her so much pain. Within just a few years, from 1970 to 1979, I lost my mother, stepfather, brother, and Antonia…and I found myself alone. New York was full of memories… Besides, I hated the cold. I sold everything, and I came here to Miami by the end of 1979.”
Listening to his story, Maria was fascinated as she thought about how Cubans always spoke as if they were the only ones who had gone through a national calamity, and how this gentleman’s story was like so many others’.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to recount my whole life. You’re probably wondering what all of this has to do with Alberto, but it was a necessary introduction so that you can understand what happened later.”
Just then, some bells began to ring without stopping.
“It’s lunch time. Around here, Americans eat so early…at twelve. Would you like to stay? They allow me to have guests, but I’ll warn you, the food’s not that great.”
Maria wasn’t too sure. The invitation wasn’t too appealing but she was so interested in his story that she decided to stay. Don Joaquin wasn’t kidding. The fish with boiled potatoes and green beans couldn’t have been more bland. The best part was the bread, the salad, and Jell-O with whipped cream for dessert. Worse still, they shared the table with two old chatterboxes and Mr. del Roble couldn’t continue his story.
“I assume it’s getting close to nap time. If you prefer, I can come back after four o’clock.”
“Wonderful. I’ll meet you back at the same place at four fifteen if that’s ok,” he said as he once again elegantly kissed her hand.
Maria had three hours to kill. Once in the car she looked over her emails on her phone. None of them was important except the one from Dr. Erwin. She opened it anxiously. It said that he had been able to extract DNA from a brush that they had found among the items belonging to Lazo, but that it would take more than two weeks before they had a definitive result. She sent him a reply, thanking him.
She couldn’t decide whether to go over to the nearby shops at Dadeland or head back to the office… She decided instead to go see her father. On the way over, she stopped for a Cuban coffee to go… Papi’s coffee is terrible, she thought to herself affectionately.
Her parents had always lived in the Westchester area, in the southwestern part of the city. It was a middle-class suburb where many Cubans had settled. Recently, there were also a lot of Hispanics from other countries too, so much so that there were hardly any Americans any more.
“Wow, well what a wonderful surprise,” her father said as he greeted her with a sincere smile. She knew he was lonely, and she tried to take care of him the best she could.
The coffee had gotten cold, so her father warmed it up in the microwave, one of the few things in the kitchen he knew how to use. They sat there in silence, enjoying their coffee as well as each other’s company.
She told him a bit about the case, but, without realizing it, she fell asleep in the recliner that her mother always used to sit in, and which despite all the years that had gone by still seemed to smell like her.
She woke up startled, fearing that she had slept through her appointment, but it was ok. She hadn’t slept that long. She had just enough time touch up her hair and makeup and to hug her father goodbye.
Don Joaquin was waiting for her in the foyer. He was wearing a pullover sweater over the shirt he had been wearing that morning. Once they were settled back in the library, and she had turned on her tape recorder, he continued:
“As I was saying, I got to Miami at the end of 1979… I was getting to know the city, considering if I should buy a piece of property and where, deciding what to do with my life, when all that business at the Peruvian Embassy in Cuba took place in April 1980, followed by the Mariel Boatlift. Being Cuban, you no doubt remember it well…”
“Of course.”
“Well, one day I get this call from this young man and he asks me if I’m from Villanueva de Jiloca… I thought it was strange that he knew what town I was from. He also asked about my brother, using his nickname Juancho—which is what we always called Juan—and I could tell he was upset when I told him that he had passed away. He told me his name was Alberto Gonzalez, that he had just arrived from Mariel, and that he needed to see me. He didn’t tell me why. Since I’m usually a bit cautious, I didn’t want to give him my address. I told him I’d meet him at a restaurant, some place where we could have a big lunch. Since he seemed reluctant, I told him I’d treat. He finally told me that he was staying at the camp in Tamiami Park, and he didn’t have a penny to his name and didn’t know how to get around. Even though I wasn’t able to get it out of him why precisely he had called me, and I even imagined the worst, I went over to see him. You can’t imagine my surprise when he told me that he was my brother’s grandson… He told me that Juancho had had a daughter in Cuba and that for a while he used to send some money when he lived up in New York, but they hadn’t heard from Juancho since the sixties. Alberto’s mother was thirty-nine at the time, and he was nineteen. Alberto had taken off because he couldn’t take it any longer. She had given him his grandfather’s name as well as mine. Someone in the camp had helped him look up the numbers in the phone book and, on the third try calling one of the Robles, he came across mine.”
“The truth is the whole thing seemed like a soap opera, but there was something about his features that reminded me of my brother. I also remembered a photo of a young girl that Juancho had in his wallet when he died, and tying up the loose ends and judging by the ages and dates, the whole story seemed to be more and more possible. Besides, the young man had good manners. He seemed sincere. So I made the necessary arrangements, which weren’t many, and I got him out of there and took him to live with me. He turned out to be a godsend until…well…I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”
Don Joaquin kept coughing while he was talking and then explained that he had put on the sweater because he had a bit of a cold and they kept the air conditioning set very cold. After a while he had such a fit of coughing, he couldn’t stop and he turned red. He couldn’t breathe. Maria didn’t know what to do. He took out a piece of candy, clumsily removed the wrapper and, once he started sucking on it, the cough went away little by little.
“Maybe you’ve overdone it today. I’m really interested in your story, a whole lot, but you have to take care of yourself… Maybe I should leave. Do you want me to call someone? Would you like me to accompany you to your room?”
Once he had recovered, he got up and looked at Maria with a mischievous smile.
“How about a drink? That’s the best cure for a cough.”
She was surprised by the English pub-style bar and the elegant music that was coming from the piano. A woman with a pronounced mouth moved her agile fingers over the keys from which one could hear notes from an ample repertoire, ranging from jazz to old boleros.
“She’s really good. I’ll introduce you later on,” Don Joaquin promised, as he noticed Maria watching her intently.
“I always have a Scotch at this time of the day. I take mine neat. What you would like?”
“The same, but on the rocks.”
They sipped their drinks in silence. This “old codger”—as Don Joaquin had referred to himself—stirred up Detective Duquesne’s curiosity, admiration, and a certain sadness that she hoped wasn’t going to turn into pity. It was a feeling that she preferred to reserve for innocent victims of so many crimes.
“So
