Suspicion of Rage

by Barbara Parker

  "Oh? You didn't say you'd seen her."

  "I had lunch with my father, and she was there. I said, 'Yoli, if you love your son, let him come to Miami.' She knows it's for the best. I believe that in the back of her mind, she wants to leave here, too. It's crazy to risk arrest and imprisonment when they could do their work from Miami. Yolanda wouldn't leave without her husband, of course, but she's saying to herself, 'Oh, to be away from here. If I could just persuade José to leave. If I could do that' "

  Anthony's eyes came open. He squinted, and the sun cut across his lashes. His lips slowly parted in a smile. "I am his devil. José organized a union of independent journalists, and I would tempt him with the easy life in Miami. Wouldn't it be funny, if José and Ramiro ran into each other in Little Havana? Ramiro would be waiting tables at Versailles Restaurant, and he looks down, and there is José Leiva, ordering a big plate of puerco asado. José says, ''Oye, compañero, so how is life in America treating you?' "

  Gail smiled. "And where would Yolanda be?"

  Anthony thought about it. "Getting her hair styled at a salon in Coral Gables. Yes. She wants to look nice because Mario has a concert on South Beach with his band."

  Seen from the limestone bluff behind the Hotel Nacional, the Malecón was a long curve of concrete laid across the spoil rocks in the shallows. Waves broke on the rocks and exploded into froth. In the distance, sea mist diffused the pastels of Old Havana's crumbling colonnades.

  Gail wore sunglasses, though the sun was more hazy than bright. After having a late breakfast on the veranda, where no conversation could go past the trivial, she and Anthony had found a bench in the back gardens. The wind snapped the Cuban flag, which flew over an antique cannon pointed at the sea.

  She shivered, but it was more than the wind sending a chill through her body.

  Anthony had posed a question. What if the Cubans had uranium at Juraguá?

  "Someone's going to assume that Castro would use it. He's sliding toward eighty years old. He can't save his Revolution, but why not strike a final blow against the enemy? The U.S. would invade, without a doubt. Would the President ignore a potential terrorist threat on our doorstep? At last we have an excuse to take out the hijo de puta who has been making us look like idiots.for forty-four years."

  "Insanity," Gail said.

  Anthony's brows rose over his sunglasses. "There are people who would believe it."

  "Of course there are. Your grandfather. And Bill Navarro. And half the population of Miami. They would dance in the streets for a month if we invaded."

  "It won't happen without proof. That's why they need Ramiro Vega."

  Gail said, "How would he know? Ramiro never worked on the nuclear project."

  "He worked with Céspedes. He's at the Ministry of Basic Industries. Gail, I don't have the answers. Céspedes could be telling Navarro what he wants to hear in exchange for money, for prestige. There have been defectors who have told falsehoods, and we believed them. It could be that Céspedes is a double agent. Castro wants to draw us into another embarrassment. He's good at that. It keeps him in power. We demand that he turn over his nuclear material, and this provokes a confrontation. Once again, he stands up to the mighty Americans."

  "I'm getting ill, thinking of it," Gail said.

  "It's only a theory." Anthony put his elbows on his knees. He seemed to be watching the endless horizon, blue and calm. "Maybe in a few months, Ramiro and Marta will fly to Spain with the kids for a vacation. They don't come back. He tells the CIA that Céspedes is a liar, and everyone is happy."

  And you can keep returning to Cuba, Gail added silently.

  She leaned forward and put her arm against his. The dark green fabric of his sleeve was warm from the sun. "What does Ramiro have to say about your theory?"

  "Nothing. He's being very sly. He doesn't trust me. I'm working for the CIA. How does he know I'm not trying to set him up? If he told me too much, they wouldn't need him, would they?" From Anthony's pocket came a muffled ringing, and he shifted to get to it. "Ramiro is right. He shouldn't trust anyone. He should wait until he's safely on the Costa del Sol with money in the bank." He put the phone to his ear. "Hola, dígame."

  He listened, then said they would be there in five minutes.

  "That was Mario, returning my call."

