Havana Twist

by Lia Matera

  I was so intent on watching the plane—presumably we would soon be boarding it, but I didn’t even know what country it belonged to—that I didn’t notice the headlights behind us. Not until Don muttered, “Damn,” and Marules moaned.

  I turned to see two jeeplike trucks racing toward the reclosed gate. Our driver stood silhouetted in the headlights, arms dangling, one hand still holding the huge padlock.

  I could hear Martin Marules praying aloud. I was praying, too, praying to some vague god of irony and justice, praying that Emilio’s name would be enough to turn the trucks around; that our driver would offer Emilio’s patronage like a bribe to protect us from arrest.

  Four men in military fatigues jumped out of the trucks, approaching our driver with their machine guns pointed. We could see the driver gesticulating, apparently offering an animated explanation. Whatever he was saying, the soldiers didn’t seem to care. They motioned him to unravel the chain he’d rewound around the cyclone fence.

  I reached past Don, reached for the door. I just wanted out. I wanted to run. I wanted to dash across the tarmac and vanish into a crowd, make my way back to Havana any way I could.

  Don grabbed my arm.

  Two of the soldiers flanked the car. One of them motioned us out with his machine gun.

  Don slid out, offering his hand to help me. Instead, I cowered against Marules, reaching backward for the door handle as if, somehow, I could get past the other soldier.

  The soldier pushed Don aside, reached in, and unceremoniously yanked me out, flinging me to the ground.

  Don was right behind me, helping me up. By the time I was on my feet, Marules was out of the car, too.

  Our driver was being prodded toward us. I could see he was a scholarly-looking young man with rimless glasses. He appeared more perturbed than worried.

  The oldest of the soldiers said, “You are under arrest! You will place your hands on the tops of your heads without delay!”

  I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. I couldn’t breathe, much less move my arms to raise them. I grew lightheaded. I thought, for a moment, that I’d gone into shock, that my internal systems were shutting down. I thought I would faint, like some silly movie heroine.

  My worst nightmare had come true. I was under arrest. In Cuba. Where our country maintained no diplomatic relations, where it had no goodwill to barter for our freedom. If it even cared about us after we’d broken the law to come here.

  I watched Martin Marules put his hands atop his head. “Señor Emilio,” he sputtered. “You must call him.”

  “You will have an opportunity in the days ahead to contact who you will,” the soldier said.

  The other soldier, for reasons I had missed, was hustling our driver back to his car.

  Don put his hands up, too. He looked at me with the most painful apology in his eyes, as if this were his fault, as if he should have known, should have insisted on a different course, should have protected me.

  When, actually, I was the one who’d brought him here. My mother had tried to get him fired years ago, but he had risked this to try to help her. I hoped he could see it in my eyes, see how sorry I was, how grateful I was. How much I loved him.

  I tried to raise my arms above my head. But all I could think about was the women’s prison. I thought of Myra Wilson, drugged behind a sewing machine. I thought of the months I’d spent in the San Bruno Jail, the claustrophobia that had made it the longest ordeal of my life. I recalled shivering on my bunk every night, a glaze of panic on my face, trying to ignore the bars, the locks, just long enough to sleep.

  I couldn’t do it again. I’d rather be shot.

  Adrenaline hit me like a lightning bolt.

  I turned and ran. I knew it was stupid, I knew it was counterproductive. I knew I’d never get away from four armed soldiers and two trucks. I knew it would look inculpating and make things worse for me. But I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t bear it. I was carried on a flood of fear, I was superwoman. I couldn’t and wouldn’t let them hold me.

  I ran across the tarmac as fast as I could, hearing my heart hammer in my ears, listening hard for gun shots.

  Don was shouting, “Willa! No! No!”

  But still I ran.

  32

  I had almost reached the airport building, for all the good that might have done me, when a hand grabbed my shoulder. I was spun around and socked in the jaw. I went down hard, scraping my shoulder on the concrete as my head bounced.

