“English.”
“Do you have a countersign?”
“No.”
“Then your contact is sure of who you are.”
“Obviously, or he wouldn’t be approaching me.”
“Unless he was just a guy struck by your beauty.”
“Then he’d have a better line than that.”
“Right. Okay, do you or your contact have a code word for, ‘I am under duress—being followed, wearing a wire, and being made to do this’?”
“No . . .”
“You should. Does the contact know my name or what I look like?”
“No name or photo. Just a description.” She looked at me and smiled. “Tall, dark, and handsome.”
We made eye contact. “And following you around like a puppy dog.”
“That’s right. In any case, it’s me, not you, who he—or she—will contact.”
“Okay.” It seemed to me that these people knew what they were doing, up to a point. I asked, “What is our contact in Havana going to do for us to earn his pesos?”
“Two things. First, give us the name and location of our contact in Camagüey Province. Then give us a means of getting there.”
“Such as?”
“Travel in Cuba is difficult—but our contact will get us to Camagüey. Safely.”
“All right. Then we meet our Camagüey contact. What is he or she going to do for us?”
“He or she will give us a safe house, and a truck to transport the goods to Cayo Guillermo. And some tools to get into the cave.”
“Good. And you trust these people?”
“They are Cuban patriots. They hate the regime.”
“And I assume they have no idea that we’re looking for sixty million in cash.”
“They have been told that I’m recovering a box of important documents—property deeds, bank records, and other paperwork that has no intrinsic value.”
“Right. You don’t want to tempt them to double-cross us.”
Sara had no reply to that, but said, “In fact, there is a trunk of such paperwork that we need to take with us.” She explained, “In my grandfather’s bank vault there were land grants going back to the Spanish kings and queens, property deeds for houses, factories, plantations, hotels, and apartment buildings—all potentially worth more than sixty million dollars. Much more.”
That was exciting. Except for the word “potentially.” I’ll take the sixty million in American dollars.
She continued, “Carlos and other attorneys will present all this documentation to an appropriate court and file a claim for this stolen property on behalf of their clients.”
“That won’t make the Cuban government very happy.”
“The hell with them.” She added, “It will make the Cuban exiles happy.”
“Right. Okay, and I assume the deed to your grandfather’s house is in the cave?”
“Actually, he smuggled it out. I have it in Miami.”
Maybe she should have brought it with her for when we visited the house. Along with an eviction notice. But I sensed this was an emotional subject for Sara Ortega, so I left that alone.
I thought about all she’d said regarding our contacts and what they were going to do for us. There was some obvious danger in making these contacts, but that came with the territory. I gave this mission a 50/50 chance of success.
Sara put her hand on mine. “It will go well.” She assured me, “The secret police are not as efficient as they’d like you to think.”
“Famous last words.”
“They are good at one thing—instilling fear. And fear paralyzes the people.” She looked at me. “I am not afraid.”
“It’s okay to be afraid.”
“And you? Now that you’re here—do you feel fear?”
“Yes. A nice healthy fear.”
“You’re honest.”
“We need to be.”
She nodded.
Sara looked tired, so I suggested, “Go get some sleep.”
She stood. “You too.”
“I’m right behind you. Room 615 if you need to call me.”
“I’m 535. See you at breakfast.” She walked to the elevators.
The piano player was playing the theme from “Phantom of the Opera.”
Hard to believe I was in Miami this morning, annoyed that they’d under-toasted my bagel.
CHAPTER 19
I walked into the breakfast room at 7:30 A.M., wearing khakis, a short-sleeved shirt, and running shoes. I spotted a few people from our group, but not Sara. The buffet was American with some Cuban touches, including beans, to propel us through the day. I got a cup of coffee, sat, and waited for Sara.
I’d gotten back to my room at a reasonable hour, but I couldn’t get to sleep so I’d checked out Cuban TV. There were five channels: Tele Rebelde, which was a news channel, CubaVision, an entertainment channel, and two educational channels to put you to sleep. The fifth channel told you to turn off the TV. Actually, there was CNN, in English, and according to my guide book, the satellite signal was pirated by the Cuban government and available only in select hotels and to the Communist elite, leaving the other eleven million news-hungry people on this island dependent on Tele Rebelde—which meant Rebellious, but could be translated as Government Bullshit.
I’d watched a little CNN, which reminded me of why I don’t watch TV news, then I watched a news cycle on Tele Rebelde, looking for a mention of Pescando Por la Paz, but I didn’t see anything. Maybe the regime was trying to decide if this was the kind of event they wanted to cover with reporters and a brass band, or wanted to ignore. If Sara was right, the Cuban government was not enthusiastic about the Cuban Thaw.
I intended to buy a newspaper, but there was no newsstand in the hotel, and no newspapers in the breakfast room, not even Granma, the Communist Party newspaper, which I could pretend to read instead of looking at the door. Where the hell was she? Maybe I should ring her room.
I had the daily itinerary in my pocket and I unfolded it on the table. I read: Hemingway’s house is just as he left it in 1960. Probably because the Commies wouldn’t let Ernest take anything with him when he left.
