The bobbing blends with his breathing: in—up, out—down.Peaceful, graceful undulations dampen thoughts of death and anger.He had slept the night away as in a cradle until a shaft of light pierced his eyelid.He turned his head.It struck the boat’s side.Memory failed.Where? How?Bobbing lazily, side to side, he tried to think, as water slapped the keel and licked the sides in curious rhythm.He struggled to unravel wet threads of memory.Gently splashing, gently rocking, the knot relaxed: Past midnight two nights ago, stepped into boat, heard Zoraida yell from shore.That’s it!La Cabaña Prison; the tyrant’s death sentence.Bobbing and rocking calmed the quake that pushed him from his homeland onto the FloridaStraits and his journey of death.
Memory returned: Chugging north to Key West an entire day and night until the gas ran out; surrendering to the ever-pounding Florida Straits and blazing sun.As he bobbed and rolled, his vision filled with reality.He sat up; red sun at his right, no land to the north, no way to judge how far he had come.No matter; for without gasoline he would drift at the mercy of currents and winds into ultimate darkness.He had made it this far, and for what? He looked up and prayed.
Suddenly, in the disk of the red half-sun he spotted another craft with a man clinging on.The man moved as if deathly tired.Matilde paddled closer with his hands until he could see the man’s arm tied to the raft.It dragged him in its off-beat rhythm.Paddling furiously he reached the raft, untied the man, pulled him into his boat, turned him onto his stomach, lifted him by the belt to force water out of his lungs—no water; listened for a heartbeat—none.Matilde concluded the man had died, but seemingly not by drowning.
In the light of the sun’s full redness, no more than two or three hundred yards to the west, spread a long stretch of land.Southward, like giant tombstones, a row of hotels rising out of pinkish sand; to the north, as far as he could see: smaller hotels, beach, mangrove, and lots of palms.He had overshot Key West and was drifting east of mainland Florida!He sat looking at the beautiful land hoping it was not a mirage.He could easily swim it, but what about his unfortunate dead companion?
He looked in the man’s pockets and found a wallet with six soggy American fifty dollar bills, a Cuban Revolutionary Guard identity card like his, and a torn piece of paper with a Miami address scribbled in pencil.His lips moved with the words as he read the identity card, “Lázaro López, Lieutenant, age fifty-three, unmarried.”Lázaro was a tall, handsome, hefty, muscular mulatto who could have been Matilde’s brother.They were about the same size and complexion: light, almost Caucasian features, square jaw, gently wavy hair, same fatigue uniform.Matilde sat at his feet and fantasized he had found his twin, for the coincidence was too great: both born the same year.Matilde stood mumbling in slow, Cuban-accented Spanish over the dead man, “Lázaro, my brother, you have been a fool also, except that you did not escape.I am truly sorry.Perhaps we could have become friends.”
Through his sadness sparked a flash of optimism, his first since his arrest four days earlier in Havana.“My route to salvation,” he mumbled. “As Matilde Gómez I worked for white Cubans who used me, fought for white America who kept me down, taught children of my own people, who turned against me to protect their servility, and finally, in my native land, followed a “liberator” who would execute me.Matilde Gómez has lived a fool’s life, too, Lázaro.Forgive me, my brother; you will have no use for this.It will be my inheritance, and I thank you for it.”He slipped the man’s wallet into his pocket and replaced it with his own containing his identification card and three Cuban pesos.With lips pursed he slipped off the wedding ring Zoraida had given him and pushed it onto the man’s finger.“A perfect fit for another perfect revolutionary fool.Now she is yours, Señor López, and welcome to her.”He patted the man’s wallet in his own pocket and spoke aloud as if the man could hear him, “Adiós, Matilde.Adiós Zoraida.Adiós everything I was.Lázaro is risen.”For the first time in four days he laughed.
In his earlier novel, Café Con Leche, Jack Fernandez reported, as a newspaper item, the death of Matilde Gómez, his hero and favorite character; the reader was not shown the body.Only after publication did Fernandez discover that Matilde did not die.At that point he undertook the sequel, Viva Matilde!
Viva Matilde! begins with Matilde’s survival after crossing the treacherous waters of the Florida Straits.He assumes a new identity and soon finds himself enmeshed in the CIA’s failed Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba.Pablo and Consuelo Iglesias, the successful Cuban-American couple, continue to grapple with repressed racial issues, as Matilde, the heroic mulatto, and his beautiful wife Zoraida again find their lives intertwined with Pablo’s and Consuelo’s, this time on a loom stretching between Tampa and Washington during the tumultuous 1960s.
Clothed in a false identity, Matilde must navigate his way around the calculating Pablo and the deceit and infidelity of the mystical and hysterical Zoraida.In his new life he finds another woman and discovers a relative he never knew he had. The story reaches its climax in the Washington race riot of 1968.
No, our great mulatto could not have perished crossing the Florida Straits, for he still had lives to live, battles to fight, and fields to conquer.
About the Author
In the past two years Jack Fernandez published two novels—Café Con Leche (2005) and its prequel, Conquistador (2006).His present novel, Viva Matilde!, ends his trilogy set in YborCity.
During his career in the University of South Florida Dr. Fernandez authored five chemistry textbooks, fifty research articles, and was a Fulbright Scholar in the University of Madrid (1966-7) and the National University of Colombia (1977).Jack’s roots in Florida extend back to the 1860’s, when his ancestors settled here.
He currently writes occasional articles for La Gaceta (YborCity’s trilingual newspaper) and Cigar City Magazine.In 2006 – 2007 he was a Community Columnist for the Tampa Tribune.He has given numerous talks on his books and on Tampa history.
Jack and his wife, Sylvia, live in Tampa near their three sons and six grandchildren.
