Stalked: The Boy Who Said No

by Patti Sheehy

  Pino nodded at Torres without speaking. It suddenly dawned on him that he would miss this man. Over these many months, Pino had discussed things with Torres that he had never talked about. He had told him about his family, the beatings at the hands of his father, and his struggle in trying to capture Mederos. He was unaccustomed to speaking at such length to anyone, let alone about matters of such an intimate and personal nature. In fact, Torres was one of the few friends that Pino ever had. Pino thought that Torres’s announcement had all the makings of a disaster for him. But he was wrong.

  Torres cleared his throat and said, “Which brings me to my question.”

  Pino’s eyes widened, wondering what more Torres had to say. “I have been granted permission for someone to accompany me to Russia, someone who would be capable of learning at a higher level. Is that something you might consider?”

  Pino looked at Torres, flabbergasted. “Accompany you?”

  “Yes.”

  Pino shook his head in disbelief, speechless. This was a totally unexpected turn of events.

  “We will be stationed in Moscow,” continued Torres. “We will meet with the top officials of the Communist Party and will receive military training on all of the new weapons and technology coming out of the Soviet Union. It is a long and thorough course of study that will also include economics, history, communications, and philosophy. When you return to Cuba, you will be on the cutting edge of military matters. You will have knowledge equal or superior to anyone in Cuba, which will make you an extremely valuable asset to the military.”

  Pino’s eyebrows lifted and he let out a whistle, stunned. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Torres smiled, savoring the moment. “We will take in the sights of Moscow, visit Red Square, Lenin’s tomb, the Kremlin. It would be a privilege for anyone to go to the Motherland under these circumstances.”

  “Of course,” stammered Pino. He looked briefly out the window and smiled. If Torres can pull this off, this will be a dream come true. I’ll have a future again. Hell, if I play my cards right, I might even get a promotion.

  “Is that a yes?” asked Torres.

  Pino beamed his delight. “Definitely,” he said, almost tripping over his words. “It would be a great honor. Thank you so much for thinking of me, sir.”

  Torres nodded. “It will take me a little more than a week to finish up my business. I still need to convince some people regarding your appointment. Let me make myself clear: I am not promising anything. But should I be successful, I will come to get you in ten days. Be ready. Understand?”

  “I’ll be ready, sir. That goes without saying.”

  When Torres left, Pino sank into a chair, lost in thought. This was an unprecedented opportunity. He hoped against hope it would materialize. Closing his eyes, he marveled at how well things had evolved. He had avoided a jail sentence, and now a possibility existed that could greatly advance his career.

  He smiled, thinking of the events of the past year: Mederos’s escape, his fruitless attempt to catch the worm, his loss of rank, and his misadventures in the cane fields. But now he might be able to put that all behind him. He vowed that, if approved, he would make the most of his time in Russia.

  He congratulated himself. He had played the army’s little game, and he had played it well. He smiled wryly as he drew himself up, standing tall for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Torres had his work cut out. Led by First Captain Victor Flores, the committee had deep reservations regarding Pino’s proposed trip to Russia, expressing grave concerns regarding the former lieutenant’s judgment and temperament.

  They felt that his offense was indicative of a deep personality flaw and that he could not possibly have been rehabilitated in such a short time. What’s more, they maintained that he should not be rewarded by being placed in a position that could lead to a promotion.

  Torres argued that Pino had been an excellent leader in the past and that it was important that he remain current with political philosophy and military issues so he could serve the country in the future. He tried to convince the committee that Pino’s behavior, while egregious, did not reflect poorly on his abilities and skills.

  What’s more, Pino had supported the Party through his many years of service and had not betrayed the revolution in any way. He had not blown up a munitions factory, sabotaged communications, or fomented dissent.

  Torres further submitted that the pool of qualified candidates for such an assignment was small. Many officers had obtained their rank by dint of their service to Fidel while fighting in the hills. Yes, they were loyal to el lider maximo, but they were basically rough, uneducated men who would embarrass Cuba and undermine her image with the Soviets.

