CURSE THE MOON

by Lee Jackson

  Atcho looked startled. “A friend of mine in prison said the same thing. His name is Domingo.” Atcho felt bewildered. He looked around. Other customers were looking at them, apparently reacting to Bob’s enthusiasm.

  “Yes, Domingo. I met him at the reception. He told me the same thing!” Bob reflected a moment. “Is that it? Have you been beating yourself up all these years because you thought you’d failed?”

  Atcho was startled. He stared at Bob a moment. That doesn’t answer why I hid my identity, he thought, but it might be a good excuse for why I keep to myself. He stared a while longer, and then nodded without saying a word.

  30

  Bob looked genuinely relieved. “Aw, geez, guy! That’s what you’ve been carrying around all these years! You think it’s your fault because the others didn’t make it out!”

  “And some died,” Atcho said quietly. He thought of Jujo.

  “Atcho, you can’t put that all on yourself.” Atcho was silent. He kept his head down and sipped his ale. Bob watched him.

  “Look,” he said, “I think I can make things better with Isabel. There’s so much I’d like to ask, but I guess that can come with time.” He took a large gulp of ale. “Do you mind if I ask you about your time in prison?”

  “Prison? Which prison? There were three of them. What do you want to know?”

  “Anything you feel free to tell me, about any prison where you were.” Atcho remained silent, sipping his drink. Finally, Bob said, “Tell me about the box.”

  “The box,” Atcho said softly, “La caja.” He felt his muscles tighten, and heard his own voice as though from far away.

  “I’ve heard of the box, Atcho, but I’ve never heard a first-hand account.”

  “What is your purpose, Bob? You were in Grenada. Do you like talking about your combat engagements?”

  Bob thought a moment. “Fair enough, but I’m not just your son-in-law. I’m also a military officer trying to understand things.” Atcho looked up at him sharply. Bob grinned facetiously. “Okay,” Bob said, “you caught me on both sides of an argument. I won’t lie to you, Atcho. I think talking about it might help, and also, I’m curious.”

  Atcho sipped his drink quietly. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you about la caja. You probably know I was in one for extended time after the attempted escape.”

  Bob nodded. “So I’ve heard. Domingo told me just a little bit at the reception.”

  “The box was dark, Bob, always dark. Have you heard how they were constructed?” Bob nodded somberly. “Then you know they were very small. They were in a room inside the Punishment Facility, which was also dark. People were taken there for any reason that provoked the guards. In my case, participating in an escape would obviously be enough to land me there.” He sat quietly awhile, and took long gulps of ale. Bob wondered if he would continue.

  “They would open the box, and you had about two seconds to figure out how you were going to sit in it, because once in and they had closed it, you weren’t coming out for a very long time – in my case, most of eight months.” Bob shook his head, and his face showed that he felt the horror.

  Atcho was quiet again for a while. “You couldn’t adjust your position,” he went on, “There wasn’t room. You couldn’t lie down, sit up, sit back, or kneel. Within minutes, your joints and muscles are aching because some are already stretched in peculiar positions.” He fidgeted, and then continued with obvious reluctance. “If the guards were very angry with you, they made sure that you drank a lot of water before you went in, because … ” He stopped and looked steadily at Bob, “because in the box there is no latrine, no exit, no relief.” He was quiet awhile longer, and nibbled on a piece of bread. “They fed us through a slot, and there is more food on this table here right now than I might see in a week.” He motioned to indicate the half-empty platter of cabbage and corned beef.

  Bob studied Atcho’s face carefully. It was stretched taut.

  “Shall I go on?”

  Bob nodded.

  “Within hours, you think there can be no greater pain. It sears through every muscle and nerve in your body. At first, you can’t sleep; some limbs become numb. In spite of yourself, you pee on yourself and shit on yourself, and the stench is unimaginable. Then, you do doze off from exhaustion – and when you wake back up, the pain is excruciating by magnitudes beyond what it was when you went to sleep.”

