Chicken Soup

Dionysis Maravegias 3900 words 2530 46 str Astoria, NY 11103 718-2040397 [email protected]

CHICKEN SOUP By Dionysis Maravegias

A ship was waiting for them out in the sea. A boat, that belonged to a foreigner, would take them from the

malecόn to the ship.

There would be about twenty of them.

They would flee Cuba to go to America.

Start a new life

there, find freedom, buy new cars, be in nice, modern apartments and tall buildings, have dollars in their pockets.

Twenty of them- twenty rats, or twenty

daredevils, depending on how one chooses to look at them. She would be among them.

And not because she felt the

absence of freedom in her life, or the need for

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possessions, that the others “over there” had.

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No, her

plight was different. It was because of Orlando, Orlando the handsome, Orlando, the love of her life, who was already there.

He had escaped Cuba a few months ago,

leaving her desolate, heart broken, desperate.

She

wouldn’t think it as a few months, the objectivity of time was totally lost to her, because she knew that she’s walking among ruins since then, ruined among ruins, and she had no mind for anything else. She had promised Orlando not to cry, not to be sad. In less than twenty four hours she broke the promise. couldn’t help it.

She

The first few hours, while the last long

kiss was still lingering about her lips, she wouldn’t face it.

She pretended somehow to think that everything

happened in a movie, that it was a play acting, where the separation was unreal, she was even a bit excited about Orlando’s adventure. she felt lonely.

Then, gradually, reality set in and

She thought about herself being in

Havana, her family away in the outskirts of Santiago, her Orlando in America.

She tried to laugh it out.

Then, she

realized she felt happy and lucky, because she had met Orlando, whom she could not see any time soon. twitching,

Her face

she saw the ruins, she knew she had to walk

them and she cried.

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She was in her seventh month of suffering, when Pamelo appeared. cone.

In a street fair he bought her an ice cream

She took it, because she saw a happy, unassuming,

face, offering it.

They walked and talked for a while; he

was a medium sized chubby fellow, resembling her Orlando in nothing.

She mulled over it and she walked away rather

abruptly. But they met again, by chance, in the old cathedral square.

He was good company after all. A

generous and caring fellow, who seemed to

like her a lot.

So, she gave in and agreed to see him again; and again. The ruins were still there for her to walk through (and she often had to brush aside some returning thoughts of comparison), but Pamelo was an undeniable sort of consolation.

He was a mechanic, she would visit him in the

shop he worked.

She had plenty of time for it, as she

herself was working only part time in a factory.

He would

give her money and presents, she would cook for him and stay over to his room, which was much larger than hers, once or twice a week.

Overall she felt a little better

now, but she couldn’t, as much as she tried, accept Pamelo wholeheartedly as her man.

When they made love, to conceal

her indifference, she fled to faking pleasure. One day Pamelo, after dinner, mentioned a friend of his, who was

planning to get away to America.

And she,

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her heart quickened, said with an uncontrollable tremor in her

voice, “ Pamelo, mi corazόn,

let’s go there too! ”

Pamelo rubbed his nose, then combed his thinning hair with his fingers. America was always appealing to him, no doubt, but the prospect of planning an escape had never crossed his mind. Suddenly, prompted by the excitement in his girl’s voice, America became even more appealing. “ I am very lucky,” he thought, “I’ll be in America and I’ll be there with her.” A fantasy world that awaited him formed the background of his mind; hers, of course, was formed by the vague, but powerful, hope of a reunion with Orlando. They decided to go.

Pamelo raised the necessary sum

of money for the conveyance and they started to prepare. They had two weeks time and Pamelo made a three day goodbye visit to his family, which lived far from Havana.

He got

the blessing of his father and the kisses of his mother, who urged him to make millions in America and never forget them. In his return, elated by the encouragement of his family, he was heedless to his woman’s dampened enthusiasm. She wasn’t consciously reconsidering, she was rather pursued by a latent feeling of uncertainty.

She managed to

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restrain it, though, by often visualizing a passionate embrace with Orlando, as soon as she’d set foot on American ground. On the appointed date, they were among the first to arrive at the little port by the malecόn and got boat of

“freedom.”

into the

It wasn’t a bad day, the ocean was

relatively calm, but the clouds kept filling up the sky hiding the sun; a tropical heavy rain was brewing. There was a problem.

Pamelo had a bad stomachache.

It started as a discomfort the previous evening, it went on through the night and it worsened that morning.

She

discussed it with a trio of future refugees; a woman said, “he needs chicken soup,” a man repeated it and Pamelo, lying down in a corner, reiterated, “chicken soup!”

