The Passage

by David Poyer

  “One, two, three, four, six,” said Diehl. “What’s five? I don’t need a polygraph machine to tell me you’re speaking me sau about something. Ask you this: If it isn’t that you like to suck boys’ dicks, is it worth flushing your career down the toilet for? ’Cause I’m gonna find out what it is sooner or later.” He sipped coffee and looked at the overhead. “What exactly is the problem here? Have we got some kind of personality conflict going?”

  “I don’t think so. I just find your questions offensive.”

  “Oh, I’m the bad guy because I’m asking questions? Clue you in, Lieutenant. I haven’t even started asking them yet. I’ll tell you something else, something I learned in submarines. ‘Don’t sink the boat.’ Everything else is secondary to that. But these asshole bandits can do it. It’s not a matter of one guy. That, maybe we could live with. But these buddy fuckers start linking up. They get this chain going, and it grows and spreads … . When the roaches get out of hand, somebody’s got to come in and spray the kitchen.” Diehl took out a Skilcraft and a pad of paper. He put them beside Dan’s hand, on the desk. “Now, I’m gonna leave you alone here for a while. I want you to write down what you know. This is your last chance to get straight with me. After that, cross your legs; I only got one more nail.”

  “Take your paper with you,” said Dan. “I don’t have anything to add to what I said.”

  When Diehl closed the door, Dan sat without moving. His mouth was dry. Shit, he thought. I handled that all wrong. Well, at least he’d kept suspicion away from the captain.

  Yeah, real good work. So now he suspects me.

  A tentative knock turned out to be Cephas. Dan waved him in, seeing from his face that he’d have to mollify him now for yelling at him. He sighed. The Weapons Department yeoman was either ingratiating or else sullen; he seemed to want something, some acceptance or approbation, but even when Dan complimented him on a typing job, it didn’t seem to be enough … . He started to reach for the growing stack of paper in his box, then remembered that as of now, when he wasn’t on watch, he was on the ACDADS problem full-time. He said the necessary few words to Cephas. Then, hoisting himself wearily to his feet, he made his way through darkened, empty passageways toward the computer room.

  24

  Alcorcón

  THE first rocket detonated with a flash and roar, showering hot sparks down over the crowd. The glow washed over the stillwet streets from the rain that had just ended. Then all at once, the searchlights came on, the bands started to play, and the first float rumbled into the square to a gasp and then a wild, tumultuous cheer. Burning white shafts clashed like sword blades, then focused on the goddesses who waved from it. Gold and white plumes nodded from their heads, making them eight feet tall. As their dazzling smiles beamed across the plaza, the air throbbed with ecstatic rhythm, amplified till it made all thought impossible.

  Graciela stood against the side of a building, crossing her arms over her stomach to protect herself as the dancers whirled by. Greasepaint and sweat melted down their faces in multicolored rivers. The smells of perfume and sweat and popcorn, dust and rum and the choking exhaust from the Hungarian trucks made her feel like throwing up.

  The people had spent months preparing for the Carnaval, stitching together costumes, floats, decorations out of wood and papiermâché, colored paper and cloth and tinsel laboriously cut from foil. All stolen from the state, yet the Party looked the other way. Tonight the bands played Silvio Rodriguez and Pablito Milaués, not the “Internationale,” and no one wore militia uniforms.

  Tonight the worn-out engines of the dented trucks rumbled beneath immense and gaudy wedding-cake disguises, and on them perched workers and peasants who for three heady nights would be kings and queens. They passed in regal splendor, retainers throwing candy and flowers to the screaming crowd. Chinese-made firecrackers ripped the night apart in a stitching of flame and smoke. The beat of “Yolanda” grew faster as the floats glittered and flashed with sequins and rhinestones. Behind them gyrated Santería dancers, dressed in the red of Changó, god of lightning, fire, and war, or the yellow and white of Ochún, goddess of love. Then came students, workers, teachers, but now they were Spanish dons in cocked hats and swords, showgirls, magicians’ assistants. Smoking fusees smeared scarlet light over the face of a strutting Red Death with the back of his hand on his hip. By the hundreds they danced and pushed in a slow peristalsis into the heart of town, a thickening gruel of robots, eyeless reptiles, zombies, fairies, giant rats with the faces of Reagan and Kennedy.

