“Can you read and write?”
“Yes, I know how to.”
“Are you writing slogans on the walls against the president?”
“I’m not a painter.” Another slap in the face and at the end, the interrogators, tired of abusing Fernando, concluded that he was too dumb to play with bombs and threw him back into the cell.
The young man was now smoking a cigarette. He looked up at Fernando and asked, “How do you feel? Are they taking you back?”
Fernando muttered, “Leave me alone. I’m tired. I’m in pain,” and sat down on the floor of the cell.
The prisoner held out his cigarette. “Do you want to share a smoke? They gave it to me.”
Fernando shook his head, “No thanks, I don’t feel like it. You can keep it.” He leaned his shoulders against the wall, closing his eyes.
The prisoner took a deep drag and shrugged. “I know I’ll get out of this place. Batista is a dictator, but he won’t last. The people are against him. Just wait. Don’t you agree with me? We have to be together.”
Fernando muttered, “Leave me alone. I’m exhausted.” He looked down at the floor of the cell and closed his eyes.
A few minutes later, the cell door opened. The guards came for his cell mate. The young man held onto the bars and started shouting, “No, I’m not he. I haven’t done anything. Let me go!” until his legs went soft. They had to pull him out, holding his shoulders as his legs dragged. Fernando heard shouts coming from the nearby office and the dry sound of the pizzle, then the shouting stopped. The young man never came back to the cell. After a few hours of wondering what had happened to his companion, Fernando finally fell asleep.
Three hours later, two new guards came to the cell door to escort Fernando to another office, where Don Miguel waited in an armchair with a cigar in his hand. He instantly noticed that Fernando’s lips were swollen and that he looked broken and torn. “Are you okay?”
Fernando nodded. A guard handed Fernando his belt, shoelaces, driver’s license, and an empty billfold.
Don Miguel drove Fernando home. It was a bright and beautiful day.
“They called me early this morning and asked if you worked for me,” Don Miguel explained. “I told them you did, and that you were with me around five o’clock. I know a bomb exploded, because Georgina told me. I don’t think they believed me, but they couldn’t prove otherwise. Fernando, they told me you’re involved with the rebel groups in the hills.”
“I’m not, Don Miguel. You know me very well.”
The old man frowned, knowing he was right. “I don’t think you’re safe here. I’m sending you back to the farm.”
Fernando nodded. Georgina was not worth a night at the Castillito, as the G2 prison was called. He had better girls to see in San Joaquin.
•••
THE NEXT MORNING, Don Miguel took Fernando to the bus station and sent him back to Ciego de Ávila. Before boarding the bus, Fernando bought a copy of the Prensa Libre. Half an hour into the trip, he pulled out the newspaper, scanned a few pages and froze. He stared in disbelief at a photograph of the young mulatto with whom he had been imprisoned the day before. He was clad in the same guayabera, now torn and bloody. The newspaper reported that, according to official sources, a bomb had exploded in his hands and killed him.
After leaving the bus station, Don Miguel drove to a gas station to find a working public phone and called Dr. Comillas, who sounded upset, sleepy, and spoke in strangely vague sentences. He would meet him at the minister’s beach house. He would be on time—no later than one o’clock.
Don Miguel felt uneasy as he drove through the tunnel under the bay and onto the Via Blanca. The road was empty, for it was late for the heavy traffic. He had left Havana behind, and the unspoiled white beaches started to appear on the left. The salty air that rushed through the open car windows reminded him of childhood trips to Varadero Beach. The sea was blue and brilliant. It was a windless day, and the ocean looked like a gigantic placid lake. He left behind the housing developments of Tarara and Celimar, passed a few family cars loaded with children, and eventually slowed down as he approached the town of Guanabo. The low hills to the right softened and opened into a narrow valley that enclosed the tortuous meanderings of the Guanabo River. The small Victorian seaside town was named after the river, and the river named after an Indian, now lost from recorded history. Small stores that sold souvenirs, cold sodas, beer, and hamburgers flanked the beach. Hawkers rented black tire tubes to swimmers. A small navy boat with sunburned sailors kept the tubers from drifting into the Gulf current. Entire families held hands as they waded knee deep into the ocean and jumped over the waves. Behind them, upbeat music blared from the food stands. Men showed their bare chests and tried to impress the women by rippling their muscles. Children made sand castles, and then watched them toppled by the incoming waves.
