"Don't worry about it." Ramiro pulled his gaze away from the ocean. "It's your guys you have to watch out for. They can slice off your balls so cleanly you never know until you step on them."
"Your G-2 agents in Miami aren't so bad at it either."
"You would be surprised who we have working for us."
"To your credit, Ramiro, you've never asked me to become a spy for Cuba."
His teeth flashed in a smile. "Well, how would I be sure you weren't spying for the other side, too? Maybe you are. My friends ask me. They see your relationship with José Leiva, and they wonder. I tell them to talk to Marta. I say, 'If Marta lets him through our front door, he's okay.'"
Anthony said, "Your boss threatened to put Leiva in jail for life if I didn't cooperate."
"Really? He didn't mention it."
"I've heard the regime is planning to arrest the dissidents."
"If so, it's because they're stirring up trouble." "Ramiro, how is it stirring up trouble to have a lending library in your house or to speak what your own eyes tell you is the truth?"
"You think it's so innocent?" He laughed. "If they weren't getting support from outside, we wouldn't complain about it. The Americans at the U.S. Interests Section have parties for them and invite CNN. The United States is using the so-called human rights movement as an instrument of foreign policy. They hope we'll arrest the dissidents because it will make us look bad. Who is pushing this policy? You know very well—the exiles. Congressman Navarro and others like him. They're looking for an excuse to invade. The oppression of the dissidents, harboring terrorists, imaginary bioweapons—"
"We're not going to invade Cuba," Anthony said.
"Are you sure? Your president will go into Iraq, and after that, Iran, and then what? Not North Korea, because they have nuclear weapons. Cuba! Yes, finally you can liberate the Cubans, and they will throw flowers at your feet—those who aren't throwing grenades. Navarro and his gang are playing a dangerous game. Leiva is part of it. He dares us to put him back in prison. He can be a martyr and gain the world's sympathy."
"Ramiro, you're full of shit."
He shrugged. "I'm telling you what people think."
"You make me believe the rumors of arrests are true."
"How in hell do I know? I'm not in MININT. Where did you hear it?" "Olga Saavedra."
"She told you? Where did she get it? Never mind. She hears too much, that woman. Ay, yi, yi. Olga, Olga."
"She used to sleep with Omar Céspedes," Anthony said.
Ramiro lifted his brows. "Let me see. Your friend with the CIA told you. Yes, I know about Olga and Céspedes. So what? It wasn't yesterday."
"Are you in love with her?"
"God help me. She makes my blood run like a young horse." Ramiro hid his face, passing a hand over the bald dome of his head. "I'm sorry I lied to you." "To Marta, you should say."
"Yes. I am sorry for that too. But Olga—" Ramiro peered through his fingers. "You know."
"Once. I was with her once. Before you started with her," Anthony added.
"I love Marta. I have a lot of respect for my wife. She is a good woman. A good mother. That too. But we have Revolutionary sex. I get it up for every national holiday. At your orders, commander-in-chief!"
"Please. She's my sister." Anthony said, "You will ask her to come with you, no?"
"Why would you think I'm going anywhere?"
The candle in the red glass candle holder caught the breeze, and the flame sputtered and flickered. Anthony sat facing the bar, which was tucked under a portico extending onto the deck. The sliding doors were open, and he could see people inside. If any of them was watching, he couldn't tell.
He turned his chair slightly, using Ramiro as a barrier. "Tomorrow I'm going to tell Garcia that I have no idea what Omar Céspedes told the CIA—which is true, by the way. If I do find out—very unlikely—I'm not going to share it with him. What I am going to do is ask for more time. I want to keep him quiet for a few days so I can attend Janelle's birthday party, make my sister happy, and return to Miami as planned. Now, if you want to let Garcia know about that, it's up to you."
Ramiro lifted the Montecristo to his mouth, pausing long enough to shake his head.
"I'm starting to look behind me when I go to the men's room," Anthony said, "and I'd like to know who's back there. Is Garcia working for MININT? The Army? For Fidel himself?"