  On the other hand, Pino had a keen intellect, a fine education, and a highly polished manner. And despite his previous failure, he remained the best candidate to represent Cuba during these volatile and highly sensitive times.

  After more than a week of discussion, the committee relented. But not before making it perfectly clear that the blame would lie at Torres’s feet should anything go wrong. He would be held personally responsible for Pino’s behavior. Torres, in turn, reminded the committee that he had always been successful in his undertakings and that this endeavor would prove to be no exception.

  The next day Torres summoned Pino to the foreman’s office to give him the news. Pino had spent the past several days thinking about what it would be like to travel to Russia. Although he exuded an air of sophistication, he had never been on an airplane or even traveled outside Cuba.

  The idea of going to such an exotic place had invaded his imagination like a commando on a raid. In fact, he had been so preoccupied with the idea that he had cut himself on the hand with a machete, something he had taken great pains not to do.

  Torres greeted Pino with an incandescent smile. Pino’s heart skipped a beat in anticipation when he saw the officer’s face. The two men looked at each other knowingly, aware that something momentous was about to transpire.

  “I have two matters of interest to discuss with you,” said Torres. His voice was excited, exuberant.

  Pino smiled and nodded.

  “First, due to your exemplary behavior, I have recommended that your rank be reinstated along with the salary, rights, and privileges that accompany it. The oversight committee has accepted my recommendation, Lieutenant.”

  Torres hesitated a moment, watching Pino’s expression.

  Pino looked at Torres, shocked. This was a development for which he was totally unprepared. Being stripped of his rank was a humiliation that had nearly eaten him alive. Pino considered it an act of satanic surgery, a blow akin to losing his arm. And, like losing a limb, he had abandoned all hope of getting it back. Now Torres had addressed him as lieutenant.

  The word pleased more than one of Pino’s senses. He silently turned it over in his mouth. It tasted like a chocolate truffle, velvety smooth and sweet. It sounded like the rounded vowels of a creek’s burble, like the tenor of his mother’s voice interrupting his father’s abuse.

  A glint of tears entered Pino’s eyes before he blinked them away. He was not a man to show emotion.

  Pino returned Torres’s gaze, feeling gratified and self-satisfied. His strategy had worked. His discipline had paid off. He tried to suppress a smile, but it was almost beyond his ken.

  “There’s more,” said Torres. Pino looked up, hopeful. “This morning your candidacy for training in the Soviet Union was approved.”

  “I’m going to Russia?”

  “You’re going to Russia, Lieutenant.”

  That simple sentence sent something akin to a bolt of electricity through Pino’s body. He was awestruck. The excitement was enough to make him dizzy. He knew he should respond in some way, but no words gathered on his tongue. Every cell in his body vibrated in anticipation.

  He imagined himself touring the Kremlin. He saw himself drinking vodka and eating b
orscht with top communist officials. He pictured himself warmed by a fur coat while marveling at the jewel-toned onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral.

  Torres gave Pino a moment to recover. “It’s taken a lot of convincing to obtain permission for you to accompany me.” His voice had assumed a somber tone. “I’ve taken a big risk in recommending you. I expect you to pay attention, to follow orders, and to respect the chain of command. You are to have no altercations, not even a hint of conflict arising from your high opinion of yourself. I want you to apply yourself to the best of your ability, to remain humble and on your best behavior. Do I have your word on that?”

  Pino gulped down his pride. “You do.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled.”