After Hemingway’s house, we’d go to lunch, then a visit to Vivero Alamar, a co-operative research farm where we’d learn about growing organic food. I wondered what sadist put this together.
“Is this seat taken?”
Before I could reply, Sara sat.
“Good morning,” I said. She was wearing jeans and a white Polo shirt and looked good.
“Have you had breakfast?” she asked.
“I was waiting for you.”
“If you do that, you’ll starve to death.”
“Right. Did you sleep well?”
“No. Did you?”
“I watched Tele Rebelde all night.”
“You should have watched the Cuban soaps on CubaVision. Margaretta is cheating on Francisco again, same as when I was here last year. I don’t know why he doesn’t leave her.”
I smiled, then asked, “Were you here alone?”
“I was.” She stood. “Let’s get something before the bus comes.”
We went to the buffet table, where Richard Neville was cleaning out the breakfast sausage, but he left a strip of bacon for me. Sara piled her plate with fruit and a glob of yogurt.
We sat and she said, “You’ll never see fresh fruit in the countryside.”
“Actually, we will at the organic food farm.”
“That’s all show, and what you see in the hotels is all imported.” She explained, “The farms are government-owned and mostly deserted because the work is backbreaking, still done with animals and human labor. Farmers get the same twenty dollars a month that they’d get pushing a broom in the city, so there’s no incentive to stay on the farm.”
Sorry I mentioned it.
“Ninety percent of the Cuban diet is beans and rice, imported from Vietnam, and even that is rationed.”
I stared at my strip of b
acon and my scrambled eggs.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. Eat up.”
I sensed a change in Sara, maybe as a result of her being here, and she was getting herself worked up, like Eduardo. I tried to imagine me returning to an America that had gone into the crapper because of government stupidity . . . Well, maybe that wasn’t so hard to imagine.
Sara said, “The important thing regarding the Cuban countryside is that most people have moved to the towns and cities. That could be good for us, but maybe bad if we’re the only people driving a vehicle on a lonely road.”
“Right.” I asked her, “Do you know how big this haul is going to be?”
“My grandfather told me it was all packed in steamer trunks.”
“Good. How many trunks?”
She glanced at the nearby tables, which were empty. “A typical steamer trunk filled with hundred-dollar bills will hold about fifteen million dollars, and weigh about four hundred pounds.”
“Okay . . . one in each hand, two people, that’s sixty million.”
She ignored my math and said, “But there are also fifty-dollar bills, and twenties, so there are more than four trunks.”
“How many?”
“My grandfather said ten.”
“Each weighing four hundred pounds?”
“Yes. A twenty-dollar bill weighs the same as a hundred-dollar bill.”
“Right. That’s four thousand pounds of steamer trunks.”
“Give or take.”
If I’d known this in Key West I would have gone to the gym. “How about the gold and jewels?”
“The gold may be too heavy to take. But there are four valises of jewelry which we’ll take.”
“Always room for jewelry. And how about the property deeds that you mentioned?”
“That’s another steamer trunk.”
I pointed out, “This could be a bit of a logistical problem. You know, getting the trunks out of the cave, onto a truck, then to the boat.”
“Carlos has a plan.”
“Well, thank God. Would you like another cup of coffee?”
She stared at me. “We wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t think we could do it.”
“Right.”
A pretty waitress cleared our plates and smiled at me.
It was almost 8 A.M. and people from various tour groups were making their way toward the lobby. We stood and I left two CUCs on the table, and Sara said, “That’s three days’ pay.”
“She worked hard.”
“And she had a nice butt.”
“Really?”
The Yale group was already boarding and Sara and I got on the bus together, said good morning to José, Tad, Alison, Professor Nalebuff, and our travel mates as we made our way toward the rear and found a seat together.
The efficient Tad did a head count and announced, “We’re all here.”
Antonio hopped aboard and called out, “Buenos días!”
Everyone returned the greeting so we could get moving.
“We will have a beautiful day!” said Antonio.
Sí, camarada.
CHAPTER 20
The bus wound its way out of Havana and again I had the impression of a once vibrant city that was suffocating under the weight of a rotting corpse.
Hemingway’s house, Finca Vigía, was a handsome Spanish Colonial located about fifteen kilometers from Havana, and we got there in half an hour.
The house was well-maintained, according to Alison, because of a rare partnership between the U.S. and Cuban governments. Art and culture bring people together, said Alison, and that was why we were here; we were ambassadors of goodwill.
Even as ambassadors, we weren’t allowed inside, but dozens of tourists were peering through the open doors and windows into the rooms that had been left exactly as they were when Hemingway left Cuba after the revolution.
Antonio told us that Señor Hemingway had given Finca Vigía and all its contents to the Cuban people. Professor Nalebuff, however, told us that Hemingway had willed Finca Vigía to his fourth wife, but when Hemingway took his own life in 1961, the Cuban government forced his widow to sign over the property to them.
It occurred to me that Antonio wasn’t lying to thirty educated people; he lived in a time warp and an information desert like everyone else here and he had no idea of the truth. But reality was on the way. Unless the regime could stop it.
