LAMENTATIONS IN EXILE

We all agreed in our Manhattan neighborhood that Franco Maya had unmistakable charm. He was a Cuban with a lovable, huggable, droopy dog face, blessed with the gift of telling tall tales. Perched in a wheelchair, wearing urine-stained khaki pants, Franco cradled a small bottle of cheap Alexi vodka. He'd only tease the women as they passed him by and occasionally offered them a sip.

“Do you only drink that?” Novelette asked him directly. “It's cheap and harsh. It's eventually going to take a toll on you.”

“It's all I could afford,” he answered. “What do you drink?”

It was a blazing summer's day, and Novelette was coming from the liquor store with a small calico shopping bag. She pulled out a bottle of Kentucky 'Rare Breed' bourbon and showed it to him.

“Oh my, that's the expensive stuff,” said Franco excitedly.

Novelette Grandison was a discreet drinker who had retired from the Department of Education a decade before. She flaunted her secret to Franco because only he possessed the savvy to extract such clandestine information. She'd observed him for a while and noticed how he drew women's attention. He'd stop them as they passed him by, flattering them about their clothing and style. Before they realized it, he had ensnared them. She’d witnessed Franco in his varying stages of sobriety and inebriation and would watch him charm the women into buying him liquor, blankets, food, and cigarettes.

“Who's that miserable creature?” she'd ask herself on her way to the neighborhood drugstore, the supermarket, and the park.

One day in mid-July, while Novelette was going to the park, she heard Franco singing a familiar childhood song. It was a Reggae tune by a Jamaican musician named Pablo Moses:

“...We should be in Angola, oh yes, my brothers now

We should be in Angola, oh yes, my sisters...”

“Where did you learn that song?” Novelette asked Franco out of curiosity. “I used to sing that song as a teenager when I lived in Jamaica.”

“Jamaica?” he asked with lit-up eyes. “I learned it when I lived in Hopewell, Jamaica, in '76, too,” he replied. “I was a Cuban attaché there.”

Novelette jumped with surprise. She didn't know what to believe because Franco Maya often told exaggerated stories to enthrall his audience. On numerous occasions, when she passed him by with his entourage of female listeners, she'd listen to his extravagant tales. Once, Novelette overheard him telling a keen listener, an attractive woman of Asian stock, that his mother worked as a prostitute in Belén, the “French quarter” of Havana.

“Her name was Mariangela, and I remember she worked an extra job at the movie projector at El Teatro Shanghai on Zanja Street in the Chinese neighborhood of Havana. I would visit her from time to time to get money until it all ended,” reminisced Franco to Han, the woman to whom he spoke.

Novelette listened intently to Franco's stories about his life back in Cuba. Years before, she had journeyed to the island with the Venceremous Brigade organization because it promised to show its Contingents the “Cuban reality.” Still, she emerged from the trip without having learned it. She witnessed the island's lowest economic point during the “Special Period.” Havana needed a facelift, and its residents walked around the city with emaciated bodies. Novelette had some pleasant memories from the time she spent on the island, smoking cigars and hiding in the tobacco fields of Caimito.

However, Franco's tales about his homeland conjured glimpses of Cuba she'd never known. They were tales of the island in the '50s when Fidel Castro's revolution surmounted. She listened to hi talk dreamily about a legendary mulatto entertainer called 'Supermán' who was known for performing live sex acts for kinky American tourists.

“He worked in the district of Los Sitios and was known as 'Enrique La Reina,'” Franco added.

Novelette noticed the excitement in Franco's voice turned to softness when he continued to speak of his mother, Mariangela. One night after visiting her, he peeked through the French-laced curtains at the theater where she worked and spotted the proprietor, a wiry, mustachioed man, thrusting his phallus into his mother from behind while she changed the pornographic film on the Bell and Howell projector. He never thought of Mariangela making a living as a prostitute, wearing a screwed-up face in an orgasmic love-pain mask, so he ran away from home.

“I fell out of love with her that same night,” Novelette heard him tell Han.

