The Foreign Service Journal, December 2007

water level in the lake dropped, the shadowy outlines of the tombs could be seen in the murky deep. Few fished the cemetery. Fear and superstition kept them away, which was fine with me. I enjoyed the solitude. Later, when the sun sat fat and heavy on top of the lake, we drifted into the sheltered bays and lingered in the shad- ows of the tall mountains. I paused, put my fishing rod down and took in the spectacular view around me. It was a view that I had captured countless times on my little pocket camera and now had etched in my memory. The mountains, part of the Escambray range in southern Cuba, jutted up from the water, sometimes in gentle slopes but more often in steep inclines. They were lush and draped with a verdant tropical tangle. Springs fed a handful of waterfalls, and in places the mountain- sides were scarred by deep crevasses formed by the runoff of torrential rains. Wild orchids clung to the creases and folds of the trees. Countless birds peered down from their high perches but rarely took wing in the heat of the day. Deer — tiny, delicate things — and wild turkeys ranged the lakeside, every now and then offering a glimpse of themselves as they came down to take water. In places where the terrain was gen- tler and the incline not so steep, small pockets of trees had been cleared and wooden shacks built. There, farmers raised pigs and grew the starchy white root called malanga that was served most nights. I had often stayed out late on the lake with Ignacio. Both of us would stretch back in our seats and look up at an unri- valed sky that was so clear it made the heavens seem impos- sibly bright and perfect. On nights like that, when the wind idled low, the surface of the lake glowed and the dark moun- tains crowded in on us like slumbering giants. Ignacio knew no other sky. He didn’t know how city lights could drown out and diminish a star’s beauty. But I knew enough to cher- ish this vista. I had known Ignacio for going on two years. He was per- haps the Cuban I had grown closest to during my time on the island, yet I still didn’t know how much of the friendship that he returned was sincere or state-mandated. We were close in age, but leagues apart in the experiences of our lives; I carried most of mine safely arranged and labeled in file cabinets and stacks of photo albums, while Ignacio wore his in the lines of his face and the stoop of his back. Nor were we freshwater incarnations of Ernest Hemingway and his trusted captain and guide, Gregorio Fuentes. While Ignacio could have fit the bill as Fuentes, I, for all my want and desire, was only a diplomat — literate, but not literary. We drifted a while at the slow mercy of the wind that was channeled through the mountains. The wind was hot but, thankfully, it kept the thick tropical air from resting too heavily on my shoulders. Despite knowing that the fish wouldn’t begin to bite again for several hours, I kept casting my lure into the water and retrieving it in a slow, methodi- cal manner. Fishing wasn’t always about catching fish. With a final gust before dropping away, the wind pushed us deep into a shallow bay. Before us rose a grassy slope that was not choked by the usual tangle of bushes and vines, and perched midway up the slope was an immense tree. The gray trunk was massive and seemed to swell at the middle, and hard- ly a leaf adorned its outstretched branch- es. I had probably fished this bay and seen the tree countless times, but never took notice of it until that day. “What type of tree is that?” I asked Ignacio. “That one up there?” He pointed. “That is a ceiba.” That meant nothing to me, and he must have seen that on my face, so he continued. “In Santería, the people believe spirits inhabit these trees.” I rolled my eyes and curled the corner of my mouth. Santería, voodoo, juju. In three decades of making my home in different corners of the world, I had decided they were all the same hocus-pocus, just in different wrappers. “This one in particular,” he said, pointing up to the tree again. “They say a witch lives there.” “A witch?” My reaction came out as a question, although I had already lost interest in the tree and had turned my attention back to my fishing line. But Ignacio was inspired. “Yes,” he said. Then he leaned forward, a mischievous gleam shone in his eyes. “A virgin witch ... they say she lives there with her children.” He wait- ed for the irony of the fable to sink in, and when it did I laughed out loud. Ignacio joined in my mirth as he reached into the cooler and pulled out two cold drinks, tossing one my way. D E C E M B E R 2 0 0 7 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 45 We always started at the submerged cemetery of the long-forgotten town of Guannacanoa.