Patricia Engel - The Veins of the Ocean

Nesto obeys and I see him settle onto a metal chair out on the azotea while Zoraida tells me to sit on the stool close to her.

“I’ve known Nesto, since he was a young boy. His grandmother used to bring him to me because of his nightmares. Now you, mi niña, it’s your turn.”

I begin by telling her the dreams of the past, of Cartagena until I returned, of my father, my brother, babies going over the bridge, though I don’t tell her the reason for these dreams, how they come from real memories. Then I tell her of my dreams here in Cuba, unlike any I’ve had before. The burning forest that looked so similar to the one I visited yesterday. And the most recent dream: my body in the sand, my figure form filled with blood and water.

She watches me as I speak though I have the impression she’s not really listening, but reading into me a different way.

Once I’m done talking she says sternly, without a trace of speculation, “You have been haunted by shame. You have been shackled. You have known violence and you have committed violence unto yourself. You must try to understand why you have placed yourself in a prison. To dream of fire is an indicator of change. You will have to let go of all that came before. You will feel an end to great pain, but only after trials of despair. To dream of sand, water, and blood shows that you feel impermanence, but it’s the opposite; something in you is taking root. Listen to the voice of your instincts. The spirits are guiding you.”

She pulls back and eyes me with sudden suspicion.

“You don’t believe in our santos or even the ones you were raised with.”

I shake my head.

“But you are a daughter of Yemayá. You must know this. She claimed you long before you were born. You must feel it. You watch the moon. You follow its glow. She is the universal mother. You are in her special favor. Anything you ask of her, she will give you.”

She calls to Nesto who comes in from the patio and stands at her side.

“Nesto, take her to see Yemayá. She will bring peace to her dreams.”

She takes Nesto’s hand, enormous next to hers, and he lowers himself onto one knee at her feet.

“And you, have patience, my dear boy. The Great One hears you. In time, you will have all that you want.”

“Gracias, Zoraida.” Nesto leans over and kisses the top of her hand.

He tries to give her some money but she refuses it, pushing his hand away. He walks to the altar of Santa Barbara and places the bills under the apple.

“For your santa, then,” he says, and she doesn’t protest.

Nesto says he wants to show me the view before we leave Zoraida’s place and leads me out to the azotea, all of Havana spread out before us in concrete cubes, homes upon homes, water tanks, electrical chords, antennas, barking dogs, and pigeon coops on nearly every rooftop.

I feel heat pressing against my chest and become breathless again. I’ve felt nauseated all morning but haven’t said so because I don’t want Nesto to think it’s caused by his mother’s cooking. I could hardly eat my breakfast at the hotel. I feel my stomach cramping, my body both burning and suddenly chilled.

“It’s so hot,” I tell Nesto, shielding my eyes from the sun as he points to where the Malecón begins and to the fortress of La Cabaña across the harbor.

Everything becomes dark but I feel his hands on me, hear him say my name. Then he’s above me and I’m not standing on the azotea looking over the city, but lying on the dusty concrete rooftop with Nesto fanning my face with his shirt, which he’s taken off, Zoraida slowly coming toward us through her doorway, one hand on a cane, the other carrying a glass of juice. He helps me prop myself on my elbows, resting my head against his knees, taking the juice from Zoraida, holding the glass to my lips until I taste mango.

“She’s more overheated than a hot dog!” Zoraida says, and returns a moment later with a wet cloth, handing it to Nesto, who slips it onto my forehead. “What have you done to this poor child? Can’t you see she’s not used to our heat?”

I sit up but my head feels heavy and I have to lie back down for another moment until Nesto helps me up and toward the door. I thank Zoraida, though I’m almost too dazed to speak.

“Take her straight to the ocean,” she tells Nesto. “Make sure she covers her whole head with water.”

When he sees me hesitate to go down the first flight of stairs, cautious with my footing so I won’t lose my balance, Nesto takes my arm, ducks his head into my chest and throws me over his shoulder, carrying me all the way down to the street where the boys wait beside the car for Nesto to pay them their chavitos.

We head east, outside the city perimeter toward the beaches. I close my eyes as Nesto drives, feel air rush past my face through the open window, the smell of gasoline and exhaust giving way to the aroma of the sea and greenery of the city outskirts.

I think of the last time I fainted, as a teenager when Universo took me to San Basilio de Palenque because he was obsessed with Benkos Biohó, the cimarron king who founded the refuge for runaway slaves like him high in the hills, surrounded by jungle, the only community in the Americas to resist colonization. We had to hitchhike out of Cartagena and caught a ride with a truck driver on his way to Mompox. He left us at the bottom of the muddy trail and we hiked through thick humidity until we came to the dusty clearing of the village plaza. Universo told me the Palenqueros were known for being reclusive, untrusting of outsiders, and reluctant to come down from their hill.

An old man came out to meet us by the road, asking what we were doing there.

“We came to see that,” Universo said, pointing to the statue of Benkos in the center of the plaza, an iron man with arms extended, broken chains hanging from his wrists.

We walked over to the statue, sweat slick down my back and my legs, sun reflecting on the white dust at our feet.

I remember telling Universo, “This must be the hottest place on earth,” and then I was on the ground.

When I came to, Universo and the old man had dragged me into a patch of shade by the church, laying me on some grass. I felt my skull crushing, heard the man shouting in Palenquero until a young boy appeared with a gallon of water that they poured over me.

“This girl doesn’t belong up here in the hills,” the old man told Universo. “She belongs at sea level. Take her back to the water.”

Nesto pulls off the highway down a winding road to Bacuranao until we are at an arc of beach, sand fine as flour, water turquoise and transparent.

“When I see this beauty, I think, How could I have ever left my homeland? ” Nesto says. “Then I go back to the city, see the conditions in which the people live, and I think, How could I have stayed as long as I did? ”

The beach is desolate except for a lone horse tied by a long rope in the shade of a coconut palm.

We walk to the water and Nesto reaches for me to turn my body, reminding me to always approach Yemayá with humility, from the side, never head-on.

I go into the water as far as my thighs, gathering my dress so it won’t get wet. Nesto doesn’t care, though, and goes in with his jeans on, dunking under the surf, and holds me so that I can dip my head under the water too, feel the cool foam run down my neck and chest.

We find a coconut palm for ourselves and lie on the sand, salt and water hardening onto our skin, my head cushioned on Nesto’s chest and his in the pillow of his arms.

I’m tired, I tell him, so tired , and let myself close my eyes for a little while to sleep.

When we leave the beach, Nesto drives from Bacuranao on the Vía Blanca through the clapboard houses, cuarterías, concrete cube apartments, and colonial buildings of Guanabacoa to neighboring Regla until we come to the tip of the peninsula facing Havana across the bay, at the gates of a white church on the bluff. There is no service happening but the church is busy with people coming in and out, scattered in pews facing the altar where a black Virgin holds in her arms a tiny white baby Jesus.