“What can you tell me of Fidel Castro? Did you meet him in Cuba?” Howard asked.
It was too soon. Chevi allowed his eyes to encounter mine for the first time since we had sat down; his expression was as miserable as my inner sentiments.
“Yes,” said Libertad. “Fidel Castro is now in the hills.”
“Yes,” said Hunt, “I know that.”
“In the Sierra Madre of the Oriente,” she said.
“Exactly,” said Hunt. “But how did you meet him?”
I was embarrassed. Interrogation might not necessarily be one of Howard’s skills, yet he could certainly do better than this. There was no preface and certainly no encouragement. Not even the promise of a look did he allow to pass between Libertad and himself.
All the same, she tried to be forthcoming. She was prepared to pay cash. “Fidel Castro,” she said, “had a romance with my dearest friend in Havana. Of course, now that he is up in the mountains, my close friend does not see him as often.”
“But she does see him?”
“On occasion he slips into Havana. It is then they make their visits.”
“What else does he do in Havana?”
“I am informed that he raises money and speaks to groups.”
“Did you attend any such meetings?”
“Only once, but for the purpose of being able to tell my grand friend, Fulgencio Batista, exactly what was being stated. Señor Castro spoke like an angry revolutionary and said, ‘Fulgencio is supported by the Yankees.’”
“You heard him say that?”
She nodded profoundly.
“Do you know Señor Castro well in any other manner?”
“During my sojourn in Cuba,” she said, “I lived with but one man, even as now I live only with your friend whose name I do not need to speak.”
“No need,” agreed Hunt.
“I am loyal to the man I admire. A matter of principle.”
“Commendable,” said Hunt.
“So, señor, I have no intimate knowledge of Fidel Castro. But my girlfriend,” Libertad now said in English, “told me plenty.”
“All right,” said Hunt, “Let’s move on to the nitty-gritty.”
Libertad gave a smile of comprehensive wisdom. “He is like other men,” she stated.
“Could you enlarge on that?”
“He is young and strong. A little shy. He talks politics to the women.”
“Does this come directly from your girlfriend,” asked Hunt, “or is it general gossip?”
“Nitty-gritty,” said Libertad. “He is like other Cuban men. He is selfish. It is all over once he is done. He is normal.”
Hunt did not look impressed that for his pains he had obtained no more than the knowledge that Fidel Castro was normal.
“How often,” he asked, “does Castro come to Havana?”
“Perhaps once a month,” said Libertad. She sighed as if to suggest that she had said enough, and Chevi now spoke. “Would you say that you are dissatisfied with the information my dear friend Señorita La Lengua has provided?”
“I would be satisfied with any response from a lady as charming as your companion,” Hunt replied, “yet, by the light of my sources, Fidel Castro has not come down out of the hills in the last two years.”
“Since Libertad La Lengua says he has been in Havana,” said Chevi, “I would be prepared, señor, to go beyond your sources.”
“Oh,” said Hunt, “I will certainly honor the lady’s opinion. We will make further inquiries.”
Chevi said, “A wise course.”
Silence. Libertad entered the void. “I have heard,” she said, “that your friend Benito Nardone is a lonely man.”
“He seems busy enough to me,” said Hunt, and laid his hands on the tablecloth, fingers extended like rays, as though to ward her off.
She, in turn, placed her hands on Hunt’s fingers, a move I would not have chosen. “I want you,” said Libertad, “to tell Benito that he is the most attractive man I have ever seen. I speak not merely for Uruguay but of all countries I have visited.”
Hunt extricated his fingers. “My dear,” he said, “I could bring him fifty such messages from ladies virtually as attractive as yourself, but I don’t. That is not the basis of our relationship.”
Her eyes were lambent. “You would not do this for me?”
“You must,” said Hunt, “be content with the wonderful strong fellow you have.”
The pause went on long enough to arouse the miserable intimation that Hunt was going to get up and leave—his temper had been taken too lightly. Chevi inserted himself again. “Allow me,” he murmured, “to speak of myself.”
Hunt nodded.
“I am a poor professor of classics,” said Chevi, “a man who must content himself with his powers of observation, for he occupies no greater place in the arena.”