Franco Maya had no qualms about displaying his sexual preference in the upper Manhattan neighborhood where he frequented. He'd lustfully watch the young men as they passed him by and would whisper to Han if he spotted a promising subject.

“I'm gonna get some of that tonight,” he'd say to Han jokingly.

“Oh Franco, leave it alone. No one is interested,” she'd comment while laughing.

“I'm bisexual, and I have a daughter who lives in Switzerland,” he'd reply dryly, ending the topic.

Novelette had a burning desire to strike up a short conversation with Franco to try and penetrate his make-believe world. She couldn't, for he had disappeared from the neighborhood for three years. She remembered Jorge Camacho, the caring Puerto Rican Superintendent of an apartment building in the neighborhood, told her that he got him into an almshouse in the Bronx.

“He just sits and drinks his heart out. He's slowly killing himself,” Camacho told Novelette.

“Trust me, he'll be out again. There's nothing I could do.”

Novelette glanced at Jorge and twisted her mouth into a fake smile. She felt awful. She didn't get the chance to help Franco.

“By the way,” he added. “Don't ever listen to Franco. He's just another mother-fuckin' criminal who entered the country during the Mariel Boatlift!”

“Who, Franco? I don't believe it!” she fired back.

Images of Miami in the tumultuous '80s flooded her mind. As the Mareiltos infiltrated Miami's economy, many considered them criminals because of their dark skin.

Franco Maya had dark skin, too. He was a 'mestizo,' neither white nor black. His physical appearance showed the history of Latin America's conquered tribes and blended nations. To Novelette, he was just an old Cuban down on his luck who loved to look back on the bittersweet moments in his life. There was a profound aura of sadness he harbored, something he wanted to expel from his tortured soul to set himself free. She sensed this in him. His speeches were ways of redeeming himself.

Franco Maya escaped from the almshouse at his own recognizance later. When he resurfaced in his old Manhattan neighborhood, Jorge Camacho had died from throat cancer, and Franco lamented the passing of his kind-hearted friend who had tried to help him. Novelette knew in that instant Franco's desire to die amid the comfort of his transient lifestyle. Only his street friends comprehended how a once productive soul could have plunged to the lowest echelon of life. Novelette understood, unlike the others who tried to help him. She never pitied him, for she knew he was happy in that stage of life. She took much interest in his narratives and believed he would reveal the truths torturing his soul in due time.

“I'd love you to buy me a Jamaican dinner of curry goat with rice and peas,” he told her one day.

He had been drinking with his friends and appeared to be making small talk.

“Would you also like a D & G Cola Champagne with the meal?” she asked him politely.

He didn't answer her but stopped the conversation. Novelette dreamed of accompanying him when he was alone, during a moment of sobriety, to learn more about his life.

Sometime after exiting the A train coming back from Brooklyn one evening, Novelette spotted Franco with his torso prolapsed in his wheelchair, with a walking cane in his right hand, hitting two women on their rounded backsides. The women were in a heated argument.

“Where the fuck do you think you are? Park Avenue? Don't you know that you can't block the sidewalk like this?” he yelled at them.

The women turned towards him and laughed, exuding an air of familiarity, then made way for Franco to pass between them. Novelette then rushed behind him to inquire if he was alright.

“I'm terminal,” replied Franco. “The doctors gave me two years.”

He then rolled away in his wheelchair without further comment.

The opportunity to strike up an authentic conversation with Franco came some weeks later when Novelette took it upon herself to present Franco with a surprise Jamaican meal consisting of curry goat, rice, and peas with steamed vegetables. She topped it off with a bottle of D&G Kola Champagne soda.

“My, this is indeed a surprise,” said Franco charmingly. “You haven't forgotten your promise.”

Novelette was startled that he remembered her promise to buy him the meal.

As he unwrapped the plastic knife and fork from its container and rolled up his sleeves, he smacked his lips together.

“Enjoy!” Novelette told him.

It was then she spotted a tattoo of a naked woman with blue-black hair and erect nipples. She burst out laughing.

