Read Online Havana Noir by Achy Obejas - Free Book Online
Authors: Achy Obejas
Tags: Fiction, General, Noir fiction, Mystery & Detective, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Short Stories, American Fiction, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), 21st Century, Cuban fiction - 21st century, Short stories; Cuban, Havana (Cuba) - In literature, Havana (Cuba), Cuban fiction, Cuban American authors, American fiction - Cuban American authors
Ads: Link
Everybody knows now: a light-skinned mulatto, with very light naps, a flat nose, and very big round eyes, like a frog’s, and a total thug look. He appeared to be in his fifties, although he was probably younger and life had just treated him badly. It was easy to see he was a lowlife from a million miles away. He looked less like a laborer than an outcast, a ratty vagabond or beggar, maybe an alcoholic or pot smoker, hungry, brutish, a dumpster diver, totally awkward in a suit…And then…his name! That was the worst of all, at least for me. They referred to him as citizen Policarpo Meneses Landaeta, alias “The Beast from Macagua 8.” Oh! I don’t know what hurt more, Policarpo or the Beast! Of course, on this island we can’t hope that a rapist will be called Peter Kürten, alias “The Düsseldorf Vampire.” You can’t ask for pears from an elm tree. Which is not to say that Policarpo, topped off with the Beast (not to mention that Macagua thing, whatever that was, followed by its enigmatic little number), wasn’t taking things just a bit too far.
No one else in that courtroom seemed the least bit perplexed. All around me, people were making faces: of disgust, of anger, of fear, of satisfaction, of justice served and morbid curiosity. But none of surprise. I suppose that for most Cubans, it must be a relief that a murderer should reflect back what they think a killer should look like. That is, that he should be black, ugly, on the older side, badly dressed, and look like a dork. And the fierce Beast of Macagua 8 certainly fit the bill. He was practically typecast! Only I couldn’t imagine him saying that he loooooved anything; or that the night before he’d had a stupendous Cabernet Sauvignon from a particularly good year; or that, now that psychoanalysis was no longer in vogue, men could fall in love with their mothers again without fear of being called fags; or that he was basically green, with antennae and all the rest; or that he was a much better poet than Jim Morrison, that blockhead; or that this or that film by Pasolini struck him as too eschatological—that it was impossible to get to the good part, the part with the torture, without your stomach turning and a strong desire to slap the director and run him over—ha! ha!—with a flaming Ferrari Testarossa…among other things. Truth be told, I simply couldn’t connect these and other comments he’d made in the dead of night with the mute ghost in front of me now. In the end, I told myself, though I pride myself on knowing human nature, that I’m just another superficial person, filled with prejudices, and very depressed. I looked disapprovingly on the malevolent Policarpo, sighed, and went out to smoke a cigarette. But I didn’t stay out of the courtroom long, and I was right to come back, I believe, because that trial held many other surprises for me.
Of all the witnesses, the one who made the greatest impact was, without a doubt, the victim who had gotten away from the guy near the Prince’s Castle. Right now, I can’t remember her name, only her story, which stunned me. She was a Chinese mulatta, more or less my age, with straight hair and light eyes, pretty actually, but who could never pass for white, not here or in Hong Kong. And that in itself struck me as odd, because he’d often bragged that he’d never “burned oil” in his whole life. In other words, he didn’t like black women or mulattas, nothing at all coming from Africa. He was no jackoff perverted peasant, he said, to have to go fuck animals. Certainly that was somewhat offensive or, as they say now, “politically incorrect,” but it was also good news for so many young Cuban women. I can’t say what other women might think, but as far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t be in the least bit insulted if a killer didn’t find me attractive enough to be his victim. And I’m absolutely sure the guy wasn’t kidding about this. The revulsion that laced his voice every time we
No one else in that courtroom seemed the least bit perplexed. All around me, people were making faces: of disgust, of anger, of fear, of satisfaction, of justice served and morbid curiosity. But none of surprise. I suppose that for most Cubans, it must be a relief that a murderer should reflect back what they think a killer should look like. That is, that he should be black, ugly, on the older side, badly dressed, and look like a dork. And the fierce Beast of Macagua 8 certainly fit the bill. He was practically typecast! Only I couldn’t imagine him saying that he loooooved anything; or that the night before he’d had a stupendous Cabernet Sauvignon from a particularly good year; or that, now that psychoanalysis was no longer in vogue, men could fall in love with their mothers again without fear of being called fags; or that he was basically green, with antennae and all the rest; or that he was a much better poet than Jim Morrison, that blockhead; or that this or that film by Pasolini struck him as too eschatological—that it was impossible to get to the good part, the part with the torture, without your stomach turning and a strong desire to slap the director and run him over—ha! ha!—with a flaming Ferrari Testarossa…among other things. Truth be told, I simply couldn’t connect these and other comments he’d made in the dead of night with the mute ghost in front of me now. In the end, I told myself, though I pride myself on knowing human nature, that I’m just another superficial person, filled with prejudices, and very depressed. I looked disapprovingly on the malevolent Policarpo, sighed, and went out to smoke a cigarette. But I didn’t stay out of the courtroom long, and I was right to come back, I believe, because that trial held many other surprises for me.
Of all the witnesses, the one who made the greatest impact was, without a doubt, the victim who had gotten away from the guy near the Prince’s Castle. Right now, I can’t remember her name, only her story, which stunned me. She was a Chinese mulatta, more or less my age, with straight hair and light eyes, pretty actually, but who could never pass for white, not here or in Hong Kong. And that in itself struck me as odd, because he’d often bragged that he’d never “burned oil” in his whole life. In other words, he didn’t like black women or mulattas, nothing at all coming from Africa. He was no jackoff perverted peasant, he said, to have to go fuck animals. Certainly that was somewhat offensive or, as they say now, “politically incorrect,” but it was also good news for so many young Cuban women. I can’t say what other women might think, but as far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t be in the least bit insulted if a killer didn’t find me attractive enough to be his victim. And I’m absolutely sure the guy wasn’t kidding about this. The revulsion that laced his voice every time we
Similar Books
