The what-will-happen-when-Castro-falls is an enjoyable conversational game, but the reality is much darker. It will be a difficult and painful transition… and it also may be very bloody indeed…
***
The first words out of my mouth in Spanish when I picked up the phone and heard the voice of Gen. Juan Rivera, prime minister to the sovereign Republic of Masagua, were, "How is your arm, General?"
Meaning his throwing arm. Rivera has lived an interesting and varied life: cane-cutter, guerrilla leader, army general, and now politician, but he has always viewed himself first and foremost as a gifted pitcher who, because of politics, was slighted by the American major leagues.
"My arm-what a coincidence you should ask, Marion. My arm is wonderful! I threw a hundred pitches this morning as a demonstration for the president of Nicaragua who happens to be visiting on state business. Never have I had better control or velocity!"
Sitting at the desk, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, I could picture Rivera-six two, grizzly-sized with black and gray beard, cigar in the mouth, probably still dressing in fatigues-as his voice boomed through the receiver. Could also picture him out on the mound: big leg-kick, loosey-goosey slingshot release, his expression predatory, taking it dead-serious even though he is nearly fifty years old.
Rivera said, "I allowed the president to attempt to hit against me three times-as a kindness. The results were expected: three strikeouts!"
Enjoying the formality of Spanish, I said, "I am not surprised, General. Not at all surprised."
"True, the president of Nicaragua is not a gifted player. Madame President told me that she had never played the game before."
I cleared my throat, took a sip of iced tea before I said, "That's very difficult to believe. In Nicaragua, where everyone plays-"
"Exactly! Perhaps it is what we call 'political dissimulation.' " Gave it a sly touch-we both know she's lying- before he added, "A woman of her age has certainly had a few at-bats. Even so, I did not pitch as I would pitch to a quality player. No breaking pitches; all fastballs. And yet, the results were expected."
"General," I said, "I still believe that you should be pitching in the major leagues."
"As do I!" Said it with conviction and a touch of anger. "When a catcher of your abilities-my very favorite catcher-says this, then I can only wonder why the Dodgers of Los Angeles do not return my calls,"
I had caught Rivera six or seven times when I was living and working in Central America. In those days, collecting information about people like Rivera was part of my job. More than once, I had joined a team or joined in a game to do just that. It was astonishingly effective.
I said, "But Pittsburgh contacted you-"
"Yes, yes, your friend, the Pittsburgh Pirates manager… Mr. Gene Lamont? Mr. Lamont suggested I play a season in a place called… Birmingham. In your minor leagues. A thing he called 'single-A.' A very attractive offer, but I have so many duties as prime minister.,. always some meeting to attend or some dignitary to meet." Said it like he would much prefer to be in Birmingham. "For the good of my people, I decided that I could not run the affairs of our country while pitching in Alabama."
I said, "Baseball's loss, Masagua's gain. You did what you had to do." Then I said, "General-may I ask how your connection is?" Meaning: was he speaking on a secure telephone line?
Rivera said, "Very good. Excellent, in fact." Meaning I could speak as freely as I wanted to.
I told him, "I am not so sure of my own." Meaning that he should follow along, read between the lines.
I said, "Some years ago-it was nineteen seventy-three-I caught another pitcher; a pitcher you once admired, though his fastball was very poor compared to yours. It was in an exhibition game before the start of an amateur world series."
Rivera said, "Yes! This man-he was once drafted by the Giants of New York?"
It was a lie that Rivera and many others chose to accept as truth-that Fidel Castro had been courted to play in the major leagues.
I said, "That is the pitcher. On Monday, I am flying to this pitcher's homeland because a friend of mine is there and in trouble."
"Is he in prison?"
"No. It is a matter of money." Without using Tomlinson's name, I explained what had happened, then I said, "It should be an easy thing for me to do. I have the money; I give it to them. But what if they take the money but refuse to release my friend's boat? Or refuse to release my friend? It is a worry."
