"Did you ever tell your grandfather what really happened?"
"There was no reason to. I caught enough hell from him just being there, and having to be rescued from the Sandinistas." Anthony smiled. "He said I was an idiot, a fool, that I had caused pain to my mother, to the entire Pedrosa family to the end of time, et cetera and so on, and he hoped I had learned my lesson. Of course I didn't humiliate myself further by agreeing with him. That was the last time we talked about it. Or about much of anything."
After a while he said, "You can ask Seth and Rebecca about Los Pozos if you want."
"I won't ask them," Gail said. "I've heard what I needed to know."
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on hers. "I think we should go to bed now."
CHAPTER TEN
The out-of-town relatives stayed the weekend with Gail's mother, who found room for all of them—Irene's sister and brother-in-law from Tampa; their daughter, in her twenties; Gail's cousin from Atlanta and her husband; and an elderly aunt from. Ohio who said she had always wanted to meet some Cubans in person. At breakfast on Saturday morning she produced a Berlitz phrase book for travelers. Me llamo Doris. ¿Cómo está usted?
Gail's cousins hid their smiles behind coffee cups while Irene told her aunt not to worry: Anthony's family could speak English—except for a few older people who found the language impossible. Aunt Doris could try out her Spanish on them. Gail sent Karen to get the C volume of the encyclopedia from the study, then showed everyone the map. Here is Havana. There is Camagüey, where Anthony spent most of his childhood. But don't bring that up. Gail told them about the situation at the opera, and told them not to bring that up either. Don't talk about politics. Don't mention Castro or the embargo. Talk about music or food. The weather in Miami. Sports.
Gail and Karen went home to get dressed. Wrapped in a towel from her shower, Gail took her black dress out of the closet. Was it too short? What else could she wear? Nothing red, nothing sparkly or tight. But nothing dowdy or plain. Anthony had to like it. She finished her hair and makeup, then went to check on Karen. She found her sitting on the edge of the bed in panties and camisole, watching TV. Her hair, which Gail had put into a French braid, now hung in her eyes. What have you done? Gail turned off the TV while Karen explained that her scalp had felt funny, and why couldn't she just wear her hair like always— straight? Fine. The dress was laid out on the bed— blue velvet with short sleeves and a silk rose at the neck. Do I have to wear that? I hate velvet. That flower is stupid. And the shoes hurt my feet. They're size seven already! I'm going to be huge! Gail took several deep breaths. All right, then. Wear what you want. No jeans. No sneakers.
She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. Back in her bedroom, she pushed hangers back and forth for ten minutes, then came out with the same slim black dress she had already chosen. She put on black hose and pumps, simple gold earrings and a necklace, a touch of perfume, and that was that. She knocked lightly at Karen's door. Karen was putting on her new dress. I still hate it, she said. Gail brushed her hair until it turned to silk, then tied it back with a ribbon.
The relatives arrived at her house at six-thirty, and Anthony arrived shortly thereafter, his car purring into the driveway. Gail felt a little rush of pleasure opening the front door, seeing his eyes sweep over her. His kiss on her lips said more than hello. She brought him inside. There were handshakes. Smiles all around. Gail's female cousins blushed when fie spoke to them. He noticed Karen's dress—¡Que linda! Karen rolled her eyes, then flipped her hair back over her shoulders and sat primly with her ankles crossed. There was silence, then Bill, the relative from Atlanta, asked, So, how about the Miami Heat this year? They finished a bottle of wine and a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Gail had told them earlier, Eat something before you go, because dinner will be served late.
When their three cars arrived at the Pedrosa house in Coral Gables, the circular drive was already full, so they parked along the wall and walked through the old ironwork gates. Irene's sister Patsy noticed the arches and twisted Moorish columns along the front porch. Coming nearer the entrance, they could hear laughter and conversation from within. Anthony opened the door.
Through the foyer with its polished tile floor, then into the living room. People everywhere. Children running around, no one telling them to hush. Anthony's grandmother came forward with her arms out. The new arrivals were pulled inside, coats were taken. A blur of introductions. Alejandro, Xiomara, Betty, Marielena, José, Humberto—Handshakes and kisses on the cheek. The right cheek, Gail had explained beforehand. And don't be surprised if the children kiss you, too.
