant for Oshún’s guidance, Changó’s protection, and Eleggua to get the whole message up to the right zip code.

Women sweeping the sidewalks are staring. Cars drive by slowly, and passengers toss bawdy comments. As instructed, I turn my back on the intersection and pitch the egg into the middle of the street.