Comrades in Miami

by Jose Latour

  Pardo had lifted his eyes to his wife’s and laughed softly.

  “Maybe you’ll be sent abroad again soon. Then you can file for political asylum,” she had said next.

  “I’d never do that.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause it would end your career.”

  “Not necessarily. I can claim that you never gave me a single reason to suspect that you were considering defection.”

  “You’d lose your job and this apartment.”

  “For sure. But I can find another job. Feel free to defect if you want.”

  “I won’t leave you behind.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you are the greatest fuck on earth.”

  It was her turn to smile, quite naughtily. “You feel like … confirmation?”

  So, they had taken a sixty-five minute break for an unforgettable lovemaking session in which feelings and fear were determinant. That she was willing to risk vilification and demotion for his sake aroused Pardo enormously. What blew her mind came close to the delight experienced by a woman who has just given birth to a much-wanted son. His life and well-being, from now on, were in her hands. She had had seven glorious orgasms.

  Later, still in bed.

  “Never express the slightest doubt to anyone,” Victoria had warned.

  “I don’t have doubts, Victoria.”

  “Criticisms, dissent, opposition, whatever. At party-cell study circles, when debating the Chief’s latest speech, the secretary asks you to comment on one of his …”

  She had paused to search for the appropriate word. Exhortations? Appeals? Predictions?

  “Deceptions, outright falsehoods, or stupid exaggerations?” Pardo had prompted.

  “Coñó! You are a walking time bomb! Back to the study circle. You firmly state that, as always, the man is 100 percent right, and we party members must do all we can to explain his views to those few citizens who don’t understand him. It’s safer to be considered a moron than a dissenter.”

  “Victoria, I’m forty-four. I’m not retarded. I’ve done that a hundred times.”

  Undeterred, she had kept pressing ahead. “If you are mad about something you are ordered to do as a party member, and want to get it off your chest, wait until you get home. If you can’t wait, give me a call and I’ll meet you anywhere.”

  “I am beginning to suspect that you love me a little.”

  “I love you and I’m in love with you.”

  “Isn’t that a redundancy?” he had asked, frowning.

  “No, it’s not. But let’s get back to basics. If you are not going to defect and manage to conceal from everyone your dissension, you’ll keep your job and I’ll keep mine. By protecting yourself, you protect me. What we have to do is work as efficiently as we can, become indispensable, try to get promoted. The higher we climb, the better we’ll live.”

  “That’s opportunism.”

  “No. And let me tell you why not. You mentioned earlier one of those idealistic notions we’ve been fed since grade school. There are more. Placing the interest of others before your own, making sacrifices for the homeland, risking your life for your political ideals. That is ideological crap for fools. You have to make a very conscious effort to leave them behind. Sane individuals think first of themselves.

  “A father tries to save his drowning daughter, a girl he loves immensely, but when they both go under because she’s clinging to his neck, the father lets her go and returns to the surface. The girl drowns, the father may have feelings of guilt for the rest of his life, but he acted sensibly, because a sane person’s most basic instinct is survival.

  “Above all other things, think of you. Of us, if you are not defecting. Samuel Johnson said that patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.”

  Pardo had squinted as he pondered a one-liner he had never heard before. “That may well be true, but José Martí wasn’t a scoundrel, or Ignacio Agramonte, or many others. I do know certain scoundrels who call themselves patriots, though.”

  “Same here. What I propose is not opportunism, it is adapting to a changing environment. If we can’t or won’t leave, we have to fend for ourselves, keep our eyes peeled for opportunities, see what we can do to prepare for the future.”

  “What future?”

  “The new Cuba that will emerge when the Chief dies. Two keys will unlock that future: money and power. Maybe if we could think of something … I mean, what could we do so that, when the time comes, I wield a little power and you’ve made a little money?”

  …

  Fidelia disliked Tony Soto. Tony Soto reciprocated her feeling. The Miami cop was Steil’s former pupil and friend; he also carried special assignments for IMLATINEX. Steil loved Fidelia. Therefore, he tried to steer things so the antagonists were not compelled to spend time together. But sometimes he simply could not.