  Torres turned and handed Pino a package wrapped in brown paper and string.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s your uniform. We’re going to a hotel so you can get cleaned up and change your clothes.” He gave Pino the once-over and wrinkled his nose. Pino’s beard blued his cheeks, dirt yellowed his ragged nails, and circles of perspiration blackened his shirt. Torres reached into his pocket, withdrew a nail clipper, and tossed it to Pino. “Use this for starters. You certainly can’t go to Russia looking like that.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Pino’s gaze drifted down to the package on his lap, looking at it as if it contained a miracle. It’s strange that my dealings with Mederos have opened a door for me that I never would’ve dreamed possible. He smiled at the thought of his nemesis and said to himself, I’m back in the game, Mederos. You’d better watch out! It may take me years, but this is my ticket to revenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  January was a long, dreary month in Union City. Frank walked down Bergenline Avenue with the wind tattooing his face. A light drizzle misted the sidewalk and hung like crystal beads beneath the streetlights. Crumpled Kool cigarette boxes, crushed Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, and broken beer bottles choked the gutters.

  A copy of a crime magazine lay curled beside a Volkswagen Beetle painted in a rainbow of psychedelic colors. Its cover offered a lurid image of a big-busted woman in a tight black skirt. Her torn blouse revealed half-exposed breasts. Fishnet stockings clung to long, shapely legs.

  The menacing figure of a criminal lurked behind her, looking like he was ready to attack. She stared at the viewer with fear in her eyes. A gust of wind flipped the magazine’s pages, leaving nothing of the image behind.

  A chill filled the air, and Frank was eager to get home to Magda. He drew himself up and cinched his scarf tighter around his neck. Red streaks marched across a bruised blue sky. A lone crow cawed from a telephone wire. He stepped over a pile of urine-soaked rags that cushioned a wall sprayed with black paint; jagged, irregular shapes that marked a gang’s turf.

  Suddenly, the pile moved and an arm emerged. A murmur arose from a mouth Frank could not see. A hand with bony fingers and jagged nails turned against the broken concrete. The man opened his hand beseechingly. Frank leaned down and dropped a quarter into his weathered palm, feeling sympathetic to the circumstances of this poor creature.

  On the street corner five men held gloved hands over an oil can fire, its resinous smoke rising in arabesques around their heads. On the opposite corner several young men gathered outside a neighborhood bar, kicking empty cans and cuffing cigarettes. Red neon lights lit their eyes, haunted eyes that were far too old for their faces. Their voices were coarse, their laughter rough. One boy pushed another, a shove that could’ve easily erupted into a pitched brawl. Frank dug his hands into his coat pocket and slipped past them, unnoticed.

  He climbed the stairs, turned the key in the lock, and entered the living room to the apartment. Magda was watching an old movie set in Paris. Her feet rested on the coffee table. Frank looked at the image on the television screen and thought that that’s where Magda should live—in a home decorated with silk drapes and mahogany furniture as rich and dark as sable.

  Had history taken a different turn she would never be in this city, in this small apartment with its stained porcelain sink, its rusted electric stove, its worn linoleum floor. Frank remembered the house she lived in with her parents in Havana, a place filled with flowers, fine china, and crystal. He wondered whether he would be able to provide his wife with life’s necessities, let alone its luxuries.

  But more than that, he worried about her safety. He shuddered to think what he would do if something ever happened to Magda. She was his rock, his touchstone, and his raison d’être. He constantly reminded her to lock the doors, and she was good about it, but sometimes it slipped her mind. It was not her habit in Cuba.

  Magda looked up and smiled, sweeping her glossy hair away from her face with her hand. She stood, switched off the television set, and nodded toward the bedroom.

  The couple walked into the room together, arm and arm. Frank sat down on the bed, untied his shoes, and slipped them off.

  He watched as Magda grabbed the bottom of her blue mohair sweater and lifted it above her head, releasing a crackle of static electricity that created small fireworks in the dark. She stood in the shadows in her white nylon slip, the lace cups covering her firm breasts. Her waist was trim, her belly flat. She was still a little shy about revealing her body to Frank, no matter how many times he told her how beautiful she was.