  I was too scared to feel it. I tried to scramble to my feet. I couldn’t hear well or think clearly, but I could make out Don shouting, booted feet running toward me. I blinked back tears and saw a man astride me, not a soldier but an airport worker in a greasy jumpsuit. By the time I brought him into focus, there were soldiers beside him, grinning as if I were a side show.

  I scooted farther back, finding myself pinned against a wall. I hadn’t covered much ground. I could see Don and Marules at a distance of perhaps forty yards, pressed against one of the trucks with soldiers’ machine guns in their ribs.

  I had made this harder for everyone, that was all. One of the soldiers hoisted me to my feet, then slammed me back against the building. He and his companion pointed their machine guns at me.

  Beyond them, activity around the airplane slowed. Workers stood watching, probably enjoying a few moments of drama in an otherwise ordinary work night.

  I was shaking, holding my head as the blood pounded painfully behind my eyes. I could feel the swelling in my cheek where I’d been punched. A soldier pulled me away from the wall. I staggered forward a couple of yards, then he got behind me, poking the gun into my back, pushing me along with it as if herding a stray.

  The soldiers took me to the second truck and tossed me up against the side. Don and Marules, I noticed fleetingly, were handcuffed now. They were trundled off into the other truck. It sped away as I was cuffed and handed into the remaining one.

  Perhaps in deference to his patron, Señor Emilio’s driver was left behind, sitting in the car, no doubt wondering how to explain all this.

  Or so I thought until I saw him in our headlights. He was smiling. And the soldier in the seat beside me flashed him a quick thumbs-up.

  Sitting sidesaddle to accommodate heavy metal cuffs fastening my hands behind me, I saw the gesture with an eerie clarity, like a blown-up snapshot with the details enhanced. Thumbs-up—thank you for your part in delivering the troublesome pandas.

  Until then, I’d assumed Señor Emilio had been thwarted. Now I knew that wasn’t true, that this was part of the plan. He had arranged our supposed exit, perhaps to prove his loyalty to his rich patron, Martin Marules. Marules, no doubt, would be released soon and sent home. His dollars must have bought him that much.

  And Marules wouldn’t blame his friend, Señor Emilio. He would blame the military, the old guard, the histórico General Miguel, for sabotaging Emilio. He would contribute even more money to Emilio, perhaps, to tip the balance in Cuba. The old revolutionaries had grown too romantic and nostalgic. The young Turks like Emilio were forging the way toward a new Cuba, one that recognized the cold reality that cash was paramount. Idealism was nothing without funding.

  The truck had just started down the highway when it was stopped by a sedan turning sideways to block both lanes.

  One of the soldiers grabbed his machine gun and jumped out, striding toward the car. The other soldier quickly checked my handcuffs, then joined him.

  I didn’t know what to expect. Señor Emilio himself come to question me? His car come to take me someplace I wouldn’t easily be found? The same place my mother had been taken? That Dennis and Cindy had been stashed? To some remote work farm, perhaps? To a labor camp in China?

  Fear gnawed at me so ferociously I envisioned leaping out of the jeep and running down the road, though I knew I’d probably be shot for it.

  I wat
ched the car. I considered soldier-assisted suicide if a People’s Republic uniform emerged from it. Or if I heard the words bota la llave.

  But it was General Miguel who climbed out of the small sedan. “Where are the others?” he demanded.

  General Miguel? Had I misjudged Emilio? Was this the general’s doing after all? Had the driver of the other car belonged to the general?

  “Where are they? The two men? Speak!”

  The soldier took a faltering step backward, obviously frightened. “General!” he said.

  I sat up straighter. The soldier sounded surprised.

  “Where are the others?” The general’s voice was an exasperated boom. “Leave the woman with me,” he ordered. “And go after them. Bring them back here. If you fail, you will answer for it.”