  In the beginning, things were fine. Tony and Lidia, his wife, accepted an invitation to dinner at Steil’s. A few weeks later, Elliot and Fidelia had spent an evening at the married couple’s Coral Gables home. This came to be a somewhat random practice. But over the years, as Fidelia got to know Tony better, she had reached the conclusion that—under a veneer of paternalism in her presence—the cop treated his wife as though she were his servant.

  A devoted feminist ever since she became a law student at the University of Havana, Fidelia’s belief in equal rights had increased notably since she emigrated to the U.S. The semiretired injury lawyer she had been working for died two months before she got a law degree from Florida International University. At present Fidelia practiced divorce, child custody, support, alimony, visitation, modifications, contempt, and paternity. She was one of the three lawyers in the marital and family law team of a firm that also practiced personal injury and criminal law from their offices on Dadeland Boulevard.

  Doing the dishes after dinner, or during girl talk while the men watched a baseball game on TV, Fidelia used to counsel Lidia. “You mustn’t let him treat you like that” or similar hints were dropped. Lidia had begun voicing mild criticism to her husband about his ways, but he would not listen and instead start shouting. “Fidelia says,” Lidia had objected once. Tony wised up. From then on, he seemed uncomfortable and surly when the two couples spent time together. “What’s eating you?” Steil had wanted to know one evening. Tony had given his version of the problem. Back at their place, Steil had asked Fidelia whether Tony had valid reasons to feel aggravated. “Aggravated? Tony? Are you kidding me?” Then she had listed the many reasons that made her believe that the real victim in that marriage was Lidia. Steil had tried to persuade her that she should refrain from giving advice to Lidia, so as not to sour her marriage.

  “Okay, okay,” she had said, holding up her hands, warding him off. “He’s your friend. I know he helped you out when you needed it. But she is my friend and he abuses that poor soul on a daily basis. Worst kind of macho behavior I’ve seen in my life.”

  “Fidelia, she’s a housewife, they have three children. What will happen if they get a divorce?”

  “The kids would grow in a greatly improved family environment. And the sonofabitch would be paying child support until they are of age, and alimony to her for the rest of his life. I’d see to that, personally.”

  Seemingly, Fidelia thought things over and backed off somewhat. Their get-togethers had become less frequent, and when one took place, she tried to stay in Elliot’s presence most of the time to ward off accusations of poisoning Lidia’s mind behind his back. Steil appreciated her efforts to avoid confrontation and knew she was doing it for him. Left to her own, she would have counseled Lidia to file for divorce.

  By Cuban standards the relationship between Fidelia and Elliot was odd. They loved each other, had cohabited for six years, and had not considered marriage. She had divorced her husband two years after his desertion. Fidelia kept a room at her mother’s—a rented house in the northwest section of the city—where her son, now a high school senior, lived permane
ntly. Danny’s father had settled in New Jersey, and the teenager spent summer vacations there. Most evenings after supper she drove to Elliot’s and slept there.

  Besides never requesting or accepting cash from Steil, she had insisted on paying him back, little by little, the three thousand dollars he had loaned her to pay for her father’s funeral in 1995. She had no clue that after collecting his inheritance money, Steil had drawn up a will and bequeathed her a substantial amount. She didn’t know either that she owned one hundred thousand dollars in ten-year Treasury bonds that Steil had bought in her name and kept in his safe-deposit box.

  Two days after Steil’s interview with Maria Scheindlin, over breakfast, Fidelia informed Elliot that it was Lidia’s birthday. She voiced her suspicion that Tony would forget the date. Either that or he would make up an excuse to be away from home. Fidelia added that she would love to ask Lidia to dinner at the Versailles, her caveman husband included, of course. Sipping strong espresso, Steil thought it over for a minute or so. Although the prospect was not enticing to him, he agreed to join them if Fidelia picked up the tab. One hour had gone by when, from her office, the lawyer phoned Lidia, sang the Cuban version of “Happy Birthday To You” to her, then made the invitation. Tony’s wife sounded ecstatic. Around noon she called the lawyer to complain frantically that she could not find a babysitter. Fidelia arranged that, too.

