Free Tropic of Darkness by Tony Richards Page B

watch. And one day, a new kid decided to have a try.”
    He ran a hand through his short hair, the memory taking hold of him.
    â€œArmando. ‘Fat Armando,’ we called him, too fond of food. He ran toward the graves. He jumped. But he was far too heavy, and his foot landed on the edge of the second plot. Two days later, Armando was dead.”
    Jack could scarcely believe the young man was serious about this. But he asked, “You’re kidding? How?”
    â€œHe died in his sleep. Nobody could find a cause for it.”
    â€œAnd you think it’s because he touched that grave?”
    â€œI know that sounds crazy. But it’s what we’re brought up to believe, man.”
    Jack had come across some attitudes like this before during his travels through the Latin world. Superstition took on new dimension, extra depth, in countries such as these. Unless you’d been raised with it since infancy, you could never quite believe in certain things the way these people did.
    So he asked, more quietly, “Whose graves are these exactly?”
    â€œPerhaps we ought to move away,” came the reply. “Again, I’m sorry. I’d just feel a bit more comfortable.”
    Jack hesitated, still rather bewildered, and then followed him back behind the line of trees.
    *   *   *
    â€œIn the eighteenth century, when this was a Spanish colony and slaves worked the plantations, one of the richest men in Cuba was Santiago DeFlores. Yes, the man in the first grave.”
    â€œUnder that cruddy little headstone? But didn’t the rich folk around here usually have grander stuff, like mausoleums?”
    Luis insisted if Jack listened, it would become clear.
    And as the boy kept talking, Jack detected something in his tone. A measured rhythm and a cadence, like this had been told by others many times before, and there was memory involved. Luis was not merely explaining the story. He was reciting it, like a catechism he had learned.
    â€œDeFlores lived on his plantation for most of the year, and it was a big plantation. Half the land between Camagüey and Las Tunas was his. But he also kept a mansion on the far side of Havana Bay, for him to stay at when he visited the capital. He did that several times each year. Oh yes, he lived an opulent life. For all his riches, though, he never had much luck in love.”
    His first wife, apparently, had been a great beauty who was never faithful to him. She was banished from society, left Cuba and was never seen of or heard from again.
    And his second wife drowned while swimming—although it turned out that there were some people, even to this day, who maintained it was no accident.
    â€œDeFlores was in mourning for a long while after that. He stopped visiting Havana and became a very lonely man.”
    And when the man’s gaze finally did start turning toward women again, it alighted on a tall, striking girl called Camille Gado.
    She was not exactly what you’d call an ideal choice: European of origin, but from peasant stock, so low on the social scale that she’d spent most of her life among DeFlores’s slaves. She had been brought up alongside them and played with their children when she had been young.
    And she had learned their ways and customs, too.
    â€œVery quickly, DeFlores fell in love with Camille. He could not hide it, did not even try. He moved her from her quarters into the plantation house. Even brought her to Havana, where they stepped out together like a man and wife. Polite society was scandalized. People couldn’t understand why so wealthy and respected a man should behave in such a way. It was incomprehensible to them . . . but not to those of African descent.”
    Apparently, Camille’s mother had little time to care for her when she’d been young. And so the slaves had looked after her most of the time. And passed on their knowledge of the occult to her, from a very