by Noel Hynd
The Christopher Columbus Cemetery was on a hilltop in the old Vedado neighborhood of Havana, Cuba, just south of the Plaza de la Revolución.
El necrópolis. The City of the Dead. Almost a hundred fifty years ago it had been built on top of the old Espada Cemetery. The Spanish architect Calixto de Loira had designed it. The cemetery had been built when Havana had run out of catacombs.
The old man walked by the grandiose monuments and tombs that the tourists came to see, the ones that made Colón Cemetery famous. There was a seventy-five-foot-high column to los bomberos, the firefighters who had lost their lives in the great Havana fire of May 1890. The monument was a remembrance of the victims of the blaze. On top of the monument was a statue representing the fallen men. The statue remained the highest point in the cemetery and could be seen for miles, even from the sea. Nearby, a contemporary memorial of shiny metal Cuban flags honored the students killed during their attack on Fulgencio Batista’s Presidential Palace in 1957. Martyrs of the Revolution.
There were two monuments to players from the Cuban baseball league, the first erected in 1942 and the second in 1951 for members of the Cuban Baseball Hall of Fame. “A celebration of life or of death?” the old man wondered. There were as many different architectural styles here as there were in Havana. But this was a universe of marble saints and granite angels, stone griffins on tombstones and carved saints watching over small temples, Egyptian pyramids, and mausoleums. Majestic lions sat next to stone-cut effigies of long-deceased dogs and cats. Iron bats flew around family vaults.
In February 1898, the recovered bodies of sailors who died on the U.S. Navy’s battleship Maine were buried here. A year later, the bodies were disinterred and brought back to the U.S. for burial, some in Key West and some at Arlington National Cemetery. The same thing was going on today, the old man noted with bitterness. The dead couldn’t be allowed to stay dead — at least, not in one place. With nearly a million humans buried here, new space was now nearly nonexistent. There was a new policy in the workers’ paradise: after three years all old remains were removed from their burial plots, boxed, and sent to a modern storage building.
The old man took stock of the famous as he walked: Ibrahim Ferrer, the musician who became famous with the Buena Vista Social Club; Alberto “Korda” Gutierrez, the photographer who took the iconic photo of Che Guevara; Manuel Arteaga y Betancourt, Archbishop of Havana from the 1940s until his death in 1963, who opposed both Batista and Castro and still managed to live until his eighty-fourth year.
Then the old man found the tomb he wanted. He knelt down beside it. He didn’t pray so much as he closed his eyes and attempted to communicate, to seek solace, maybe even some forgiveness. He was sure that a spirit inhabited this place, the spirit of someone he had known and loved at a time that now seemed long ago. So much had happened. So much should have been forgiven, but wasn’t.
His shoulders were bent as the sun continued to pound down on him. He said a prayer. He wondered if God was listening. He wondered if God was even there.
In the distance dogs barked, one of the groups of strays that slip into the cemetery through gaps in the old creaking walls. Then the old man climbed to his feet, using the stone itself to steady himself. It was all wrapped up together in this place, the past, the present, and the future. It came together here just as he knew that it would come together soon again in the future.
He turned and retraced his path down the hill, struggling with a gnarled hand on his cane, knowing that a bitter day was coming, and that it would arrive soon.
Very well, he thought to himself. He had said his final goodbyes and seen a final Havana sunset from this solemn but enchanting place. Most of the good-byes, anyway. His hand went to the other pocket of his pants where he kept a small pistol, twenty-two caliber, American made. He hadn’t fired it in years, but, like himself, it still had life in it.
Some good-byes were more final than others, and the old man wanted to do them all properly.
For Manuel Perez, the trip to Cuba had been much easier than it had been for Alex, since no reception committee was waiting for him. He was in CIA custody, and his new handlers had brought him by unmarked jet into a vast naval base on the southeast tip of the island, where he was well received and well fed.
He was also well equipped. New armaments were given to him. A pistol and a sniper’s rifle. He remained at the base overnight and was then moved to Havana. He wasn’t there to enjoy the nightlife, however, as much as to be part of it.
