“Sabina wants to stay in a hotel, Mama. That’s what this is about.”

“You’re the liar! When my friend Marion hears I have run away to live with nuns who beat me, he’ll come. He’ll buy me something . . . something nice—and drown that ugly bastard.”

Mother of God, now the little mocosa was crying.

“Make sure the doors are locked, Maribel. Where is the machete? And the axe . . . Oh my god, the axe is outside. Sabina, are you sure the Americano said he would come this afternoon?”

“What does it matter what I say? You won’t believe me.”

“Darling, calm yourself. Check all the windows. I’ll be right back.”

Vernum stiffened for a moment, then peeked around the tree into the kitchen.

Shit. Staring back at him was that vicious little wasp of a girl. He ducked, then sprinted for cover, expecting to hear a scream, but the girl didn’t scream.

Why not? She had seen him. He was certain.

Possessed by demons, the older girl had claimed. Perhaps it was true.

From the bushes, Vernum watched Marta cross the yard to the woodpile, her eyes darting this way and that, until she had the axe in her hand. Still nervous, she took a last look from the porch and closed the door.

Marion. Earlier, the brat had used that name as a threat. But it was a name for women, not men. Was the girl possessed or just crazy?

Either way, Vernum felt his confidence draining. He pictured himself inside the house, facing Marta, who was holding an axe—worse, that devil brat with a machete in her hand. Another scenario: a gringo with a woman’s name—a CIA agent, according to old Oleg, the war hero—who might attack him from behind.

Better to wait here until dark, Vernum decided. Do it right, enjoy myself.

Stay positive. That was important in Santería. As everyone knew, the gods were fickle. They were prone to heap misery on the miserable more quickly than shower the confident with good fortune. He tried to make himself comfortable while mosquitoes whined and his mind wandered.

The devil brat. Why didn’t she call for help, or scream, or do . . . something?

That bothered him. It was spooky. He had confronted girls who were older—a dozen, perhaps—and they had all surrendered, some in tears, most frozen by fear, but not one had fought back, let alone chased him to ground.

She’s crazy. More likely, she didn’t see me from the window.

Vernum couldn’t let it go. Demons existed; they roamed the island in search of humans to inhabit. That was also part of Santería teachings. He himself had performed several exorcisms. Usually on hysterical women and men who had boiled their brains with cheap aguardiente. Only one, however, for a girl, but her madness was caused by her first menstruation. The devil child was no more than eleven.

Fool—she is four feet tall and, at most, weighs fifty pounds. You’re afraid of a tiny girl?

No, Vernum feared the demon inside the child, until he remembered The demon in me will eat her alive.

•   •   •

DARKNESS DRIFTED UP from the river before the sun was gone. Soon, frogs, screaming insects, overwhelmed the sky’s last light and coaxed a slow assemblage of stars—bedtime in the countryside of western Cuba.

Inside the house, Marta appeared at her bedroom window, lit a kerosene lamp, pulled the curtains, and began to undress. The ripeness of her body cast a nippled silhouette. Two windows away, a candle floated, carried by a girl in a thin gown.

Vernum wet his lips.

He heard the devil brat’s shrill voice: “Where’s the water bucket? How am I supposed to flush if there is no water bucket?”

Marta untied her hair and fanned it over her shoulders. “Maribel? Did you hear your sister?”

“Mama, she used it last.”

“I did not!”

“You did. You were too busy making up stories and left it outside.”

Marta’s hands moved to her face. “Don’t leave this house. Sabina . . . Don’t you dare leave this house. Do you hear me?”

“But what about—”

“You can flush in the morning. It’s not important. In fact, I want you girls to sleep with me tonight. Sabina . . . have you gone deaf?”

“All right! But don’t blame me if we all die in our sleep and strangers come and see we don’t bother to flush.”

A smile tightened the stitches in Vernum’s lips, a joyous pain. He had gone to his car and returned wearing a dark shirt and carrying a coil of wire, tape, matches, and a knife. He opened the knife now.

“Mama, she’s trying to scare me.”

“Talk louder. The zombie’s probably outside right now, listening.”

“Mama!”

“Come to bed, Maribel. Sabina? Sabina. You, too.”

“I’m not finished yet! I needed the water bucket for when I am done, but I’m not done. And what if the gringo arrives and sees no lights? That’s very rude.”

“Five minutes, young lady. Do you hear?”

More bickering. Marta extended her arms toward the ceiling, a baggy gown cascaded down to veil her body, emphasizing the slope of her breasts, the angle of her chin.

Sometimes—not often—Vernum preferred women to girls.

•   •   •

SABINA KNEW her mother’s weaknesses and strengths. Books were a weakness. A request to read by candlelight was seldom denied.

“As long as you sit in the chair outside my door—and just a chapter. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And no more sad poetry. It gives you dreams.”

“Promise, Mother. I’ll choose a book with pictures. Is that okay?”

Pictures—hah! Sabina hated idiotic children’s stories. Instead, she sat in the hall near a window with a book of poems by Dulce María Borrero. It was a thin volume beyond her understanding, or so a teacher had warned. Being told she could not do something only guaranteed Sabina would do it anyway, and she had fallen in love with Señorita Borrero’s melancholy verse, although it was true she didn’t always understand. The poems were short, though, seldom more than three lines, but it was a photo of the writer, who had brooding, dark eyes, that spoke to the girl. Those eyes told of pain and loss and injustices suffered by all Cuban woman before Fidel—and after.

In the gardens of silence, sister,

I will plant roses of harmony

And fertilize them with my cold sorrow

Those words thumped at Sabina’s chest like hammers.

My cold sorrow . . .

She knew exactly how Señorita Borrero had felt. Same with poems about an unfaithful husband, which is why Sabina had vowed never to marry, and about celibacy and death, and one about the Cuban flag, which ended “Our parents are stained.”

Try living with my mother, Sabina thought. Yours, at least, didn’t put you on a raft to Gringolandia. My next visit to Havana, I will put flowers on your grave in my favorite cemetery and we will weep together. And if the fascist gringo didn’t lie to me, perhaps stay in a nice hotel with a swimming pool.

She turned a page, aware that Maribel had been partly right about selfish motives. Sabina liked Havana, but truly loved Colon Cemetery, which was a few kilometers west of the grand baseball stadium. Acres of ornate mausoleums, a forest of marble with statues so lovely it pained her heart to leave. She had seen The Wizard of Oz, but the majesty of the Emerald City did not compare to the mystery and magic of Cuba’s greatest cemetery. Of course she wanted to go—especially if the trip was paid for by a wealthy gringo. When would such an opportunity ever come again?

In a woman’s life

All is fragile, all is brief

As the moon’s reflection

That was never truer than today.

Señorita Borrero, I want to be buried next to you. When my mother and cowardly sister visit us with flowers, perhaps then they’ll understand the pain of being ignored.