North of Havana

by Randy Wayne White

  Pretty good line. The Gulf Stream. Miami. Cleveland. Anyplace but where he was.

  I smiled, looking at Santiago—who was pulling at a thread on his shirt; didn’t even seem to be listening. To Valdes, I said, “A man of strength,” using the word “co-jones,” meaning balls… looked at him, expecting him to be smiling, too.

  Valdes wasn’t smiling. Said, “The committee didn’t think it was a very funny joke. They sent Sergio out of the room. Made him stand out there, no explanation… and he was arrested no more than ten minutes later. The charge would have been… I don’t know what, maybe treason. They took him to Combinado del Este prison, Havana’s largest. He never came to trial because somehow, Sergio, he died in there. Some of the other prisoners—this is what I heard—they wanted him to do something he wouldn’t, and someone killed him. No one really knows for sure.”

  Santiago still didn’t seem to be hearing any of it. He stretched, shivered a little—very tired—and he said, “Now I’m starting to get a little hungry.”

  To Valdes, I said, “You have any food down here?”

  He shook his head. “Back where we’re going, when your friend arrives. There is food there. It’s a safe place for us.”

  I said, “That could be in a few minutes, it could be an hour. The boy, he’s hungry, maybe there’s someplace up on the street. That bar maybe? Where you could still get some food.”

  Valdes’s expression said: Are you serious?

  I said, “You think a hundred dollars, U.S., could wake somebody up?”

  Santiago was suddenly interested. “Some beans with pork in it, that would be something nice. It doesn’t have to be hot. Or some ice cream.” The kid looked at me, his eyes a little suspicious, assessing mine… reappraisal time; some respect in his expression and a lot of knowledge for someone his age.

  But the look Valdes gave me, I didn’t like: You think I’m your servant? You think you can buy everything with your American money?

  I told Valdes, “The boy’s hungry, we’re down here waiting around—why not give it a try?” I had fished into my pocket, was holding out a bill.

  Santiago said, “And bring a coffee for the gringo.” Gave me the little wink again. Said, “Or maybe you’d like a beer?” This kid who’d never been in charge of anything in his life immediately very comfortable taking charge.

  Valdes saw the humor in that; he was chuckling as he reached for the hundred—Ben Franklin’s big monopoly portrait folded over my finger—then paused, listening.

  Voices were echoing down the dark corridor, coming closer, someone talking louder than I would have expected… it had to be coming from an entrance different from the other I had seen used. I watched Valdes tense, listening… then watched him relax. He didn’t take the money as he turned away.

  I heard Tomlinson’s voice: “Doc… hey, Doc.” I looked at him as he nodded his head toward the corridor. “That’s Taino coming.”

  13

  Finally seeing him, the first thing I thought was: Taino?

  He didn’t seem to have much Indian in him. A little bit of Arawak, perhaps, with his goshawk nose… and the way he stayed within himself, showing nothing, taking things in through black eyes… a guy who was above it all and without much patience. Otherwise, he was gray skinned but with a paunchy Castilian face. Probably thirty or so, but looked older, with his wild black hair curling around elongated ears and his black mustache and goatee. Pretty big guy, six two maybe, but looked soft beneath a white guayabera shirt and baggy white slacks. I noticed that he wore strings of beads around his neck and both wrists, and that beads were sewn into the collar of his shirt—red and white plastic beads. He came out of the shadows with two other men who had to walk fast to keep up, as if being hauled along in the guy’s slipstream.

  He gave me a peremptory glance and was done with me; didn’t seem to see the boy at all. Went to the map table, where Tomlinson and Rita had already stepped aside to give him room. Told Valdes, “Get everything together. We’re leaving right away,” before he looked at Tomlinson and said in Spanish, “How have you been doing with the map? Did you get any messages, any feelings concerning where we should look?”

  Talking to him as if he were some kind of psychic—the two of them simpático, one prophet to another.

