“It is actually a fishing fleet which has sailed out of Key West. This is a new tournament called Pescando Por la Paz—” He translated, “Fishing for Peace. A . . . how do you say, a double entendre. Very clever. Yes?”
The clever Yalies seemed to think so.
Antonio continued, “The fishermen will come through this terminal and walk directly into this beautiful plaza, and be welcomed by the people. And then they will find the good bars and get drunk like sailors.” He laughed at his own lame joke.
I looked around the plaza, but there were still no signs of the fleet’s arrival—no dignitaries, no reporters, no banners or bands.
The arrival of the fishing fleet from America was not exactly world-shaking news, but it was news in the wider context of the Cuban Thaw, so it should be marked by some sort of official ceremony and appropriate news coverage. Unless, of course, the regime wanted to ignore it or downplay it. Or cancel it.
Sara said, “I’m getting worried.”
“Let’s assume Antonio has the latest update.”
Antonio fixed his gaze on me. “Mister Mac is a fisherman in Key West, so perhaps he will want to drink with his fellow fishermen tonight.”
I didn’t respond, and Antonio moved on to other points of interest.
Our next and last plaza of the morning was Plaza Vieja—the Old Square—and on our way there Sara asked me, “Why did he say that?”
“I’m not reading anything into it.”
“He practically said that he knows you’re going to meet someone.”
“There are only three people in the world who know that—me and Jack, and now you as of an hour ago.”
She seemed frustrated with me. “He’s made the connection between you—a Key West fisherman—and the Pescando Por la Paz.”
“There is no connection. Only a coincidence which anyone would comment on.”
We reached the Plaza Vieja and Antonio talked as he walked. “This square was laid out in 1559 for the private residences of Havana’s wealthiest families, who in former times would gather here to watch the public executions.” He added, “Now, of course, those wealthy families are gone.”
Having attended their own public executions. But Antonio didn’t say that. He said, “Please look around. Ten minutes. Then to lunch.”
Half the group headed toward the fountain in the center of the plaza to get their fountain photos, and some headed for the shade, as did Antonio, who retreated under a tree, lit a cigarette, and made a cell phone call. I said to Sara, “He’s calling for a firing squad.”
“You deserve one.”
Funny. I said, “You need to calm down—”
“And you need to ask yourself if this mission has been compromised.”
“If it has, you should thank Antonio for letting us know.” I added, “He may be reporting to the police, but he knows nothing. And if he’s fishing for something, he’s not using the right bait.”
“But why is he fishing?”
Good question, and I’d thought about that. “Well, it could be that you came to his attention as a Cuban American, and he’s trying to be a good chivato, making himself sound important to the police.”
She didn’t seem satisfied with my explanation, so I continued, “It’s also possible that the immigration or customs people at the airport notified the police about you, and the police checked to see who the tour guide was for this group and told the guide—Antonio—to keep an eye on Sara Ortega.” I reminded her, “You’re supposed to be giving your three hundred thousand pesos to charities. And maybe that’s why you’re on their radar.” Or there was a leak in Miami, and if that was the case, the game was over.
She looked at me. “You’re either very cool, or you have your head up your ass.”
Which reminded me of an old Army saying—“If you’re taking intense fire and you’re keeping cool while everyone around you is scared shitless, then you’re not fully understanding the situation.” I didn’t think that was the case here.
“Do you think Antonio believes we just met?”
“We did just meet. You need to believe your cover story.” Recalling my unpleasant hours in a mock interrogation cell, I added, “We’d be questioned in separate rooms and our stories need to match.”
“I know that.”
Our ten minutes of architectural appreciation were up, and Antonio called the group together. “Now to lunch.”
We followed Antonio out of the plaza and into a street that led back to Centro.
Something had changed in Sara’s positive attitude, and it probably had to do with last night. That’s what happens when you have something to live for.
* * *
We walked in silence awhile, then Sara asked me, “Is it at all possible that the police have made a connection between you and Fishy Business?”
“Anything is possible. But let’s trust Carlos on this.”
“I do. But . . .”
“Even if the police somehow discover that I once owned one of the tournament boats, that’s all they know. They may find it curious, or suspicious, but that doesn’t lead them to any conclusions about why I’m in Cuba.”
“No . . . but it could lead them to questioning you about that coincidence.”
“You can be sure I’ve already thought of the right answers.”
Clearly Sara was worried, so I let her know, “I don’t see, hear, or sense anything that endangers us or the mission. If I do, I’ll let you know.”
We stood facing each other. She said, “This is Cuba, Mac. Not Afghanistan. The first sign of danger here is usually a midnight knock on your door.”
“You’re the one who said that the only thing the secret police are good at is instilling fear.”
“Well . . . sometimes they get lucky.” She thought a moment and said, “Maybe the money is not worth our lives—”
“It’s not all about the money. It’s also about stealing something from under their ugly noses. Remember? It’s about finishing what your grandfather started. And, as I just discovered, it’s also about something that’s going to please me, whatever that is.”
