The Foreign Service Journal, December 2007

That was the way with Cuban humor. It was subtle and kind of snuck up on you. I was reminded of a joke about a diplomat leaving the exclusive “diplo-mercado” in Havana with a trunk full of groceries. As he pulled out of the parking lot, he rear- ended a bus stopped in front of a long line of hopeful passengers. His trunk popped open and his groceries flew through the air and were strewn across the street. Immediately the people broke from the line as they traded their quest for a rare berth on the bus for the even rarer opportunity to lay hands on some groceries. A little egg that had survived the crash jumped up, dusted himself off and, upon seeing the crowd bearing down on him, broke into a sprint down the street. As he neared the corner, he saw a fillet steak that he recognized from one of the shopping bags. The steak was calmly sunning itself on the curb. The egg paused long enough in his flight to yell a warning: “Hey, steak! Get up and run! The crowd is coming. They’re gonna get you!” The steak glanced over at the approaching crowd, then turned to the egg and said casually, “You hurry up and run, little egg. They don’t know me .” The humor is buried in the reality of the Cuban situation: buses are rare, lines are long, groceries are scarce, and a little egg has more to fear than does a fillet. “The virgin and her children,” I repeated, shaking my head in amuse- ment. But my laughter died away as I stared up at the tree. There was some- thing about it that made me pause. It stood huge and imposing in the center of the grassy slope, an image that was just too perfect, too manufactured. The more I looked, the more I real- ized that somebody tended the green swath of grass and the solitary tree. “Ignacio, who owns this land?” He shrugged and shielded his eyes to look through the glare of the sun to the far side of the lake at nothing in particular. It was obvious that somebody took care of the site. It wasn’t farmland; it hadn’t been tilled. There was no shel- ter or indication that animals were kept there. It had the distinct feel of a special place set aside for a special purpose. The tree, I realized, was a monument. “I want to go up there,” I said to Ignacio, not taking my eyes off the tree, intrigued. “What?” “I want to go up to the tree. I want to see where the virgin’s children live.” Ignacio let out a low whistle and then reached for the cord on the out- board to bring the small motor to life and begin moving us across the lake again. Before he could start the engine, I continued more insistently, my curiosity overcoming me. “No, take me there.” A shadow of fear darkened Ig- nacio’s face. He glanced over a shoul- der, his normally easygoing manner replaced by apprehension, as if my request bordered on conspiracy. Then he looked into my eyes as he swallowed a deep breath and then, just as quickly as it had come, the shadow vanished. Ignacio turned his attention back to the tree and consid- ered it for a long moment before standing up. The bottom of the shallow bay was clearly visible. Silently, he reached down for the long pole that lay propped along the side of the boat and began to push us the short distance to shore. Ignacio nudged the bow of the boat gently between the rocks at the edge of the water, then sprang for- ward to secure the craft with a frayed piece of rope. Without exchanging a word, we began up the side of the hill, Ignacio in the lead. I followed, feeling all of my years weighing heavily on my bones and mind. Sweat poured from my body, and I craved a cold drink of water. The climb that looked to be easy from the lake was much longer and steeper that I had imagined, but even- tually we arrived at the base of the immense tree and collapsed in what little shade its bare limbs offered. The lake spread out before us as blue as the sky it mirrored. After catching my breath, I turned to Ignacio and asked where it was that the virgin and her children lived. “Under the tree, of course,” he said, but he wasn’t smiling. He was clearly uncomfortable. I stood and took a close look at the tree. I decided that if an old elephant could be a tree, then this is what it would look like — huge, grey, leathery and tired. “What’s under the tree?” “Nothing ...,” Ignacio paused and wiped a tattered rag across his brow. “Just some old bones.” “Old bones? What, animal bones?” “No,” Ignacio hesitated before continuing. “Human.” “The witch and her children?” I asked. Ignacio did not answer. “Whose bones are they?” Ignacio sighed then squinted up at me. “Just the bones of some old patri- ots,” he answered. “Patriots? You mean revolutionar- ies?” I asked as I continued to scan the base of the tree. “No ... I mean patriots ... counter - revolutionaries.” I could tell Ignacio was growing impatient with this little adventure and wanted to get back to the boat. It was then that I spied faint marks — scratches at the base of the trunk that only a human hand could have made. I knelt and ran a finger over the old scars. The year 1960 was etched 46 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / D E C E M B E R 2 0 0 7