Rivera said, "Marion, hear what I am saying to you: that is the least of your worries. Please remember I know why you were there for that baseball series-just as I knew why you played baseball with me
… and just as I know the thing that happened when you visited that place in nineteen eighty. What happened that time is what you should remember most."
I thought: How did Rivera find out? Was he bluffing? No… the tone of his voice, the way he emphasized it- the thing that happened-he really did know. Listened to him say, "Take my advice, old friend, stay away from this weak-armed pitcher."
I said, "I have no choice. My friend is in trouble." Let that hang there, because it was something Rivera understood-the Latinos, some of them, still believed in a code of honor-then I said, "I seem to remember that you have a house at this place." Meaning the Masaguan Embassy. It, too, was in Miramar, west of Havana; a small house among bigger estates on Embassy Row.
"Yes," he said. "I have a house there." Said it carefully, not volunteering anything. We were getting into politics now, something he took very seriously.
"I think you know what I am asking, Juan." Used his name for the first time, making it personal.
In the long silence that followed, I knew that he was calculating the political fallout while also reminding himself that he still owed me one very, very big favor. Finally, he said, "The answer is yes-but only if things become extremely difficult."
"Of course," I said. "No other reason." Then I added, "To avoid having to impose, it would also be useful for me to know the names of anyone-local people, I'm talking about-who might be willing to help outsiders in a time of need."
Still guarded, Rivera asked, "People who are friends of this pitcher?"
"No. People who are not his friends."
Another long pause. "It is possible. But let me ask you again, on the honor of our friendship-do you go only to help your friend?"
"I swear to you. It's the only reason. In fact, you know him. The last time we played baseball together? He nearly hit a home run off you."
Heard Rivera hoot. "The hippie!"
"Yes, he's the one."
Sitting in a staff tent in the jungles of Masagua, Tomlinson and Rivera had spent evenings exchanging baseball trivia, drinking rum, arguing political theory.
"Marion, why didn't you say so? Of course, for him- the great DiMaggio, remember?-I will check on these names. A man of such abilities deserves to be helped."
I hadn't planned to ask, but Rivera's enthusiasm seemed to invite it: "Perhaps, General, you could help our friend by telephoning this pitcher? Asking for his release?" Cuba had only one sovereign friend left in Central America- Masagua. There was no doubt that Masagua's ruler had enough political clout to get small favors done quickly.
But Rivera said, "No, no… that is asking too much, Marion." Now being very open; no more diplomatic sparring. "You know how these things work."
Yes, I knew. If the nation of Masagua asked Cuba for a favor, Cuba would politicize it, use it, demand a far more costly favor in return.
There was something else I wanted to ask but was reluctant to, because the answer, any answer, would bring back uncomfortable memories, unwanted emotions. I heard myself say, "You have been a tremendous help, General. Please pass along my compliments to your people… and also to Her Majesty," meaning the sovereign of her country, Pilar Fuentes Balserio. Then I heard myself ask the question anyway: "How is she doing, Juan?"
Knowing, sympathetic laughter. "Her Highness is doing very well, Marion." He said it with the empa
thetic tone that men use when discussing another man's lost girl. "She is busy, always busy."
Busy indeed. Under Pilar's guidance, the banana-republic economy of Masagua had been jump-started, social reforms were being implemented, the largely Mayan citizenry was already benefiting from more schools and better health care, and the government-for the first time in Mas-aguan history-was stable.
I said, "I have read about her. The people still love her?"
"They worship her. Who would not?"
Imagining Pilar-the silk-black hair, her face, the coolness of her skin-I said, "But I have heard very little about her husband, the former president."
"Tevo? Hah!" A name spoken with contempt. "Who knows or cares where that worm is. In Spain, I heard. She says that she is no longer married to him, she is now married to her people. And of course…" I waited through his indecision-should he bring it up? "… Her Highness is absolutely dedicated to her son. Marion, he has grown so large so quickly! Such a brilliant boy, already reading books while others his age are just starting school. But an athlete, too-the way he charges around the palace, always with a baseball or a bat in his hands. I am teaching him to pitch!"