Kittredge, I could not believe Chevi’s audacity. Bad enough to call himself Saavedra since Hunt, if curious, could check with Don Jaime concerning the less august branches of the family, but to be a professor of classics as well! If I recollected correctly, Howard, back at Brown, had taken several courses in Greek and Latin civilization. I can’t pretend I was the least bit easy about our new direction.
“Observing you, señor,” said Chevi, “I applaud your incisive spirit. You are a man who advances matters. So, this poor professor of Greek is ready, despite the gulf between your situation in life and his own, to buy you and your friend a drink.”
“I accept,” said Hunt, “provided I keep mixing the martinis.”
“Yes,” said Chevi. “You will mix the martinis, we will drink them, and I pay for this round.”
In English, Hunt said: “It will all come out in the wash.”
“Ha, ha,” said Chevi. “A searching expression. I speak as an admirer of the American, not the English, tongue. It is rough-hewn, American, but an appropriate language. It is there to serve the soldier-gladiators of a new empire. But then, you are much like the Romans.”
“With all the advantage,” said Hunt, “of being closer to the moral concerns of the Greeks.”
“Ha, ha. A wonderfully incisive point,” said Chevi.
I was struck with his powers as an actor. Roger Clarkson, Chevi’s first case officer, used to describe him as a ham, but Roger may not have been along on any improvisation like this. Chevi now inhabited poor Dr. Saavedra. “Sir,” he said, “I wish you to take no offense at these remarks, but I have been obliged to observe the peremptory fashion in which you dismissed the interest, admittedly ambitious, that Miss La Lengua exhibited in relation to Benito Nardone. I must remark that in my modest opinion you are grievously mistaken.” Libertad nodded profoundly. “Benito Nardone,” continued Chevi, “is a man of the people who has been obliged, by the dictates of his political career, to leave old friends behind. If he succeeds to become President of Uruguay, he will then be in need of restoring credibility with the populace. This need can be satisfied uniquely by Libertad La Lengua. She is a woman of the people who has become a lady, even as he has become a gentleman—”
Hunt cut him off. “Do you know, I think this is a nonviable analogy.” Later, Hunt would say to me, “All Benito needs is a whore who still reeks of her police chief,” but Chevi, nothing if not modestly telepathic, overtook him in turn. “I would submit, señor,” he said, “that you are feeling some natural concern about the possible wrath of this lady’s present protector, but I assure you, the personage in question would have to feel honored to lose the love of his life to the future savior of Uruguay.”
“Yes,” said Libertad, “Pedro would accept the loss.”
“My dear,” said Hunt, “I would not wish to discourage anyone.”
Libertad said: “Many an Argentinian did not believe at first in Juan Perón and his Evita. Yet much of history was changed by that great lady.”
“I could not agree more,” said Hunt, “and I am certain that through your many sources you will yet meet Benito and you will charm h
im personally as you have charmed many an important guy before. Perhaps there will be a day when your dreams come through. I, however, cannot give a direct hand since that would be inappropriate to my role as a guest in your country.” He had finished mixing the martinis, and now he handed her another, and smiled. “Let me offer a salute to your beauty.”
“To her beauty,” said Chevi, swallowing most of his second martini at one gulp.
“And a toast,” said Hunt, “to a splendid fellow, Pedro Peones, strong, wise, highly motivated.”
“Twenty-three skiddoo,” said Libertad.
We laughed hard enough to break the pall for about as long as we could laugh. The food arrived and it was not good. A rubbery fish fried in a somewhat rancid oil was served with a rice that clumped together in gobbets. The repast would make small inroad on the martinis.
Chevi was, by now, in a mood I could recognize. Back at the safe house, I would have been preparing for a temper tantrum. “Of all things upon earth that bleed and grow,” said Chevi in English, “an herb most bruised is woman.”
“What?” said Hunt.
“It is from Euripides,” said Chevi, “from Professor Gilbert Murray’s translation of Medea.”
“First-rate,” said Hunt.
Chevi held up his glass. “I applaud your martinis.”
