My own face-offs with death had made me see death differently. Death had become not a possibility, but a probability, so I made peace with that dark horseman, and that peace has stayed with me on my borrowed time.
I looked at Sara, who was engaged in a conversation with four men who obviously found her to be the life of an otherwise dull and awkward icebreaker party. It would be ironic, I thought, if I finally found the love of my life on the eve of . . . whatever.
I found myself in a conversation with two of the younger and better-looking women in our group—Alexandra Mancusi and Ashleigh Arote. Alexandra and Ashleigh were wearing wedding rings, but I couldn’t remember if their husbands were on the group roster. Nametags would have been helpful for me tonight, indicating marital status and where the spouse was. But then I remembered that my dance card was filled. Old bachelor habits die hard.
Ashleigh said, “You look familiar. Were you TD?”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. “If you mean totally drunk, yes.”
Both ladies laughed.
I confessed, “I’m not Yale.”
Ashleigh explained that TD was Timothy Dwight, the name of one of the twelve residential colleges that made up Yale.
Alexandra was JE—Jonathan Edwards—and they were both Class of ’02, which was my class at Bowdoin, but somehow I felt older. The Army will do that to you.
A young man joined us, maybe thinking I needed reinforcements, and introduced himself to me as Scott Mero. I asked him, “Are you TD?”
“No, JE.”
Who’s on first?
Anyway, I was hoping that Sara noticed that I was talking to these attractive young ladies, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The mating game is TD—Totally Dumb.
Scott Mero, as it turned out, was married to Alexandra Mancusi, who’d kept her maiden name, she told me, and only married Scott Mero because she didn’t have to change her monogramed towels. Funny. I needed another drink and was about to excuse myself and go to the bar, but Tad called for our attention and the group obliged, except for Richard Neville, who couldn’t tear himself away from Sara.
Tad officially welcomed us to the Yale alumni educational tour of Cuba. He kept it short, ending with, “Put your prejudices aside and discover Cuba for yourself,” which seemed to be the theme of this trip—though we had to stay with the group to discover Cuba for ourselves.
Tad introduced Alison, who also kept it short and counseled us, “There will be some challenges ahead in the coming days, but when you get home you’ll be glad you came.” Alison introduced our Cuban tour guide, Antonio, who she said was the best guide in Cuba. Certainly he had the tightest pants.
Antonio was about thirty-five, not bad-looking and he knew it. He gazed out at the group, smiled, spread his arms, and shouted, “Buenas noches!”
A few people returned the greeting, but not enough people, apparently, because Antonio shouted again, “Buenas noches!”
The response was better and Antonio flashed his pearly whites. “Bienvenido. Welcome to Cuba. Welcome to Havana.” He let us know, “This is a beautiful group. And intelligent, I am sure.”
I asked Sara, “What is the Spanish word for bullshit?”
She gave me an elbow in the ribs.
Antonio continued, “This will be the most amazing experience for you. And you are so lucky to have Tad and the beautiful Alison to be your group leaders, and I am sure we will all make your experience beautiful.”
Antonio was not only full of shit, he was enthusiastic about it.
Carlos had advised me—and I’m sure Sara also knew—to be wary of the tour guides, because most of them were informants who had the secret police on their speed dial. Antonio looked more like a gigolo than a chivato, but I’d keep Carlos’ warning in mind.
Antonio concluded, “I am keeping you from a beautiful dinner, and you will not forgive me, so I will close my big mouth and open it only to eat.”
Laughter from the Americanos who wanted to show their love to the ethnically different bullshit artist.
There were four round tables set up for dinner and it was open seating, and when that happens there’s usually some hesitation and confusion. You don’t want to wind up next to assholes. Sara sat and patted the seat next to her. “Sit here, Mac.”
I sat, and as the table of ten filled up I saw that Richard Neville had planted his butt on the other side of Sara. The other seven people included Cindy Neville, Professor Nalebuff, the two couples who hadn’t laughed at my Yale joke, and unfortunately, Antonio, who said, “We will have a beautiful dinner.”
A waiter took drink orders and I ordered a double vodka, straight up.
Shrimp tartare was the appetizer, and Professor Nalebuff, a bearded gentleman of about sixty, said he’d been to Cuba twice, and advised us, “This may be the best meal you’ll get in Cuba.”
Antonio disagreed, saying, “I have booked eight beautiful paladares—you know this? Privately owned restaurants which are a new thing to Cuba.”
Nalebuff said dryly, “We also have privately owned restaurants in America.”
“Yes, good. But they are expensive. Here, not so much. And everyone should try a government restaurant. Where the people eat very cheaply.”
The two middle-aged couples across from me thought that was a swell idea.
Antonio did not keep his mouth shut as promised, and he held court as I knew he would. He sounded like a dyed-in-the-wool Commie, or he was just trying to provoke a response from the privileged Americans as he shoved shrimp tartare in his mouth. The two couples seemed to be getting instantly brainwashed, agreeing with Antonio about the justice and humanity of socialism. If they spent an hour in a kennel, they’d probably come out barking. So much for an Ivy League education.