  They picked up the car from the valet, drove out the long, palm tree-lined entrance of the Nacional, then took a left and parked at a run-down snack bar outside the Servi-Cupet gas station. The yellow-and-red striped awning shaded the tables underneath. Gail saw a phone booth and assumed that Mario Cabrera had used it for his call.

  He stood up as they approached. There were handshakes. Anthony went over to the window to buy some sodas, and they moved nearer the street, where the noise of traffic would muffle their conversation. The sodas remained unopened, pushed to one side.

  Mario wore jeans and a black knit shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and clung to his lean torso. He sat directly across from Anthony at the square table. Though she tried to avoid it, Gail found herself comparing their faces. Mario's eyebrows curved; Anthony's were thick and straight. Mario's eyes were lighter, with flecks of green. His ears were smaller, the lobes different. His earring was the shape of a crescent moon. When he clasped his hands on the table, Gail noticed the long fingers and square palms. She counted four silver rings and a heavy link bracelet. She saw two chains around his neck. They were cheap gold, but gold nonetheless. Anthony liked jewelry. Gail thought of the leather jewelry box in his bureau, Anthony taking off his rings and bracelet the night before they left for Cuba.

  When Mario spoke, she studied his mouth. Full and symmetrical, the upper lip making two defined points. Lines that curved at the corners when he smiled. The lines around Anthony's mouth were deeper, but he was older by twenty-four years.

  Mario spoke English to include the American at the table. He thought that Anthony had come to warn him to keep his hands off his daughter. "Señor, I am a friend of Angela. I have much respect for her and for your family—"

  "I am glad to hear it," Anthony said, "but that's not why I wanted to talk to you. No es eso, Mario." He went on to say it had to do with Olga Saavedra. He asked Mario if he had heard the news. "¿Supiste que está muerta? Un homicidio."

  "Yes. Yes, I know it. I am sorry for her."

  "My wife went to see Miss Saavedra yesterday on some business. She found her body."

  "That is true?" Mario glanced over at Gail, surprise on his face. Anthony explained that shortly before two o'clock, Gail had been waiting to cross the street. She had seen Mario go into the building and come out again. She had said nothing to the police because she was sure Mario had only knocked at the door. That was the case, was it not?

  Mario stared at him, then said yes. Speaking quickly, he raised his hand as if to knock on a door.

  Anthony asked him why he'd gone to see her.

  He didn't answer for several seconds. Then he shrugged. "She make the party for Janelle. They have... un conjunto. A band. Me too. Mercurio. That's my band. So ... maybe ... Olga Saavedra wants Mercurio for the parties. I say, okay, talk to her."

  "You thought Olga Saavedra might hire your band to play for other parties."

  "Maybe. Yes." He smiled. "Is a very good band."

  Anthony nodded. "Another question. ¿Por qué dejaste el carro tan lejos, en la otra calle?" Why had he left his car so far away on another street?

  Mario answered, finishing his reply with another shrug.

  "He wasn't sure where Olga lived." Anthony's glance at Gail said he wanted her opinion on whether this made sense, but it wasn't her language, and the subtleties were lost. She gave her head a little shake.

  Anthony spoke slowly, and his next question was clean Did Mario have any other reason for going to Olga Saavedra's apartment?

  "No." Mario's brows rose, and he shook his head, looking at Anthony, then at Gail. "No. To ask her for the band. ¿Qué otra razón?" What other reason could there be? And h
e was sorry she died. "Very terrible thing, no? Maybe un ladrón. A thief? The police find him?"

  "Not yet," Anthony said. He leaned on his elbows. "Mario. Escúchame bien, m'ijo."

  Listen, my son. But this meant nothing, Gail thought. Men used the word all the time with boys they didn't even know.

  Anthony explained to Mario that in the United States, he was a lawyer. Mario knew this, didn't he? In the United States, Anthony advised people who were in trouble with the law, and sometimes not in trouble, but the police suspected them for the wrong reasons.

  Nodding, Mario said to Gail, "I know. In Cuba, the police ..." He quickly touched his eyes. He meant they were everywhere, always looking.