I said, "He couldn't have a better coach, General."
"It is what I tell him! But already he contradicts me. This child, Marion, he forgets nothing and is very precise about everything!"
Increasingly, I regretted that I had asked; I held the phone slightly away from my ear as he said, "Can you imagine? This blond boy with glasses, correcting me? Me- the greatest general in Masaguan history? It makes me angry but it also makes me laugh…"
I was shaking my head very slowly; it was impossible not to listen.
"… do you know that feeling, Marion? A feeling that squeezes the heart but also causes one to smile?"
I said, "Yes. I know the feeling."
"That is how this child affects me. Offended and happy, both at once."
Imagining the way it had been with Pilar: the clean muscularity of her legs and Indio hips… the way glossy hair swung when her head tilted in thought… the way her face softened when I surprised her, as if her aloofness was a wall to all but me, I said, "I am very happy for her."
Rivera said, "I will tell Her Highness that you asked."
"Thanks, Juan."
"And one more thing? If you go to this place, do not make the mistake of trying to go quietly. Go as all American tourists go. Wear a colorful hat, a bright smile. Carry a camera around your neck. Ask for directions in very loud English!"
"Very good advice, General."
It was, too.
7
That night, Dewey stayed up after I went to bed. Restless, I lay awake thinking, listening to the crackle of Christmas paper, the ripping of Scotch tape, feeling the weight of her through the vibrating floor and shifting pilings. The high-pressure system was now stalled squarely over western Florida; the temperature outside had dropped into the forties. The windows of my little house were fogged with condensation.
"You asleep?"
I looked, to see Dewey's head peeking around the clothes locker.
"No."
"Still mad at me?"
While shopping, she had stopped at a travel agency and booked two seats on Bahamas Air, Miami-Nassau, because the agent told her-incorrectly-that Cubana de Aviacion flew daily from Nassau to Havana. But I had already checked and the only Monday flight into Havana was out of Panama City, and I had booked it and a Sunday afternoon flight, Miami-Panama. One seat only.
She had insisted that she was going; I had insisted that she was not. We had argued briefly.
I said, "Nope. Not mad."
"You're not exactly talkative."
"It's not you. There's a lot on my mind." What I'd been thinking about was what Juan Rivera had told me about Pilar; the way he described things. That… and Dewey's biological clock…
She said, "We didn't have our workout today, did we?" Said it like a kindergarten teacher placating a grumpy child.
"I did. I ran. It's too cold to swim."
I watched her unbuttoning her shirt while simultaneously unbuckling the belt of her jeans, as she said, "Well, I didn't, and I've got a lot of energy to burn." A few seconds later, I heard her say, "Scooch over. Geeze-oh-Katy, you're hogging the whole bed."
I reached my hands out to fend her off-it was Dewey's bullheaded independence that I found so compelling but also so maddening. I said, "Do we really have to go through this whole discussion again?"
As she gently pushed my hands away, she answered, "Nope. But we're going to keep doing the other thing till we get right."
I said, "Are you sure?"
Sliding into bed beside me, she said, "For a guy so quiet, you sure do ask a lot of questions."
And just like that, it was done.
An hour or more went by and she was up again, lights on, walking around naked. She had a towel in her hand, toweling off sweat. She was talking to me as I lay in bed watching her-an attractive woman to watch, the way she moved. As she used the towel, she said, "I gotta tell you, it was a whole lot different for me this time. This time it was…fun. Even with you in one of those Gary Cooper moods, it was a really good time." She reflected for a moment. "Something like that, how many calories you figure?"
How much energy had we burned, as if I were her physical trainer.
"More for you than me. You were all over the court."
"Nope, just exploring the foul lines, that's all." I watched her disappear into the main room, heard the refrigerator open, heard her say, "I called Bets this afternoon. Talked to her when I was in town."
I listened.
