Adiós - Part III: Closure enough

Tania began heading back the old familiar road, but then she glanced back at the church as her final glimpse of hope. Maybe someone there will help me. They climbed the steps as three black ’89 Volvo 744 hearses rolled in. Having rarely ever seen a hearse, Pierre and Tania were stunned as they stared at the potential big accident. Mistaking the two of them as part of the proceedings, a man, who appeared to be the funeral director, came forward to receive them. Tania recited the whole story to the kind-faced man, her pleading face included. By the time she finished her plea, the mourners began piling onto the pews.

“Don’t despair. I’ll help you find your great aunt’s tomb.” Tania offered her thanks and the three exited the cathedral straight into a social nightmare.

“I already told her the address is wrong!” The caretaker’s back climbed onto his neck.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Tania replied, thinking she had done all she could, like explicitly telling her helper that she had already asked the old man for help.

“I know, Pepe.” The funeral arranger explained calmly, “But, you’re the only one here who would know how to find this lady.”

Proudly, Pepe turned to Tania. “They didn’t give you any more directions?” Tania shook her head.

“Well, the only thing I can think of is if they mean South East instead. Because this direction says North West.” He announced to blank stares.

“Here.” He pointed to the paper. “We’re in street Two right now, but I can see that they also wrote down Eleven, as if to correct the two.”

Confused, Tania squinted at the paper. Calle 2 was written in the paper, and in the corner, two tick marks, one fainter than the other, were also marked perhaps in an effort to check whether the pen had enough ink left.

“I have worked here for 42 years!” Pepe’s voice thundered across the necropolis, dispelling doubts.

“Ah Pepe, but if it’s Calle 11 then it has to be South East. It’s closer to the entrance.”

“Sí, mijo. That’s what I’m saying. I ain’t taking her there though. I already showed her once, and it’s too hot.”

“Sí, Pepe. You don’t worry. I’ll do it.”

“You know how to find it?” inquired Pepe, half listening, just to return the funeral arranger’s politeness.

The funeral arranger recited from memory, “Sí, we head to street 11, walk 100 metres to the South, then 9 more feet to the South and then 6 metres to the East, and finally 6 more feet,” handing back the note to Tania.

“You got it.” Pepe looked away and continued his conversation with the guard.

The softly spoken funeral arranger addressed Tania with, “If it’s all right with you, I would like to help you find your great aunt’s tomb.”

“I would really appreciate it,” Tania responded with a mix of gratitude and suspicion.

The solemn trio made their way toward the entrance of the cemetery. After a few minutes of walking, the funeral arranger broke the silent stares.

“My name is Ramón.”

“Tania,” is all she gave him, purposely avoiding introducing or translating to Pierre even though Ramón kept eyeing him. Speaking in English would only serve to further the smell of otherness he could already whiff off her.

“Where are you from? Canada?”

Too late. “Sí. How can you tell?”

“Your accent. I can tell you’re definitely Cuban. You look Cuban, but I have family in Canada. You speak the same way.”

What an odd thing: an accent in one native’s tongue. Still, it’s a good thing he hasn’t asked about Pierre. During this trip, Tania had learned that if Pierre was around her, she could only be a guide, which would make no sense given the circumstances, or a business transaction.

Such are the sad stereotypes burdening young women in poor countries like Cuba. Even an explanation of leaving Cuba at a young age would prompt more questions, “And how did your parents leave? Did they defect? Are they rich? No? You had family outside? With money? No? Was your mom a jinetera?” On two occasions, when they revealed their true selves, organic conversations were suddenly charged for CUC. Tania knew well her people were not to blame; when you are poor, everything revolves around money.

When they finally arrived at 11th street, Ramón performed the same odd movements that Pepe had skilfully executed. Pierre and Tania followed him closely, and after a few minutes finally found the tomb marked Gonzales. Ramón gave them his blessings and parted with them.

When Ramón faded into a mere silhouette, Tania recounted everything to Pierre. She implored her fiancé to bear the Spanish once more as she said farewell to Tía. Warm tears rushed out as Tania reached toward the cold slab. As she began fondly telling Tía of the family and how they missed her, a loud howl interrupted their final communion.

“Get your hand away, mijita!” Ermenegildo Gonzalez screamed with arms unfolded.

Wiping her tears, Tania first looked at Pierre and then her surroundings. It was just the wind.

Without hesitation Ermenegildo matched Tania’s incredulity with immense ire: mustering all his strength to push Tania away, Ermenegildo barely managed a broken twig, spooking a few birds into flurried flight. Yet, this time, Tania smiled at the spooked sparrows, happily thinking of the strong breeze, and the fleeting birds as signs that Tía had heard her and set off with Pierre for home.

“If they would just pay off the clerks, I could rest in peace in this country!”

Part 3/3

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