  As each float reached the plaza, its riders dismounted, joining the crowd that gradually jelled into a quarter mile of partying flesh. Though she fought for the safety of her wall, she gradually found herself squeezed out into the circulating mass. A skeleton thrust a bottle into her hand, its black maw soundless in the massive, solid impenetration of music and noise. She put it to her lips, tasting the raw sugar spirit, then thrust it back, staring over his head at the cathedral tower that loomed like a ghostly reproach of centuries past over the riot in the square. The hands of its ancient clock pointed to nine. Undertakers, Arabs, mummies rocked and tottered under the green putrescent light of exploding fireworks, the dazzling arcs of militia searchlights. Between low clouds, the stars swayed crazily above the drunken pullulation.

  Gradually, the beats of the different bands melted into one another as their members, too, dissolved into the swirling, bobbing mass. It was the rhumba and the conga, the bolero and pachanga, the mambo and the son bembe, every African and Cuban beat blaring together at once. Half Spanish, half African in origin, now the Carnaval was supposed to commemorate the beginning of the revolution. But one glance at this seething mass told her that for four days now revolutionary discipline was gone. It was the perfect time to escape.

  Clutching hands circled her; a hot breath scorched her cheek. She pushed herself away, screaming at the packed, swaying crowd. Eyes glared through masks, dropped to her belly, slid away.

  For a moment, she thought she saw one mask turn to follow her, thought she saw someone threading the melee behind her. But when she searched the crowd, it was impossible—there were too many faces, too much noise. And so she turned again, cursing and striking out as the mass pressed in, as anonymous hands felt her buttocks and slipped boldly between her thighs.

  At last, the crowd broke apart and she staggered out, dizzy but free. She ran awkwardly, till she couldn’t run anymore, then walked on, breath sawing in her throat. At last, she saw the dusty green ZIL where it had pulled up to let the workers from Cooperative Number 179 join the revelers.

  Julio stood tensely by the tailgate. He saw her and gestured furiously. “Come, hurry!” he shouted. “You’re the last one. Where have you been, Tia? Have you been drinking? Get in at once; I’ll boost you up.”

  Inside, the others sat in anxious silence on the board seats that ran the length of the bed. Tomás, Xiomara, Gustavo, Julio, Miguel. As she settled uncomfortably on the hard wood, Tomás banged on the cab with his stump, yelling, “Everybody’s here. Let’s go, chico,” and a moment later the engine started and the wheels slammed and the truck lurched, throwing her into the others as it jolted down off the sidewalk.

  Suddenly she was filled with pure fear, simple physical terror so intense she almost vomited in the swaying darkness. Was this really it? Was it really tonight at last? The first night of Carnaval, the Carnaval that would end with them all free, or dead.

  FOR the first part of that night, things seemed to go very swiftly. The truck rumbled through the dark, rain pattering on the canvas top from time to time. It stopped at the central to pick up the gas and the motor, and twice at Batey Number 3, once for old Aracelia, again for Augustin and Xiomara’s twins, Temilda and Gracia. Everybody was ready, dressed and with their little bags with them. The children were quiet, obedient, little faces frightened. Then it stopped one last time to let them off at the path that led into the marsh.

  When they were all out, Augustin leaned out of the c
ab, talking to Tomás. Then Guzman stepped back and he gunned the engine and put it into gear. They heard it blundering down into the swamp, through the brush, till at last the snapping and crashing died away. Augustín limped out a few minutes later, cursing; he’d hurt his foot jumping down from the cab.

  Then they went into the woods.