Smoke drifted in small puffs from Ramiro's pursed lips. It hung in his thick gray mustache. "You're getting too worked up, Tony. I told you. Don't worry about it."
"I've arranged a way out of here in case it becomes necessary. Marta won't like my taking the family home before the party. You'd have to explain it to her."
"Listen to me. If Garcia causes trouble for you, he knows he has to deal with, me too. And I will tell you something. He has lost many of his friends in the regime. People don't like him."
"He has no sense of humor," Anthony said.
"That's right. He can't tell a joke."
"What do you want to do, Ramiro? I've got to tell Bookhouser something."
The only reply was a slight shrug. Ramiro reached for his glass. He closed his eyes and rolled the cognac around in his mouth before swallowing.
"You do what you want." Anthony withdrew his pen and a small notebook from his coat. "I'll give you the number. You call him or not. It's your choice."
"Put it away," Ramiro said. "My wife goes through my pockets. That's one part of her job that she takes very seriously. Have another drink."
"I've had too much."
"Relax. Let's enjoy the night. I want to finish my smoke and this excellent booze."
Ramiro's eyes drifted halfway shut. "Answer a question for me. Why do you come back here? You have everything in Miami. If your sister and your father were not here, you would still come back. Why?"
"I like the music."
Ramiro extended an arm to deposit some ashes into the ashtray. "I'll tell you why you come. You're looking for the past. It doesn't exist anymore, my friend. All we want is to make it from one day to the next. My kids don't care about sacrificing for the fatherland. Giovany wants to go to college in Paris. Janelle wants to get a ring in her navel like... what is that girl on MTV? Britney Spears. It makes her mother crazy."
"Does Marta still believe? Or does she only pretend to?"
"Well. You know Marta. She's like you, I think. She's an idealist." Ramiro slid down farther in his chair, his jacket bunching at his neck. "So was I. You remember. History was on our side. We were good people. Virtuous. We were making a new world, a new man. To get there you had to follow the rules, and you made sure everybody else did too. Now? Socialism, capitalism, global-ism, who gives a shit? The new hotel in Trinidad is delayed because we can't get the electricity hooked up. People keep stealing the wire out of the warehouse."
Ramiro's head turned toward the pool. The swimmer had splashed her way to the edge. She grasped the ladder and climbed out, water streaming down her body. She wore a white two-piece, and her blond hair reached halfway down her back. She spoke in German to a man lying on a chaise, and he handed her a pack of cigarettes.
"If you decide to leave Cuba," Anthony said, "you will have to persuade Marta to come with you, the kids too—at least Gio and Janelle. It wouldn't be easy for them here. I'd like for my father to get out, but you know what his answer would be. No, no, and no. He's happy here. I think his blindness will protect him—that and his combat medals."
"Don't assume I'm going anywhere, either," Ramiro said.
Anthony asked, "What do you have that we want? I keep coming back to that question. How are you important?"
The woman bent over to pick up her towel. She wrapped it sarong-style over her breasts. The glow of the cigar brightened as Ramiro pulled on it. He tipped back his head and let the smoke out in a long plume.
"I am happy that the United States government considers me such a big wheel."
"Big enough to bring Bill Navarro and the CIA rus
hing to Miami. It's connected to what Céspedes told them, and I think you know what that is."
"No, I don't. It could be many things. Your friend Mr. Bookhouser knows. Why don't you ask him?"
"I did."
"Aha." Ramiro grinned. "He won't tell you. Or maybe he told you a lie. And you will give this lie to Garcia, and maybe he'll believe it, but probably not."
"Olga told Omar Céspedes you wanted to defect. Did she invent that story, or did you really say it?"
Ramiro considered the soft orange glow at the end of his cigar. "I admit I've considered leaving. Who hasn't? Even Abdel Garcia wants to get out."
"He told you that?"
"Well... not in those words, but I know him. He plans for contingencies. If the airplane is running low on fuel, it's a good idea to locate the parachutes."
"What about Olga?" Anthony repeated. "Did you tell her you wanted to leave?"
