Chapter Two
The Crackdown
The television was on in the living room, though it was only 8:00 a.m. It was Thursday, March 20. Matt woke up and realized, with a mix of anxiety and relief, that this was his last full day in Havana. He wanted to go to Cathedral Square and buy a few knickknacks, his last souvenirs of a place he wasn’t planning to return to anytime soon. Anytime, period. He also planned to say goodbye to Isabel and visit Chinatown, even if there were no Chinese left there.
While having coffee, he found out that the United States had attacked Iraq the day before. He didn’t want to think about it. He had already had enough personal conflicts to trouble himself over international ones. But Román was so nervous that he didn’t even offer to prepare his signature revoltillo.
“What if there is a nuclear war now?” he asked. “Could it happen? Something that destroys the whole Earth?”
“That’s very unlikely,” Matt said. You have watched too many Star War movies, buddy.
“In the news, they are making a big deal out of it,” Román insisted. “Like it could be the end of the world or something.”
He pointed to the TV. Images of American rockets exploding over Iraq filled the screen. Matt heard Castro’s voice repeating the words imperialists, invasion, and Yankees.
“I didn’t know that the Cuban government cared so much about American news,” he said.
“Oh, they do. Particularly when the news is bad.”
Since Román was again glued to the television, Matt decided to finish his breakfast at Casa de la Natilla. House of Custard was an Old Havana café he had read about on the internet, but never visited. It was near Cathedral Square. He strolled leisurely to Obispo Street and ordered a natilla and a cup of espresso from the grim-faced waitress. He was the only patron. Sitting outside, under the big blue umbrella, enjoying the breeze that came from the Malecón, Matt felt total peace for the first time since he had touched Cuban soil. It was such a perfect moment that he wished he could keep it in his memory like a bug trapped in amber—the limpid sky with a smoky note to the west, the aroma of vanilla and rum-soaked raisins from the custard, and the taste of black coffee like a dark, liquid amulet slipping down his throat.
A police car zoomed by, breaking the charm. It sped toward Malecón Drive.
“Tan locos!” the waitress said.
“Yes, the craziness of it,” Matt agreed. “I thought this was a pedestrian-only street.”
“Do you speak Spanish?” She smiled at him and winked. “Usually we have no traffic, but today the thing is burning, you know.”
Matt replayed the Spanish phrase in his mind. La cosa está candente. He had never heard it and ventured to clarify, “What do you mean, burning? Like on fire?”
The waitress winked again in a more pronounced way. “Ah, you speak Spanish, but you don’t speak Cuban! What I mean, señor, is that trouble’s brewing. And it has just begun.”
Matt assumed she was talking about Iraq, but couldn’t understand the connection. Did Cubans fear they were going to be attacked next? It didn’t make sense to him.
In Cathedral Square he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. There were tourists and vendors, and a band played Buena Vista Social Club songs outside the massive church. He bought two wood-carved rumba dancers, but passed on the Che Guevara T-shirts, key rings and Havana Club bottles that unrelenting peddlers attempted to sell him. He also bought a straw hat. It was getting warm and he put it on immediately.
It was time to return to La Caldosa, say goodbye to Isabel, and thank her. That was, Matt told himself, the proper thing to do. After all, she had put him in contact with Padrino. He might still be waiting for “Agent Pedro” and Lieutenant Martínez to decide his fate if it hadn’t been for the santero’s intervention. He could also have his last Cuban lunch there. It would be like closing a chapter—a short and painful one.
Matt also admitted, if only to himself, that he wanted to see Taty once more. He still needed some sort of closure in that respect as well. And perhaps Isabel, who was so nosy, would know by then who had killed Yarmila. The coconut had said he would find out.
I’m even starting to believe in the orishas now. Good grief.
Matt approached a middle-aged, sinewy cocotaxi driver and gave him La Caldosa’s address.
“Let’s go, señor.”
When they turned onto Reina Street, a police car passed so close that it brushed the cocotaxi, wrapping it up in the fetid aura of exhaust fumes.
“Damn it!” Matt said. “Watch out! We don’t even have seatbelts!”
“Yes, one needs to be careful today,” the driver replied. “I only came to work because I need the money. Food doesn’t rain from heaven, as my wife says. But it would have been more sensible to stay home. They are all excited.”
He used the word alborotado, which could mean excited in a rowdy manner, as in a fraternity party, but also annoyed, disturbed.
“Who is alborotado?”
“Everybody, señor. Cops, gusanos, chivatos, everyone! This isn’t going to end well.”
Another cruiser reached them at a traffic light. Matt locked eyes with the cop seated on the passenger side. The man stared him down. The driver, pale and somber, kept looking straight ahead.
What the hell is going on? People didn’t act like this before.
When they arrived at the intersection of Salvador Allende Avenue and Espada Street, Matt gave the driver the five dollars they had agreed on for the ride and two more as a tip.
“Gracias, señor. Take care now.”
A military truck drove slowly down the center of the street. Matt looked for La Caldosa, but couldn’t find it. The bright neon sign that advertised the paladar had vanished. He walked around the building, inspecting it.