He

remembered his mother, who was also considering chicken soup a potent remedy. But there was no chicken soup in the boat. them had any.

None of

The girl had prepared two huge roast pork

sandwiches and a big bowl of black beans and rice, which she was carrying in her bag, but chicken soup… where was it

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to be found? She quickly made up her mind. “I’ll go and get some.” Pamelo did not say a word, he just shook his head, the woman encouraged her to do so her way out of the boat. shouted behind her,

and she, decisively, made

A man, who helped her jump,

“hurry up! You have to be back in less

than an hour.” And gone she was, practically running.

She hesitated

for a moment about the direction, when her eyes caught a young man opening up the gates of a food stand.

She went

up to him, solo fried chicken and soft drinks he had, but, he gave a clue, “I know they cook in these houses, people have told me.”

He pointed with his right hand to a

direction not far away. “In that neighborhood.” Nothing too specific, but good enough for someone who was seeking something with

zeal. “Chicken soup for Pamelo,

my God, for sick Pamelo and I have to get it fast.” She went around houses and checked them by smelling. A couple of them were cooking food, alright… but it smelled as if they had just started cooking.

It was still 10

o’clock in the morning, soups are not usually ready by this time.

But, even if

selling it?

the soup were ready, which house was

She didn’t like the idea of knocking randomly

at doors, some might take her for a beggar, some people

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might take offence, it wasn’t every house in Havana a secret restaurant. She waited for a passerby, who, predictably, was slow to appear. asked.

She finally spotted one, ran up to him and

He didn’t know.

She decided to walk up some stairs

that lied in front of her and knock at the door.

It took a

long while for a plump middle aged woman to show at the door.

“Chicken soup? In this neighborhood? I believe they

mean a house further down, end of this road in a brown building.

I hear people go and eat there.

Go see, they

probably have chicken soup.” Conscious of time ticking against her, she ran to the end of the road and located the brown building.

She paused

for breath and then pushed the entrance open and knocked at the first apartment door she encountered. showed up.

His eyes playful, his breath stinking heavily

of alcohol. her body.

A man’s face

“Hola bonita!”

He ran his gaze up and down

“What damn chicken soup, come on in baby, I’ll

give you a shot of whisky americano.”

He tried to grab

her wrist, she moved it away and stepped back. another, sober, face, showed up by the door

Then,

and said,

“second floor, second floor.” Up in the second floor she had to make a decision which second was her second door -to her right, or to her

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She was standing in the middle of a circular hallway

with doors on each side, no numbers on them.

She finally

chose the second door to her right, because the right hand is the right hand, and she knocked at the door.

Even if

she made a mistake, she thought, it’s no big deal. But she’d made no mistake, because as soon as the door half opened, an unmistakable smell of cooking hit her nostrils. of

She was silently greeted by the inquiring look

a white faced woman with very black hair.

A sudden

feeling of certainty, that that was the place, made her squeeze her way in through the half open door, without actually being invited. Once inside, she declared to the woman, in a rapid speech, the purpose of irruption.

her near

The woman, half hanging from the still open

door, was looking at her silently. Then, a shriek voice was heard from the inner depths of the apartment.

“Chicken

soup? Claro! Ludmila, close the door!” She was struck by the tone and color of that voice and momentarily she remained motionless.

She objected,

instinctively, to get close to the source of that voice. But Pamelo was waiting and time was running out.

And

Ludmila, the woman named as such, had already closed the door and stood behind her.

She turned the head to see her:

except the sharp contrast of colors between face and hair

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(which, after all, it might have been dyed), she appeared a very neighborly woman.

Her eyes were reassuring and her

fingers, touching her lightly in the back, were urging her to walk ahead through a small narrow corridor, that led inside the apartment. The kitchen was very large. She saw steaming pots on the stove, a big table and numerous loaded shelves on the wall. Nobody was there, where did that voice come from? There was a room across, its entrance covered by a black curtain, maybe from there, she thought.

It didn’t matter.

All she wanted was some chicken soup; get it and leave immediately. She turned to Ludmila, “please, give me the chicken soup, I am in a terrible hurry, I have cash, I’ll pay you, no problem.”

Ludmila shook her head.

“We are

leaving Havana, my husband is sick, I have to get back to him soon.” Ludmila didn’t move nor said a word. mute, or both?

Was she deaf or

Then the curtain, from that other room was

drawn and a loud, sarcastic, laughter sounded. the girl turned to look.

Alarmed,

old woman in a wheelchair.

She saw in the half darkness an An apparition- like figure, who

had obviously drawn the curtain with the help of a cane, which she was now resting

in a corner.