Don Miguel turned left at the end of the highway, before it crossed the river. He found the white two-story house he had been looking for, and parked behind a tan Oldsmobile. He saw the minister’s bodyguards, looking bored and lethargic as they sat slumped in their cars. The youngest bodyguard stepped out to meet him.
“Buenos días, Don Miguel. El Ministro is waiting for you.”
Don Miguel handed the bodyguard his car keys and followed him to the back of the house, where the minister sat under the shade of a large mango tree, sipping coffee from a delicate white porcelain cup.
“Miguelito! I thought you weren’t going to make it. Comillas called, said he was running late. I think he has a young one. He sounded tired.” Don Miguel chuckled, and his friend continued, “Well, I’m so happy you’re here. You have to enjoy life a little more. El Doctor told me that he pleads with you to come to Havana more often, not only when you have to deal with me. Here, let me hang your hat. You and I are the only ones that still need them. These young guys are never in the sun.”
He signaled the maid to bring Don Miguel a cup of coffee. “I have a special blend. The beans are handpicked and roasted just for me. At least, that’s what they tell me. You can never believe a courtesan. They’ll say anything to make you feel that you owe them a favor.” He turned to the maid. “I’ll also have another cup.” He smiled at Don Miguel, patted him on the back, and then led him to the covered porch.
“Let’s play dominoes and forget about all the problems you think you have to solve. I’ll have Lieutenant San Pietro join us. He just returned from training in the States.” He stopped abruptly, remembering something. “But excuse me, I’m not a very good host. If my wife were here, she’d kill me. Would you like something to eat?
“Not now, but thank you,” Don Miguel said.
Half an hour passed before Comillas appeared with a grin on his face and a cigarette in his holder. The four sat at a square wooden table on the porch, surrounded by the sounds of birds, waves, and dominoes spilling and sliding against the wood.
The friends swapped old stories. The minister switched from coffee to Scotch, and Don Miguel and Comillas joined him. By this point it was close to two o’clock. Don Miguel decided it was time to discuss a troublesome, delicate subject.
“Yesterday, a small bomb exploded in the park near my house,” he began. “It happened around sundown. Thank God no one was hurt. The G2 arrested my driver. You know him, the big black man who shows my bulls. They held him all night and roughed him up before someone finally called my home to verify that he worked for me. I went to the G2 at the Castillito—you know the one on 23rd Street. Well, in the end, they released him to me. But they should have called me earlier. He’s a good and loyal employee. He was scared to death. This morning I sent him back to the farm, because I want him to be safe.”
The minister took a long sip of his Scotch. “Well, they make mistakes, but we do have to stop the bombings. It affects our economy, and it hurts innocent people. If you read about these bombings, would you come to Havana to gamble?” He sighed, realizing that Don Miguel was still not satisfied. “They place
a bomb and run away. They’re mostly students. We don’t have a problem with the communists, since they’re too old and tired. And we know it’s not organized labor, since they’ve never been more powerful than with our president.”
“Are you certain that it’s the students?” Don Miguel asked.
“Who else would have the time? They aren’t going to the university. We have great employment. New casinos are opening, bigger hotels! We have the best rates of tourism we ever had. That is where they want to hurt us. They want the Americanos to think that it’s unsafe to go to the Sans-Souci or Tropicana. It’s just a small, very small group of people,” the minister said. At last he did offer a form of apology. “You should have called me. I would have sent Lieutenant San Pietro to go to the G2 with you. Are you sure that your man wasn’t behaving suspiciously?”
