Castro, Love Letters to a Mistress, 1953–63
Seeing that magic year, 1963, had been enough. There was no record of the letters, no hint of what they contained, according to the Russian, but why risk linkage to the assassination of JFK?
Evidence was already out there, of course, but never in Fidel’s own hand.
The DGI made inquiries. No response from the seller. The DGI went to work on the seller’s passwords. Three weeks ago, for reasons Vernum still didn’t understand, the trail brought two special agents to his doorstep in the village of Plobacho, western Cuba.
“People say you are respected and feared here, a novice
Santero
who votes the right way. That you’ve helped police in the past.”
This was true.
“You served in air force intelligence until . . . well, an unfortunate incident, but the board’s findings might have been hasty. Care to reopen your case?”
Definitely not. This was a blackmail visit, the way the system worked. How much did they want? Vernum had posed that question. As a Santería novice, he had a little cash, but not much.
Both agents smiled. They didn’t want money, but there was a price. They named it by asking, “Do you know the Casanova family?”
Why . . . yes, he did—if you could call an old woman recluse and her retarded, murdering grandson a “family.”
The agents had liked that, or pretended to.
Was he aware that Figueroa Casanova had escaped from Havana Psychiatric?
Vernum played along. “The one by the airport, José Martí? I’ll help you catch the bastard if it’s true.”
It couldn’t be true. Criminals didn’t escape from that prison—not without a scar on their forehead or in a coffin. Vernum knew this. He stayed current on rumors about Havana Psychiatric for a reason: the place terrified him. Couldn’t even look at the building from the road. His fears were grounded in his own dark secret: a demon lived within his brain. Sometimes the demon had to be fed.
Over the years, only two witnesses—Figuerito and a little girl—had survived after learning the truth. This, too, had been a burden, but it was a Santería maxim that finally set him free:
Blame not the
heart for demons in your head, nor hungers that torment your soul
.
My hunger—
that’s the way Vernum thought of the demon now. Instead of an asylum inmate, he’d become a respectable citizen, believed he’d earned pleasure in whatever form it appeared. Like all religions, Santería was quick to forgive, but in a way that was tougher; none of that turn-the-other-cheek bullshit. You want something? Man, go get it. Prayer was okay, but potions and powders and the ancient spells were faster.
Another aspect of Santería that attracted Vernum was its reliance on blood sacrifice to appease the gods and bring good luck. The ceremony was so strict in procedure that it absolved even a young
Santero
of guilt. Coconut rind cut in four pieces represented the four corners of the Earth. A papaya freshly sliced resembled the undefiled chasteness of a girl. Turpentine, bluestone, ground cowrie shells. The knife must be clean, specially sharpened. The neck of the victim must be gently shaved before the first sure stroke, then tilted just so to fill a ceremonial gourd. All the while chanting
Oggún shoro
shoro . . . Oggún shoro shoro . . .
Say those words with passion, they assumed the rhythm of a beating heart.
Vernum’s favorite song.
Entering the priesthood was the smartest move he’d made. True believers were eager to reward even a novice
Santero
who produced results, which is why he had respect, women, and a little money—but never enough, it seemed to him.
The Cuban DGI agents didn’t care about Santería. What they cared about was the deal they offered the next day after driving Vernum to Havana.
“If we close the files on that unfortunate incident, would you be willing to help us?”
Hell yes, but Vernum didn’t want to appear too eager. He knew they thought he was just a dumb
Seeing that magic year, 1963, had been enough. There was no record of the letters, no hint of what they contained, according to the Russian, but why risk linkage to the assassination of JFK?
Evidence was already out there, of course, but never in Fidel’s own hand.
The DGI made inquiries. No response from the seller. The DGI went to work on the seller’s passwords. Three weeks ago, for reasons Vernum still didn’t understand, the trail brought two special agents to his doorstep in the village of Plobacho, western Cuba.
“People say you are respected and feared here, a novice
Santero
who votes the right way. That you’ve helped police in the past.”
This was true.
“You served in air force intelligence until . . . well, an unfortunate incident, but the board’s findings might have been hasty. Care to reopen your case?”
Definitely not. This was a blackmail visit, the way the system worked. How much did they want? Vernum had posed that question. As a Santería novice, he had a little cash, but not much.
Both agents smiled. They didn’t want money, but there was a price. They named it by asking, “Do you know the Casanova family?”
Why . . . yes, he did—if you could call an old woman recluse and her retarded, murdering grandson a “family.”
The agents had liked that, or pretended to.
Was he aware that Figueroa Casanova had escaped from Havana Psychiatric?
Vernum played along. “The one by the airport, José Martí? I’ll help you catch the bastard if it’s true.”
It couldn’t be true. Criminals didn’t escape from that prison—not without a scar on their forehead or in a coffin. Vernum knew this. He stayed current on rumors about Havana Psychiatric for a reason: the place terrified him. Couldn’t even look at the building from the road. His fears were grounded in his own dark secret: a demon lived within his brain. Sometimes the demon had to be fed.
Over the years, only two witnesses—Figuerito and a little girl—had survived after learning the truth. This, too, had been a burden, but it was a Santería maxim that finally set him free:
Blame not the
heart for demons in your head, nor hungers that torment your soul
.
My hunger—
that’s the way Vernum thought of the demon now. Instead of an asylum inmate, he’d become a respectable citizen, believed he’d earned pleasure in whatever form it appeared. Like all religions, Santería was quick to forgive, but in a way that was tougher; none of that turn-the-other-cheek bullshit. You want something? Man, go get it. Prayer was okay, but potions and powders and the ancient spells were faster.
Another aspect of Santería that attracted Vernum was its reliance on blood sacrifice to appease the gods and bring good luck. The ceremony was so strict in procedure that it absolved even a young
Santero
of guilt. Coconut rind cut in four pieces represented the four corners of the Earth. A papaya freshly sliced resembled the undefiled chasteness of a girl. Turpentine, bluestone, ground cowrie shells. The knife must be clean, specially sharpened. The neck of the victim must be gently shaved before the first sure stroke, then tilted just so to fill a ceremonial gourd. All the while chanting
Oggún shoro
shoro . . . Oggún shoro shoro . . .
Say those words with passion, they assumed the rhythm of a beating heart.
Vernum’s favorite song.
Entering the priesthood was the smartest move he’d made. True believers were eager to reward even a novice
Santero
who produced results, which is why he had respect, women, and a little money—but never enough, it seemed to him.
The Cuban DGI agents didn’t care about Santería. What they cared about was the deal they offered the next day after driving Vernum to Havana.
“If we close the files on that unfortunate incident, would you be willing to help us?”
Hell yes, but Vernum didn’t want to appear too eager. He knew they thought he was just a dumb
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