HABÁNAME, Chapter 9                                                - 3 - purse across the front desk and uttering a flip comment. ?So? not just a traitor, but a puta [whore] and a pata [dyke].? ?Yes, a puta, a pata, and happy,? replied Chela without missing a beat. She felt the bile rising in her throat, then looked more carefully at the clerk. It was not contempt but the fear of contamination that was written on her face. We are not that different. If I am in here, so can they haul her in on some fine morning. I am becoming a political leper. To be close to me is to touch disaster. Unlike the rest of Havana, the street in front of the U.S. Interests Office was relatively empty. Positioned at intervals along the sidewalk were men who in their carefully-arranged casual attire and sunglasses were meant to be fully visible as ?secret? police. When the occasional Cuban citizen ventured across the street towards the Interests Office he or she would be intercepted by one of these men, who functioned like well-trained sheepdogs.  Chela braced herself for what would no doubt be an unpleasant social interaction. She was instead surprised by its efficiency and civility. ?Compañera,? murmured the pleasant Adonis who placed himself in her way. ?I have to ask for your identity papers, and I have to record your basic information. It would be better if you did not proceed into this building. If you turn around now, we can forget you even thought about coming here and I will not look at your papers.? Why couldn?t they have people like this at all the government offices? thought Chela as she handed him her papers. It would have made everything so much more bearable. If they put the nice workers at the ends of the lines when you are trying to stay and the surly ones at the ends of the lines when you are trying to leave, that would be more reasonable. She realized that the address on her identity papers was that of the El Monte flat and she hoped that her act would not have repercussions for her mother and brothers. The handsome policeman winked at her and nodded as she took back the papers before making her way into the office building. She signed in at the receptionist?s desk and joined the other two souls who nervously awaited their appointments with the local gatekeeper to a safe passage to the United States. Both were older men who were dressed in suits and polished leather shoes. Their bulging briefcases served as heralds of the owners? professional accomplishments and potential value to an adoptive nation. Chela had not bathed in three days and her right sandal was barely held together by a narrow strip of red plastic. She resisted the urge to scratch her scalp. This is crazy. What can I possibly say that will get me a travel permit? To speak of what happened with Alex and Barbara is to bring up such messiness that I would be lucky if they didn?t serve me poisoned tea just to make me disappear. And if I say I have come under suspicion of spying for the United States, well, that describes half of Havana. Asking to be reunited with my lesbian lover does not seem like a promising emigration strategy. Nor does reviewing my occupational history. There isn?t much I can say, but I have an obligation to her to try the safest and quickest way first. And this is certainly it. Mr. Adam Brentice was gracious enough with her ? Chela concluded later that it must have been pity that motivated his gentle treatment. While he acknowledged that her argument that sheltering the daughter of a notorious U. S. traitor might have some merit if one really believed that immigration decisions were made on the basis of archaic Cold War posturing, he could not really find any exceptional circumstances that justified granting her a travel release to the United States. His best advice ? the one he gave to most Cuban citizens who came to this office desperately seeking a route off the island ? was to agitate for political change. ?You seem like an intelligent and energetic young woman, Ms. Stevens, and I hope that someday we do see you in the United States, visiting under the passport of a free and democratic Cuba.? What a waste of time, thought Chela sullenly as she made her way back to her apartment. When she arrived she found that everything but her altar had been ransacked. So, even among the secret police, the Orishas command respect. She threw herself on the ground before the pictures of the saints before starting the daunting task of picking up the clothing and papers that covered the floor like a madman?s artwork. ?You know,? she addressed the solemn faces somewhat irreverently, ?I know there is a lesson in all of this, and I promise to learn it. I know you like your daughters to prove themselves in the challenge and I hope to not disappoint. Just please, I beg you, have her there for me at the end when all is done. It was foretold that I would be burnt and I reply now that I have felt the blisters rise on my flesh: I would walk into the flames without a second thought and stand there until consumed if it meant that I could be with her.? The summons from her mother arrived the next week. The note was short and cryptic, indicating only that Chela should be prepared to remove everything that was hers from the premises and noting the time she was expected with some specificity. The crowd assembled in front of the El Monte building at the appointed hour simmered unevenly in its fervor: the uneasy citizens looked to each other for direction as to how to act appropriately, for most of them had only heard of such gatherings. After the 1980 Mariel boatlift such events had become increasingly rare and in the aftermath of the fall of the Berlin Wall they were almost unheard of. After all, once the ?special economic? period got underway in earnest even beloved and well-respected musicians and authors had gone abroad to live in great numbers and it was unthinkable to question their love of their homeland: they were the composers of the images in which the masses sang of their patriotism and were beyond suspicion. The spectacle unfolding in front of the Stevens? home was unusual in two other aspects. Usually the subjects of such occasions were citizens who were undeniably on their way to the United States, but Chela Stevens ? like every member of the crowd poised to abuse her ? was ostensibly trapped on the island. Also, Cubans who were the targets of Acts of Repudiation ? for this is what Chela suddenly recognized she had been invited home for as she approached the throng ? were uniformly lonely figures who were forced to walk a gauntlet of hurled invectives and refuse with no company but their misery. Anticipating both trouble from her family and the need for help carrying things away, Chela was flanked on either side by Leti and Pedro. When they got to within a half-block distance from the house Chela stopped and nervously addressed her two companions. ?You know what is happening here, right? I just can?t believe it. I thought they didn?t do this anymore. And I don?t even have a U.S. travel permit! I mean, they can scream at me to ?leave right now!? all they want but where am I going to go? And somehow I don?t think telling them I am working on getting out of here is really what they are after.?