"I may have mentioned it, but I never tòld her definitely yes. Olga has her dreams. Spain, the Costa del Sol, a little house by the sea. She wants to grow olives and lie in the sun and become as fat and brown as a gypsy. Not a bad life, eh?" The alcohol was making Ramiro's words slide together.
"Ramiro. Look at me." His companion's eyes shifted to settle on Anthony's face. "You want to sleep with her, that's your business. But you have a wife. I think I might want to break your neck if you try to leave without her."
A puff of smoke escaped Ramiro's lips. "Who's leaving?"
"I saw Olga yesterday at your place," Anthony said. "She came by to talk with Marta about the birthday party. Olga wanted to speak to me privately, to ask a favor. I turned her down. Do you have an idea what favor she's talking about?"
"Let me guess." He took a sip of cognac, then rested the glass on his stomach. "She'll ask you to help her get out because I wouldn't do it. After her last trip, I made sure her exit visas were refused. Why? Why did I chain her to Cuba? I didn't want her to go. I'm a selfish son of a bitch. Go on. You can say it."
Exhausted, Anthony rubbed stiff fingers across his forehead, then lifted his hand to signal the waiter.
"Have another drink," Ramiro said.
"It's past one o'clock. I got three hours of sleep last night."
"You should have stayed in Cuba, my brother. We could have used you. If more men like you had stayed, maybe we could get good coffee in this country. It's a scandal."
"I was thirteen at the time, Ramiro. I didn't have a say in the matter."
"You could've come back. You do come back. You like it here, don't you? Yes, you do. Why does anyone want to live in the north? You are rich, but you work like slaves, you put metal detectors in your children's schools, and the world hates you."
Anthony said, "We like making choices, even bad ones."
The waiter came, and Anthony took out his wallet. The bill was for $175. He said, "Mother of Christ."
A smile dimpled Ramiro's cheeks. He tugged on the waiter's sleeve. "You want to hear another joke?"
The young man glanced around, then said, "All right."
"Pepito says to his teacher, 'Teacher, my cat had five kittens, and they all believe in the Revolution!' The teacher is so impressed, the next day she takes Pepito to the director and says, 'Tell the director about your kittens.' 'Oh, my cat had five kittens and three of them believe in the Revolution.' The teacher says, 'Pepito, yesterday you told me that all five believed in the Revolution.' 'Yes, I know, teacher, but last night, two of them opened their eyes.' "
Ramiro broke into giggles, and the waiter laughed. "Very funny, sir." He took the money and left.
Anthony shook his head. "Who's going to tell me jokes if you're in prison?"
"I know who my enemies are. That keeps me ahead of them." He finished his drink.
Pushing in his chair, Anthony said, "Come on. Give me your keys. I'll drive."
Ramiro looked up at him. The whites showed under the dark brown irises, and his forehead furrowed. He gripped the front of Anthony's jacket and pulled him closer.
"When you call your friend, say I'm thinking about it. I've got some conditions, which he and I can discuss. Don't tell Marta. I'll tell her. Maybe. She might try to kill me. What's the matter? You look disappointed."
"I'm surprised."
"So am I. They make me a general, and I kick them in the teeth. My God. What am I doing? I must be crazy. My heart wants to break. I am going to cry." Tottering slightly, Ramiro stood up. He put a hand on Anthony's shoulder to steady himself. "It's not such a bad country, you know. Cuba. I love it. How I love it so."
19
Years ago, a narrow road from Havana wandered southeast through hundreds of acres of orange groves. Taking this route, Abdel Garcia had always slowed down and put his head out the window. In the spring the orange blossoms had filled the air with their sweetness. When the ripe oranges were processed, that was another sort of perfume, rich and heavy with citrus peel.
The land was part of a military base now, no access by civilians. The trees still bore fruit, he supposed, but the processing facility had been shut down for lack of parts. Weeds had invaded the place, and birds nested in the rafters. The equipment had been removed, leaving only the empty concrete shell, rusty metal, and broken sorting tables.
The half moon sent a shaft of pale blue light through the window. Garcia stood in what had once been the factory's office. The others were in an adjoining room. He couldn't see what was happening but he could hear it. Screams had become moans, the moans had turned to grunts. Garcia had been present at many sessions like this one. The variety of sounds could be astonishing.
