Adiós - Part II: Pleading Without Palanca

How could I forget the exact date Tía Lola died? You spend all your life remembering birthdays, and something as permanent and defining as the death of a loved one escaped my mind. 

Tania went to commiserate with some friends who lived nearby. Shaking their heads, they expressed their disappointment but lack of surprise. “Everything in Cuba requires palanca,” they echoed each other. The exact translation to palanca in English is ‘lever.’ In North America, palanca would refer to the right person to get your foot in the door, as in networking when looking for work. But in Cuba, cash is king; without it, palanca helps with everything. Tania shook her head. I refuse to pay people so I may say goodbye to Tía.

As Tania and her fiancé headed back to their Bed & Breakfast, Tania jerked Pierre’s arm. “I remember when Tía passed!” She still could not recall the exact date, but she had a month and a year! In better spirits, they made their return to the necropolis. When they arrived once more, the window remained shut closed. The room was probably cooler that way, blocking all the hot afternoon air stupid people in mourning were dragging in. In dear lack of palanca, Tania prepared for her best performance, even if it left her vulnerable to panhandling.

She rushed toward a lady who had just come out of the room. Tania did not recognize her from the group sitting at the table, and figured she must have been the one doing the work. Tania immediately began crying and telling the lady of how far they had come just so Tania could say goodbye to her great aunt, how it was Tania’s fault that she was previously turned away because she did not remember the year her great aunt passed, but now she did have a year, and a month, though not a day, and will the kind lady please find it in her heart to look through the books.

“So, you’re on holidays?”

“No.” Tania recuperated her breath. “Well. Yes.” I work all year. This was my only week off. Heat flushed her already burned cheeks, and made her feel nauseous.

“Ah, you’re on vacation. And you want to say goodbye to your grandma,” she prodded on.

“My great aunt,” corrected Tania, wiping her tears since both her grandmothers were

alive.

“We all need closure. Where do you come from?”

“Canada.” A feeling of dread flooded her head. Why didn’t I say Camagüey?

“But you were born here?”

“Yes.”

“Stay here. Let me see if I can find your grandma.”

Tania began to question if great aunt was too distant a relative to warrant searching books full of the deceased. The new clerk was gone for at least 30 minutes, which looked hopeful compared to the last time. Finally, the clerk emerged from the door.

“Here you go, sweetie.” She handed Tania a paper that read, Ermenegildo Gonzales Calle (street) 2, N/100 and 9, O/6 and 3. “Walk all the way down to the church in the center and give this paper to the old man sitting near the church. If you’re not sure, ask the officer.”

Tania hugged her really hard, a gesture that makes Cubans very uncomfortable. One thing is to kiss on the cheek when you say hi, another is full-body contact. Tania looked down at the paper, puzzled at the scribbles and wondered why there was the name of a man, Ermenegildo, penned in blue. However, after all that trouble, she did not want to push her luck, so she assumed Ermenegildo was a distant relative. Tania had left Cuba in her early teens and had never attended a funeral at the necropolis. If her mother had accompanied her in this trip, she would have explained to Tania that the necropolis was the main cemetery in Havana and often many family members share the same tomb for lack of space.

Thankfully, the church was easy to spot. It was a fairly big, Cathedral-looking building right in the middle of the necropolis. Just as the clerk mentioned, they found a guard and an old man sitting near it. Tania greeted the guard and handed him the clerk’s note.

Unable to get much out of the note, he said, “He’s worked here his whole life. He is really experienced, ma’am,” as he passed it to the old man, who had a dire case of scoliosis to prove his devotion to the metropolis.

Without saying a word, the cemetery caretaker got up, walked a block, turned left and immediately began taking gigantic steps. Tania followed him, keeping up and counting the steps to make sense of the note, but she eventually gave up trying to understand his behaviour. The guard, Pierre and Tania abruptly concluded their morbid conga line when the caretaker took one final step tightly in front of his other foot, as if precision was of absolute necessity. Then, taking one final look at the paper, the old man inspected a few tombs in the vicinity of the spot they just landed on, and said, “Sorry, ma’am they gave you the wrong address.”

Part 2/3

Maria Rosales Gerpe is a writer and a watercolour artist. Her work focuses on her experiences as a woman during postpartum, grief, and love, with the aim of challenging Western perceptions of beauty and being. She can also be cheerful. IG @ohla_mar