Anyway, Ernest had a nice swimming pool, and his boat, Pilar, was displayed in an open pavilion. Nice boat, but not as nice as mine—the one I used to own. On Pilar’s fantail were the words KEY WEST, which was where I’d rather be.
Neville’s wife, Cindy, was insisting that her bestselling husband pose for photos. He complied, but he wasn’t smiling, maybe thinking that people never took photos of themselves in front of his house, wherever that was. But maybe they would if he blew his brains out like Hemingway did. Just saying.
We left the grounds of Finca Vigía, and Antonio led us to a row of souvenir stalls where Sara bought me a Hemingway T-shirt, made in China.
We reboarded our air-conditioned Chinese magic carpet and went to lunch at an open-air restaurant. Lunch consisted of black beans, rice, fried plantains, and what appeared to be chicken that had been cut up by Jack the Ripper.
Then to the organic farm. A nice older gentleman explained, in Spanish, all the strides they were making in organic agriculture. Antonio translated, and Sara said to me, “All the farms in Cuba are organic because they can’t afford chemical fertilizer.” She added, “Most of this food goes directly to the Communist Party comemierdas—the shit eaters.”
Antonio overheard that, and he shot her a nasty look.
After two hours in the hot sun, looking at beanstalks, bugs, and plants that I’d never heard of, we staggered back to the bus.
Sara, sensing I may not have enjoyed smelling manure all afternoon, said, “Tomorrow morning is the walking tour of the Old Town. We’ll see my grandparents’ house, and my grandfather’s bank.”
“I look forward to that.”
“I have mixed feelings.”
“Maybe someday you can buy the house.”
“Maybe someday I can legally claim what was stolen.”
“Don’t hold your breath. Meanwhile, we can make a cash withdrawal from Grandpa’s bank vault.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. Don’t hurt the hand. I need it to carry steamer trunks.
* * *
As the bus approached the Parque Central, Tad reminded us that he was giving a lecture on the history of Cuban music at 5:30, and please be on time.
Alison reminded everyone that the bus left for the Riviera Hotel right after Tad’s lecture, so please be dressed for dinner. Also, there was a swimming pool on the roof if we were so inclined.
We got off the bus and I invited Sara to join me for a swim or for a cold beer at the bar.
“I need a nap and a shower.”
“Am I invited?”
“I’ll see you at the lecture.”
So I went to the bar. I didn’t recognize anyone from our group, but soon after I sat and ordered a Bucanero, Antonio sidled up next to me. He asked, “Did you enjoy your day?”
“I enjoyed the Hemingway house.”
“Good. Most Americans do.” He asked, “Did your companion enjoy her day?”
“She’s actually not my companion.”
“I see . . . So will she be joining you here?”
“No. She went to the nude swimming pool.”
Antonio had no comment on that and took a seat next to me. He had a bottled water that he stole from the bus, and he lit a cigarette, saying, “I am supposed to ask you if you mind if I smoke.”
“It’s your country.”
“It is.”
Antonio appeared to have dropped his tour guide persona and he seemed slightly less of a clown, though I didn’t know why he wanted my company sin Sara.
He asked, “Do you read Hemingway?”
“I d
id. How about you?”
“Yes, in Spanish and English. There is . . . how do you say . . . ? A cult of Hemingway in Cuba.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In the Hotel Ambos Mundos, which we see tomorrow, there is the room where he lived and wrote before he purchased Finca Vigía. The room is now a museum.”
My beer came and Antonio continued his unpaid lecture. “Some of his novels are what we call his Cuban novels. Many of his books have a socialist theme.”
“I missed that.”
“But it is true. His books show people acting in a . . . a way that is for humanity . . . not for the individual.”
“Most of his characters were selfish and self-centered, like me. That’s why I liked them.”
Antonio continued, “Fidel said, ‘All the works of Hemingway are a defense of human rights.’ ” He added, without irony, “This is a socialist belief.”
There’s no point in arguing with brainwashed people, and Antonio was intruding on my quiet beer, so I said, “Well, thanks for the company. I’ll see you at dinner.”
But he didn’t leave and continued, “Fidel also said that For Whom the Bell Tolls inspired his guerrilla tactics in the Sierra Maestra.” He continued, “They met only once—F.C. and Hemingway. At the fishing tournament named for Hemingway. F.C. was to present the trophy to the winner. But it was F.C. himself who caught the biggest marlin and won the prize.”
“Whose scale did they use?”
“What are you suggesting?”
I didn’t want to get arrested on day two, so I didn’t reply.
Antonio sipped his water thoughtfully, then got my attention by saying, “I understand from Tad that you are a fisherman.”
“That’s right.” And why are you discussing me with Tad?
“So you understand the passion of this sport.”
“I do.”
“Do you know that there is a new tournament? The Pescando Por la Paz. It arrives in Havana from Key West tomorrow. You live in Key West. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“This tournament did not interest you?”
“No.”
He asked, “Have you read Islands in the Stream?”
“Have you?”
“Yes, of course. It is a very good book. It speaks of Cayo Guillermo—where the tournament will be held after they leave Havana.”
The Cuban Affair Page 12