“That's a picture of my Bulgarian wife, Pavla Matov. We met in Angola in '78. The Russians hired her to teach the Angolans agronomy. She died of a heart attack in Madrid,” he said. “She gave me the best years of my fuckin' life!”

Novelette watched as Franco ravenously ate the long-awaited Jamaican curry goat meal with rice and peas. The hunger devoured him as he gulped down a huge chunk of goat meat with intense satisfaction. He began to become more sublime and fluid with his conversation.

“I was sent to Angola in '78 to assist with the war efforts before I escaped from Cuba on the Mariel Boatlift,” he told Novelette.

Oh, that blasted war in Angola, Novelette thought. It separated families and uprooted so many lives.

She remembered an incident in '75, during her teenage years living in Jamaica, involving Mr. Henry Kissinger, the former US Secretary of State, and Mr. Michael Manley, the then Prime Minister of her Caribbean nation. Kissinger had gone to the island to warn the Prime Minister that if he continued to support Castro's decision to send Cuban troops into Angola, the United States would not give him the financial support that he so desperately needed. The island leader refused Kissinger's request, supporting Cuba instead. This decision caused further tension between the island nation and the United States. But that was not all Novelette remembered. An influx of Cuban professionals, teachers, and doctors came to the island. They helped the Jamaicans build high schools and set up clinics in provincial areas. She remembered her parents wanting to escape from it all, fearing that the island would become a communist nation. Cuba was lending a helping hand to assist in causes of self-interest.

“In Angola, after working alongside the Cubans, the Russians, the East Germans, and the Bulgarians, I realized only Jonas Savimbi truly loved his nation and wanted to see it prosper, not the hard-headed Agostinho Neto. Los Cubanos had the same reasoning when we toppled the United States-backed Bautista government. We believed that a country should maneuver its own destiny,” added Franco.

Novelette recalled the phantomatic figure of the man called Jonas Savimbi. He moved through the Congolese forest like an apparition, alluding to death at every corner. She remembered when he took to the jungles with his bare-footed soldiers, comprising men and women, and traveled for months to reach his stronghold, Jamba headquarters, in the Cuando province, north of the Namibian border. He was an indecisive man forced to form alliances with South Africa and the United States— two nations whose ideals he despised. Franco Maya, like Jonas Savimbi, was a romantic, a mere pantomime entertaining the superstars in the circus.

Warring factions such as the People's Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA) and the National Union for the Total Liberation of Angola (UNITA) were backed by superpowers like America and Russia.

“Cuba, Angola, and South Africa were just tiny fish caught in a big net,” emphasized Franco.

Novelette was nonchalant about Franco Maya's political stance but maintained interest in the Angolan war.

“Anything involving South Africa is taboo for all Jamaicans!” insisted Novelette.

Growing up in Jamaica, under the leadership of Michael Manley, caused her to despise anything involving South Africa and its Apartheid system. She remembered viewing glimpses of African lives under Apartheid in books from her village's tiny library and wanting not ever to set foot in South Africa.

“After years spent in Angola, I realized that Africa could never unite with warring factions among themselves. I am a humanitarian, so I took a stance. I spied for Savimbi's UNITA,” said Franco brazenly.

Spying is an unthinkable act, thought Novelette. To betray one's country is unforgivable.

The war in Angola cost many lives and dragged on for almost three decades. It was the height of the Cold War, with two megalomaniac nations vying for dominance. Franco Maya did what he thought was right. He joined the political party he thought would win the war. A man's heart can seem treacherous when the world gazes upon his action, but his motivation for acting is valid only to him. Novelette had learned not to judge a man by his actions but by what motivated him to act.

Novelette wanted to know what was in Franco's heart when he spied for UNITA.

“But how did you help UNITA?” she inquired.

By then, Franco Maya had finished the curry goat meal and was about to gulp down the remainder of the Kola Champagne soda. Sorting refuge in the delight of a long-awaited meal gives one repentance from a troubled heart. His countenance changed as he puffed out his chest, took a deep breath, and exhaled hard from his lungs.

