“It was, and now I’m going to have a beautiful cup of coffee.”
“Don’t let me keep you.”
“I won’t.”
I got a cup of coffee and sat at the table near the window.
Antonio also sat by himself and made a cell phone call. I was annoyed that he had service and I didn’t. Antonio hung up and took some papers from his shoulder bag. Today’s itinerary? Or his police informant’s report? The man was an asshole. Maybe worse—a chivato.
But the world looked a little different this morning, and I was as close to happy as I’d been in awhile.
My heart said that Sara and I should just get a flight out of here and go live happily ever after.
But my head said I’d regret it if I let three million dollars slip through my fingers. I’d rather regret the things I did than the things I didn’t do. Also, I’d made a commitment to do this.
This was getting complicated, as I knew it would.
And what was she keeping from me? Something that would please me. I could not possibly imagine what that was. But if we pressed on, I’d find out.
CHAPTER 25
Back in my room, I changed into jeans and my new Hemingway T-shirt, then stuck two bottles of water in my backpack along with my Swiss Army knife, my binoculars, and my new treasure map. I was ready for my Havana recon.
I joined our group in the hotel lobby at 8 A.M. where Tad was taking attendance.
Sara was looking good in white shorts, a Miami Dolphins T-shirt, and a baseball cap. She had her big shoulder bag, which I assumed was filled with pesos and her map.
Sara and I held hands, and the Yale group, to the extent that they cared, understood that we were having a holiday romance. Antonio, too, noticed.
Antonio led us across the street to the small park, where he began by telling us that downtown Havana was divided into three areas: Habana Vieja, the Old Town, where we were going to walk this morning, Centro Habana, where we were standing, and the area called Vedado, the newer section of Havana where the Riviera and Nacional were located and that was once controlled by the American Mafia and their Cuban underlings.
Antonio went on a bit about the Mafia, which seemed to be an obsession of his. Antonio had probably seen Godfather II a dozen times.
Finally he said, “We will have lunch in a beautiful paladar, then we return to Centro to continue our walking tour.”
I thought Antonio was finished, but he asked, “Who has been to Havana before?”
A middle-aged couple—who looked otherwise normal—raised their hands.
“Ah, good. So you can have my job today.”
The Yalies, who were mostly humorless with each other, made an exception for the charming Cuban and laughed.
Antonio asked, “Anyone else?” He looked at Sara, who had not raised her hand. “Miss Ortega, weren’t you here last year?”
“Why do you ask?”
He kept looking at her, but didn’t reply. “So, we will begin our walk.” He began walking east toward the harbor.
The streets and sidewalks got narrower as we entered the Old Town and the group was strung out for fifty meters as Antonio stayed in the lead and gave his talk, which, happily, I couldn’t hear, but Sara gave me and the Yalies around us a commentary on the historic architecture.
Habana Vieja, some of it over three hundred years old, was very picturesque, but also hot, airless, claustrophobic, and aromatic. It was Saturday, so the cobblestoned streets were mostly free of traffic but filled with locals bartering for scarce goods and food, as senior citizens hung out their windows and watched the world go by. For people who had nothing, they seemed happy enough. Or maybe it was my outlook that had changed. Getting laid will do that.
Another thing that struck me was the number of buildings that had totally or partially collapsed. You could actually see the interiors of the rooms where the front walls had fallen away and vegetation sprouted from rotting stucco. Maybe my landlord wasn’t such an asshole.
We came to a small square where Antonio began a commentary on the Catedral de San Cristóbal de la Habana, which, he said, was almost three hundred years old and had once held the remains of Christopher Columbus. But when the Spanish were defeated in the War of 1898, they stole Christopher and took him to Spain. “We want him back!” shouted Antonio. “He will be good for tourism!”
The Yalies laughed on cue, and I said to Sara, “Spain and Cuba should just divvy up the bones. They could flip a coin for the skull.”
She glanced at me and said, “Yes, the bones need to come home . . . There are answers in the bones.”
I had no idea what she meant, but she seemed suddenly far away. I took a bottled water from my backpack and made her drink.
Antonio was still talking and I tuned out. Tonight I was going to meet Jack at the Nacional, and I hadn’t mentioned that to Sara, and I didn’t think I needed to explain my being AWOL to her. But that was before we became lovers. Now I needed to say something. That’s what happens when you sleep with someone.
Antonio said we could go inside the Catedral if we wanted. Ten minutes.
Sara said, “Let’s go.”
“Yes, dear.”
There were a number of tourists inside the dark cathedral and a few locals were on their knees in front of the baroque altar. Sara, of course, wanted to pray.
I haven’t prayed since Afghanistan, and then only when there was incoming, but Sara was insistent, and I followed her to the altar rail. This whole day would have played out differently if I’d kept my pepino in my chinos. On the other hand, if I hadn’t yet scored, I’d now be on my knees, praying for it.
Sara knelt, made the sign of the cross, and prayed silently. Out of respect, I clasped my hands and bowed my head. And while I was at it, I prayed that we’d both get out of here alive—and that one of us would not get pregnant.