She was wearing a

bare dressing gown of a now-yellowish color,

decorated

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A string of hair was

sticking out down to the nose and the rest bun, held by a prominent lizard pin.

was put into a

Lots of wrinkles all

over, but, in sum, the bony pale face was not altogether disagreeable. A row of candles that was burning beneath various statuettes of santos in the background of the room, on top of a piece of furniture, rendered

spooky

the

surroundings. She pushed her wheelchair a bit and spoke low toned. “So, you are leaving Havana, beautiful? Maybe Cuba, too?” A slight wave of nausea stirred the girl’s stomach. She did not want to confront that annoying, interrogative invalid, she wished to leave at once. I am not leaving Cuba. Just Havana.”

But, she said, “no, She coughed and

looked away, “ bruja,” she thought, “a bruja!” The bruja chuckled and moved sideways; the wheelchair creaked. “Why does your man need chicken soup early in the morning?” “It’s not early in the morning and he has an upset stomach.” “An upset stomach? So, he is leaving Cuba, verdad?” She was surprised by this unexpected reasoning, but

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irritated too by the obstinate prying. She had to protest. “No, no, not Cuba!” The old woman gave out a short laugh, showing some remarkably healthy front teeth. “Don’t you worry. the chicken soup.”

It doesn’t matter.

I’ll give you

She rose a finger and said

meaningfully, “Ludmila!”

And she, obediently, moved to the

pots on the stove. “Gracias.” “Sure, but not before you give me your hand.” “My hand, why?” The bruja had already extended a hand to her. She understood. “I don’t want to have my fortune read.” “Peace and hope be with you, hija. Give me your hand, only the good things I’ll tell you.” She sought a way out, but simultaneously, the corner of her eye caught Ludmila pouring the soup. take courage and give in.

That made her

No, she positively did not want

to mess around with fortune telling this early in the morning and especially that morning.

What a request!

What

did it matter to the old woman her destiny, the reading of her palm, why did she want to know?

She found this

interest ominous, but, at the same time, she deemed the

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whole thing to be an ordeal she had to go through in order to get the soup.

It seemed that chicken soup wasn’t an

easy thing to lay her hands on.

She looked away as she

offered her hand. A chilling sensation shot through her at the contact with the hand of the old woman.

Was it because of the

different body temperatures, the old hand was kinda cold, or, because of the scratchy long feel, that the woman was giving her up to her arm? And why was she doing that?

The whole experience in

that house was getting peculiarly unpleasant.

She jerked

by reflex her hand, but the other party had a strong grip and actually pulled it forward in a manner that made her lose her balance and she had to rearrange her footing and get closer to and face the wheelchair. “Just give me the chicken soup and let me go, please,” she said in a low, unconvincing voice. chuckled again; didn’t she chuckle?

The old woman

But then she sought

the girl’s eyes and she pronounced solemnly: “You will not ask more that I can give you and you will be content with your fate.” She raised the left hand and made the sign of the cross in the air.

Then, she turned the girl’s palm and

plunged her gaze in it.

She was murmuring unintelligible

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words for a while and the young woman saw a wrinkled bent neck and gray hair unsuccessfully, or rather, indifferently, colored some time ago.

The lizard pin that

impaled that hair caught her eyes, but she didn’t like it, because it seemed to her to be there out of caprice and superstition.

So, she raised the eyes and avoided to focus

on anything. And then came the verdict: “You are all about men.

Nothing about yourself… The

man you chase after and the man you are with.” She wished she hadn’t heard that. Because it hit her in the right place

and filled her with anxiety.

She was

surprised someone could see something like that written on her palm, but being an avoided truth these words struck her as delivered from her guts.

In a wave of defensive rage,

though, she felt a hate for that “bruja” welling up in her. She had certainly no right to question her life, no, who is she, to make her feel, (what, what,) ehm… miserable. “ What truths can she tell me, she is a bruja, an invalid, who takes pleasure in annoying people, what truths, I am a heartbroken woman, I am not a bad person, I am hurt.” The urge to leave became uncontrollable, but to leave now it would be an admission that she was exposed to an unbearable truth.

She did not want to give that much of a

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satisfaction to this appalling, devilish creature; she’ll feel victorious over her and proud of the impact of her wondrous readings.

She chose, as a result,

to pretend she

was not paying attention to her sayings or that her sayings were of no importance anyway.

No reaction is a good

reaction particularly when curiosity is involved and an unacknowledged expectation to hear more. She turned her gaze upon the dancing flames of the candles with a forced abandon.

She would wait for the

natural termination of this ritual, provided that it won’t last long. There was silence on the part of the fortune reader, who was still studying lines, valleys and peaks, the whole rich geography of the human palm.