“Bottoms up,” said Hunt, and drained his glass. I had never seen him drink as much at lunch. It must have taken a few of his resources, after all, to be adequately indifferent to Libertad.
The lady had hardly given up. She sent a look to me, and I felt spineless enough, Kittredge, to nod solemnly as though I were in her service. Then, her toe found my ankle and gave it a nudge.
Chevi merely offered a smile. “Do you recognize,” he asked, “how much respect I have for Americans? I value their great power and their confidence.”
“You have expressed an opinion,” said Hunt, “with which I am wholly in agreement.”
“That is why I regret so clearly,” said Chevi, “that one cannot have profound conversations with your countrymen. There is an impermeability to their insularity.”
“Talk is cheap, we say,” said Hunt.
“On the contrary,” Chevi replied, “I prefer to quote from my beloved Greeks: ‘Forge your tongue on an anvil of truth, and what flies up, though it be but a spark, shall have weight.’”
“Sophocles?” asked Hunt.
“No, sir.”
“Pindar?”
“Of course.”
“Now I am mindful,” said Hunt, “of one of the more pithy remarks of Thucydides. It has just come back to me. In paraphrase, of course.”
“Paraphrase is acceptable, señor. Thucydides, after all, is not a poet,” replied Chevi.
“There are three deadly foes of empire,” said Hunt. “One is pity, the second is the spirit of fair dealing, and—in answer to your desire to get me heated up enough to beat my gums—the third foe of empire is the enjoyment of discussion.” He held up a hand. “Now, my country is unique. It does accept the yoke of empire that history has laid upon it, but we make every effort to break out of Thucydides’ three iron rules of tyranny. We try to be compassionate. We attempt under grievous circumstances to be fair, and, for the last, I admit that I am just bibulous enough to like a good discussion.”
I don’t believe he was drunk so much as autointoxicated. Both of them were. It was as if they were ready to love each other, or fall off a cliff while grappling together, but the air between having been washed by two double martinis, they had lost all interest in Libertad or me.
I must say that I, in turn, was just drunk enough to be obliged to restrain my impulse to say proudly: “Howard, this is our number-one agent, AV/OCADO.” Never again do I dare dry gin on slippery footing.
“Empires,” said Chevi, “must, however, establish an equable relationship between gods and men. For it is the nature of both to rule wherever they can.”
“Agreed,” said Hunt. “Self-evident.”
“Of course, if there is but one God, He will certainly condemn you for overweening pride.”
“Hubris,” said Hunt. “I don’t see my country as suffering from that. Never forget,” he told Chevi, “that we are in the American Century because we are obliged to be. A good nation of great yeomen has taken up the yoke, sir, in the war against Communism, the war of Christianity against materialism.”
“No, sir,” said Chevi. “Communism is merely your excuse. You have an empire to lose, but you do not know who you will lose it to.”
“Sir,” said Hunt, “are you suggesting that we are hated in unexpected quarters?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that used to be the burden of power for the English. Now, it is ours. I will tell you, Dr. Saavedra,” said Hunt with all the dignity implicit in great alcoholic clarity, “we wouldn’t want friendship coming to us for too little.”
Libertad yawned.
“Bored?” asked Hunt.
“No,” said Libertad. “We must go up to my penthouse and drink beaucoup toasts to each other.”
“In truth,” said Chevi, “I do not know that I would wish to live in your empire. Sometimes I view it as a community of bees who cling to the leader in an ecstasy of enthusiasm and patriotism.”
“Are we still with the Greeks?” asked Hunt.
“One cannot know where Thucydides ends and I begin. I am only Dr. Saavedra, after all,” said Chevi.
“Doctor,” said Hunt, “your last remarks concerning my country are rubbish.”
“With your permission. I am Saavedra-Morales, a loyal Greek to your Roman, an epigone of the new empire, an acolyte of Batista and Nardone. Politically speaking, I am with you. That is because I have but one life and, upon consideration, you and yours are to my advantage. But when we have departed into the long shadow of history, your side, which is now my side, will not win. It will lose. Can you tell me why?”
“I cannot conceive why. You tell me I do not even know whom we are fighting.”