  Magda stripped the barrette from her hair, releasing her tresses into a jumble of curls. She kicked off her shoes and unzipped her skirt. Then she walked toward Frank and held his head to her breasts. He buried his face in them, smelling her Jean Naté cologne. He pulled her down next to him in the bed and ran his finger along the length of her nose. She giggled.

  “You’re tickling me,” she said, pulling her face away from his reach.

  He began tickling her for real, under her ribs, under her arms until she collapsed, exhausted from laughter. Then he laid her gently back on the pillow and looked at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “It’s just that I can’t believe we’re really here—together,” he said.

  “I know,” said Magda. “And we’re going to be together forever.” She smiled, convinced of her words.

  Frank grew quiet for a moment. “Do you mind living here?” It was a question that had nagged him for a while.

  “What do you mean? In the States?”

  “No, in this apartment.”

  Magda laughed. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it’s nothing like the house you grew up in. I just wondered if—”

  Magda wrinkled her nose as if to scold Frank. “Stop,” she said. “This is our home. Ours! It has everything we need—a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room. My parents are nearby. We have a good landlord. It’s just fine. It doesn’t matter where we live as long as we’re together.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course. Besides, we won’t live here forever. We’ll make our way, get a car, buy a house. You’ve got to believe, Frank.”

  “I do. But sometimes I doubt my ability to make a nice life for us.”

  A look of concern crossed Magda’s eyes, as if she were searching for words of encouragement that were beyond her grasp. Then her face brightened.

  “What?” Frank asked.

  Magda took his hand in hers and looked him in the eyes. “Remember the refrigerator?”

  Frank pictured Pedro holding up traffic and laughter bubbled up his throat.

  “How could I forget?”

  He thought about the dogs, the cockroaches, and Pedro giving drivers the peace sign. He thought about the look on his uncle’s face as they pushed the refrigerator up three flights of stairs. He knew Magda was thinking the same thing. They began to chuckle and then the laughter overtook them. They howled until their stomachs ached, and they had to wipe tears from their eyes. They lay back on the bed, exhausted. Magda turned and said, “You know, it’s all about the refrigerator, Frank.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She lifted he
r body on her elbow. “When you heard about the refrigerator, you grabbed the chance to get it. It didn’t matter that you had to drag it up and down ten city blocks. Sure it was difficult. So was defecting. But when you set your sights on something, you do it. You don’t give up. That’s who you are, Frank. That’s why I’m not worried about our future.”

  Frank returned Magda’s gaze, amazed at how positive she was, always encouraging him. “That’s what you think?” he said, wanting her to go on talking, but not wanting to say so.

  “That’s what I think. We’re going to make it, Frank. We have skills and abilities. We’re a team—a great team. We’ll figure it out. You’ll see. Besides, I’m just grateful to have you here with me and to be in America.”

  “Thanks, I needed to hear that.” Frank gathered Magda in the crook of his arm and looked at the ceiling. “I’m grateful to be in America too. It’s so good to be able to speak your mind without fear of repercussions.”

  They lay in silence for a moment. Frank lowered his chin on top of Magda’s head. “Do you miss Cuba?” he asked.

  Magda’s expression softened. “Yes. I miss the birds, the beach, the flowers—”

  Frank nodded. “Me too, but I miss the people more.”

  Magda grew more somber. “So do I, but at least I have my family here. But you left everyone behind.”

  “Not everyone. I have you.”

  “I know, but still—”

  Frank heaved a sigh. “I do miss them terribly.”

  “Who do you miss the most?” A look of concern marched across Magda’s eyes.

  Frank thought for a moment. He was feeling a dull ache of vacancy, like he was lost in the woods and couldn’t find his way home. “It depends,” he said. “Sometimes it’s my mother and father. Sometimes Abuelo. To tell you the truth, I’m afraid they’ll die before I get to see them again.”

  Magda nodded and lifted a hand to stroke Frank’s cheek. “And your siblings, your friends?”