She crossed herself again, stood, turned, and took my hand. We walked down the side aisle, past racks of flickering votive candles. She stopped and lit one, then continued on.
Outside in the bright sunlight she said, “I prayed for our success here and lit a candle for the soul of my grandfather.”
“That’s very nice.”
Antonio told us that we would visit three more plazas in the Old Town before lunch.
Dios mío.
We walked to a harbor fort, the ancient Castillo de la Real Fuerza, which was uphill all the way, and we ascended a rampart lined with ancient cannons from which we could see the harbor channel. We were alone, and Sara pointed to a building about four hundred meters away. “That’s the Sierra Maestra Terminal, and that’s the pier where the fishing fleet is going to dock. But I don’t see any boats, and I don’t see any activity in the plaza that looks like a welcoming ceremony.”
I didn’t need my binoculars to confirm that.
She said, “I hope it hasn’t been cancelled.” She reminded me, unnecessarily, “Everything depends on the Pescando Por la Paz.”
Actually, everything depended on a chain of events that we had little or no control over. I reassured her, “Even if the fleet left Key West at first light, and maintained a fleet speed of twenty knots, they wouldn’t reach Havana until about eleven, earliest.” I looked at my watch. “It’s just past ten now.”
“All right . . . Carlos said if we didn’t see it on the news, we needed to verify the fleet’s arrival ourselves.” She added, “He also said he’d try to get a phone or fax message to me at the hotel if the tournament was delayed or cancelled.”
Carlos never told me that, but there were lots of things that Carlos hadn’t told me, as I was finding out from Sara. In any case, it was time for me to share something, so I told her, “I’m actually meeting Jack tonight.”
She looked at me. “Carlos didn’t want—”
“Carlos didn’t want you to sleep with me. We don’t care what Carlos wants.”
“You agreed to follow orders, Captain. I’m not going to let you compromise the mission.”
I had a flashback to the ops bunker. Everyone who gave orders from the rear seemed to think they knew what was going on at the front. Well, if you’re not standing next to me when the shit is flying, you don’t know what’s going on. “I agreed to do the job. My way.”
“There’s no reason for you to meet him.”
“There are lots of reasons.”
“What?”
“To be sure they’ve arrived, as you just said.”
“If I don’t hear from Carlos, we can find out by coming to the pier later.”
“I need to exchange info with Jack. And have a beer.” I added, “We may never see each other again.”
She thought about that, then asked, “Where are you meeting him?”
“At a prearranged place. It’s safe.”
“What time?”
“Six.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
She looked at me and we locked eyeballs. Finally, she said, “All right . . . do what you have to do. But make sure you’re not followed, and make sure he wasn’t followed. There can’t be a connection between—”
“I passed that class.”
She seemed a bit miffed. Glad I got laid last night.
In fact, she seemed to be thinking the same thing and said, “That’s what happens when you sleep with a man. They step all over you.”
“Not if they want an encore.”
“I should have waited until Sunday.”
“I’m free Sunday.”
“I should have listened to Carlos.”
“You have to listen to your heart. Not your lawyer.”
“And what organ are you listening to, señor?”
“My heart.” Dick, too.
She looked at me. “I believe you.”
We kissed and made up. Sex changes the rules and the dynamics. You get some control, but you lose some control. That’s life.
I scanned the horizon with my binoculars, but there were no boats heading for the harbor.
I had a few other things on my mind and I asked her, “How well do you know Felipe?”
“I’ve met him. Carlos and Eduardo know him.”
“Can we assume that Carlos or Eduardo have vetted him?”
“Felipe is actually the grandnephew of Eduardo.” She added, “We try to keep these things in the family. Like the Mafia does. If you can’t trust family, you can’t trust anyone.”
She hasn’t met my family. But maybe she would. That should be interesting. I said, “I would have worried less about Felipe if someone had told me who he was.”
She stayed silent awhile, then said, “We rarely include . . . outsiders in our business. And when we do, we don’t say more than we have to about . . . anything.”
People who know the Scots say we’re clannish, and the MacCormicks, who are of the Clan Campbell, can be that way. But I suspect that the Cubans make the Scots look inclusive.
Sara took my hand and said, “We have a special relationship now.” She smiled. “You’re practically one of the family. You’ll see when we get back to Miami and we have a big party to celebrate.”
I pictured myself partying in Miami wearing a guayabera and my clan kilt. More to the point, this mission was like an onion that needed to be peeled away, layer by layer. There had to be an easier way to get laid and make three million dollars.
CHAPTER 26
At the base of the old fort was the Plaza de Armas, which was lined with royal palms, and the group took cover from the sun while Antonio gave a history lesson. I didn’t want to bring up the subject of Antonio again, but I asked Sara, “How did Antonio know you were here before?”
“I don’t know . . . I mentioned it to Alison, and she must have said something to him.”
Or Antonio had some info from the police, who would have copies of our visa applications, which were filled with information.