  Anthony continued. If Gail had told the police Mario had been there, they might have asked questions. Mario's father and Olga Saavedra had sold videos to foreign reporters, but only José went to prison. Olga saved herself by turning against José. Anthony hoped that Mario didn't know about that. If the police ever asked him about it, well, of course it would not be good to lie to them, but in this case, he wanted to protect his father. Didn't he?

  Mario nodded. He would do anything for José. He would die for him.

  Anthony smiled. "No es necesario. No, Mario, you must live a long time. Do you understand when I speak English slowly? I want Gail to hear this too."

  "Yes. I understand."

  "It's all right," Gail said. "Please say it in Spanish. I can understand most of it."

  Anthony said that there was something else he wanted to discuss with Mario, and since they wouldn't be in Cuba much longer, he would bring it up now. Anthony explained how close he had always been to the family, how he respected and admired Yolanda and José. He was sure they would want their son to have a future. Had Mario ever thought of coming to the United States? Anthony listed the benefits—work, education, a career. Anthony said he would help him. He said that Mario should think of him as his padrino, his godfather, his friend, a part of his family. Someday Mario could come back to a free Cuba, and he would have the tools to help rebuild his country. If he stayed here, what would he have? How could he hope to support a wife and children?

  Mario lowered his eyes. He had thick black lashes. Several seconds passed. He said he would think about it. Yes, he certainly would. It was very generous.

  Anthony said they would see each other tonight at his parents' house, at the meeting of independent journalists and librarians. Mario nodded and said that Angela wanted to meet him there, but he couldn't stay very long, as he had things to do. A rehearsal with the band. They hoped to find work soon.

  Mario stood when Anthony did, and the two men embraced quickly. Mario put a soft kiss on Gail's cheek. His smile dazzled. "I see you later."

  He walked over to his tiny green car and got in. The engine coughed into life, and Mario drove up the hill and around the corner.

  Anthony checked his watch. "Let's take a walk. Hector's on his way."

  They took the sidewalk that Gail had seen earlier from the hotel. It went under the same limestone bluff where the flag blew in the wind.

  "You're very quiet," Anthony said.

  "I'm fine."

  "Good."

  Gail said, "Mario didn't seem enthusiastic about living in Miami."

  "Well, it's a big decision for him."

  "You'll have them all in Miami, won't you? One way or the other, you'll do it."

  He looked at her as they walked. "Do I sense an objection?"

  "Maybe they think of Cuba as home, miserable as it is. Maybe they don't want to leave, and you're interfering."

  "If they don't want to leave, they don't have to. I'm not putting a gun to their heads."

  Gail laughed. "Oh, sweetie. You severely underestimate your ability to persuade."

  "What are you trying to say, Gail?"

  She turned to him, and they stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "I want you to think about something. Maybe you don't have the answer now. Or maybe you do, but you have to think what to say to me."

  "Do I hear an argument coming on?" He put a hand to his ear.

  "It's an observation, all right? I believe you're in love with them. All of them. With José for his courage, his ideals that you think you've lost. In love with Mario for being young and innocent. You're in love with Yolanda most of all because she's what you left behind."

  "Oh, Jesus." He looked up at the sky, then back at Gail. "Where do you get these ideas?"

  "I listen to what you say. I watch you."

  "Is that so? Did you notice someone making love to you last night? Who was that?"

  "I have to ask you something. I don't want to, but I will. Did you ever make love to Yolanda?"

  "Ah. So that's the problem. You're jealous. I should have known."

  "Did you? When you and she were young, and you first came back to Cuba—"

  "No. Never. It is beyond belief that you would ask me such a thing. Yolanda is ... she's like a sister."

  "A sister? You don't buy sterling silver hair clips at Tiffany's for a sister! How much did you pay for it?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Don't lie to me! How much?"

  "It was nothing. Two hundred something."

  "What, two hundred ninety-nine?"

  His anger erupted, and he shouted, "It's a goddamned hair clip, not a fucking ring. Why don't you add up what I've spent on yon?"

  A woman in tight capri pants and a sleeveless top approached around a curve in the sidewalk. Not a tourist, a middle-aged Cuban woman who had to be wondering why these people were screaming at each other. She glanced at them apprehensively.

