That Time in Caracas - Carolina Cositore

That Time in Caracas (eBook)

A Valairia Hernandez Mystery

Carolina Cositore (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2020 | 1. Auflage
276 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-0983-2562-6 (ISBN)

Cuban social worker Laira, Valáiria Hernández (named for Vladimir Lenin), is an outspoken divorcée who is proud of her country. She goes to Venezuela to interview Cuban volunteers for a psychosocial satisfaction survey in That Time in Caracas. She learns the Metro, travels to several other cities, and meets journalists, film stars and a host of other Venezuelans with whom she solves a mystery or two.

That Time in Caracas is the third in the Valairia Hernandez Mystery series that also includes That Time in Havana and That Time in New York. An outspoken Cuban social worker who is proud of her country; she is a Cuban most folks in the United States may not get to meet. Laira (Valairia Hernandez named for Vladimir Lenin) is befriended by an ambitious neophyte journalist, who embroils her in her attempts to ferret out a movie star's secret. Along the way, she meets a number of Venezuelans from street sellers to government types, business people to film stars, travels to other cities, learns the Metro, and completes the satisfaction survey of Cuban volunteers, and in the end solves a couple of murders.

CHAPTER 1

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 2006

Laira

I shifted forward on the seat and tried to bend enough over the sleeping woman next to me to see out the window at the Venezuelan coastline, but my wanting out of the plane didn’t make us close enough yet and all I gained for the movement was the seat belt cutting into my stomach. I stopped immediately. I’d already gone twice to the tiny airplane toilet and didn’t want to have to go again. The physical discomfort in turn triggered uncomfortable mental and emotional feelings.

I am not a flighty woman, nor one easily discombobulated. Six months ago, I was not at all confused. My position as head of Havana’s psychiatric social work unit was fulfilling, if time-consuming, my familial relations were stable and pleasant as my father could be relied upon to cook, a skill at which I am not an adept, as well as help with Miguel, my dearly loved nearly adolescent son. I dated very occasionally with no strings attached. The one thing I felt I lacked, besides my daughter Mercedes, Miguel’s twin, who was stolen from me by her father when she was a baby; the one thing I felt I lacked was the opportunity to travel.

So I’d applied to do an experimental psycho-sociological survey of the Cuban medical teams volunteering in Venezuela concerning the stress reported by returning individuals. Both of my brothers had traveled and both to Venezuela. My older brother Camilo, Mio as I still used my baby name for him, had spent a few months in Caracas on a detective exchange two years ago, and my twin brother Ladi had been among the first Cuban doctors to volunteer with the medical teams in Venezuela.

I smiled at the relaxing visage of puffy clouds, which was all I could see out the window from my position, but almost immediately they reminded me of my one experience with snow (That Time in New York), which at once brought Bill and my present predicament to mind.

This brief trip to Venezuela as a psychiatric social worker was unusual and had not been at all easy to arrange with the powers-that-be; consequently, I wanted nothing to mess it up. I had originally wanted to accompany a medical team here for a year, but that could not be arranged. The survey was an experiment I’d thought up and mentioned to my family. It had the advantage of being of shorter duration; hence less expensive to fund. That it came about at all was no doubt due to the influence of my brothers, especially my detective brother Colonel Camilo and his superior, Felix, a former lover of mine. Both of them would like me to have new experiences distant from Bill, who is a U.S. citizen.

When I’d applied for this trip, I’d thought the timing ideal. My son, Miguel, at 12 ½ is still malleable enough for my father to manage despite his heart condition; a year from now that might not be true. Of course I knew I’d miss both of them terribly, as they, especially my father, José, would miss me. All of this transitory nostalgia and guilt would have been manageable if not for Bill.

I’d met him, my first foreigner, first U.S. citizen, last summer (That Time in Havana) and the approval to join the team to Venezuela finally came while I was on my first ever out of country trip: visiting him in the United States for a two-week fiancée visit in December; although I had made it perfectly clear that I was not his fiancée, it was the only way we could get the U.S. visa for me.

I loosened the seat belt and squirmed around trying to feel better, earning a scowl from my seatmate as my ample hip bumped hers. I can’t help it, I am plump and these seats are too close together for comfort. All those years mostly without a man, concentrating on my work and my son; except for one brief disastrous affair, only to halfway fall for a foreigner.

I was still in “more than like but less than love” with Bill, although I had been leaning to the stronger feeling by New Year’s when I first suspected that during the visit I may have possibly become pregnant. While I have just begun to be nauseous a good part of every morning and my bladder seems to have shrunk incredibly, for good and cogent personal reasons, I haven’t checked with a doctor, so technically it is still merely a possibility.