  Tomlinson made a rocking motion with an open palm. “Nothing definite, man, but some very serious vibes. I just don’t feel tuned in the way I need to be.”

  I expected Rita to translate—she’d been doing it all evening—but not this time.

  No… apparently, Taino understood English. He was nodding, thumb and index finger to his lips, giving the problem serious thought. “You have the power; I know you have the power.” He said that as if speaking to himself.

  “Power? Oh-h-h-h, have no fear about that one. God wouldn’t send me down here without enough juice to get the job done. Thing is… what it might be? Those peyote buttons had a very beneficial effect; added just the right kick. Maybe a couple more of those would put me in tiptop shape.” Being coy about it, as if he were back at Harvard hustling drugs.

  Taino was thinking about it. “Perhaps… perhaps. But there’s also a ceremony that might help. A very special ceremony”—he checked his watch—“we might have time. It has to be done at midnight or noon… it’s meaningless, any other time. So we have only a few hours because, of course, tomorrow would be too late.”

  I wondered about that—it was now around midnight. Christmas Eve. What was so special about Christmas Day to a Santería priest?

  Taino had made up his mind. “Yes, that’s what we’ll do. A sacrifice to Changó. Are you familiar with Changó?”

  Tomlinson said, “Like a god? I’ve met so many, man, they’re starting to run together. You know from what solar system?”

  Taino wasn’t listening. “We will take this map and ask a blessing on it… I’ll do the ceremony, and my apprentices”—he indicated the two men behind him; both very black, very attentive and dressed in pure white—“they’ll see to finding several chickens. And a goat, too, perhaps? Mr. Tomlinson will, of course, participate.”

  I couldn’t believe I was listening to this nonsense. I waited a little while longer, becoming impatient, getting madder, while they discussed the details of this voodoo ceremony—“Orlando, we will pour the blood into bowls and you will carry them”—before I’d had enough. Who in the hell was this guy, Taino, to be controlling everyone in the room? While he was still talking, I walked to the table, put my hand on his shoulder. I wasn’t at all surprised that he froze, as if, in touching him, I’d committed some blasphemy. He stood very still, looking straight ahead, as I said, “I hate to interrupt, mister, but you people were supposed to bring a friend of mine. Her name’s Dewey. I think her well-being is a hell of a lot more important than standing around listening to you plan your party.”

  I said it in English. If he could understand Tomlinson, he could understand me.

  Taino didn’t reply. He kept looking straight ahead, everything quiet, then turned and stared at my hand on his shoulder. I gave it a little time then removed it. I expected him to turn and say something to me but, instead, he spoke to Tomlinson: “This is your friend? The one who brought the money?”

  Everyone stood listening, very tense… except for Rita, who seemed to be enjoying it—what do I care?

  Tomlinson said, “Did I forget my manners? You two haven’t been formally introduced—” as Taino interrupted him, saying to Valdes: “Have you gotten the money from him yet?”

  It seemed to be an awkward point with Valdes. “We never really got around to discussing that… issue.”

  “Then discuss that issue. We need it. It’s part of our agreement.”

  Agreement? I looked from Tomlinson to Rita, then back to Tomlinson. He gave me an expression—it’s no big deal, man—as Rita said, “That’s what I was trying to make you understand earlier. These people are trying to help us. You
think my great uncle’s people are after us because they want to turn what we find over to Castro? No way. They want it for themselves. It’s them we’re hiding from, not the military, not the government. This is personal—we’re talking about an old man whom everybody in my family despised.”

  In a fractured, chaotic Cuba, it was certainly possible that even Angel Santoya—his top men, more likely—were acting independently. That the same might be true of other bureaucrats, other agencies, was a startling realization. Because Castro had chosen to ride Cuba’s collapse to the ground, it was not unlikely that a kind of slow-motion anarchy now reigned. It was survival time; every agency, every department, every bureaucrat out for themselves.

  It made me think of Rosario.…

  I said to Rita, “I give them the money, they provide protection. What else?”