Neville had little to say except, “Pass the wine,” and his wife began a tête-à-tête with Nalebuff.
Antonio looked at Sara for a few long seconds, then said to her, “So you are Cuban.”
“I am an American.”
“Yes. But a Cuban. Do you speak Spanish?”
“Poco.”
“We will practice. You should speak your native tongue.”
I thought he was going to ask her if she was born in Cuba, or how her parents or grandparents had come to America. But then I realized this was a loaded subject for those who left and those who stayed.
Antonio said to her, “Welcome home.”
Sara didn’t reply.
Antonio had apparently gotten tired of his own voice, so he began asking each of us to say something about ourselves, starting with the two middle-aged couples, but he was not a good listener and his dark eyes went dead.
Barry Nalebuff told us he was a history professor at Yale and he had two lectures scheduled, the topic of which was Cuban-American relations since the Spanish-American War. He assured us, “I’ll keep them short, and the takeaway is that it’s a love-hate relationship, like a troubled marriage, and both sides need serious anger management counseling.”
Antonio said reflexively, “America has always treated Cuba as a colony. Until the revolution.”
Nalebuff replied, “I address that in my lecture. Please come.”
Antonio didn’t commit, though the lecture might do him some good. He looked at me. “And you? Why have you come to Cuba?”
“I thought the brochure said Cayman Islands.”
That got a laugh. Even Antonio smiled. He looked at Sara again, then said to Neville, “So Tad tells me you are a famous author. Tomorrow we go to Hemingway’s house. You will be inspired.”
“I don’t like Hemingway.”
His wife, of course, contradicted him. “You love Hemingway, darling.”
Antonio didn’t know what to say to that, so he called the waiter over for another bottle of wine. Antonio had a good gig.
The fish course was served and Sara asked me, “What is this?”
I can identify a hundred kinds of fish on the line, but not on the plate. I actually don’t eat fish.
“It’s a henway.”
“What’s a henway?”
“About three pounds.”
“Stupid joke.”
Have we already had sex?
The multi-course meal continued as the sun set. The two middle-aged couples, whose names I couldn’t remember, asked Antonio lots of questions about the itinerary, which, on paper, seemed like a cultural version of the Bataan Death March.
Sara saw an opportunity to plant a red herring and asked Antonio, “Why can’t we go to the beach?”
He shrugged. “My government would allow this. But it is your State Department which prohibits it. You should ask them.”
Professor Nalebuff provided an answer. “Because of the embargo, Americans are not allowed to travel to Cuba for vacations. But we can come here for people-to-people exchanges, family reunions, art, education, and culture.”
I inquired, “Are the nightclubs considered art, education, or culture?”
Nalebuff smiled and agreed, “It all seems very illogical, but the purpose is to limit the amount of dollars that flow into Cuba.”
Antonio said, “The embargo has caused suffering among the people.”
Nalebuff had apparently had enough of Antonio and replied, “You can trade with ninety-five percent of the rest of the world. Stop blaming the American embargo for all your problems. Your problems are made in Cuba.”
Antonio didn’t like that, and I think he would have moved to another table, but Nalebuff beat him to it. “Excuse me. I need to circulate.” He got up and found an empty seat at Tad’s table.
The two middle-aged couples looked embarrassed and I’m sure they would have smoothed Antonio’s ruffled feathers, but Sara returned to her topic, “If we were allowed to go to a beach, where would you recommend?”
Antonio still seemed pissed at Nalebuff, maybe thinking about reporting him, but he smiled and replied, “There are beautiful beaches all over Cuba, but the closest are in the province called Mayabeque, which surrounds Havana.” He named half a dozen playas, then reminded her, “But this is forbidden for you. However . . .” He then said something to her in Spanish, which seemed to embarrass Sara. In fact, I heard the words “desnudo” and “playa,” which I translated as “nude beach.” Antonio was a pigalo.
After dessert was served, Tad announced that we were free to go and explore Havana by night, assuring us it was a safe city. “But be in the lobby at eight A.M. for the bus to Hemingway’s house and other stops on our itinerary. Breakfast at seven.”
About half the group stood and drifted toward the elevators, and I asked Sara if she wanted to hit a nightclub.
“It’s been a long day. I need to turn in.”
“Let’s have a nightcap in the lobby. We need to talk.”
She glanced at me and nodded.
Sara said a few good-byes and we crowded into an elevator. On the way down, she locked arms with me, and I knew I was hooked.
CHAPTER 18
We found a table for two in the lobby near the piano. The pianist, dressed in a dark suit, was playing Broadway show tunes, and I said to Sara, “I’m not having an authentic Cuban experience yet.”
“You will when we’re trying to outrun the police.”
You’d think she had served in combat, where we made jokes about death every day.
A disinterested waitress came to our table and we ordered brandies.
Sara asked, “Did you enjoy the evening?”
“I enjoyed being with you.”
She smiled. “You’re an easy pickup.”
“I’m following your script.” I changed the subject and said, “Antonio is an asshole.”
“You were giving him some competition.”