“All right . . . let me think about this.”
“Let me know before I meet Jack so I can tell him if you and I are leaving Cuba early.”
“All right . . . and if the tournament has been cancelled, then the decision has already been made for us.”
Borrowing from her book, I said, “It will be a sign from God.”
“No, it will be a decision made by the Cuban or American government.”
“That too.”
We looked up the street but the group had disappeared. “We lost them. Let’s find a place for a cold beer.”
She took her itinerary out of her bag. “Lunch is at Los Nardos. I know where that is.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Come on. Tad will be in a panic if he thinks we’re missing.”
“Good training for him when we do go missing.”
We took our time walking, and on the way I ran all this through my mind. I couldn’t get a tight grip on Antonio, but if I had ten minutes alone with him in one of these back alleys, I’d have some answers. But as Sara pointed out, this was not Afghanistan, where I could be very insistent with the locals about answering my questions.
Anyway, it was easy to make a good case for abandoning this mission and getting out of Cuba. But I told Sara that if I came here, I wouldn’t back out. So this was her decision. And if she was influenced by my assurances and we got arrested, it wouldn’t be the first time I miscalculated.
She took my hand as we walked and said, “I’m not afraid of death, Mac. I’m afraid that the police will arrest us—here or in Camagüey—find the map, and . . . make us confess . . . I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to let everyone down.”
“You won’t.”
“Also . . . I feel responsible for getting you into this.”
“I understand the responsibility of command. But I knew what I was getting into
.” Well, not all of it. There are always surprises.
“In the Army . . . if you gave an order that . . . caused a death . . .”
“Shit happens.” I added, “I wasn’t back in the rear phoning in orders, I was right there at the front, and that’s where you’re at now.”
She glanced at me, then said, “All right . . . if I say we leave, it’s my decision. If I say we go forward . . .”
“I promise I won’t blame you if we wind up dead or in jail. But I won’t be happy.”
She forced a smile, then said, “Most men in this situation would jump at the chance to go home, collect fifty thousand dollars, and tell their friends they slept with a woman in Havana who paid for their vacation.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Well, thank you for listening. I’ll let you know before you meet Jack.”
“Okay, and if we’re not going to Camagüey, I do not want to spend another week with the Yale educational tour.”
“It won’t kill you.”
“It might.”
She understood that I wasn’t making a joke and agreed, “If we’re being watched, it would be good to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
“Correct.”
“But it’s difficult . . . There are no commercial flights to the U.S. . . . but maybe we can get a ticket to Mexico or Canada.”
“Even if we do, we may be on a watch list at the airport.”
“We seem to be running out of options,” she said.
“We never had many options. And when that happens, you just push on.”
“To Camagüey.”
“Correct.”
“With or without meeting our contact here.”
“Correct.”
“We’re back to where we started,” she concluded.
“When we got on that plane in Miami, there was no turning back.”
“No, there wasn’t,” she agreed.
“The road home goes through Camagüey Province, the cave, Cayo Guillermo, and The Maine.”
CHAPTER 28
We arrived late for lunch at Los Nardos, a small restaurant on the edge of the Old Town. Our group was already seated, filling up most of the tables, but Antonio had thoughtfully saved two seats for us at his small table, and we sat opposite the Nevilles.
Pretty Cindy Neville said to me, “I like your T-shirt.”
Well, Richard did not. Nor did he like me—once he realized he had no chance with Sara Ortega. Plus he’d had to see where Hemingway drank at the Ambos Mundos hotel. He was having a bad day. He should only know what kind of day I was having.
Cindy said, “Richard wouldn’t let me buy him a Hemingway T-shirt at Finca Vigía or Ambos Mundos.”
I assured her, “There’ll be many more opportunities.” I suggested, “Make it a surprise.”
Neville frowned, so to have a happy lunch, I said to him, “I’ve read a few of your books.”
Well, you’d have thought I just handed him a carton of cigarettes and a Pulitzer Prize.
“I hope you liked them.”
Of course you do. “Of course I did.”
Frozen daiquiris were part of the package, and everyone got one put in front of them. Antonio proposed a table toast. “To a great novelist—Ernest Hemingway—a true Cuban soul and a beautiful writer of the people.”
Neville’s face got frostier than his daiquiri.
The menus came, and Antonio made a few suggestions to the Nevilles, who looked like Hamburger Helper people, so Antonio ordered family-style for all of us.
Cindy asked Sara and me, “Where are you from?”
“Miami.”
“Key West.”
“Oh . . . are you . . . ?”
I said, “We just met.” I further explained, “We’re discovering that we have a lot in common.” We’re both horny.
“That’s nice.” She said to Sara, “You mentioned at the welcome dinner that you are Cuban.”
“Cuban American.”
“So this trip must be very special for you.”
“It is. And why have you come here?”
Cindy replied, “Richard wants to set his next novel in Cuba.”
Antonio said to Neville, “Please put me in your book—as the hero.”