  To Valdes, Taino said, “Tell him that Ochoa will divide the Santoya fortune evenly with the woman, and we will see that all of you have safe passage out of Cuba.”

  Why did I have the feeling that everyone except for Tomlinson was lying to me?

  In Spanish, I said, “Mister, if you want me involved in a discussion, speak to me directly. But I’ll tell you something right now: You won’t see the first cent until I know Dewey’s safe and until Tomlinson’s on his sailboat, headed for international waters. You do those two things, yeah, we’ll sit down and talk.”

  Valdes said, “The boat’s already been taken care of. It’s waiting for you now. The papers, the clearance—whenever he’s ready.”

  “Where?”

  “That is something you’ll learn later.”

  “That leaves Dewey. When she gets here, when we’re all on Tomlinson’s boat, then you’ll get the money. Not until then.”

  To Tomlinson, Taino said, “He is a very irritating man, this friend of yours.”

  “Doc? Yeah, Doc rides on single rails… pisses me off all the time. With him, it’s always like: Why be someone pleasant and interesting when you can be yourself?”

  There, that sounded like the old Tomlinson—giving me one of his private digs.

  “He didn’t know about our agreement?”

  I moved a little closer to Taino, breaching that delicate perimeter of personal space. “Unless the agreement’s with me, you don’t have an agreement. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. Produce my friend, we’ll talk.”

  Taino whirled away, scattering his assistants, arms held aloft—I’m not going to listen to any more of this!—as he snapped, “We are leaving! Valdes, he will ride with you!”

  Meaning me, I guessed. Not an ideal situation, allowing ourselves to be split like that: separate, isolate, and destroy. It is an old and effective technique.

  But I had no choice.

  Which was maybe why I was getting so much satisfaction out of irritating the guy. “Only if you’re taking me to Dewey—”

  “Yes!”

  I had another thought. Looked at Santiago. Where was he more likely to get something to eat? Midnight, alone on the street, or tagging along with me? I called after Taino: “And the boy—he’s going, too.”

  Valdes, still very nervous, started to say, “That’s impossible, I’m afraid—” but stopped when Taino yelled, “Do you think I care about such details?”

  We left by separate exits—me, Valdes, and the boy together, the others taking different corridors. Came out into an alley I’d never been into, streets I didn’t recognize.

  People still out milling in the shadows. I saw several children huddled beneath cardboard. A few cars; most of them turtling along in the dark, saving their batteries, saving their expensive headlights.

  Valdes said, “It’s so late, the police may stop us. Please, let me do the talking unless you’re asked a direct question. Are you carrying your passport? They’ll know you’re an American.”

  I was carrying a passport. My real passport was at the Masaguan Embassy along with slightly more than $9,000 in cash. To retrieve either, I’d have to show up personally or someone would have to come with a note signed by me.

  The note would have to include a telling code word—Pilar—or the funds would not be released.

  Valdes knew where he was going, and pretty soon I realized that he was trying to fit a key into my rental car. It’d been moved, but it was the same little brown Nissan.

  I found that reassuring. I’d left the keys in our room at the Havana Libre. If they had the keys, they probably had Dewey, too.

  Valdes said, “I’m supposed to drive,” as if apologizing; once again a reasonable man, comfortable with himself now that we were away from Taino. “It’s not far. An hour, maybe.”

  As Santiago scooched himself into the tiny backseat, he asked, “Are they really going to kill some chickens?”

  Valdes waited until he had pulled out into the street before he answered. “They probably will. It’s what they do.” His tone saying that he wasn’t a part of that, didn’t approve of it, didn’t understand it. Then watched him in the dash lights, smiling, when Santiago said, “After they do that. Kill those chickens, I mean. You think they would mind if I cooked one and ate it?”

  With the sea off to our right, we took the Malecón to Vedado, then turned onto Fifth Avenue with its broad pavement, iron gates, and wedges of dilapidated mansions showing through branches of laurel trees, the night sea occasionally breaking free of high-rises to flood the northern horizon.