Sara looked at Antonio, who was now texting. “Why is he asking about us?”
“We don’t know that he is.”
“And why did he quote those Hemingway lines to you? ‘The Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out.’ ”
“Don’t know.”
“I’ll be happy when we get out of Havana.”
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Antonio led us to a pedestrian street called Calle Obispo—the Street of the Bishop—lined with old shops and some new, trendy stores, art galleries, and cafés. Creeping capitalism.
Sara stopped and we let the Yalies go on. She looked across the street at a large neo-classical stone and stucco building with a white portal that was decorated with carved four-leaved clovers for some reason. The building seemed derelict, though there were official-looking signs and revolutionary posters in the grimy windows. I knew this was her grandfather’s bank.
She said, “I can picture him walking to work every morning, dressed in his dark suit and tie.” She added, “The Habaneros dressed well in those days. Well . . . the gentlemen and ladies did. Despite the heat, and no air-conditioning. It was important to look good.”
I was feeling a bit inadequate in my Hemingway T-shirt.
“If Batista hadn’t been such a corrupt thug, kept in power by the American Mafia, American corporations, and the American government . . . the Communists would never have won.”
“And you would have been born here in luxury and we’d never have met.”
She forced a smile. “We would have met. It’s in our stars.”
“That’s a nice thought.”
She kept looking at the former American bank, now a government office where people signed for their libretas—their ration books. She said, “Maybe this building will be returned to the American bank as part of the negotiations.”
“Maybe. But we’re not returning the money to the vault.”
“No. But we’ll return it to the rightful owners.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
She took my hand and we caught up to the group.
As Antonio promised, we stopped at the Hotel Ambos Mundos, a pastel-pink edifice whose façade had been restored to its pre-revolution glory.
Antonio said, “You can use the baño here, visit the bar where Hemingway drank each night, and have a daiquiri or mojito if it is not too early for you. For two CUCs you can see his room where he wrote Death in the Afternoon. Fifteen minutes.”
The Yalies filed into the hotel, including Richard Neville, who looked like he was going in for a root canal. I was thinking about a cold beer, followed by a leak in the same urinal that Ernest Hemingway used, but Sara said, “I’ll show you my grandparents’ house. It’s close.”
“Okay.” I followed her down Calle Obispo, then we turned onto a cobblestoned side street of old baroque mansions. As we walked I could see that a few of the grand houses had been restored, and Sara said they had been turned into luxury apartment houses for non-Cubans by foreign developers in a joint partnership with the Cuban government. Sounded like a nice deal for everyone except the former owners. It struck me that the issues of legal ownership and compensation could drag on for half a century, which again made a good case for stealing what was stolen from you.
I saw that a number of the old houses seemed to be in a state of limbo—condemned but inhabited. Sara pointed to one of these balconied baroque mansions across the street. “That is my grandparents’ home—where my father and uncles were born.”
I looked at the four-story house of faded blue stucco, most of which had fallen away, revealing the stone core. Some of the windows were gone, as were most of the louvered shutters. The house had an imposing entrance flanked by red granite pillars, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine this huge house as it had once been. And it also wasn’t difficult to understand why the socialist government thought it was too big for a family of five. Plus servants, of course.
I could see people through some of the big windows, and an elderly couple sat on a balcony that looked like it was held up by the Holy Spirit. r />
Sara told me, “I went inside when I was here. All the plumbing leaks, and there are only two working bathrooms. The kitchen is in the basement and it’s communal, and the house is filled with mildew and vermin. When the rent is free, as it is in Cuba, you get what you pay for.” She asked me, “Would you like to go inside?”
“Only with a hazmat suit.”
She assured me, “The people were very nice to me.”
“Did you tell them you inherited the deed to the house and you wanted it back?”
“I told them that I was an architect, and that if I could reclaim the house, I would restore it for them, top to bottom, and take a small apartment for myself.”
“Did they believe that you would let them stay?”
“I mentioned a rent of five dollars a month.”
“How’d that go over?”
“Not very well.” She added, “They have a long way to go here. They’re frightened of the future.”
“Who isn’t?”
She kept staring at the house, then said, “My grandmother’s piano is still in the music room. I took a picture of it for her . . . She didn’t want to see it.”
I glanced at my watch. “You want a daiquiri?”
“No.”
“You want a picture?”
She nodded and handed me her cell phone.
I took a few photos of her standing across the street from her former family mansion, then a few close-ups under the pillared portico while I listened for the sounds of imminent collapse.
We began walking back to the Ambos Mundos. I understood the emotional attachment and the sense of loss that Sara Ortega must be feeling, but you really can’t go home again. Unless you’re just there to pick up what you left behind.
CHAPTER 27
We got back to the Ambos Mundos as our group was exiting the hotel, and Antonio led us to the nearby Plaza de San Francisco de Asís. On one side of the plaza was the newly restored Spanish-style Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal, which Antonio pointed to and said, “Today, at some hour, an invasion fleet is arriving from America.”
The Yalies chuckled tentatively, waiting for a further explanation.