His new handlers, after all, had seen to everything.
FORTY-FOUR
Morning: Alex’s eyes opened in a flash. Somewhere at the edge of her consciousness, there was a sound, like a door sharply closing. It jounced her. She looked up, and three figures were standing before her. The one in the center wore a uniform.
The first thing Alex looked for was whether the man in the uniform was carrying a gun. He was not. To his left was a younger male, no more than a teenager, but very tall and muscular, obviously a farm kid used to heavy labor. He had the same face as the older man, a son, Alex presumed.
To the man’s other side was a woman. Alex sat up quickly. The three cubanos were looking at her as if she had just arrived from outer space. Then her gaze settled briefly back on the well-built teenager. He was holding a machete close to his body.
“Señora,” the older man said, speaking Spanish. “This is our cabin.”
Alex sputtered an explanation. “¡Lo siento!” she said. “I’m sorry! I was lost and terribly tired. I will … I will leave.”
The man shook his head sharply and put a hand on her shoulder. “No, no,” he said. “The area is filled with police and army. There was un suceso horrible—a horrible incident — yesterday on the beach. We cannot let you leave. You must come with us.”
Alex drew a deep breath. “¡Está bien!” she said. “All right.”
The woman went to the door and held it open. Obviously, they meant for Alex to follow. The bright rays of the morning sun slanted down onto the floor.
Alex made no effort to flee. The man in the uniform indicated a path that led from the cabin. The boy with the machete stayed behind and closed the door. When Alex looked back, he was using a small hammer to put the padlock and its clasp back in place.
The path was sandy, with small stones. No one said anything. Alex’s heart pounded. Was this the beginning of years of imprisonment? She scrutinized the man’s uniform, looking for some clue as to his intention, and suddenly she felt relieved. The words CORREO DE CUBA were stitched on an epaulet on his right shoulder. He was a postal carrier. Now she understood.
They led her through a clump of trees to a small cottage with a dilapidated façade and a rusty roof. The man went ahead and pushed open the door. He looked at Alex. His eyes were dark, curious, but not hostile. “Por favor,” he said. “Entre.”
Alex followed. She wondered if she was being taken here to wait for police. She looked for evidence of a telephone but didn’t see any. She came into a small threadbare central room with peeling paint but with a comfortable homey feel to it. There was a dining table near a ramshackle kitchen, which was off to the side. Suddenly she became aware of the pistol on her ankle. The last thing she wanted to do was to reveal it, much less use it. She wondered if the police or army had already been notified. Again she wondered if Paul was dead or alive.
“Please sit,” the man said. “My name is Carlos,” he said. “This is my wife, Maria, and my son, Guillermo.”
Alex sat at the kitchen table. She nodded. “Mi llamo Anna Maria,” she said, sticking to the lie on her fake passport. “Soy mexicana.” They nodded. The boy with the machete took a seat by the door, which he left partly open. Looking for someone? Alex wondered. Waiting? There was a napkin holder and a small bowl of fruit at the table’s center, apples and oranges. There was a crucifix above the sink on the wall.
“¿Agua fría?” Carlos asked. Cold water?
“Si, por favor,” she answered. Pl
ease.
He nodded to his wife. She opened a small old refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of water. She poured a glass and set it on the table. The man turned on a ceiling fan, which created a nice breeze. The woman managed a faint smile at Alex. The woman looked as if she didn’t much believe Alex but didn’t care either.
Suddenly Alex had never been so thirsty in her life. She took the water with a trembling hand and drank almost all of it. She stole a glance at a clock. It was 9:15 in the morning. Alex finished the glass and the woman graciously refilled it.
“Who are you?” the man asked. “Why were you in our shed?”
She embarked on her cover story. “I’m mexicana,” she said again. “I was touring Cuba with my husband. He has business here.”
“He’s mexicano or cubano?” the man asked. “Your husband?”
“Venezolano,” she said, slipping into a convenient and well rehearsed lie. “We had a horrible fight. He threw me out of the car and left me.”
The man snorted as if he sensed a ruse somewhere. “Why would a man abandon a woman as bella as you?” he asked, with a faint grin. “Even a stupid Venezolano?”