Then taken to meet Ernesto Pedrosa. He sat in a big leather chair at the opposite end of the room, dressed formally in suit and tie, thin silk socks and shiny black shoes. He broke off his conversation with the two men who had pulled up chairs beside him. As he looked around, the lights flickered in his glasses. His gaze fixed on Anthony.
Anthony leaned down to kiss his grandfather, but there was no hearty abrazo. Pedrosa steadied himself on his cane. Anthony's hand automatically went out, but the old man got up on his own. He smiled at Gail and lifted her hand to his lips. Held an arm out to Irene, then patted Karen's cheek.
The relatives were introduced to him. Doris, Patsy, Kyle, Dawn, Ashley, Bill—Happy Birthday, Señor Pedrosa. What a lovely home. Pleased to meet you, sir. Aunt Doris said, Feliz cumpleaños. They set their gifts on a table already covered with them. Irene gave Digna perfect pink roses in a Baccarat vase and Digna placed them on the mantel over the fireplace.
Pedrosa beamed at the faces gathered around him. "Bienvenidos, todos. My wife wanted this to be a surprise party. It is. I am surprised to be here at all. I feel so good tonight, maybe one of these ladies will dance with me."
Earlier at Irene's house, Gail had told the story of this man, who longed to return to a home that was no longer there. The youngest daughter, Caridad, falling in love with the son of peasants. Luis joining the rebels in the Sierra Maestra. The war, the exile, a family torn apart. Pedrosa's only son killed at the Bay of Pigs. Caridad's early death. Of her four children, one refused to leave Havana. The others were here: Anthony, Alicia, and the youngest, Eduardo, braindamaged at birth.
Gail had omitted the part about Pedrosa having been investigated by the FBI. His ties to the CIA that supposedly saved him from indictment. His membership in exile groups alleged to have run raids into Cuba, set bombs in Miami, and targeted traitors who wanted dialogue with Castro. This had been many years ago. Nor had Gail told her relatives about the estrangement between Pedrosa and his oldest grandson.
Karen was twirling on the heel of her shoe. Her dress belled out. She stopped suddenly. Caught herself, then at a break in the conversation stood directly in front of Pedrosa. He looked down at her.
"I have a joke for you," she said.
"A joke?" He straightened his glasses.
"I told you a joke when I was here at Christmas, and you said you wanted me to tell you another one when I came back."
"All right. Tell me the joke." Pedrosa leaned on his cane, tilting his head to favor his good ear.
Karen laughed behind her hands, then cleared her throat and spoke seriously. "If you're an American when you go into the bathroom, and an American when you come out of the bathroom, what are you when you're in the bathroom?"
Gail cringed. Anthony smiled and shook his head. There were giggles from the children.
Pedrosa took a breath. "Hmm. American when I go in . . . and when I come out." Finally a sigh. "I don't know. What am I, when I'm in the bathroom?"
"European!" Karen laughed in her high voice. "Get it?"
From Pedrosa came a soft chuckle. "Yes, I get it." He wagged his finger at her. "A good joke. You have another one for me next time. All right?"
"Okay. Mom, can I go play video games?"
"Please do," Gail said softly. "Be good."
"Bye!" She sped off with the other girls, her new shoes skidding when she took th
e corner.
Pedrosa was still chuckling. "I heard that one fifty years ago."
Alicia asked if Gail's family would like to see the house. Anthony said for Gail to go with them, if she wished. He would sit with his brother awhile. Eduardo recognized him, smiled, and leaned on his shoulder.
Carrying glasses of champagne, Gail and her relatives followed Alicia into the formal dining room, then the long hallway. She showed them the works of exile artists that her grandfather collected. Then his study, the desk facing toward Havana, and over it, an old Cuban flag torn by bullets. Down a corridor to the kitchen, where the caterers were finishing dinner. Something sizzled on the stove, sending up a cloud of steam. The enclosed terrace had been turned into a party room, decorated with candles and flowers. Balloons soared from a chair at the head table. Outside on the patio, Alicia pointed out the old coral rock fish pond. Over there, the guest house. The gardener had worked for the family in Havana, Alicia explained. Past that wall is the golf course.