  Hands on his hips, Anthony let out a breath and stared across the road at the Malecón. When the woman was gone, he looked back at Gail. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. The answer is no, I did not sleep with Yolanda. Now let's drop it."

  "And I'm sorry I brought it up."

  He put his arms around her neck and looked into her eyes. "Sweetheart. I love you. Only you. Don't you believe that? Gail?"

  "Yes. I know you love me."

  "How can you doubt it? Te quiero, Señora Quintana. Well?"

  "Te quiero," she said, and kissed him.

  He laughed. "I'm in love with José Leiva too. I'm glad he wasn't around to hear that. Come on."

  Taking her hand, he pulled her toward the street. They waited a moment for traffic to clear, then hurried across three lanes to a monument in the center of the road. Two bronze cannons pointed east and west, and two Greek columns rose to support a narrow platform with nothing on it. Ahead of them, across the westbound side of the road, the wind whipped the spray over the Malecón. Gail could taste the salt on her lips. They walked around to the other side of the monument and sat on one of the steps facing the ocean.

  Anthony put his arm around her. "I'm crazy about you."

  She smiled. "And I'm just crazy. Please forget what I said."

  "I have already forgotten."

  Within a few minutes a small, gray-haired mulato came into view. He carried a plastic sack with some large green fruits in it. He called out, "Mamey. Señora, mamey rico, dos por un dólar." Mamey, two for a dollar.

  Gail had to laugh. "Hello, Hector."

  Hector Mesa stood a few steps down from them, a slight figure in dusty trousers and a faded plaid shirt. He had even traded his black-framed glasses for a pair with clear plastic frames, convincingly scratched.

  "Señora." He made a little bow in Gail's direction.

  "You look like a farmer," Anthony said.

  "I am Eusebio Pérez from Pinar del Rio, visiting my relatives in the city."

  "I hope you have your identification card."

  Hector acknowledged that he did.

  Anthony said, "You know they'll arrest you, selling mamey on the street to tourists."

  "You are not tourists," Hector said. "Señor Anthony, necesito hablar con usted." He nodded again at Gail. "You will excuse us, señora?"

  "It's all right, Hector. I've told her everything so fa
r."

  The little man made a regretful grimace.

  Anthony sighed and patted Gail's knee as he got up. "I'll be back."

  They walked out of earshot, and Gail watched traffic, a sparse procession of old American cars and rusted-out Eastern European models, a double-humped bus crammed with riders, a shiny Mercedes tourist bus with tinted windows. The waves broke on the Malecón. She could see the spray as it rose and fell behind the concrete barrier.

  The men finished their conversation. Hector glanced her way, bowed slightly, and ambled off with his sack of mameys.

  Anthony came back up the steps. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but something was wrong. Gail stood quickly and reached for him. "Anthony, what happened?"

  "Omar Céspedes. He was shot to death last night."

  30

  Everett Bookhouser said to meet him at the Colón Cemetery. After the murder of Omar Céspedes, Anthony thought this might be the CIA's idea of a macabre joke. He took Gail back to the house in Mira-mar. She didn't argue when he said he had to go alone. It was close to three o'clock when he walked under the triple-arched stone gate of the cemetery. Above him, Lazarus rose from the dead, and saints in their classical robes stared out over the graves.

  Anthony paid his dollar entry fee and walked along the main road with its double row of meticulously clipped ornamental trees. At midweek, the place was nearly deserted. A groundskeeper trimmed the grass beside the low iron fences. An old woman moved slowly among the monuments, vanishing and reappearing.

  The necropolis was laid out like a small city with streets on a grid. Bookhouser would be at the intersection of 5 and G, east of the central chapel. Standing in the shadow of the church, Anthony looked around. The road was empty. He had taken a different route leaving Ramiro's house. If anyone had followed, they had been extremely good at it.

  He walked east. Even through his sunglasses, the glare off the white marble tore at his eyes. The memorials and tombs and family vaults fought a silent battle of architectural excess. Just past a baroque tomb of carved doves and angels, Bookhouser stood with one sneaker-shod foot on a low wall, reading the tourist guide. The bill of his Yo Amo La Habana cap turned when Anthony stopped alongside him.