  Lots of stars suspended in that Gulf Stream void… Florida somewhere out there beneath a Caribbean macrodome… then Sanibel Island, tiny on a slick of black ocean, its old white lighthouse strobing… a darkened stilthouse, too, with an unattended fish tank; no one around to check salinity or pH or oxygen content.…

  I thought: Damn you, Tomlinson.

  Passing through Miramar and Embassy Row—some of the estates converted into tenements now—Valdes drove with both hands tight on the wheel; clutch-bucked the car when pulling away from stop signs.

  Automotive skills, I already knew, were among the first casualties of a Third World economy.

  At one point, I said to him, “Think you’ll like driving once you get the hang of it?”

  Valdes, a little sheepish, said, “Before the petroleum crisis, I had a… there was another person who always drove me to work. That was before everyone starting using a bicycle.”

  Now we were on the Coastal Highway and the boy was curled up, asleep, in the back. I decided to try to make some conversation, maybe learn something, as we twisted up the steep hills of Sierra del Rosario toward Mariel Harbor. I started out by telling Valdes about myself, how I knew Tomlinson, what I did for a living, how out of place I felt in these strange circumstances—“I keep pinching myself to see if I’m really doing this shit”—saying all the things that we were once taught to say to make our captors see us as humans, to create a bond.

  It was the opposite dynamic to making war: dehumanize the enemy.

  Now, his turn, I said, “So what do you do when you’re not planning to overthrow the government?”

  That got a slight smile. He drove for a while, hunched over the steering wheel, before he said, “It’s something I shouldn’t talk about. It’s… the way we keep it. No one really knows what anyone else does, who anyone else is.” Drove for a while longer before he said, “It’s… a party technique. A way of protecting information. Are you familiar with the word ‘cell,’ what it means?”

  As in a revolutionary cell and, yeah, I knew exactly what it meant. But said, “Nope, and I don’t want to know if you can’t tell me. You have any family?”

  I listened to him tell me about the wife who’d left him for a man who had an important position in the government, a party official who was really nothing more than a party informant, and who took their two daughters out of his life—“She said I was just too idealistic.…”

  I listened to him tell me about the family from which he came—“They were half devil
, half angel.…”—before I said, “I hope this doesn’t offend you, but you seem way too educated to believe in this Santería bullshit. You went to college, right? The way you handle yourself, you could be a college professor. Or maybe in charge of some important government department.”

  I was thinking: Like something to do with shipping?

  Silence…

  We drove a mile, then another mile. I had pretty much decided Valdes wasn’t going to answer when he said, “It doesn’t matter whether I believe in Santería or not, because… well, look at it this way. Thirty, thirty-five years ago, the African religions played no part in the politics of Cuba. Today, they are the politics of Cuba. Santería is perfect for Cubans because it mixes Catholicism with the old African religions. The Santeros can go to church and pray to… well, say Our Lady the Virgin and it’s the same as praying to Oshún. Because the slaves used to have to disguise their gods, understand?”

  In a way, I did. Catholic churches were similarly used by the Maya in Central America.

  Valdes said, “Fidel’s policies key off the predications of the Santería priests. He relies on them to control the masses, yet they also rely on Fidel. It’s because the Santería people have always looked upon him as an elegido, a leader chosen by God. Are you aware of all the coincidences, all the strange things that tie Fidel to Santería?”

  I said, “Not a clue” and sat there looking through the windshield, seeing the countryside—driving through cane-fields now, a black wall of stalks on both sides—as Valdes listed the reasons. Fidel’s revolution triumphed on January first, the holiest of Santería days; the day the Babalaos meet and predict the coming year’s events. The red and black in the flag chosen by Fidel were the colors of Ellegua, the Santería god of destiny. Many of Castro’s men wore red and black beads, as did many Santería believers. But the most powerful and important connection occurred January 8, 1959. Castro was in the middle of a speech when two doves circled him, then one landed on his shoulder. Just sat there, according to Valdes, while the great man continued to speak.