I could have sworn that it was here.
He turned the corner. The window that looked out upon Espada Street was shut too. He came back to Salvador Allende Avenue and knocked on the door. Nobody answered. He knocked two more times. Finally, Isabel said, in a low and strained voice, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mateo.”
She opened the door a couple of inches.
“Hi!” Matt said, taking off his hat. “How are you doing?”
“What do you want?”
She was curt, bordering on hostile.
“I—I came to say goodbye,” he stuttered. “Sorry. I didn’t want to inconvenience you.”
I’m so dumb. I should have called before. This must be about Pato Macho. He may be here and not over it yet.
He was ready to make a quick, awkward retreat, but Isabel looked around and gestured for him to come in. Once in the dining room, or what had been the dining room, Matt felt disoriented again. The five tables were gone, replaced by a red sofa, two armchairs, and a small ottoman. The big television set had been brought in, and the flamingo tapestry hung on a wall. He was as surprised as the night of his first visit, only in reverse. The paladar had mutated into an ordinary Havana living room.
“What happened?” he asked, astonished. “Where is La Caldosa?”
“We closed it.”
“Why?”
“People are frightened, and fear isn’t good for businesses.”
Matt threw his hands up. “For Christ’s sake!” he said. “What are you guys afraid of, Isabel? Do you really think we are going to invade Cuba?”
“Invade Cuba?”
“Why is everyone so anxious?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Is it about Iraq?”
“Qué Iraq ni Iraq! There was a crackdown yesterday. Hundreds of people were arrested.”
“A crackdown? In Havana?”
“Yes, where else? They are putting everyone they think is a gusano, or a gusano sympathizer, behind bars. Independent journalists, human rights people, dissidents, even bisneros.
They jailed that couple who used to come here, Yarmila’s friends. And many others.” Isabel put a hand over her mouth and added, “I heard this is just the beginning. Go figure!”
“But what does this have to do with your business? Are you a gusana too?”
“Coño, what a question! Are you stupid or what?” She touched her lips with her index finger. “Shhh! You’re going to get us in trouble!”
He remembered the words of the Casa de la Natilla waitress. La cosa está candente.
“Please, do tell me, why is everyone so fearful? If you are not against the government—”
“You never know, Mateo. That’s the problem. They start with the gusanos and go on with the bisneros, and the people who buy stuff from the bisneros, and the owners of casas particulares who don’t have a license—in the end, everyone is guilty of something. They know it and we know it. But what they know, and we don’t, is when they are going to say ‘enough’ and jail everyone and their sister.”
“Who are they?”
“La Seguridad. The government.” She touched a spot under her right eye and blinked. “Those who see and hear everything.”
“Oh. I get it.”
“You probably don’t, but that’s okay.”
Isabel pointed at the closed window. “They are watching,” she said. “So I don’t want to be rude, but you have to leave now. I don’t want them to think that I am opening again or accepting clandestine guests. They really will come for me then!”
“Of course, of course. I understand. I just wanted to say goodbye to you,” he blushed before adding, “and Taty if he’s here today.”
“Taty went to Las Villas with his godmother. I sent Pato there too, and told them both to stay out of harm’s way until things cool off. The countryside is safer. There are fewer chivatos and fewer Seguridad agents.”
“I’m sure that’s the right thing to do,” Matt said. “Goodbye, Isabel. Thanks for all your help.”
He was expecting her to ask about his situation, but she just let out an inaudible “bye” and closed the door behind him.
Matt put on his hat again and crossed Salvador Allende Avenue. He felt rejected, and silly for feeling rejected. He thought of going to Ricardito’s, but El Refugio might be closed too. He looked for a state-owned cafeteria and found one at the Plaza Carlos III Mall. A subdued waiter brought him a hamburger with papitas fritas (Cuban-style french fries) and a glass of warm orange juice. While sitting by the window, Matt saw two heavy military trucks followed by a camouflaged armored car.
He asked the waiter how he could get to Chinatown. It was nine blocks from Plaza Carlos III. He walked to El Cuchillo de Zanja and saw a green arched entrance but couldn’t approach it. A young, stern policeman stopped him.
“Where are you going?” he asked Matt.
There were more cops around. A foreign-looking couple had been pulled aside too, though Cubans circulated without being bothered.
“To Barrio Chino,” Matt answered.
“What for?”
“I’m curious to see it. I have read about it.”
“Are you a tourist?”
“Yes.”
“Where from?”
“London.”
Matt didn’t know why he had lied. It had been almost an instinctual reaction. He blamed Isabel’s paranoia for it. Then he realized that it had worked—the cop’s expression softened a bit. But he still wouldn’t let him proceed.
“You can’t go there now. There is an operativo going on.”
Though Matt had never heard the term, he assumed it meant a police operation.
“Better that you go back to where you came from,” the young cop said firmly.
Matt didn’t wait for him to repeat it.
As soon as he returned to Villa Tomasa, Román pounced on him.
“Do you have your passport? Did they give it back to you?”
“Yes, I have it,” Matt said. “Sorry I forgot to tell you about it.”