  “Maybe that’s enough, Atcho,” Bob said kindly.

  “No!” Atcho retorted, and his ferocity surprised both of them. “You asked to hear this, so now do me the courtesy of listening! And then I have a few questions for you.” Bob leaned back in his seat.

  “Every now and then – and you’ll have to forgive me because I really don’t know the frequency – every now and then, they’d open the box and pull you out to hose down you and the box.” He looked down at his feet. “Within hours, the filth wore sores into your legs and buttocks, and they’d become infected. When you came out of the box, you would try to straighten your arms and legs, and they were all but frozen into their forced positions. Then, when the water hit the infected sores … ”

  Bob saw the relived agony on his face. “I get the picture, Atcho,” Bob said softly. “I am so sorry. What did you want to ask me?”

  Atcho’s cheeks quivered. He felt his throat constrict, and when he tried to speak, he found that he could not. He withdrew a moment to compose himself, and then leaned forward and forced out one word. “Why?”

  Bob looked confused. “What? Did you ask me why?”

  Atcho nodded, and put his palm up to request a further moment. “Why were we deserted?”

  Bob looked startled. “You’ve read the histories, Atcho. You know why Kennedy pulled out. From what I gather, you had reached the same conclusions in Jaguey Grande.”

  “I’m not talking about the Bay of Pigs,” Atcho said hoarsely, and Bob saw that he seethed with anger. “I’m talking about Cuba. Why was Cuba abandoned?”

  Bob reeled back in surprise. “Atcho, I don’t know any more than you do! I was a child when all that occurred.”

  “Yes, but as you say, we are father-in-law and son-in-law, and we ought to be able to at least have this discussion.” Bob saw that offering protest now would not work. “There was a holocaust going on ninety miles from Key West,” Atcho said. Remembered despair filled his voice, and his face contorted in bitterness. “Cuba was a friendly ally. Since Castro took over in Cuba, the U.S. has taken military action in the Dominican Republic, Grenada, and other places around the world – you even put a man on the moon! How many resources were used for that? But our people, our culture, our country were left to destruction by a madman.”

  Bob sipped his beer. “I don’t pretend to be an expert on Cuba, but didn’t the cruelty of Batista have something to do with what happened down there?”

  “Very little,” Atcho said vehemently. “Research the history! Cuba was strong. The economy was good. A demagogue came to town and fomented class warfare. The object was always power.” He was quiet a moment.

  “I don’t know how to respond, Atcho. You know that what you just said runs counter to popular view.”

  “Yes, I know,” Atcho said morosely. Then he leaned forward, and all but hissed, “But I lived it, and so did a lot of the people you know. Our story never gets told. And we ask ourselves why – why were we and our country abandoned?”

  “I don’t have an answer for you.” Bob shook his head. “I wish I did.”

  “Well here’s the main issue.” Atcho had regained his composure. “And one that Cubans in the U.S. fear most. It can happen here.”

  Bob studied Atcho’s face, and his own took on a doubtful expression. “Is that what worries you, Atcho? Is that what keeps you awake at night?”

  “I’ve probably said too much already, Bob. I will only say that those of us who’ve been through it recognize things we’ve seen before. I love this country as much as I still love Cuba, but the U.S. is not immune to the aims of evil me
n promising utopia.” He sat back, and Bob saw from his expression that he did not intend to address the subject further.

  “I have one more question, Atcho. Different subject – no more serious stuff. You prompted it yourself when you mentioned putting the man on the moon.” Atcho looked at him quizzically, but offered no protest. Bob watched him a moment longer. “I’ve seen you many times staring at the moon. It’s more than just enjoying the beauty of it. You almost seem – well, reverent.”

