a small visit

        Hector Reyes admired the codependency of his bromeliads, the way they funneled rainwater into their host plants. They had become metaphor to many things. He believed that his soul had been given a purpose: to understand Nature. When coming to such fullness, presumedly late in life, he would die and ascend to one of Earth's higher aspects. Such was the vision he saw as a boy studying one day in the city library with his father Oscar Reyes, the humblest poet in Santiago.
        He was laboring happily now in his potting shed out back. Its wood gone green, the old shed seemed to  be resting its weary timbers upon an impenetrable forest of ancient pines. He knew of a pig trail that led deep into the wilderness. It ended in a lovers roost high in the piedmont. This rustic existence was a far cry from his life in Santiago. The Revolution had swept him up like a hurricane, snatching his property and minimal wealth, dispensing it to the winds of change. Stripped of everything, he stepped into a new world with new possibilities. He surrendered to the Revolution. It relieved him of all the old burdens, all the old responsibilities, and he was absolved of past sins.
        With this peace of mind he tended his Sunday garden.
        Orchids were introduced to tortoise-shaped clots of tamped peat moss. He bound these creations in a fine wire and hung them from a shady ficus tree where they could listen to wind-chimes.
        Sometimes in the music of the brass tubes he could hear his son Tomas in far away Miami calling his name.


                                                                                                   *


        "Como estas, Comrade Reyes?"
        "Ernesto--"
        Hector had not heard the minutist footfall. The only sound his friend made was a rattling in the lungs. And to hear it you had to be close enough for his death kiss.
        The man wore military fatigues and the straw sombrero of a machetero. His side-arm was the Colt 1911 semi-automatic .45. He began to wheeze.
        "Please," he said. "Let's go outside. I do not know what it is about your shed, but it gets to me."
        Bags of peat, sheep manure and lime were stacked in a corner.  The loamy fragrance could become overpowering. Hector agreed, "Of course. Come. We will have small coffees."
        They walked past the garden to the rear of a country cottage, earthy, with weathered siding. Gray shingles, green with mould. Porch railing corrupted by verdigris. Suspended from rafters were ceramic pots brimming with philodendron.
        "Humble quarters, my friend."
        "I am fine here. Please sit." Hector pointed toward a short table and bench affair. "I will serve you."
        "Forget the coffees."
        "What's wrong?"
        "El Lider is most curious about your Mister Rosen in Miami."
        "I no longer work for the rum company. El Lider knows this."
        "What do you know about Ron Matusalem moving to Puerto Rico?"
        "Nothing, compadre. Nothing at all."
        "Very well." Ernesto sighed, satisfied. "Thank you."
        "I thought you were here for my report to committee."
        "Yes, of course."
        Hector went inside and returned with a manila envelope. "The literacy campaign is going very well."
        "And you?"
        "It gives me a sense of purpose."
        Ernesto took the envelope and shook Hector's hand. Sadly he said, "Farewell, my friend. I must leave Cuba soon. I doubt I will return. I will always remember your devotion to the people."
        That was why the frail doctor paid visit. It was good-bye.