“No, Fernando did nothing wrong,” Don Miguel affirmed stoutly. “He’s a good, loyal man. Hardworking. He shouldn’t have been punished.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Don Miguel was having breakfast on the terrace and reading the editorial in El Diario de la Marina when Estrella interrupted. “Don Miguel, Mike is calling you long-distance.” He got up and hurried to the library.
“Alo, alo. Mike, is that you? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything is fine. I saw Fernando this morning, and he told me what happened. I’m calling because I’m worried about you alone in Havana without a driver.”
“I don’t need a driver. I never had one in Havana. I can take care of myself. Thanks for asking, but how do you think I’ve lived for the last five years?”
“Dad, you work too hard. I was afraid that you might decide to drive at night when you’re tired and may have been out with your friends. I wanted to know that you’re all right.”
“Well, I’m having a great time. I’ve met with the minister and with Dr. Comillas. I’ve played dominoes, and Estrella feeds me too much. I’m well, thank you.”
Mike gave him a short report on the farm. Everything was running smoothly.
“Wonderful news, Son. Wonderful! I’m doing well, too. Actually, I’m having lunch with your sisters today. I’ll tell them that you miss them. Good-bye, Son. I love you, and keep me posted.”
Adelaida arrived first, not surprisingly. She was always punctual, organized, but today she was worried. Georgina answered the door. She had set the table with the best china and made sure that she wore her least tight uniform.
“Buenas tardes, Señora Adelaida. I’ll tell your father that you’ve arrived. He’s in the library on the telephone.”
Adelaida barely acknowledged Georgina. “Gracias. Tell Father that I’ll be on the terrace.”
Rather than heading to the terrace, though, she walked slowly through the house, checking it for cleanliness. Adelaida found the house in good order, then went to the terrace, sat on an iron chair, and surveyed the garden. In the yard, a big Flamboyant tree competed with a more restrained acacia, the fruit trees were in flower, and soon the mango, orange, and grapefruit trees would have fruit. The gardener still kept her mother’s roses in beautiful condition. Adelaida’s mother had personally selected and planted them. The terrace was full of pots containing geraniums of various colors. Her mother had had Felix Ramos paint the riotous colors of her garden, and the painting now hung in the library.
Estrella interrupted her reminiscences. “Adelaidita, do you want something to drink? Your father, like always, is on the telephone. You know how he is. He just finished talking to Mike. Did you hear about Fernando? It was awful.”
Adelaida got up, not wanting to chat with Estrella. “No, thanks, I think I might need to call Lourdes. I hope she didn’t forget about lunch with Father.”
Just then Lourdes arrived, her arms hung with glossy shopping bags. She greeted Adelaida, then immediately started to complain about the heat, about how her Mercedes was in the shop, about how her chauffeur was off that day, and about how she had to take a taxi to go shopping downtown.
Adelaida pressed her lips into a small, tight smile. “Things can’t be that bad in the stock market. You shop and he plays golf. Well, well . . .”
Lourdes was accustomed to her sister’s barbs, and she dropped her bags on the floor and continued, “You know I had to a buy few small things. It’s so difficult to be well dressed these days. My dressmaker has become less reliable. She’s lost her flair and can’t copy a dress as well as before. It’s so difficult to coordinate.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” The two sisters walked to the terrace.
Don Miguel finished his latest conversation with Lustre. “I’ll call you after I have lunch with the girls. By the way, how are they doing? Are they living within their income?”
Lustre was used to this difficult question. “Well, Lourdes has a tendency to be overdrawn once in a while. I cover her overdrafts, and she promptly makes a deposit on her account. It seems to be a problem of timing. She’s very generous. She calls almost every month to see if she can give money to another cause. They’re all good causes. One day it’s La Liga contra El Cancer, the next month it’s Pro Arte Musical. The other day she wanted me to write a check from your account to the Hungarian refugees. I always tell her that who you give to and how much is your decision, that I don’t control it. She told me that she couldn’t talk to you, that you’re a hermit and that they need the money now. She is so persistent. She’s inherited that from you.”