"She wanted to know if you and I'd done the deed yet."
I continued to listen.
"She said I was heading for another disappointment if we did, which is when I told her… wait, listen to this-" Dewey came into full view again: skin golden in the light of the reading lamp, hips canted, a quart of milk in her hand, drinking right from the bottle. "I said to her, 'Look, Bets, I already know you're a better kisser, but Doc's a lot better hung. So it's kind of a toss-up.' That's exactly what I said. Didn't even piss her off; actually made her laugh."
I threw the covers back, took the bottle from her and held her; felt her bury her face in my shoulder. "She's back in New York? Maybe you should fly up there, spend Christmas with her."
Dewey pulled away just enough to look into my face. "You got water in your ears or something? Bets and I are no longer a couple. We'll stay friends, but the other thing's done." When I started to speak, she held her palm to my lips, shushing me. "No need to get nervous, Ford. I don't have any mixed-up dream of moving in with you or any other man. It's not all clear in my mind yet, but I'm getting there-figuring out who I am, what I want. What I am and will always be is a gay woman. It's where my friends are; I like it." She gave me her bemused and slightly wicked smile before she added, "It's just that I have broader interests. Like tennis and golf. Why can't you enjoy both?"
Laughing, I kissed her, then kissed her again. "So which am I?"
She thought for a moment before she said, "Doc, you're more like arena football."
The next day, Sunday-anticipating that I would still be in Cuba on Christmas Day-I carried a sack of small presents around the docks, handing them out to a few of my marina friends. When I got back to the house, I tried once again to call Armando Azcona. I had listened to his recorder so many times that I was taken aback when I heard him answer the phone in his singsong Ricky Ricardo English.
I said, "Armando, this is an old associate of yours. The bird-watcher, remember? Back when we were both birdwatchers."
I knew the first thing that would come into his mind was sitting in the bushes by a path, at night, on the southwestern shore of Mariel Harbor, Cuba, at the time of the refugee exodus. 1980. A thousand American boats in the harbor- stinking shrimp boats and cruisers; anything that could float and carry human beings-but the two of us interested in only one boat, a sailing vessel named Peregrine
, and concerned only with the three Cuban Interior Ministry agents, posing as refugees, who had been ordered to sail her to a major U.S. port.
Armando's tone communicated little surprise and less enthusiasm. "Yes," he said, "bird-watching was once a hobby of mine. But no more."
"I've given it up myself."
"I see. Then you haven't called to discuss old times."
"No, I'm calling to ask a favor. Do you remember the place where we went to study falcons?"
I waited while his brain made the quick translation. "Of course I remember. I remember it very clearly."
"I'm going back soon. But not as part of a study group. I was hoping you might know someone there who'd be willing to show me around. If I needed help."
I wondered if that was too cryptic… but no, Armando was right with me. I listened to him say, "I'm surprised you're not going there to study. It's such an interesting place."
"As I told you-I gave it up. This is strictly a personal trip."
As Armando asked, "Are you looking for a tour guide?" I could picture him that night in Mariel, standing to stretch his legs at precisely the wrong time… could hear the stunned thoracic noise that he made when he realized we were not alone… could see the smoky red disc of a gun-sight laser beam on Armando's forehead…
I replied, "I don't need a tour guide. Just the name of someone who might help if I get lost."
Knew that Armando had to be remembering it, too… hearing me charging through the bushes from behind; feeling the impact of my body hitting him behind the legs, knee-high, knocking him to the ground. I wondered if that night had scarred him with the same dream I suffered.
I listened to him say, "Lost? You really think it's possible you might get lost. You once knew the place so well."
"It's unlikely. But it's been a long time. The name of someone who can come to the rescue"-I laughed when I said that, as if it were a joke-"like in the movies? That's the favor I'm asking."
I thought that he would want some time; tell me that he would call me back, give himself some wiggle room and an opportunity to check with other members of his group. Armando was a respected businessman now. He could be expected to take things through proper channels.
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