  Lidia arrived at the restaurant at 7:25, alone. Five-feet-two, she had looked much better when she was fifteen pounds thinner, that is, before her last two pregnancies. Never forgetting that her handsome husband was five years her junior, Lidia dyed her curly hair on a weekly basis and dressed like women in their late twenties, or so she thought. That evening she was wearing a charcoal gray pantsuit with brass buttons over a white silk blouse, high heels, and ersatz gems on her fingers and ears. Her lip gloss was a fiery red and her false eyelashes an inch long.

  Tony would be a little late, “You know cops,” she said with a slightly embarrassed smile. They were having the main course half an hour later—sirloin steak with yucca in garlic sauce—when Tony joined them, a gift-wrapped box under his arm. Lidia beamed. Fidelia retreated into herself. He had on one of his ample short-sleeved shirts over a white T-shirt, straight-leg khakis, and moccasins. By way of apology he said he’d pinched a spook stupid enough to steal four laser disc players from a store in broad daylight, then had to do the paperwork at the station, take a shower, and change. His speech was somewhat slurred and red webbings crisscrossed the whites of his eyes. Fidelia shot a worried glance at Steil. Tony kissed his wife, then ordered a beer and a steak. After dessert, Lidia opened her gift. Fidelia could not repress a grunt when she saw the box of a blender.

  The short, low noise brought to a boil the anger and frustration Tony had been trying to suppress from the minute his wife had told him of Fidelia’s invitation. “You know how to expand a woman’s space, Elliot?” the cop asked, a forced grin on his lips, after finishing his eighth beer of the night. Then he wiped the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand and tilted his chair backward.

  “No,” Steil said. He saw it coming.

  “You build her a bigger kitchen.”

  Fidelia rested her right elbow on the table, covered her mouth with her hand, stared at the tablecloth.

  “You know how many neurons a woman has?”

  “Now, Tony …” Steil said in a placatory tone.

  “Four. One for each burner on her stove.”

  The red-faced Lidia seemed on the verge of tears. Fidelia glared into Tony’s eyes.

  “Hey, don’t give me the look. It’s a fucking joke,” the cop growled, trying to stare Fidelia down.

  “Watch your language, Tony. This is a public place,” Fidelia fumed.

  “Don’t pick on me, Fidelia,” he retorted, wiggling a finger at her.

  “Now, Tony,” Steil said soothingly.

  “Don’t ‘Tony’ me, Elliot. Your woman has been giving me a hard time for years. Meddling with my private life. What the fuck does she …”

  “Don’t raise your voice,” Steil said through clenched teeth.

  “I’ll damn well raise my voice as much as I want to.”

  “You are shitfaced!”

  “I’m not!”

  Steil jumped to his feet and stared at the cop. “Come with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “The restroom.”

  Silence reigned in the restaurant; other patrons stared. Fidelia mouthed “Check, please” to the server and fumbled around in her purse for her credit cards.

  “I ain’t going to no fucking restroom,” ranted Tony, practically climbing the wall with anger.

  Steil was breathing hard, the veins on his temples pulsing wildly. “Tony, if you set some value on our friendship, you come to the restroom with me. Now.”

  Ever since he was his student in high school, Tony had seen Steil as a person in authority. Over the last few years his admiration and respect for his former teacher had increased considerably. He thought the man was a lot smarter than he would ever be. Elliot had won Scheindlin’s confidence, had trounced the sons of bitches who tried to deprive him of his inheritance, had mastered trading, and it seemed he would be general manager of IMLATINEX once Sam Plotzher retired. And Tony knew Steil meant every word he said. He rose from his chair. Steil turned and headed for the washroom, followed by the cop. Hushed comments started to run through the restaurant.