Definitely a bit sassy. Maybe I bring that out in women. I advised her, “Be careful of him.”
“I know that. And I assume Carlos briefed you about the chivatos—the police informants?”
“He did.”
“And about the undercover agents from the Ministry of the Interior who hang around the hotels?”
“He did.”
“Cuba looks deceptively like any Caribbean tropical paradise, and the police state is not always apparent, so some people let their guard down.”
“I hear you.”
We checked our cell phones, but we had no service, though we exchanged phone numbers in case Verizon put a cell tower on the roof this week. “I’ll send you the photos of us in front of the Buick.”
She smiled.
I said, “Good question about the beach.”
“Thank you.”
“What was that about desnudo and playa?”
She smiled again. “So you recognize important words in Spanish.” She translated, “He said there was a nude beach in Mayabeque, for foreigners only, but he would be allowed to go as my private guide.” She added, “He has a car.”
“Pig.”
“I hope you’re not the jealous type.”
I didn’t think I was, but I had my moments. More to the point, when Sara and I went missing, Antonio would report the beach conversation to the police, which would hopefully lead them on a wild-goose chase.
Our brandy came, and we sat in silence, listening to a medley from “South Pacific.”
She looked at me. “Now that you’re here, are you having second thoughts?”
“I’m here at least until Sunday.”
She forced a smile.
A few other people from our group drifted into the lounge looking for either a hostess or the No Smoking section, neither of which existed. I scanned the tables, trying to spot an undercover agent, but everyone looked like an American tourist.
Carlos had also told me that some of the rooms were bugged, and that those rooms were usually given to journalists, foreign government officials, and others who had come to the attention of Cuban state security. That might include Sara Ortega, so this was a good time and place to talk about something more important than Antonio and nude beaches. I asked Sara, “Where is your hiking map?”
She patted her shoulder bag. “And the pesos.”
“Don’t leave the map or the money in your room safe or the hotel safe. And be careful of what you say in your room.”
“I know that.”
“Good. Do you have any idea of how, where, or when our man in Havana will contact us?”
She put down her brandy glass. “Well, not here. But last time I was in Havana, a man just came up to me one night on the Malecón and said, ‘Would you be interested in some historical artifacts?’ ” She added, unnecessarily, “That was the sign—the identification phrase.”
Unless he was really selling historical artifacts. “Were you supposed to be walking on the Malecón that night?”
“No. It was just an impulse.” She explained, “It was after a group dinner in the Riviera Hotel. I needed a walk.”
“So this guy must have known that you’d be at the Riviera, and what you looked like.”
“Our friends in Miami were able to get him a photo of me and the Yale itinerary.”
“How?”
“Through a Cuban American tourist.”
“Okay . . . and what was the purpose of making this contact?”
“Just to see if it worked. A sort of dry run for the next time I came to Havana. I was also here to familiarize myself with the city. Also, we were still exploring ways to get the money out of the country.” She looked at me. “Now we have you and your boat.”
“I sold the boat to Carlos. It’s now Fishy Business.”
“I know that.” She assured me, “Carlos thinks of everything.”
“He thinks he does.” I returned to the subject and asked, “Did you meet your second contact in the countryside?”
“I wish I could have. But as you can see, no one can leave the group, even for a day—”
“Right. So this guy came up to you on the Malecón—”
“Marcelo. We walked along the seawall, just talking . . . to see if we were being followed—or got arrested.�
�
“Sounds romantic.”
“He was nice. He gave me some tips on Cuban slang, local customs, and how the police operate.”
“Did you buy any historical artifacts?”
“No, but I bought him a drink in the Nacional, slipped him two hundred thousand pesos, and took a taxi back to the Parque Central.” She added, “I wasn’t arrested, but for all I know, he was.”
“If he was, you would have been.”
“Unless they were just following him to see if we made contact again.”
I looked at her. “Do you have any formal training in this sort of thing?”
“No . . . not formal. But I was briefed.”
“By whom?”
“By a retired CIA officer. A Cuban American.” She asked, “What is your training?”
“You tell me.”
She hesitated, then said, “We know you took some Defense Intelligence Agency courses.”
“You’ll be happy to know I passed one of them.”
She smiled.
“What else do you know about me?”
“Everything that’s in the public record. School, Army, bad credit score.” She smiled again.
I continued, “Rented house, old van, credit card debt.”
“But no bank loan on The Maine.”
“Right.”
“You could leave here tomorrow and start a new life.”
“I could. But that’s not what I promised you.”
She smiled. “At least I know you’ll be here until Sunday.”
I returned the smile, then reminded her, “I’m in Cuba to make three million dollars.”
“But you thought you were going to the Cayman Islands.”
Funny.
She asked, “What do you know about me?”
“Virtually nothing. But I like your smile.”
“Did you see my work on my website?”
“I did. You have talent.”
“And you have good taste.”
And don’t forget balls. I returned to the subject and asked, “Could Marcelo be our contact again?”
“I have no idea.”
“What is the ID this time?”
“It’s ‘Are you interested in Cuban pottery?’ ”
“Spanish or English?”
The Cuban Affair Page 11