Don Miguel smiled. Lourdes was his favorite daughter, and as obstinate as he.
He hung up with Lustre and went to join the girls. Georgina appeared with fried green plantains as he poured a Scotch and water. Lourdes mockingly frowned.
“Papi, are you still following the doctor’s advice—one drink before each meal? It’s the only one piece of advice you always follow.”
He laughed, for he enjoyed joking with his daughters. He would have preferred that they had married men interested in farming, but at least they married well. The girls asked about Mike, a bit hurt that he hadn’t stopped to visit them. Their father tried to mollify them.
“He thought I was very sick, so he came straight to the country. It sounds like Lustre misled him.”
“What did Lustre tell him, Daddy?” Both girls asked him almost at the same time.
“That I was sick.”
“Are you? When was the last time you saw a doctor?” Adelaida asked.
“You have to see Dr. Castillo,” Lourdes said. “He could take good care of you.”
Don Miguel smiled, touched. Yes, he was sick, but his sickness had to do more with absence than with the status of his heart or lungs. Time would cure everything, though. At least he could take comfort in the fact that his children loved him.
— 11 —
Mike and Rita
AFTER THE PHONE CALL, Mike had one problem to take care of, one he had not revealed to his father. He drove to the warehouse and asked for Mulato, who approached Mike ready to serve.
“What do you need today, Mike?” he smiled.
“I don’t have a list. I came here to tell you that you can only extend credit to farm employees if I approve it,” Mike said curtly, then left.
Mike stopped by the saddle shop to see if Ricardo’s new domadora saddle was ready. Then he visited the electrical shop owned by Kato, the Japanese, to see the new set of batteries for the electric plant. After he bought the last Bohemia from the newsstand, he returned to see Rita at the telephone company. He sat at one of the booths and called her. “I have to go back to the farm soon, but I have time for lunch. Would you join me at the Oriental?”
Rita wondered if it would be better to find an excuse and say she couldn’t go. Would Mike think she was too easy, or if she made herself a little more difficult, would Mike be more attracted to her? But she had already taken it upon herself to visit Mike. What did she have to lose?
“Mike, it will be a pleasure, at what time?”
“One o’clock?”
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
Mike walked
over to the small café that had no more than twenty white marble-topped tables. On one side, there was a bar with a mirror behind it, a large complex espresso machine, and an ornate cash register. Behind a glass enclosure was a station for preparing sandwiches; it was filled with long loaves of bread and legs of ham hanging from the ceiling. The waiter barely acknowledged Mike’s presence when he took him to the table. When Rita appeared ten minutes later, the waiter suddenly became obsequious. He was faster than Mike in pulling back a chair for Rita, and he immediately asked Rita about her mother, and how hot it was, and told her how beautiful she looked that day, while cleaning the marble tabletop with great force.
“Thank you, Roberto, you’re always so nice.”
She remembered that Mike had been quiet during their afternoon together. This time she vowed to remain calm until Mike broke the silence.
“It’s going to be a hot day,” he said, taking a self-deprecating stab at his impatience for small talk. Then he added with a broad smile, “You look very pretty.”
They finally ordered their drinks and lunch. The waiter served Rita first; then almost dropped the plate in front of Mike. Another few minutes passed while Rita sipped her drink, but she did not look up. She continued to look at the tabletop.
“Rita, it was so nice of you to come to the farm the other day. I was a poor host. I promise that I can be better.”
Rita spoke quietly, “You’re special to me, Mike.”
Mike reached toward her hand under the table and then thought better of it. “You’re also special to me, Rita, but I don’t know how long I’ll be at the farm this time. I might have to go back to Havana. Father may need me. That was the reason for the call. What are your plans?”
“Mother is out of town and will be back tomorrow, but I may have to go to Camagüey for a short stay after she comes back. They want me to train on a new switchboard. When do you leave?”
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