William Kennedy - Chango's Beads and Two-Tone Shoes

“There he is,” Renata said, interrupting herself to point out a shack with an altar displaying Lázaro-Babalu on crutches. They passed another shack, another Lázaro. “He is all over Havana, but this is his road.”

“How did Lázaro convince you love would save you?” he asked.

“Olguita walked me three miles to the church with the pilgrims, some on crutches like Lázaro. One barefoot man carried a sack of rocks on his back, women crawled on hands and knees, a girl no more than six moved forward on the gravel road, on her bottom, her mother saying, ‘ Ven, mi hija, ven, ’ and the child slid toward Mama, leaving blood on the gravel.

“‘Why is she making her do that?’ I asked. ‘For the child’s health, she is sick,’ Olguita said. ‘Won’t she get sicker from her bleeding?’ ‘San Lázaro will heal her all over,’ Olguita said.

“I saw a man without a shirt sliding toward the church on his back, gripping a holy rag, one ankle chained to a concrete block. When he slid backward his leg pulled the block a few inches, and he had miles to go. His back looked raw and very scarred from years of this and when I asked why he did it he looked at the sky and said, ‘My wife is alive, San Lázaro, and you did it, twenty years ago. I promised you I would wound myself if you saved her, and you did. I love you, beggar man.’ He cried terribly, and then shouted to the sky, ‘San Lázaro will never die.’”

“And this is what you call love?” Quinn said.

“Cure my legs, Babalu. Don’t let my child die, Lázaro. Give a brain to my idiot son. Bring my wife back from the grave. Let me see daylight again. Cure my pox, my pain, my sores, my terror, my cancer, my nightmares. Give me back my breath, Babalu. Let me walk the world like you, Lázaro. Love will save us and remake us. Love will do what parents and doctors and spouses cannot do. Love will do it all if you take it into your soul and caress it. I wonder if I had true love with Diego. I look at you and think maybe we will have love, but maybe we are liars and neither of us knows love. In the church I asked San Lázaro how love lived in the heart of that man pulling the concrete block and he told me.”

“San Lázaro talked to you?”

“Yes. He said, your love can be the beggar on crutches with the dogs of love trying to heal your sickness, and still you will perish. Nobody can know what love means, or how it arrives or how it lasts, or even if it exists, because we are never free of doubt. Since I was fifteen I have practiced love and I am good at it. I create love by making it, by believing in it even when it doesn’t exist. Love can make love exist, but love cannot make itself last. All I can do is try to make love exist, and sometimes I succeed. That’s what I do.”

Narciso lived in the smallest house Quinn had seen on this road. Renata entered without knocking and Quinn followed her into a room with paintings of godly abstractions, masks, necklaces made with the Orishas’ colored beads, jars of kola nuts, cowrie shells, coconut fragments, icons dangling from the ceiling. Shelves were full of trinkets, cigar stubs and bits of paper that Quinn decided must be venerable trash. The room exuded ancient complexity, urging him to bow before its absurd mysteries.

Narciso, with an unlit cigar at the corner of his mouth, made an effort to rise from his wooden rocking chair and failed. He tried again, pulled himself into a standing crouch, shuffled with baby steps and trembling arms to greet Renata. His skin was a deep black, his hair tight to his head and totally white, most of his teeth absent, and he did indeed look ninety, or beyond. He glanced at Quinn and then said to Renata, “Who is this? He is carrying fire.”

Then, with sudden agility unimaginable in that worn body, he straightened his back and lifted over his head one of six necklaces he was wearing. He waved it in front of Renata and dropped it onto a table. The necklace was four feet in circumference and strung with sixteen oval-shaped, tortoise-shell disks.

“The fire,” he said, pointing to the disks.

“What are you saying?” Renata asked. “This is my friend, a writer. I wanted him to see San Lázaro.”

“He is a carrier,” Narciso said, and he spoke to Renata in a chant: “He is carrying fire and fire does burn,

He is bearing fire and the ashes it makes,

The dead surround and claim him as their own,

He wears the dead like the beads of Changó.”

Renata’s face was blank and pale, but Quinn read her blankness as cogency, concealed under a mask of innocence. She was the carrier of the dead, all those dying rebels in the forefront of her memory. She was shamming for Narciso, passing her dead on to Quinn. He watched Narciso reading Renata, and he sensed the man really might be reading the thought of another, which Quinn did not want to believe. But it has been done, hasn’t it? Telepathy isn’t quite so disreputable anymore. Somebody might legitimize it any minute.

“What have you been doing?” Narciso asked Renata.

“Nothing at all,” she said, “nothing.”

Narciso threw the shells again and spoke in a language Quinn did not understand. Renata translated: “He says you are in danger and that you must avoid the murderers walking the streets.”

“Convey my thanks and say I’ll be cautious,” Quinn said. “Does he know which streets?”

“I give you this necklace as a shield,” Narciso said to Renata. He took from around his neck a silvery chain with miniature cast-iron tools and weapons — hammer, anvil, pick and shovel, bow and arrow, machete, two-bladed axe — and circled it around Renata’s neck. “Show these tools of the Orishas to your enemy and tell him if he harms you Changó will plunge him into a long and painful death.”

“Changó will help and we will fight,” Renata said in the rhythm of Narciso’s fire chant: “Changó will protect me

And we will fire the days.”

“Changó is listening,” Narciso said.

“My friend needs Changó’s help,” Renata said. “I would give him my beads but I cannot get to where they are. Can you give Changó to my friend?”

Narciso stared at Quinn, who saw himself being scrutinized as a skeptic. Does Changó help skeptics? Why help you if you don’t believe in him? Narciso took another necklace of small red and white beads from around his neck, put them on Quinn and said, “He wears the dead like the beads of Changó.” Then with abrupt finality he waved them toward the door and shuffled back to his chair.

So the theme for today will continue to be the dead, not enough of them yet. When Quinn decided to come to Cuba and write about revolution in two centuries he accepted the likelihood of corpses, but at a distance; not in the air around him, not as mental transients. Renata was flummoxed not by death but by the death of what she thought was love. Fair enough. Quinn would not face such loss unless the relationship he was creating with her melted into sorrowful time. She is driven to track what was lost, follow where it leads; and Quinn silently signed on for the ride.

“You’re the one who wears the dead like Changó’s beads,” he said to her. “You sent me images of those corpses at the Palace and Narciso saw them, which I consider a boffo performance. I may have to start believing in something.”

“He says to get rid of the dead. I can’t.”

“They’ll leave when they’re ready.”

“I don’t want them to go. They’re with me for a reason.”

At a farmacia she called her mother who told her everybody was in nervous collapse because of her, her father was furious and hoped it had nothing to do with politics, the police wanted her to call them, and someone called twice but left only a number. Renata took the number and said, I am all right, Mama, and I will be home soon and I do not want to see the police because Changó told me this was not a good week for seeing police.