“Well,” Franco began to say while he picked a piece of meat lodged between his two front teeth, “after I met Pavla, who later became my wife, we realized how disillusioned we were with the MPLA. We allied with a local nurse named Matilde, a sympathizer for Savimbi's cause. Whenever the MPLA would plan an attack, Matilde would send words to Savimbi. No one suspected a thing.”

Novelette did not know what to believe, for Franco's story had traces of facts. Just from conversing with Franco, she knew that he had enormous knowledge of historical events. In fact, friends referred to him as “El Profesor” out of sheer respect for his sharp mind and plausible tales.

One of Franco's friends, who called himself 'Julius Caesar,' once mentioned to Novelette that he had worked as a practicing psychologist and obtained psychology degrees from La Universidad de la Habana. He said that Franco later got recruited by the Cuban version of the CIA, La Dirección de Inteligencia or 'G2' as a subversion specialist.

“He enjoyed his profession at first until he became a traitor against the Cuban cause in Angola,” Julius Caesar added.

Both men lived transient lifestyles and would meet at their favorite hang-out spot in upper Manhattan to joke around. Novelette never took them seriously, although she loved to listen to their stories. But this particular story gripped her because she identified with it the most. It brought back her adolescent memories of Jamaica when the island struggled during the Cold War.

Novelette couldn't forget Franco's story about his time spent in Angola. The experience he shared haunted her mind. It involved an ambush near the Andrada diamond mines in north-eastern Angola. His childhood friend from Oriente, Sylvestre Aguabella, leader of an assault patrol, was ambushed and shot to death by members of UNITA. The ambush was dexterously planned, and the MPLA assault patrol knew where the enemy soldiers would have taken guard. As the MPLA soldiers advanced in the Angolan jungle, wearing their camouflage attires, Sylvestre Aguabella and his men opened fire in an area out of the woods. Savimbi's soldiers were killed instantly, and Aguabella and two other soldiers retreated to a nearby rallying point to regroup as planned. When they arrived, they were ambushed unexpectedly and killed by members of UNITA. It was Franco Maya who had tipped off Savimbi's army.

“I have done many terrible things in my life,” Aguabella said before he died, as Franco heard from the grapevine. “I have killed many men, but I've not raped or killed a woman or a child.” He died instantly after purging his soul.

Did this actually happen, or is this Franco's way of letting go of some guilt?' she thought.

Novelette couldn't tell, but she realized that after dispelling the story, Franco's demeanor changed. He became more relaxed, releasing his arms to the sides of his body while allowing the empty plate to fall on the asphalt.

Franco Maya couldn't live with himself after he had caused his childhood friend's demise in the jungles of Africa. By then, he and his wife, Pavla Matov, were married in a shabby ceremony. They dreamed of escaping the doomed continent.

“In '87, many Cubans had deserted the army, and besides, the next Angolan president, Jose Eduardo dos Santos, was ruling the nation with an iron fist,” revealed Franco.

“But Franco, I thought you came to America during the Cuban Boatlift in 1980?”

Holding his head in shame after being caught in a lie, Franco laughed with delusion and continued to speak. The next chapter of his life consisted of bizarre occurrences in Madrid, Spain.

He used his charm on a powerful American oil executive, a “bisexual” chap named Nigel, who had a French connection. It was Nigel who set the course for his defection to France on a French oil ship. From France, he and Pavla headed to Spain a year later.

“Life in Madrid was tough at first,” stated Franco, “I couldn't find work, and neither could Pavla, so we slept in El Retiro Park and begged for a while. Then Pavla's kind nature and white skin led her to find employment in La Moraleja, a rich suburb in Madrid.”

With Pavla's employment, the couple later rented a studio apartment in a poor neighborhood in Lavapies.

“All sorts of people lived there. I called it the United Nations,” said Franco jokingly. “Later, when the Spanish couple who employed Pavla helped her obtain permanent residency, she opened up a sex toy shop, and I ran it for her. Life was good, and we were happy.”