  As the vegetation closed around her, her fear returned. Her heart was pounding and her hands and feet felt like the prickly leaves of the guao were sticking into them. Now there was no way back—not after destroying the truck. Now, if light shot suddenly out of the darkness, backed by angry shouts and the rattle of gun bolts, they were lost. The batey would be broken up ruthlessly, its members scattered to labor camps and corrective farms. She’d lose her baby to a state foundling home. If anyone had informed on them

  … She shoved the fear back, sucking in her breath as sharp fronds sliced at her swollen legs. The men cursed in low voices ahead of her, carrying the engine on poles. The path seemed endless, and she had to stop and rest. When she did, Xiomara and the girls squatted with her, none of them speaking. Finally, they had to bend over and feel their way. Not even the stars penetrated into the tunnel bored through the mangrove.

  Water splashed under her feet. The mud was slippery and she fell, but the twins helped her up. The warm water deepened swiftly. She felt the things living in it fastening themselves to her flesh. It reached her waist, but she waded on. If it got any deeper, she’d drown; she couldn’t swim at all.

  Then there was nothing above her head but sky, clouds, the black palms bent by the wind. She stopped, panting, listening to the thudding in her chest. Then she forced herself on.

  The boat was only a shadow under the eclipsing stars. A faint light flickered. She heard murmurs, the clank of tools. When Tomás called her name, she got up and felt her way to the side. Hands pulled and boosted her up.

  In the little cramped cabin, she unclenched her fingers from the bag with the canned meat, fish, formula, and the folded doublestitched sail. In the light of a candle, Tomás glanced through it, then passed it to Julio. More hands steadied her as she moved toward the stern, picking her way clumsily over hard sharp things in the bottom of the boat.

  “Aracelia”: The name went around the waiting circle of men, women, and children.

  Aracelia was the oldest among them, an ancient crone dark as the bagasse pressed from the cane. She shuffled forward as Tomás held up a small object that squealed. There was the rapid murmur of an invocation, a sharp, terrified scream, then silence and the drip of blood into black water.

  The piglet’s throat slit, wrapped in red cloth, it was set adrift now on a little raft. A sacrifice to Yemayá, the ferocious and unpredictable god of the sea. Graciela muttered a prayer to the Virgin of Cobre, too, and Santa Barbara … . The gods had many faces, many names. But her heart had always told her they would listen no matter what you called them, like a mother who answers any cry in the night. The old santera blew the conch shell, calling the wind to aid them on the voyage. The muted mournful moan sent a shiver up her spine.

  “No more noise, that’s enough.” Tomás murmured. “Are we ready to board?”

  “I think so, chico. It feels like more rain, though.”

  “If it rains all the way to Miami, I’ll be happy. Okay, everybody get in—one at a time. Then move all the way back.”

  She felt the boat start to move, start to slip down the mud and into the water.

  Then someone said, from the darkness of the shore, “Stop.” “Oh no,” someone whispered. The men sucked quick gasps of breath and rolled out again, quietly. She heard the scrape of machetes being drawn from leather scabbards. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the lights, the shouting, the flash and crack of bullets.

  “Who is it?” Tomás called.

  “It’s us.”

  They stared into the darkness as shadows took on shape. “Who is it?” Tomás said again, louder.

  “It’s us, the Colons. Is that you, Guzman?”

  “You bastards! What are you doing here?”

  “Don’t be frightened! We knew you were going to escape, but we didn’t turn you in. We want to come.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Now they were close enough that Graciela could recognize Nenita Marquez’s heavyset form. Rámon said, “We only figured out you were going tonight. Why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped.”

  “Bastards, who told you? We’ll kill them.”

  “No one. But too many things were missing, too many strange things going on. We saw Graciela leave the Carnaval, and we followed the truck. It’s true, isn’t it? How are you getting away? Is the CIA coming for you?”

  “Are you joking? You have everything, you fucking Communists. Why would you want to come with us?”

  “There’s a crackdown on the way. We want out too, damn it! Look, we’ve got money, if that’s what you want.”

  “Forget it. We don’t have room; we’ve got ten people here. That’s all this boat can carry.”

  But Rámon insisted that they had to come. As they argued, Graciela suddenly understood something else. If Tomás didn’t let them come, he had to kill them. Otherwise, they’d go back, sound the alarm, and everyone would be captured out in the bay. So they couldn’t just let them go.