“Let me see it. I need to write down all the numbers and make sure everything looks right. The thing is burning!”
Matt handed him the passport. Román began scribbling frantically in an official-looking book of entries.
“God, I hope they don’t come here,” he said.
By then, Matt knew better than ask who “they” were.
“You are leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Román closed the book. The television was on with more news about Iraq. They went on for a half hour, with no mention of the local crackdown.
That evening Matt reread the instructions that the Aeroméxico clerk had written for him. Though the Havana–Cancun flight didn’t depart until noon, passengers were required to be at José Martí International Airport at eight in the morning. Matt considered showing up an hour later since he didn’t have any baggage to check, but didn’t dare. What if they punished him for being late? They could even retain his passport again or call la Seguridad.
Better safe than sorry. I am so close to going home—no need to screw it up. I’ll also have to find a taxi. A real one, not a cocotaxi or an almendrón, to make sure I get there on time.
He wrapped up the rumba dancers and his sombrero in Juventud Rebelde pages, and left most of his clothes to Román to make space in his backpack. When he turned it upside down, the shell pendant came out, still in its velvet box. He placed it next to the Star Wars action figures and retrieved the page he had typed in the Smith-Corona.
I can’t take this. Imagine that another “Agent Pedro” sees it at the airport and thinks it’s a report for the CIA!
He tore it up noticing, with a shudder, that he had begun to act like a Cuban.
I’ve become “acculturated” all right.
He also wrote a note to Anne, asking her to call him when she got back to the States.
She may have already found another boy toy in Varadero.
By dinnertime, Román was in a better mood. He had made arroz con pollo. It was different from Isabel’s, and better. His secret, he revealed, was adding Spanish chorizo to the dish and garnishing it with corn instead of green peas.
“Every Cuban cook has his own book,” he said. “And it isn’t always Cooking in Minutes.”
When Matt asked about a taxi service, Román disclosed that he owned a Moskvtich, a Soviet-era car that ran with a Volkswagen engine, and offered to take him to the airport for ten dollars.
“That will do it, my friend.”
Chapter Three
Flowers for Yarmila
While most cops in Havana were actively taking part in the crackdown, or had been on high alert since the day before, Marlene was home. After solving Yarmila’s case, she had asked for sick leave because “migraines were killing her.” Captain Ramos had granted it.
“You have been working hard, compañera,” he said. “You solved this case in less than three weeks. That’s remarkable!”
She felt bad about lying, but needed time alone to process what had happened. She still felt connected to Yarmila in a way she couldn’t explain. Jacobo had finally given her all the information he had, or so he said, on “Comrade Portal’s case.”
That morning Marlene stayed in bed until eleven o’clock, long after her mother had brought her a cup of café con leche. She protested but Soledad just said, “I like to pamper you, mijita. And wait until you see what I’m making for lunch!”
She stretched out and savored the luxury of not having to go anywhere or do anything at all. Then she wondered if anybody had ever pampered Yarmila. It didn’t look like she had had a happy life, or any life at all, judging by what Marlene now knew about it. She spent her final months telling these outrageous lies, spying on her neighbors and hiding her true self.
Though the case was officially closed, Marlene was still trying to untangle the web of Y
armila’s work. Operation Virtual Postcard was straightforward: the blog posts had been designed to lure Americans and Cuban Americans to the island. In one of her reports, Yarmila had written about the importance of bringing hard currency to the country “by any means.” Her posts didn’t hurt anyone, Marlene thought, even if they were made of outright lies. But was that all? Marlene couldn’t help thinking of Matt, his sad eyes when he asked her who had killed his fiancée.
I could have told him, but what good would it have done? Then he’d have wanted to know why, and that wasn’t something I was at liberty to tell.
If the blog posts were fluffed up virtual reality, Yarmila’s espionage work was more concrete. She had been ordered—or she had volunteered, Marlene wasn’t sure how her involvement with the secret police had begun—to befriend dissidents, but without becoming part of their groups. The day before, watching a TV special about the Seguridad’s network, Marlene had understood why: the government already had enough people working on that.
Yarmila played the role of a supporting outsider while subtly spreading distrust among the dissidents and their allies. Marlene recalled one of her last reports: “They complained about their old typewriter. I pointed out the fact that other ‘independent journalists’ already have computers . . . I told them that other dissidents had open passes to the Interest Section. Why didn’t they?” She had signed her reports as Agent Katia, a name borrowed from a character in Seventeen Moments of Spring.
In the meantime, her job at La Caldosa allowed Yarmila to keep tabs on Isabel and her clients, as well as the bisneros who dealt with them. Most people distrusted those who declared their support of the government, but they were also careful not to get too involved with dissenters so as not to attract unwanted attention from la Seguridad. Yarmila had managed a happy medium, having created for herself a quasi-rebel mask that she wore both in her regular job and at the paladar.
She dutifully reported everything that transpired at La Caldosa: how many foreigners ate there, what they said about Cuba, and how other patrons reacted to their comments. Sometimes she would egg them on. She would make a seemingly innocent remark and watch their reactions. She even recorded gestures and silent expressions of discontent.
Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Page 27