“My husband is not a good man,” Alex continued without a beat. “I married him when I was very young. He has other women and wishes to discard me. We argued by the roadside and I jumped out of the car. I ran and hid. I started walking, but decided to hide when I saw my husband’s car returning on the road. Then I grew very tired and slept.”
“Ah,” Carlos said. Alex had no idea whether he believed her or not.
The woman looked at Alex with sympathy, then reached for the bowl of fruit and pushed it to her. Alex, starving, took an apple and thanked her. Then Carlos explained that the shack where Alex had been hiding was where they kept supplies for their garden. His son saw that the lock had been knocked off its hinges that morning and went to reseal the building. Then he had discovered her.
“So no one else knows I’m here?” Alex said.
“Nadie,” the man said. “No one. Just us.”
“I will travel on shortly,” Alex said. “I need to get back to Havana.”
“There was a disturbance at the beach toward dawn yesterday morning,” the man said. “Smugglers maybe. Or local drunks or criminals. No one knows exactly what happened.”
“There are rumors,” the wife said. “Yankee spies, maybe.”
“Was your husband one of those men?” the man asked.
Alex quickly and adamantly answered, “No.”
“A small ship came from somewhere,” Carlos said. “It’s all anyone has talked about.” He said he had gone to his work the day before and heard nothing but rumors. Then, this morning, his son had told him about a woman asleep in their shed.
“People heard gunfire at dawn,” the boy interjected from where he sat. “There were gunshots. The police and army have been all over the area.” He waited for a moment, then added with too much enthusiasm. “I saw an ambulance too.”
“The civil guard has been going door-to-door yesterday and today,” Maria said softly. “CDR. They must have missed our shed.” She was referring to the Comite de la Defensa de La Revolución. The CDR was everywhere in Cuba, Alex knew. In a high-minded way, they were the civil defense squad, its activities ranging from mass inoculations to political and civil surveillance. It was also the neighborhood fink squad, tattling on everyone.
Alex cringed. She also wondered if Carlos and his family were giving her information between the lines, warning her. She started to grasp a subtext, that they were not anxious to cooperate with authorities.
“Someone said some men were killed,” Carlos said. “Intruders from off the island.”
“How many?” Alex asked.
“Tres. Quizás cuatro,” Carlos said. Three, maybe four. “But we don’t know. Stories are everywhere, but stories are cheap.” He paused. “Killed or wounded. ¿Quien sabe? Who knows? Best to stay out of affairs like this,” he said.
“I agree,” Alex said, feeling her emotions sink again wondering if Paul had been killed.
“My friend Juanes,” the boy interjected quickly, “said he saw soldiers. From the garrison at Matanzas. And bodies. Maybe three, I think. I don’t know about a fourth.”
His father waved him off. Alex didn’t want to act too interested.
“It is not safe for a woman to travel alone under such conditions,” Maria said. “Police. Army. Intruders, maybe. There is a bus to Havana, but it leaves at 9:00 a.m. It’s too late.”
“Maybe there’s una posada nearby, an inn?” Alex asked.
“You may stay with us,” the woman said. “You should stay with us. We will show you to the bus station tomorrow morning.”
Alex hesitated. The family insisted.
“I would pay you,” Alex said.
They shrugged. Maria stood and went to the refrigerator. She took out a plate, reached for one or two other items, and went to the counter. She arranged a small plate of food. She returned to the table with the plate. On it were chicken wings, a few slices of celery, and three small tortillas. She pushed the plate to Alex.
“Please eat,” Maria said. “You are hungry. And you do not need to pay us.”
“Only if you wish to and can,” Carlos corrected.
“Whatever you wish to do,” said Maria.
“You’re too kind,” Alex said.
“Please eat,” Maria said again.
Alex ate. Carlos spoke again. “Are you American?” he asked point blank.
Alex looked at him. She reached to her passport and handed it to him. They crowded around and looked at it, their gaze alternating between her picture and Alex. Finally the man smiled and handed it back.
“But are you American?” the man asked again.
