Cuban Crime of Passion

[chanaud]

For Darrenfate!

Wild parrots of rainbow colors squawked loudly as they fluttered away and over Maria’s head. She frowned at the mere thought of an intrusion that might have caused it for she wasn’t in the mood for company today. She turned towards the direction of her humble home. Her thin sandals carried her swiftly and unerringly through the forest.

It was probably Father Carlos from town to check on her. He was expected since it’s been three full days. He dropped by often. Despite her constant reassurances, he still worried and has often voiced his concern for her living alone far up in the Escambay Mountains, miles away from civility. He understood her reasons. They agreed she must maintain her low profile. If her practice ever fell on the wrong hands, she would be killed. Tortured mercifully first then killed. Her grave would not bear a mark.

When the forest thinned, the view of her home grew larger. Her wide brown eyes scanned the wide vicinity. There wasn’t anyone there.

Strange… Something or someone must have caused the birds to flutter away so quickly. She held back hiding behind a banana tree, her pale green dress blended with the lush tropical greens. Something seemed out of place. Her nose crinkled as certain sourness filled her nostrils. Yes, something was definitely out of order.

Then her wise eyes saw him. A backpacker sitting on the ground, his back against a sago palm tree. She crept closer. His head was leaning back resting against the trunk. His eyes were closed. When Maria took a step closer, his deep voice called out.

“Please, don’t shoot.”

Only then his eyes opened wide. Maria gasped.

 

[darrenfate]

Enrique

Enrique's grand adventure had gone terribly, terribly wrong. It had started innocently enough for the 35 year old Floridian. As he laid his father Jorje to rest Enrique had been struck by sudden inspiration. Visit his father's birthplace. Jorje had been born in Cuba and worked his way out of the sugar cane fields and into Havana as a musician. It had been a long road from Tin Pan Alley -Havana's shabbiest cabarets and voodoo lodges - to Chicago's jazz scene with his young bride.

Enrique remembered with fondness his father's stories of his youth and now wished to trace his steps. He flew up to Toronto - Canada has no embargo with Castro - then onto Cuba. He had slipped away from Havana against the rules of his visa. From there things went from bad to worse.

Enrique stuck out like a sore thumb.

His spanish while passable was decidedly not native. On the second day out he had been mugged his passport and wallet stolen. Only the fact that he had been wearing his backpack saved that as they grabbed the wallet and ran.

Oh and then there were the banditos. At least that's what Enrique had called them. Roving the countryside in packs hasselling everyone in sight. With no money Enrique was forced to camp in the rugged terrain. Late that same night Enrique stumbled onto their camp. They started shooting. He barely escaped with his life and he hid in a tall tree until dawn.

Now he came down and began walking. Several hours later saw the house. Then he saw the lithe lime green clad goddess with those big impossibly brown eyes. He went to stand then and tried to speak. Instead Enrique pitched forward face first unconscious.

You see, he had been shot.

 

[chanaud]

The stranger fell face forward at her feet making Maria jump back a step. Frightened, she squatted down before him and placed her hand on the back of his neck and found it to be cold and damp. Something was wrong. She turned him over on his back and for the second time today, gasped. Blood was everywhere. Old blood. She recognized it without even experiencing it before. Her hand lifted his wrist and searched desperately for a pulse. After tapping his wrist a few times, she felt a beat, a faint one; it was enough to keep him alive.

Maria keen eyes surveyed the built of the man. Though he was lean, she knew his weightless body was impossibility to carry into the house without causing further damage. She did what seemed like the only option, she dragged him across a thicket of trees and across a narrow dirt road and into the house. It took a good hour or so. The task took all of her strength; she was barely able to dump him carelessly onto her bed.

The stain on his shirt was increasing rapidly. Maria ripped his shirt open and followed the darkness of the blood to his right shoulder blade. There it was, an opening the size of a quarter. The end cap of a silver bullet was barely visible in his blade. Maria fingered it lightly and was rewarded a moan.

”Hang on, mister. Hang on and you’ll be fine. I’m going to take good care of you. I promise you won’t die.”

His hand reached out weakly and fisted the front of her dress. He pulled her down with surprising strength. His lips moved to say something. All he could do was gasp while he choked on his blood.

Please don’t. You need your strength.

She smoothed down the front of his hair and stoked it gently. Her voice was the sound of an angel, soft and melodic while her insides were pleading desperately for help.

Don’t worry. You will be fine. I will take good care of you.

When his breathing slowed, she tiptoed backwards while one eye remained on the still figure. What am I going to do? Maria muttered under her breath. She knew what she had to do. Her long leans limbs carried her gracefully to the kitchen and to a drawer where she pulled out a silver knife. She held it up; the sun streaming in from the painted window sparkled against the sharp point. Still there was hesitation in her eyes. Only when Maria ran a finger against the sharp edge and crimson liquid emerged in a perfectly straight line did she nod. It wasn’t a surgical knife; it was the next best thing.

Now she needed sterilization. What can she use? She flew to all corners of the kitchen opening drawers and even the refrigerator looking for something that can be used as sterilization. Then she remembered. Perched high up in the cupboards, was a lone bottle.
It was a gift from her father, which was given to him as payment. At that time, she wondered why for he knew she didn’t drink. She tried to return it but he insisted on being faithful to his sweet rum. Keep it; you might need it one day, he insisted. She would never have thought he was right when she stored it high up in her cupboards and out of sight.

With her new inventory in hand, she padded swiftly to the linen closet and pulled out mounds of sheets and towels. Arms full, she carried it all to the bedroom.

Maria drew her breath in. The scent of his pain was getting worse. She was losing him slowly. She didn’t have much time, she must move quickly. Even though she hadn’t practiced her religion since a young child, she found comfort in making the sign of the cross. Again, she spoke with the same tone she used earlier.

This will hurt a little. Nooo… I’m lying. This will hurt a lot. However much it hurts, try not to move. It will just make things more difficult. If you must, squeeze this.

She grabbed the only thing that came to sight and pushed it in his hands. It was a soft square pillow made for a child’s head covered with antique eyelet with the name Maria stitched across it.

 

[darrenfate]

Enrique

In a haze he looked up at his nurse his own personal Florence Nightengale. The borders between reality and fantasy were blurred. She was surrounded by a halo of white a sheen that moved as she walked. Maybe she was an angel.

The pain overwhelmed him.

When Enrique floated back into consciousness he was clutching a pillow with Maria embroidered into it.

Maria! Maria! Ave Maria! SAVE ME ... Save Me .... save me ...

His voice trailed off. The blood flowed. He weakened.

The angel Maria leaned forward to comfort him. Her breasts fell heavily on his chest.

An angel with full breasts. Desireable breasts. Unholy thoughts! Unholy thoughts!

Enrique passed out, his fevered mind unable to reconcile the woman/angel before him ...