The young

woman tightened her lips and kept looking at the candles and the objects of santeria and wondered if the bruja could decipher

something more.

In the mixture of hope and fear,

now prevalent in her, she expected a strong follow up. Suddenly, however, she realized that the locale of the candles and the santos, where her eyes were casually focusing, had a life of its own.

That sparkled in her a

inescapable curiosity, which gradually escalated into a full distress.

Something was moving among the statuettes

and it wasn’t the shadows of the weak flames as she first thought: something now hiding, now showing, something

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hideous twirling around the bodies of the santos.

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She jerked her hand free from the woman’s grasp, swayed for a step or two to the side and in a split second she ran to the door.

She was frantic now, she wouldn’t

stay a minute more in that dreadful apartment.

She tried

the door, but failed to open it and kept turning the handle up and down. The old woman behind her cried, “Ludmila, the soup, give her the soup,” and Ludmila, soup in hand, rushed to the door.

She unlocked it and, as the young woman was

scrabbling madly to exit it, Ludmila kept pressing the plastic container of the soup to her ribs.

She had to take

it. #

Out in the street she calmed down. The stressful excitement and the panic were steadily dissipating.

The

fresh air that carried drops of water, forerunner of the soon coming rain, helped her.

She perceived everything

that went on in that house as a nightmare dissolved by the daylight.

She didn’t ruminate it, deep down she found her

reaction to the weirdo a bit exaggerated, so she looked ahead and wanted to get to the boat fast, the boat of hope, the boat of escape.

Why did she have to leave the boat

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Why did she have to trouble herself, seeking out a

chicken soup? who?

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Pamelo wouldn’t die without it.

Pamelo…

A wave of guilt hit her at the thought of Pamelo.

She felt responsible that Pamelo had pains in his stomach, that Pamelo was waiting in a boat to flee to America.

She

felt herself guilty of crime being with him, while her heart belonged to Orlando.

She felt it a big sin to entrap

Pamelo in her foolhardy plan to leave Cuba and go and chase Orlando in America…

She saw ruins all around her again…

She realized that this time and at this point in time she had to do something about it.

Shit!

Should she go to

the boat and drag Pamelo out and tell him everything, the truth and then, let him decide for himself, if he’d still wanted to go along?

That’s probably the right thing to do.

Or, maybe, she should silently stick to her plan, changing only a small big detail, that of her reunion with Orlando, change the plan all in and by herself, be faithful to Pamelo, uproot from her heart and mind everything about Orlando.

Would she wish to do precisely that?

She felt dizzy.

She was hesitant, ambivalent, torn by

indecision and conflict.

Full of an escalating anguish,

she dared look at her watch; officially her time was up; she had to run now. But, instead, she walked even slower. They would wait for her, anyway, wouldn’t they?

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Then the strong tropical rain burst from the sky.

Her

thought of getting shelter somewhere was outweighed by a complete inner indifference. in her ears.

The bruja’s words resounded

“ You are all about men. Nothing about

yourself! ” She was getting soaked. and all. But it didn’t matter.

Hair and clothes and shoes Could it be that the

troublesome words of the old woman were right and acted upon her as a wake up call? The image of

the old woman was not so appalling to

her now, but still she did not want to absolutely reconcile herself with her.

She did not want to admit she was taught

a lesson, or anything of the sort, even though she recalled her mother’s (and other people’s) sayings, that truth is tough, that nobody accepts the truth about oneself, etc. She realized she was still holding the container with the soup.

She looked at it.

Through the transparent plastic

she could see thick chunks of chicken and vegetables.

A

thought flickered that there may be a lizard in there too and she screamed and threw the soup away.

She stretched

her arms to the rain, stopped walking and screamed again. And afterward, she kind of laughed.

A sensation of

freedom sprang up from inside her. She didn’t do anything bad to Pamelo, because he could still leave the boat and

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return to his life… would he still want to go to America, if she doesn’t show up in the boat? him make it.

He has a choice, let

And Orlando, what about Orlando, it was he,

who left her, so he doesn’t deserve her, no matter if she still loved him.

“I must leave him, as he left me.”

It felt like something imprisoned or lost made its way back to her, that something finally had fallen into place and her vision became clearer; now the old woman’s reproach did not resound threateningly in the ears, it was thought out, …nothing about yourself.

Why, she

looked around her, she saw no ruins any more.

She had

the vague feeling that the ruins were behind her, or ahead, at the malecόn, at the boat, at where America lies. She changed direction, walking now, soaked to the bone, empty handed and calmer, to the inner Havana.

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