  They had to know that, too, Graciela thought. It took cojones. The men could simply slit their throats, the kids, too, and leave. Or pretend they agreed, then kill them at sea and feed them to the fish.

  And Tomás must have reasoned just as she had, because she heard his faintest whisper to Julio and Augustín: “Get around behind them. Strike when I say the word.”

  There was a single faint splash as a foot slipped into the water.

  The two groups of shadows stood apart, melting second by second into the darkness, only a desperate whisper stretched tenuously between them.

  “Tomás, you won’t regret it. We’ll paddle all the way to get away from here.”

  “No.”

  “You say no, Guzman. But what do the others say?”

  “I’m the leader; I speak for them. We don’t have room or food. You want to escape, good luck. Build your own boat.”

  The round shadow made a sudden motion, and Rámon shouted, “All right, you chose this. Nenita’s got her rifle aimed at you. I’ve got a gun, too. Tell those men behind us to drop their knives or we’ll kill you, kill all of you, understand? Then we’ll take your fucking boat! We’re in charge now.”

  Julio, from the darkness: “What about it? Kill them?”

  Guzman hesitated. “No. They’re just the kinds of bastards who’d do it.”

  “That’s good. Now you’re being smart! Get in, Nenita. Arturo, Pilar, Leonor, get in. Okay, are we ready to leave?”

  Graciela felt the boat roll beneath her, then slide into the black water with a sucking sound and a splash.

  THE sharp things under her feet turned out to be concrete blocks. She didn’t want to think how hard it must have been to carry them all out here, and the motor, which ran unevenly and incredibly loud just behind her back. Over them hovered the stars; around them slapped the shallow, choppy water of the Bahía Jigüey. She could put her hand over the side into the water, they sat that low. It was warm, and when she sucked her fingers, it tasted bitter, just like tears.

  “A little to the right. Pick out a star and steer by it,” came a mutter from the cabin. From time to time a glimmer escaped from where Tomás, Julio, and Rámon bent over the map she’d stolen from the médico. She smiled gleefully in the dark, remembering how she’d just walked in, just before they left for town, and torn it down off the wall of his office. It didn’t tell how deep the water was, but it showed the cays and the passages between them, and that was what they needed, wasn’t it? Someone else had contributed a toy compass. And so they were setting out.

  Only there wasn’t enough room.

  With five more shoved in than it had been designed for, the boat was packed so tigh
tly that it was hard to breathe. Without the Colons, they’d have been cramped, but they could have moved around a little. Now no one could move or stand up—Tomás had forbidden that—and sometimes the waves splashed in. Behind her, Augustín handled the little motor. They’d wrapped it in rags to keep down the noise, but it still sounded terribly loud.

  But they were moving; they were on their way. She could hear water chuckling past the hull. In the dark, it wavered with a greenish spirit glow, and she wondered if this was good. Was Yemaya protecting them? Or was it bad, a curse? She tried to pray, but the baby started kicking so hard, she had to lean back and try to catch her breath. It had dropped the week before. Its head was pointing downward, and she couldn’t eat more than a handful of rice at a time. And she had to pee all the time … like now. She fought it, but finally there wasn’t anything to do but let it go right there, on the hard seat.

  The murmuring from the cabin drifted back, became words. “It’s getting rougher. This wind’s kicking up the waves.”

  “It’ll be worse at sea.”

  “We’ll worry about that when we get there, all right? We’re a long way from the sea, Rámon.”

  “Morning in five hours. We’ll be across the bay by then if Agustín can keep the engine going.”

  “Then what?”

  “Hide. Then go on when it’s night again.” Sarcastically: “You agree, Comrade Colon? After all, you have appointed yourself comandante, no?”

  “What about the border guard? They patrol the cays with airplanes, boats—”

  “We’ll look for mangroves,” Tomás said. “That’s good cover.”

  “Is that a boat?” Augustín called in a hushed voice.

  “What?”

  “I thought I saw something out there.”

  “Whatever it is, steer away. Stay low, everybody. Throttle back; go slow.”