  Atcho relaxed and smiled, almost introspectively. “Ah, the moon,” he said, and he seemed to have moved into a world alone. “You know,” he said, “despite appearances, I cared for my baby daughter very much. I found myself on a boat once – when we were brought from the Isle of Pines. I found a place there where I could at least pretend that I was alone. We made the voyage in the middle of the night, and the moon was full – and I looked up and saw it in all its majesty, and I wondered, is my little girl seeing that wonderful beauty at this very moment? The thought suddenly occurred that that brilliant moon was the only thing in the universe that Isabel and I could share at the same time.” He sat quietly a moment. “So, yes, the moon is very important to me.” He laughed, and there was irony in his voice. “But guess what?” He leaned forward with a sad smile. “The moon doesn’t care.”

  Bob started to say something, but Atcho stopped him. “You know, Bob,” he said quietly, “I’ve often thought about whom to blame for all the evil in the world, or for that matter, whom to credit for all the good. And the fact is that a thousand years from now maybe, or a million years, it won’t matter. But guess what, the moon will still be there, doing the same things it is doing right now. And so, at times when I become bitter, I look up, and I think about that, and I think that, for all the good it would do, I might as well curse the moon. That’s how I get to sleep at night.”

  They were both very quiet for a few minutes. Then Bob said, “Thank you, Atcho, for coming. More than ever, I feel proud to be related to you.” He caught himself as Atcho looked up, and the grin spread on his face again. “But don’t you dare tell anyone! I’ll deny it.”

  Atcho smiled and acknowledged the crosswise compliment with a nod. “Let me tell you one other thing,” he said. “You know we Cubans love our rum and coke.” Bob nodded with a grin. Atcho went on, “You hear the drink called ‘Cuba Libre,’ and I’m sure you know that means ‘Free Cuba.’” Bob nodded again, and Atcho continued, “Then you’ve probably heard Cubans here in the U.S. laugh and call it La Mentirita. That means, ‘Little Lie.’ The world thinks Castro is a hero, and that Cuba is free. We Cubans know that is a little lie.”

  They were both silent for a few minutes, then Atcho looked at his watch. “Well Bob, what do you think? Have we solved enough of the world’s problems for one day?”

  Bob nodded. “I’ll do the best I can with Isabel.”

  “OK. I can deal with my own demons. Let’s get out of here.”

  31

  Ten days later, in the early morning hours, Govorov called. “Atcho.” His low, grating voice brought Atcho instantly awake.

  He rubbed his eyes. “Must you always call in the middle of the night?”

  “This is the best time to ensure privacy. Besides, it’s been awhile since we’ve spoken. You should be happy to hear from me.” When Atcho did not respond, the general continued. “Congratulations on a splendid showing at the State of the Union address. I saw the videotapes. You looked very distinguished, and most heroic.”

  “What do you want?” Atcho’s mind sharpened. There was something vaguely familiar in Govorov’s intonation of certain words.

  The Russian sighed into the phone. “I guess you’re hopeless when it comes to common courtesy. Well, no matter.” His mocking tone reverberated. “I have good news. We have a mission!”

  Cold talons seized Atcho’s stomach. “What am I supposed to do?” he demanded flatly.

  Govorov laughed. “I can’t tell you yet, but when I do, you’ll agree that it was worth the wait.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. We’re still working out details.” Atcho was silent. “Don’t be impatient.” Govorov’s tone sharpened slightly. “By the way, I hear you attended a reception after the president’s speech.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Don’t be cute,” Govorov warned. “I’ve allowed a lot of latitude, but there is a limit. Check with me before going to events not expressly cleared by me. Is that understood?”

  Atcho was silent.

  “Do you understand?”

  Atcho stared into the phone.

  “Atcho, do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” he snapped.

  “Good! I’ll be in touch.”

  With the dial tone ringing in his ear, Atcho stared into the night. Since the general had always encouraged his attendance at social gatherings, he was surprised at the man’s reaction to the reception. Cold sweat broke out on his brow. For seven years, he had known a mission was coming. He still had no plan.

  32

  “You look distracted,” Sofia remarked, playfully reproachful. This was their fourth time seeing each other since the State of the Union reception, and he had looked forward to it immensely. Govorov had ruined that for him last night.