In a low voice, Dawn's husband Bill asked if this house would be Anthony's someday. Dawn whispered, How romantic. Pleasantly embarrassed, Gail shook her head.
They came back in, and Alicia took them up the broad staircase to the second floor. A look at the upstairs gallery, then into Digna's sitting room. Other doors opened off the hall. Gail knew which room had been Anthony's. When they had come here for nochebuena, he had showed her. A small room, simply furnished. He had trailed his hand over the desk. Then had stood at the window, looking out.
Downstairs after the tour Gail saw two men in tuxedos tuning their classical guitars in the dining room. Their music would be Anthony's gift to his grandfather. Gail went to find him. Passing the foyer, she felt cold air on her legs. The front door was open, perhaps to let out some of the heat. From outside came the low murmur of male voices. She walked onto the porch, lit dimly by a row of small lamps affixed to the columns.
Her eyes adjusted. Some of the men had come but here to smoke. One had his back to her. The voices were low, and in Cuban Spanish besides, with the consonants blurred and the endings of words lopped off. She couldn't pick up enough of it to make sense, and didn't recognize Anthony's voice.
One of them noticed her and said something. The man with his back to the door turned around. Octavio Reyes. Gail had wondered where he'd been lurking. He had the dark complexion and broad body of a man who might have once worked with his hands, but now ate a little too well. He watched her as she walked closer.
"Hi. I was looking for Anthony. He's not here, is he?" She crossed her bare arms, shivering a little.
"No, he isn't." Octavio Reyes said to the others, "This is Gail Connor, the attorney for Thomas Nolan." Throwing down the gauntlet already, she thought. The other four said nothing.
"I am not Thomas Nolan's attorney," she said slowly. "I am the attorney for the Miami Opera. Look, Octavio, I came over here to say hello, not to get into a debate. We have different opinions. I'd love to discuss them with you, but not tonight. This is Ernesto Pedrosa's birthday, and the announcement of my engagement—which you are aware of—to Anthony, who is . . . somewhere inside." She let out a breath and backed up a few steps. "Great to meet you guys."
"No, don't leave." Reyes put down his drink. "I have a suggestion, Gail. Be a guest on my radio show. Let's discuss our opinions on the air. If I am wrong about Thomas Nolan, then tell me."
"Sorry, I don't speak Spanish."
"I have translators. You could say whatever you want. I'm not trying to keep Nolan from singing here in Miami. Not at all. This is a free country. I agree with the Bill of Rights. I believe in freedom of speech. I want the people to know who he is and what he did, and then they can make up their own minds."
Gail retorted, "And meanwhile we've had to hire a security guard. We're getting death threats. That's not my understanding of free speech."
"Do you listen to my show? If you did, you would hear me say to my audience, You have a right to protest, but not to use violence." Octavio Reyes looked around at his friends, laughing as if he couldn't believe this woman could be so dense. "If Thomas Nolan were a Nazi, the Jews in Miami would have the right to speak out. Wouldn't they? If he were in the Ku Klux Klan, you would allow the blacks to complain about it. They have this right. Why don't I get the same freedom to say what I believe?"
She laughed. "That is the most self-serving, tortured piece of logic—"
The men stared at her. One flicked his cigarette ashes off the edge of the porch.
Gail took a breath. "Let's drop it. Forgive me for interrupting your conversation." Walking away, she heard a few low chuckles behind her. "Screw you," she muttered under her breath. She leaned on the foyer wall until her heartbeat was back to normal, reminding herself that Reyes was only a furniture salesman, for God's sake. He sold cheap furniture at discount shopping malls.
Then she heard a laugh. A comment, not from Reyes. They were talking about her. She didn't know what it meant, but la chica could only be one person. Silently Gail moved past the door but stopped short of the column where the wall turned right. One of the men asking another what he thought.
Reyes laughed. "Tortillera. Que Anthony se entere antes de la boda."
More laughter. Hoping that Anthony found out before the wedding. Found out what?
Gail heard the tinkle of ice cubes, as if Reyes were taking a sip of his drink. Then a string of words, barely audible. Then he became indignant. "Es una ñángara de basura."