  He strode to where I sat. He looked at my cheek, his nostrils flaring. “Handcuff keys!”

  He handed me out of the truck while a soldier unlocked the cuffs.

  The general repeated, “You will pay a high price if you do not return with the others.”

  The soldiers jumped into the truck. The general motioned for his car to back up, and the truck shot around it, barreling down the highway at hurtling speed.

  The general put his arm around me. He smelled of rum and cigars, lots of cigars. “You are all right?”

  “Yes.” I rubbed my wrists. “You’re not going to … we’re not going to …”

  “Prison, Señorita? No. I believe you have a plane to catch, do you not?”

  I didn’t know what to say, what it was safe to say.

  “Señor Emilio has promised you a plane ride home, unless I am very much mistaken.” He began walking me toward his car. “I have wondered how he manages to get them out of the country, his workers, his fund-raisers. Only tonight, with the help of the commotion in the hospital, the call from the tourism police, the license plate number … only tonight has it all come clear.”

  He handed me into the car, a Russian model with a cheap metal body. The driver turned. It was Mr. Radio Havana. “Hello,” he said. “We were very lucky to intercept you. Another few moments, and you would have been lost.”

  Another few moments. The moments I’d spent running away. Though my jaw might ache tomorrow, my panic hadn’t been wasted after all.

  The general climbed in beside me. “Emilio has brought his pet capitalist, Marules, to coax you toward something,” the general mused. “Emilio is a smart man, as I have seen many times, often to my detriment. He will have dangled an irresistible lure before you. Such as … a plane which stops only to refuel, and therefore requires no checking of passports or visas. And so I have put together what I have seen tonight—the arrival of Marules, the reports of the soldiers I send to see about his heart attack, the fact that Emilio’s car has abruptly taken you away. You are not being returned to your hotel, that much is clear—the tourism police are at the hospital waiting for that very purpose. Rather, you are being taken out of my reach. And so, finally, I understand. And through understanding what has been planned for you, what has been offered to you, I have also grown to understand the rest. How Emilio has moved people out of Cuba to solicit the dollars with which he dazzles us.”

  “You’re not going to arrest me?” I didn’t care about his thought process, however much of a triumph his conclusion might be. I just wanted the bottom line.

  “No. A promise has been made to you, and as a courtesy to Señor Emilio, I will see to it that it is carried out.”

  Mr. Radio Havana gaped at him, his emotion filling the car like some huge fluttering moth. “But, General—”

  “I am acting as Emilio’s ally, am I not? I have seen his great patron Marules under arrest, and I have learned of compañero Emilio’s plans for him.” He patted his pockets, pulling out a cigar. “And you forget that I am still a powerful man, in my quaint fashion—there are not so many Heroes of the Revolution left. But even if my day is over, I have this last weapon that I have borrowed from the new generation. I have been schooled in it by Emilio himself.” He sliced away the cigar’s twisted end and lit it. “When the rest of my arsenal is gone, I have duplicity, do I not?”

  I could see headlights coming up fast. Two trucks pulled to a stop beside us. Marules and Don were in one of them.

  The general told me to stay put, and he got out to greet the soldiers. I heard him barking orders, as any general in any country might do.

  Mr. Radio Havana turned to face me. He said, “This is a difficult time for Cuba. We are tantalized by so much, so close. And all we have ever wanted is enough, we only want enough. Is it any wonder that factions form and expedient methods are employed?”

  I finally found my voice. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. But I knew what I wanted to say to him. I said, “Thank you! Thank you for coming tonight.”

  The general climbed into the front seat, letting Don and Marules into the back. I went directly into a clinch with Don. I could hear Marules sniffing as if overcome with tears. And I didn’t blame him, not a bit.

  To him, the general said, “I have learned from the compañera that Señor Emilio has promised you passage aboard the airplane currently on the runway before us. Is that correct?”

  Apparently he didn’t want it getting back to Emilio that he’d figured out the scam on his own.