“You don’t. You and your people will never understand us. We are deeper than yourselves. We know the turning of the tide. When that unique revolutionary, Fidel Castro, first landed in Cuba in 1956, he lost all but twelve of his men. He was ambushed by the troops of Batista. Hunted by day, hunted by night, Castro and his people stayed with poor peasants. By the fifth night, Fidel said, ‘The days of the dictatorship are numbered.’ He knew. He could see by the humanity on the faces of the peasants who sheltered him that Cuba was ready for a profound change. You, sir, will never understand us.”
“But you say you are with me,” said Hunt. “If you are with me, who the hell is us?”
“You may scorn my use of pronouns, but I live in the midst of them. Us are the dark people. Yes, Commander, the dark ones. Latins, Muslims, Africans, Orientals. That is us. You will never understand us. You do not comprehend that we are in need of honor. We wish to lift ourselves above shame. You see, sir, there are times when persons like myself feel as if we have sunk so low that we cannot recover our honor. If I strive to perform some act that is good or brave, I discover even when I succeed that all I can receive in my heart for such a worthy act is a temporary remission from the pervasive presence of shame. My honor has been lost forever.”
Hunt nodded wisely. It would take a larger wave than the embodiment of Dr. Saavedra to wash him away. “It is not our American civilization,” he said, “that excites your misery, but your own sin, fellow. As above, so below.” He handed a martini to Chevi and filled his own glass with the last of his mix in the pitcher. “Let’s get to the facts,” said Hunt. “You sit here and drink my liquor and make a big powwow speech about the dark ones. Well, how do you know, pal? Darkness of complexion may reflect something dark and self-destructive in the soul. The divine intuition may be trying to inform us of something. Ever hear of the sons of Ham?”
“Yessir, it is racial superiority that one always comes back to,” said Chevi.
“No, sir,” said Hunt, “it is charac
ter. I would like to tell a story.”
Chevi waved his hand languidly. The exigency of gin had descended finally upon him.
“You talk—I listen,” he said.
“Aren’t fading, are you, pal?” asked Hunt.
“Trot it out,” said Chevi.
“This concerns my father,” said Hunt, “so I think we can slack off on the tension here.”
“I sue for your pardon, señor.”
“I accept. I thank you. I can say that my father has been an honorable man,” said Hunt. “A lawyer. In later life, a judge. A good father. He taught his son to fish and to box, how to ride a horse, how to shoot. Once, when I was ten, we were driving on a back road through the Everglades in Florida.”
“Yes,” said Libertad, “near to Miami.”
“We came across a large rattlesnake sunning itself on the edge of a ditch. My father stopped our vehicle and told me to retrieve my brand-new repeating .22 rifle, purchased the day before for my birthday, out of the car trunk. I discovered, however, that it was too heavy for me to hold, aim, and fire. Before I could panic, my father took the gun, laid the sights on the rattlesnake’s head, and encouraged me to pull the trigger. That snakeskin is still on my wall.” He nodded. “And I still remember the bond of trust and affection I felt for my father as a ten-year-old boy.”
Kittredge, I was pretty drunk myself by now but not so washed out that I couldn’t remember that Hunt had used a longer version of this same speech—for, God, it’s a speech!—a couple of nights ago at the estancia after Nardone asked him to say a few words to the assembled group. Now, Libertad and our good Dr. Saavedra were on the receiving line. I thought it was kind of crass for Hunt to repeat himself so soon in front of me, but he did pass along a wink. I must say his eyes were illumined by the gin; dammit, he was a luminous figure.
“Yes,” said Hunt, “my father was a brave man. His law partner in Florida once absconded to Havana with a sum of several thousand dollars. My father merely transferred his Browning automatic from his desk drawer to his pocket, bought a ticket on the Pan American plane leaving that very night for Havana, made a tour of the bars, and found his partner in Sloppy Joe’s, a notable emporium. Whereupon he walked up to the fellow, put out his hand for the cash, and was returned all of the essential that had not yet been lost to women, drink, and the crap tables. A compassionate man, my father. He did not prosecute his former associate. He would even share a drink with him in later years.”
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