Neville was definitely thinking: Not after that toast, asshole.
Cindy continued, “He’s gotten a lot of material already.”
I couldn’t resist saying, “Don’t ask too many questions in Cuba.”
Cindy confided to us, “Richard says if he gets arrested, that will be good publicity.”
Antonio assured her, “That can be arranged.”
We all got a good laugh at that. This was fun. Like making jokes about blood while you’re dining with a vampire. I was feeling reckless and said to the Nevilles, “Be careful of the chivatos.”
“Who?”
“Ask Antonio.”
Antonio looked at me, then at the Nevilles. “This is a . . . derogatory term . . . for the citizens who volunteer for the revolutionary watch committees. In America you would call them neighborhood watch groups. They assist the police in combating crime.” He added, “They have nothing to do with foreigners.”
Sara asked Antonio, “So if a chivato sees a foreigner who appears suspicious, they won’t call the police?”
“Well . . . like any good citizen, they would, of course.” He thought of something and said, “In America, where you have terrorism, the police say, ‘If you see something, say something.’ It is no different here.”
Sara replied, “In America we don’t report our neighbors to the police because of their political views.”
Well, they used to in Maine.
Cindy changed the subject and said to me, “So you’re a fisherman.”
“I am.”
“Will you go meet the fishermen coming in for this tournament?”
“I don’t know them.”
Richard remarked, “I’d like to go to the terminal and take pictures of the fleet’s arrival.” He looked at Antonio.
Antonio reminded Neville, “You must stay with the group. It is your State Department which does not allow you to go where you wish in Cuba.”
It was ironic, I thought, that it was my government, not Antonio’s, that restricted our movements in Antonio’s police state. But soon Sara and I would have a unique opportunity to fulfill the stated goal of this trip—Discover Cuba for Yourself.
Antonio, however, had some good news. “There is no group dinner tonight, and you are all free to go to the Plaza de San Francisco and perhaps find some of the fishermen and crew from the tournament.” He looked at me.
I wanted to get away from that subject, so I asked Neville, “Where do you get your ideas?”
He didn’t seem to know.
Antonio dropped the subject and said to me and Sara, “We missed you at Ambos Mundos.”
I let Sara reply and she said, truthfully, “I showed Mac my grandparents’ home.”
That seemed to interest him. “So you knew where it was?”
“I have the property deed, which goes back to 1895.”
“Well,” he joked, “hold on to it for another hundred years. You never know.”
Sara, of course, didn’t think that was funny and said, “It’s now a crumbling tenement.”
“It is a home for the people.”
“It’s not fit for animals.”
Antonio looked at Sara. “You speak your mind.”
“It’s an American habit.”
“Yes, I know.” He asked her, “And what did your grandfather do to afford a large house in Havana?”
“He was an honest businessman. And he had the good fortune to escape to America before he was arrested for no reason.”
Antonio had no reply.
I was wishing that Sara wouldn’t provoke Antonio, but it seemed to be in the DNA of the exile community to bug the Commies. I get it, but it’s safer to do it in Miami. Having said that, I, too, needed to control my mouth.
/> The Nevilles seemed to be feeling left out or uncomfortable, and Richard announced that he was going outside for a cigarette. I hoped Antonio would join him, but he didn’t. Cindy asked where the baño was and Antonio told her.
So now we were three.
Antonio looked at Sara. “Do you still have family in Cuba?”
“I do not.”
“May I ask—why have you come back a second time?”
“Obviously I enjoyed my first visit.”
“Good. Cuba is like a mother who welcomes the return of her sons and daughters.”
“Some of whom have been arrested on trumped-up charges.”
Antonio had no reply, and Sara asked him, “How do you know this is my second visit?”
“Someone mentioned it to me.”
“Why are you asking about me?”
He smiled. “I thought you were . . . unattached.” He looked at me. “I congratulate you, señor.”
Hey, no contest, señor.
Antonio looked over his shoulder at the front door, then looked toward the baños, and I thought he was trying to decide if he needed a cigarette or a pee, but he leaned toward us and said, “Perhaps we can have a drink tonight.”
Neither Sara nor I replied.
He continued, “Tonight is your free night. I can meet you both at seven at a bar called Rolando in Vedado.” He smiled. “No tourists. No Hemingway.”
Sara glanced at me, and I said to Antonio, “Thank you, but we’ve made other plans.”
“Then tomorrow night. Same time and place. You will excuse yourselves from the group dinner.”
This was not sounding like a friendly invitation anymore. I thought his next line was going to be, “You can meet me at the bar, or you can meet me at police headquarters.” But he said, “This will be worth your time and trouble. And your money.”
“Excuse me?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“For what?”
Richard Neville was returning from his nicotine break and Cindy was making her way back to the table.
As they both reached the table, Antonio said, “As Hemingway wrote, the Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out.”
Which may have been the answer to my question.
The Nevilles sat and Richard asked, “Still Hemingway?”