  Indebted to him, I said, “It’s true, Martin. I told him.”

  I felt Don stiffen warily.

  “Well, I …” Marules seemed to be struggling with himself. He didn’t want to admit Señor Emilio had plotted to sneak us out, especially since he knew the general was of a different faction. On the other hand, the general had just rescued us from arrest.

  “Do not be nervous, Señor Marules,” the general soothed him. “We are not allies, Señor Emilio and myself. Yet I hold him in great respect for all he has purchased—I mean, accomplished—for the Revolution. I would not for the world see him thwarted by an accident such as the inopportune arrival of soldiers.” Soldiers Emilio had sent. But Marules wasn’t likely to believe that. The general, it seemed, was a very foxy man. “So I have stepped in to avoid the ruin of his plan. As a token of respect for him. And so, I will deliver you to your airplane. I assume you have been given instructions for how to proceed once you are inside the gate?”

  “I … yes,” Marules admitted. “Code words, General.”

  “Then let us see to it you do not miss your flight.” He motioned to Mr. Radio Havana.

  The trucks had driven off. Our driver watched their taillights in the rearview mirror. He waited until they were out of sight, then he started back toward the airport.

  A car passed us going the other way—Emilio’s car and driver. Once again, we drove across the tarmac to the waiting plane. The refueling had apparently been accomplished. The maintenance vehicles were parked farther down the field.

  A thin band of orange was shimmering along the horizon. The sun was beginning to come up.

  We climbed out of the car. The general motioned for a man standing at the terminal door to join us.

  “You have three more passengers,” he said. “They forgot to reboard. Please put the stairs back so they may rejoin the other travelers.”

  The man looked aghast. “But, General, according to our list—”

  “No, not according to your list. According to Señor Emilio.”

  The man took an involuntary step backward. It was as if the general had said “Count Dracula.” He looked terrified.

  But this was clearly something he’d been asked to do before. His terror was unmarred by protest or questions.

  Marules moved closer to him. On the runway, the plane’s engine revved. It was preparing for takeoff. Marules murmured a few words into the man’s ear.

  The latter shook his head slightly, as if fervently hoping no ill would come of it, no harm to him or his family. But apparently Emil
io had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  The man motioned to a pair of workers, then excused himself, saying he would speed things up.

  The general puffed on his cigar, watching thoughtfully as stairs were wheeled back and abutted to the plane, and the door was reopened.

  When the man came to fetch us, the general dropped his cigar and ground it out. He smiled at us, saying, merely, “Socialismo o muerte.” Socialism or death, the slogan we’d seen on dozens of billboards and revolutionary watch committee posters.

  I glanced back at him as we walked toward the plane.

  Socialism or death. On our bus ride to the citrus farm, Dennis had spotted yet another wall stenciled with the proclamation. There was an old joke in Havana, he’d smiled. “‘Socialism or death?’ Isn’t that redundant?”

  There weren’t many Heroes of the Revolution left. It had been our nerve-racking privilege to meet one.

  33

  The minutes before the plane took off were among the most difficult of my life. The passengers gawked. The stewardesses whispered among themselves, consulted with pilots, and in general treated us with suspicion.

  But compared to the alternative, it didn’t matter. There were seats enough for us, though not together. And if the plane would just lift off, just go, with no last-minute opening of the door, no hoisting us out of our seats, no driving us off to a Cuban prison, I would be happy.

  I was wedged between a plump girl in gaudy, inexpensive clothes and a gangly, dye-job redhead, neither of whom looked happy to sit beside a sweating new passenger with a flowering bruise and a dirt-streaked shirt. I kept my eyes closed, praying the plane would take off. Every time I opened them, a stewardess was watching me. So I kept quiet, kept still, and tried to keep calm.

  Finally, our destination still a mystery to me, we lifted off, flying over the western half of the island, reaching water as the sun rose behind us.