It was in Madrid that Franco claimed to have started a series of intermittent love affairs with wealthy Spanish men who wooed him. They bestowed upon him the title “El Negro Exótico,” or The Exotic Black.

“It never bothered Pavla whether I was straight or gay,” revealed Franco. “We gave each other immense psychological comfort, and that was all that mattered to her.”

Franco Maya never entirely told the truth about how he got to America. Novelette surmised that his troubles with alcohol addiction caused him to retreat into states of delirium. He was a paraplegic who was down on his luck. With the intervention of the NYC Housing Authority, Franco received a studio apartment in the silken opulence of the Chelsea section of New York City. Still, his wry neighbors would ask him: “Are you a Negro?”

The residents in Chelsea knew how he got there and disapproved. Franco, too, didn't want to live amongst them. He preferred to live amongst the heavily Hispanic population in upper Manhattan. She also knew that Franco was in his mid-seventies and dreamed of returning to Spain despite his old age and poor health.

“If only I could die in the country of my choice, where I was happiest the most. I would be the luckiest man,” Franco told her.

Months later, he sat in his wheelchair wearing flannel pajamas, with a flask of expensive Irish whiskey in his hand. Helen, an elegant blonde who wore expensive jewelry, had brought it for him. It was her way of easing a tormented life.

Franco lived off the good nature of women-- not men. The women would bring him the necessary supplements to comfort him, while the men found him annoying. To them, Franco was just another transient like the others who were enslaved to alcohol and lunacy.

“Fuck 'em all,” Franco would say, sticking up his pointer finger at the men as they passed him by.

The men refused to acknowledge him. They refused to become entangled in Franco's compass of intrigue and self-importance given to him by the women who pampered and fussed over him.

Luz Candelaria, a silvery blue-haired, highly religious woman of Dominican descent, would wash his filthy clothes and buy him coffee. Novelette would often spot the two, Franco and Luz, engrossed in conversation. Luz would sit on the bench on Broadway, engrossed in the fervor of her religious duty. Franco, in his wheelchair, positioned himself next to her. He spoke to her about God.

“I am not religious,” he'd say, and “I am very happy to have been brought up in a communist country. I'm just an old Cuban who likes to tell stories.”

Luz would scold Franco about changing his direction in life and accepting God to get him out of his lugubrious state.

About a month after this interaction, there was no Franco Maya, as he abandoned his preferred hang-out spot in upper Manhattan. Novelette missed the excitement and the drama he brought to the neighborhood. One evening, while coming from the supermarket, Novelette ran into Luz, Franco's acquaintance. Luz told Novelette that Franco owed her twenty dollars for doing his laundry.

“Where is Franco,” inquired Novelette. “I haven't seen him in ages.”

“Didn't you know?” Luz told her. “Franco had a heart attack and is now recuperating. He'll be back soon.”

“It amazes me how a man like Franco could succumb to the ills of alcohol,” commented Novelette.

“That's Franco,” replied Luz nonchalantly.

“What I meant is that I'm amazed that a psychologist, a man who used to treat people's mental state, could find himself in that position,” emphasized Novelette.

“Are you talking about Franco?” asked Luz rather disconcertingly. “He told me that he was an abortionist!”

S. D. Brown is a postcolonial writer who was born in Kingston, Jamaica. She received a B.A in Liberal Arts from The New School for Social Research in New York City in 1990 and a M.S in Literacy from Adelphi University. Her short stories have appeared in Anthurium, Sargasso, Two Thirds North, The Journal of Postcolonial Writing, Adelaide Literary Magazine, issues 71, 81 and 83, The premier issue of The Lemonwood Quarterly and the 34th, 37th and 39th issues of The Caribbean Writer. She's the author of The Roar of the River: Slave Stories Inspired by Thomas Thistlewood Diaries, 1750-1786, published both in paperback and Kindle on Amazon. She is a member of The International Women’s Writing Guild.