Alex looked back at the passport and pointed. “Mexicana,” she said again.
Carlos’s eyes twinkled very slightly. “Very well,” he said. “You are mexicana.”
Alex finished her food. She indicated her clothing, the dirt, and the tears. “Maybe I could wash later,” she said. “And maybe clean my clothing.”
“Of course,” Maria answered. “Do you have other clothes to wear?”
Alex shook her head. “I fled very quickly,” Alex said. “I had extra clothes but I left them behind.”
The woman laughed. Carlos, fully amused for the first time, shook his head.
“Maybe there is a shop nearby,” Alex suggested. “Perhaps I could buy some extra things. Maybe a skirt, a few blouses.”
Maria’s face illuminated. “Come with me!” she said. “Clothing, yes!”
Maria sprung to her feet, taking Alex by the hand. She led her out of the house and down a long dirt road until they came to a few windy, dusty streets of a town. Maria greeted a few people she met on the way and was soon in front of another small building with a heavy front door and iron gratings.
The door was open for air circulation, as were most doors on the block. She rapped on a wooden door and called out for someone named Ramona.
A small child came into view, then turned and ran. His mother, Ramona, returned moments later and recognized Maria.
Ramona was Maria’s sister. The door opened. Ramona ushered Alex and Maria in. The front room of the home had a few racks of used clothing and an area for a seamstress. The place, a small store and tailoring shop in Ramona’s home, was a godsend.
“Please,” Ramona said. “Find what you like.”
Alex riffled through the racks. She picked out a pale green dress, a pair of skirts, one green one to the knees and one ankle length in pale orange, both in a tropical-weight cotton, two white blouses, a pair of shorts, and a pair of T-shirts. The store also had some fresh underwear. Alex used the family bedroom to change and tried to keep her gun well hidden, though she wasn’t sure she had. Ramona had a twelve-year-old daughter who helped.
Ramona used her sewing skills to adjust the waist on one of the skirts. Within minutes all three women were laughing as old friends might.
&n
bsp; There were some baseball caps there too, and Alex picked one. She avoided American logos and opted for one from a Mexican professional baseball team. Los Sultanes de Monterrey. The cap was perfect. Navy blue. It would help her blend into crowds. Then Alex added a pair of espadrilles for walking.
Ramona wouldn’t let Alex leave until she had also repaired the damage to Alex’s clothes. She washed out the area that had been spoiled with sand and dirt, then went to work with a needle and thread. Alex added a pair of sneakers that fit and also saw a used tote bag. She offered to buy it. Ramona let it go for the equivalent of five dollars.
In the end, Alex wore new clothing out the door.
“I have Mexican pesos and Cuban pesos,” Alex said. “Which do you wish?”
There was a pause. Ramona and Maria exchanged a conspiratorial smile.
“Do you maybe have American dollars?” Ramona asked.
Alex paused. “I might have a few,” she said. “You’d prefer those?” Ramona nodded, not surprisingly. “How many do you want?”
Ramona couldn’t bring herself to ask for such an extravagant amount as she had in mind. So, with a giggle, she wrote the number on a pad and showed it to Alex.
Thirty-five dollars. She looked as if she were ready to bargain.
But Alex exuded gratitude, not a cheap streak. “Perfecto,” Alex said. “¡Treinta cinco dólares!” Alex peeled off thirty-five dollars. Ramona was ecstatic. Then they chatted about local news and the rumors about yesterday’s incident.
Later that afternoon, Maria and Alex strolled back to the house.
Behind the house was a makeshift shower stall for bathing. There would be no hot water. Maria warned that the warmth of the day would soon be gone and the sea breezes made bathing chilly at night. So it was best to shower before their late dinner, while the sun was still on the back of the house.
The water pump wasn’t working, Maria warned further, and the showerhead was out of order. But the bathing area would drain properly. So the family directed Alex to the well, where she drew four buckets of water. Guillermo helped carry the water to the bathing area. There was a single shower curtain, badly torn, behind which Alex could shield herself from two directions only, but the family gave her privacy. Maria handed her a small bar of Camay soap, the type found in downscale American motels.