Tiny, developing, blockaded Cuba has one of the lowest maternal and infant mortality rates in the entire world. One reason for this is that Cuban medical authorities prioritize pregnant women, babies and children. There is no way I would have been permitted to make this trip if they suspected I was not only pregnant, but pregnant at the advanced age of 40; no matter how healthy I feel. I knew that if I didn’t go now to Venezuela I might never go. If I am pregnant, it is only about five or six weeks, less than two months anyway, and I’m not showing yet, although with my comfortable figure it would be difficult to tell. My mental ruminations were interrupted by physical ruminations as I had to get up and run again to the uncomfortably small airplane lavatory.

Back in my seat I kept the seat belt off and continued reflecting, not rationalizing I told my therapist self. Abortion in Cuba is free, as are all medical procedures there: it isn’t encouraged, but it’s not forbidden either. Use of condoms and other preventatives are strenuously encouraged and are free. ¡Cuño! I don’t know what we were thinking! Obviously we weren’t thinking; especially that first night, well maybe one other time. I certainly didn’t plan to get pregnant, but aborting is not a comfortable option for me.

The important point is that this must be entirely my decision. No one, but absolutely no one, not Bill, not my detective brother Camilo, not even my physician twin Ladi, knows that I have certain sensations in various body parts that would lead one to believe… well Ladi may suspect, but doesn’t know. And all I knew is that if I didn’t go on this trip now, I might never go. But now that I’m on my way serious second thoughts are looming.

Miguel is now my only child since my ex-husband Luis stole my baby girl, Miguel’s twin sister, and brought her to the United States where she disappeared. As always, thinking of little Merci made me feel her weight in my heart still after all these years. Bill has hired a detective to search for her in the United States, but we aren’t hopeful. If I am pregnant, perhaps this would be a girl. I sighed deeply and shifted again; my now awake seatmate frowned and rattled her magazine.

The pilot announced our approach to Caracas airport – at last – and I leaned forward sans seat belt to catch a glimpse of the coast.

It took a while to clear Venezuelan immigration and customs because two other planes had landed at almost the same time, and it felt even longer because I had thoroughly emptied my stomach both before and during the flight. A woman always ready to eat, I looked around to distract myself from the wait until I could get food. As I looked around it suddenly, and finally, hit me: I was alone here.

For the last few weeks since I’d returned from the United States, I’ve been agonizing over my job and the people I was leaving for this trip. My family, of course, we Cubans are very family conscious, but also my staff of five social workers and all the people we are committed to helping in Havana. I hadn’t given a thought that this will be the first time in my life I will not be surrounded by brothers, friends, neighbors and coworkers, all of whom have known me for years if not all of my life. While I have wanted to travel, I have never been especially interested in meeting foreigners. I did have to meet new people in December when I visited Bill in New York, but I had him and his friend Mark as anchors and it was just for a couple of weeks. For the first time at forty, I will not be in my milieu and not only will my work here be new, but the people; everyone and everything will be different. I will be the foreigner. That took a moment to sink in. No one is even meeting me at the airport; I’m to call my new supervisor, Dr. Foca, when I get to Caracas. Cuño! What sort of a social worker am I? Why didn’t I prepare myself? What have I gotten myself in for and how will I manage if I am pregnant?

As I agonized over this should-have-been-foreseen development, I became aware that I had been unconsciously staring at someone in the next line over. I guess I was homesick already because the man was almost certainly Cuban. The awareness came about because the guy, in his late twenties wearing a well-washed green tee shirt and very new looking jeans, was looking back at me with that “do you know me?” look in response to my staring. Go make your first new friend, I ordered myself, although it was probably cheating to start with a fellow Cuban.

Within just a few minutes I learned that newly divorced Leonardo Estrada lived with his mother and grandmother in 10 de Octubre in Havana, was probably some sort of distant cousin or nephew of my late mother, had been in Caracas only two weeks as the Prensa Latina correspondent and had just arrived on a flight from Argentina.

He introduced me to the two Venezuelan journalists with whom he was traveling: Kati Rojas, a slender blond who looked bursting with energy, and Jorge Vicente, a tall, rather professorial looking man dressed in black with a paunch and an unshaven look maybe growing into a goatee. I don’t like...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	17.8.2020
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
ISBN-10	1-0983-2562-1 / 1098325621
ISBN-13	978-1-0983-2562-6 / 9781098325626

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