Another voice. "No lo creo. Que va." The man didn't believe it, whatever it was.
Reyes again. "Increíble que ella venga aquí, a esta casa. Que insulto. " An insult that she comes here, to this house.
You son of a bitch, Gail thought. Cowardly bastard.
She heard the light, quick tap of shoes on the tile floor behind her. "Mom!"
Whirling around, Gail clamped a hand over Karen's mouth. She pulled her away from the door. "Shhhh." Karen's eyes were wide. Gail let her go.
"What did you do that for?" Karen whispered.
"Never mind."
"Who's outside?"
"I said never mind." They walked into the living room, Gail smiling at people whose names she had totally forgotten. To Karen she said, "What did you want, sweetie?"
"Anthony sent me to find you. The guitarists are here."
She led Gail to the party room, where Ernesto Pedrosa was being given a chair in front. The guitarists sat by the windows, the curve of the guitars resting on their knees. Gail saw her relatives among the crowd and waved back when they smiled at her. She found Anthony standing to one side and stood on tiptoe to kiss the back of his neck. He looked around. "Ah, there you are. I thought you had run away."
Gail whispered, "Your grandfather seems so happy. It's a perfect gift for him."
"He loves the guitar. Here. Sit down." Anthony pulled a chair closer. He stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder.
One of the guitarists asked Pedrosa to make the first request. Without hesitation the old man said, "Siboney!" As the music filled the room, he closed his eyes. The older people seemed enraptured, and. Gail guessed that they must have heard this piece when they were young. After the applause, more requests came. Como Fué. Perfidia. After a little while the guitarists stood up and began to move through the crowd, playing and singing as they went.
Anthony leaned down to speak into Gail's ear, "Let's go outside for a few minutes. Bring your wrap, it's chilly." Gail looked at him curiously, but he only held out his hand.
They went out a side entrance, then walked through the back gate onto the golf course. In the middle of the fairway, the moon floated almost straight overhead. From behind them came the sound of guitars, an intricate melody that could have been written hundreds of years ago. Gail held her arms out and twirled around. "This is perfect."
Anthony walked slowly along, watching her. "I'm glad you approve."
"Don't try to soften me up to move in, if that's what you're thinking."
He laughed.
"Are you kidding? Not in this place, but . . . maybe something smaller—if you could stand an old house. You said no."
"I could reconsider." She pulled him to a stop. "Kiss me. A good one."
He did, till she felt the ground under them fall away. His breath came faster. A long inhalation, then his hands moving under her shawl. Undoing her zipper to touch bare skin. She pressed herself against him, wishing they weren't out here in the open. Last night they had done no more than hold each other.
After a while he must have realized how visible they were to anyone walking by. Laughing softly, he backed away. "Let me cool off."
"Atrasa'o," she teased. He had taught her that one in bed. Horny.
"Gail! How do you learn such things?" He made a noise with his tongue, then turned her around, kissed her neck, and zipped up her dress.
"I have another word. What is a tortillera?"
"It means a lesbian. Where did you hear that?"
"Oh, that's nice. Never mind where. One more." She said it slowly, trying to pronounce it correctly. “Ñángara de basura. What's that?"
His expression changed, and the moonlight cast shadows that made his face seem strange to her. "Dirty commie would be a fair translation. Did someone call you that tonight?" Her hesitation was enough to give him the answer. "Who was it?"
"Whoa." She had never seen this mood before. "What would you do? Make a scene and embarrass me?"
He lightly touched his chest with his fingertips. "Would I do that? At my grandfather's birthday party? Come on." The mood, whatever it was, had vanished. He stood directly in front of her and took her shoulders. "Gail. You don't lie very well, honey. I'm going to ask you names until I hit the right one, so you'd better tell me now. I won't make a scene, but I should know who it was. When we're married, are you going to keep secrets?" He looked straight into her eyes. "Who was it?"
"Since you've promised to be nice—Okay, it was your wonderful brother-in-law. He was on the front porch with some of his friends. He said it was an insult that I showed up. He didn't say it to my face. In fact, I was eavesdropping." !
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