  Six minutes later the sullen-looking pair came back to the table. Lidia blew her nose on a Kleenex that she dropped into a glass ashtray. Fidelia was staring at and fiddling with her napkin, now atop the table.

  “We think we have a solution for this clash of personalities,” Steil said. “And we want to know whether you agree.”

  Lidia shot a surprised glance at her husband, who kept looking at his empty glass of beer. Fidelia pretended to be absorbed in the complexities of folding a napkin. Diners at nearby tables stole looks and tried to overhear.

  “It’s best if Fidelia and Tony avoid each other,” Steil carried on. “However, you two are close friends and will remain so as long as you wish, and you may spend time together anywhere you like, except at Lidia’s home, to avoid a confrontation with Tony. Tony and I are friends, too, so the same rule applies to us. Tony would be very grateful if his married life is the one subject you two refrain from discussing. You comfortable with that, Tony?”

  “I am.”

  “Okay. Now, do you agree to this, Lidia?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Fidelia?”

  “No problem with that.”

  Thirty seconds of embarrassing silence followed.

  “Tony?” Steil prodded.

  The cop shifted in his seat. “I apologize. I was way out of line. I didn’t mean to spoil your birthday, honey.”

  “Oh, Tony. I love you so much,” said Lidia, tears sliding down her face like two streams that had burst their banks.

  Steil rose to his feet, gave a let’s-get-the-hell-outta-here nod to Fidelia, pulled his wallet out.

  “I already paid,” Fidelia said as she stood up.

  “Let’s go then.”

  Driving out of the parking lot, Steil took a peek at Fidelia. She had a faraway expression.

  “What did you talk about when we were in the restroom?” he asked.

  “What did you talk about in the restroom?”

  Steil grinned and took the center lane. Typical Fidelia. He sighed in resignation. “I asked him if he thought his mother would find the two jokes he had told at the table funny. He just stared at the floor. Then I said he had given us a hard time ’cause he was smashed and that you don’t discuss your differences with anyone when you are smashed. He said he feared your counseling might turn Lidia against him and that he loves her and doesn’t want his marriage to go to the rocks. I said I don’t give a damn if he likes you or hates you, but you are my woman and he has to respect you. No profanities in your presence. Then I suggested what I said at the table
.”

  She mulled this over for a few seconds. “Your woman,” she said.

  “Well, you are, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “You suppose?” taking the right lane, tapping the brakes for the red on Twenty-sixth, signaling a turn.

  “He said I was your woman. Now you say I am your woman. It’s a sexist expression.”

  “It isn’t. Not in Spanish. ‘My woman’ has the same meaning that ‘my wife’ has. We were talking in Spanish, weren’t we?”

  “But there isn’t a similar expression for you men, right? We are not supposed to say ‘my man.’ ‘My husband,’ ‘my spouse,’ ‘my consort’ are the proper counterparts in Spanish, legal terms without any connotation of personal possession.”

  “Fidelia, for Chrissake,” Steil objected, looking at her. She kept staring ahead. “You wanted me to tell you what we discussed in the restroom.”

  “Green.”

  Steil rounded the corner, let it rest.

  After a minute. “Well?” Fidelia asked.

  “Well what?”

  “What else did you say to him?”

  “Nothing else. He sulked for a while. Took a leak. Washed his face. Apologized.”

  A second pause ensued. Steil changed to the left lane, waited for the light at the corner of Coral Way and Twenty-sixth, and turned onto Coral.

  “Lidia just sobbed and apologized for him,” Fidelia volunteered. “Said he’s drinking too much.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I said I wasn’t offended. Not to worry.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You mad at me?” she asked after a moment. A measure of uneasiness had crept into her tone.

  “I’m not mad at you. Why should I be?” Then, following a brief pause, “What worries me is that I can’t say you’re ‘my wife’ because you are not; can’t say you’re my woman, because that makes you angry; can’t say you’re my lover or my mistress because it would blow the fuses in that beautiful head of yours. So what should I call you?”