  They were sitting in the outside area on the roof of an elegant seafood restaurant in the middle of a busy marina overlooking the Potomac. Atcho loved this spot. Although bustling, it was not crowded, conversation was typically light, and the tall sailboats bobbing at the docks provided a pleasant feeling of movement. The only drawback was that politicians and other powerbrokers often frequented the place, for the exact same reasons.

  “I’m sorry,” Atcho said, “I’m a bit preoccupied. I had something unexpected come up in business.” He had actually tried to call and cancel with Sofia, but had been unable to reach her.

  She quickly scrutinized his expression. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He shook his head. “I really wish I could.” He found the feeling more genuine than he had intended to indicate. “Just some things I have to take care of.” He looked across at her. She had drawn back a bit. “Oh, it has nothing to do with you!” His fervor surprised even him. Careful, he told himself. You can’t let your feelings get away from you! He decided to change the subject. “Tell me about yourself,” he said. “You know all about me, but I know almost nothing about you.”

  “Ah, changing the subject?” Sofia laughed, her green eyes flashing. “What would you like to know?”

  Atcho felt his spirits begin to lighten. Sofia had that effect on him. “Everything!” he said. “We’ve spent the last three times together talking about me, the Cuban revolution, what prison was like, Isabel.” He stopped and squinted at her playfully. “We haven’t talked about you at all. Am I that much of a chauvinist pig, or are you trying to hide a dark and lurid past from me?”

  The music of Sofia’s laughter raised Atcho’s spirits further. “All right,” she said, and smiled mischievously. “As near as I can tell, Mister, you are robbing the cradle! I am about twelve years younger than you.”

  “Yes, but I am so well preserved,” Atcho returned, without missing a beat. They both laughed, and then Atcho became serious. “Please,” he said, “I do want to know about you.”

  “Thank you, Atcho. I mean that sincerely.” Her face acquired a sad expression. “I should tell you first of all that I am a widow.”

  “Oh my God,” Atcho exclaimed. “Madre de Dios! I feel so foolish!”

  “No, no, it’s OK.” Sofia reached across and touched his hand. “Really, it’s OK.”

  “But you’ve put so much into comforting me!”

  “But I could, Atcho, because I had been through the pain. I came out the other side, and I didn’t lose my home and my country – and I didn’t go to a dungeon!” They sat quietly a few moments. “Look, I don’t tell many people that. I loved my husband very much, and … ” Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she stopped. She collected herself, and
after a moment she said, “I just thought we should get through that. It had to come out … ” she caught herself, and then proceeded cautiously, “if we’re going to keep seeing each other.”

  Atcho looked startled. Warmth spread through him, and he felt redness rising in his cheeks. He stuttered, “Are we going to be seeing each other?”

  Sofia laughed spontaneously, and put a napkin to her mouth to dab away tears that had run down her cheek. “You silly man,” she said, “You’ve asked me out four times. What did you think we were doing?”

  They lingered over soft-shelled crab and sparkling white wine. Sofia told Atcho that she had graduated from Yale and had married an army officer soon after. He had been killed in a black ops incident that no one would talk about. That had happened seven years after their wedding. “I joined the Diplomatic Corps, and I’ve been with it ever since.” Havana had been her first assignment. She had been there six months when she met Atcho. “Since then, I’ve served in Geneva, Madrid, and at the State Department here in Washington.”

  “What do you do there?” Atcho asked.

  “I am a division director in the Office of Intelligence and Research.”

  Atcho gulped, and hoped his expression did not communicate sudden anxiety. “Well,” he quipped, “a keeper of state secrets! Should you be telling me this?”

  “Oh, the organization is no secret. It’s a matter of public record. You can find me in the directory. I just basically oversee analysts.”

  “Still, that sounds impressive. Why would you have anything to do with an old political reprobate like me?”

  “Just a glutton for punishment, I guess.”

  Atcho loved that brilliant smile. He relaxed in a way that he could not remember. With only minor reluctance, he asked to see her again the following week. I can always cancel, he told himself.