He lit another cigarette.
As a boy he had worked in the groves. It had been hot, heavy work, and the thorns on the branches had torn his flesh, but he had done it without complaint because it needed to be done, and he, like everyone else, had been filled with the spirit of the Revolution. And then it was gone. Not all at once. It was like coming slowly awake in a strange bed and seeing a calendar that did not correspond with memory. All one could do was to find a way out.
How had it happened? What had caused the old to forget and the young to become social deviants? Young men like this one, with his bleached hair and his clothes bright as a bird. He had soft hands. He played the keyboard in a rock band. And he had made bombs and burned a police car and set trash bins on fire.
His identification booklet revealed his name: Camilo Menéndez Rojas. Age twenty-one. Place of birth: Regla, Province of Havana. Occupation: student. Menéndez had told them his father was deceased, and his mother was a translator at the Italian embassy. He had two sisters, one married. He had given their names. Fuck your sisters. Who are your friends, faggot? Your friends in the Movement? He said he had no friends. Who is your boyfriend? He denied he was a homosexual. Who was the boy who ran away? He had been alone. He didn't know what boy they were talking about.
They had started with a bucket of water, submerging his head, holding him there. He had passed out several times. Garcia would have done the interrogation himself, but he didn't want the boy to see his face. It was still possible they would take him back to Havana and let him go.
The sounds coming from the other room made Gar-cia's skin tighten. He grasped a piece of broken glass stuck in the window frame and tugged until it came out. Like a tooth. He smiled to himself. He had left several teeth in Angola.
He wondered how long the boy would last. The sounds said that he was getting close. Dusting his hands, Garcia turned away from the window. He quickly wiped the moisture from the corner of his mouth and returned his handkerchief to the pocket of his tunic. On the base he was always in uniform.
He walked to the doorway of the next room. White light fell into the corridor. He could smell the repulsive, animal odor of feces. The two men stood at a metal table. They had tied the boy to the four corners, and Garcia could see only his bare feet, which jerked and arched and pointed. The men blocked the view of his body. His clothes, the white pants and green jacket, lay on the floor.
>
Give me the names of your friends in the movement. If you want this to stop, you have to help yourself. It's in your control. Give us the names.
One of the men must have felt Garcia's presence. He looked around.
From the doorway, Garcia motioned for him to proceed.
It had been pure chance that the boy had arrived at the Vedado police station at the precise moment when Garcia's contact had been there. He had turned the boy over to him instead of to State Security.
Garcia returned to the office. He watched the clouds drifting across the pewter-colored moon, the many shades of gray and dark blue and purple. The points of the moon seemed to snag the black mass and break it into tumbling fragments. For several minutes his thoughts drifted pleasantly to a beach on the Pacific coast of Mexico. Night. A house overlooking the sea. His house. A terrace, open windows, a piano concerto. The wind cooling his body.
He heard footsteps, then a voice. "General."
"Yes?"
"He's talking."
"Is he?"
"He admits he belongs to the Movement. He's giving us the names."
Garcia blotted his mouth. "That isn't enough. I want to know how and when. Who will carry it out?"
The footsteps retreated, and a minute later there came an odd sound, like the yipping of a dog.
Garcia remembered his own interrogator, a UNITA captain in a ragged green uniform, a big black man with enormous nostrils and a face shining with sweat. The man beat him ceaselessly, untiringly, then bent over him and spoke in Portuguese. "I don't like to hurt you. I don't like it. Please let me stop." There was blood on his uniform. Garcia's own blood, he realized later.
Garcia had tried to spit in the captain's face, but there was no saliva left, and he could only laugh. He had been lying in the dirt. The captain stood up and kicked him in the face with his boot Garcia heard the bones in his jaw snap. The men left him lying there for two days, and a week later they traded him and some others for UNITA hostages. If they hadn't given up so soon, would he have talked? Garcia thought that the answer was probably yes.
"General?"
Suspicion of Rage Page 18