No one responded, and the apps came.
Antonio said, “I hope everyone likes octopus.”
What the hell was this guy up to?
CHAPTER 29
After lunch, Antonio led us on a short walk to the Museum of the Revolution, a neo-classical building that was once Cuba’s Presidential Palace. In front of the former palace was a Soviet-made tank that Antonio said was used by Castro’s forces to help repel the U.S.-backed Bay of Pigs Invasion. “The invasion failed,” said Antonio, “so we invaded Miami with a million Cubans.”
Sara said to me, “He won’t find it so funny when the exiles start returning and buying up Cuba.”
And round it goes.
As for the Yalies, they didn’t know that their proudly patriotic Cuban guide was just another guy on the take. Five hundred bucks. Two years’ salary for Antonio. But for what? Information? A shakedown? One way to find out.
Sara, however, on our walk to the museum told me she didn’t want us to meet Antonio. She was in charge, but my instincts said we should meet him. It was possible, of course, that the meeting was some kind of entrapment and we’d get arrested. But in Cuba you could get arrested for no reason, so we may as well get arrested while having a drink. I needed to talk to Sara.
We went inside the huge palacio. Antonio was excited about showing us something, so we followed him to a lobby space near the grand marble staircase. He said, “This is the Rincón de los Cretinos—the Corner of the Cretins.”
And who were the cretins in the corner? Well, they were cartoonish murals of ex-President Batista, plus George Bush and Ronald Reagan in cowboy clothes, looking like characters out of Mad magazine. In fact, George looked like Alfred E. Neuman.
Even the Yalies thought this was a little over the top, and I didn’t think Cretin Corner would help improve relations.
We climbed the sweeping staircase and moved on to other rooms, all of which glorified La Revolución, though many of the exhibits were in bad taste, including grisly photos of revolutionaries being tortured and executed by former Cuban regimes. Also on display were blood-stained military uniforms that looked unsanitary. Unfortunately, there were a number of school-aged groups viewing all of this. That’s probably how Antonio got his little head screwed up.
We entered the former executive office of the late President Batista, and Antonio pointed out a gold-plated rotary-dial phone that AT&T had given to their important customer, then he launched into a diatribe about American imperialism. Sara thankfully kept her mouth shut.
Tad, to his credit, said to Antonio, “We should move on.”
So we checked out more of the Museum of the Revolution, which was deteriorating like most of Havana, and like the revolution itself.
Antonio showed us a secret staircase that Batista had used to save himself when a group of university students stormed the palace and tried to kill him. Antonio said, “Many of the students were arrested, tortured, and executed.”
Apparently they take student protests seriously here. The group moved on without us and I said to Sara, “Let’s escape down the secret staircase.”
“Try to learn something while you’re here.”
“Okay. I learned from Antonio at lunch that his interest in you was personal.”
“It was never personal. You know that.”
“Don’t be modest. Also, you shouldn’t have pressed him on why he was asking about you.”
“Sometimes, Mac, you just have to confront people who are causing you anxiety.”
“Right. Well, I think you smoked him out. Now he wants to talk to us.”
“We’re not talking to him.”
“You and I need to talk about that.”
“Later. Maybe.”
We caught up to our group, and Antonio escorted us into a room that had been turned into a stand-up movie theater, and we watched film clips of La Revolución in color and black and white, narrated in Spanish. I saw on the screen a young Fidel and a young Che Guevara, and a lot of other bearded guys moving through the bush carrying rifles. They looked like Taliban.
The scene shifted to Havana, New Year’s Day 1959, and a convoy of rebel fighters in trucks and Jeeps was moving through the city, and crowds of Habaneros were cheering in the streets. Next was a scene at the Hotel Nacional and I looked for Michael Corleone and Hyman Roth jumping into their getaway cars, but they must have left already.
The Riviera Hotel appeared on the screen and, as Antonio promised, there was a newsreel of guerrilla fighters and civilians smashing up the casino, including the bar. This was a sad ending, so I left the theater.
Sara joined me and said, “My father told me that was the most frightening day of his life.”
I guess it would be if you were a young boy waking up in a mansion on New Year’s Day, wondering why the servants hadn’t brought you your breakfast. I pointed out, “Everyone else looked happy.”
“Yes . . . It started out with high hopes for the Cuban people . . . but then it turned into a nightmare.”
“Right.”
The Yale group filed out of the theater, and Antonio led us outside to what was once the back garden, and was now the Granma Memorial—a massive glass structure that preserved the yacht, named Granma, that had brought Castro and his small band of revolutionaries from Mexico to Cuba in 1956. The rest, as they say, is history.
Sara informed me, “When Cuba is free, this is all coming down, and this garden is where my memorial to the martyrs will be built.”
And Eduardo could use the garden walls to shoot all the Commies. I said, “Good location.” I was really feeling like an outsider now, caught in a family feud that went back to Christopher Columbus.
Anyway, around the Granma Memorial were some bullet-riddled military vehicles and a jet engine that Antonio said was from an American U-2 spy plane that had been shot down during the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis. I wasn’t born then, but I knew that this crisis had taken us to the brink of nuclear war with the Soviet Union. And if that had happened, I wouldn’t be standing here. It occurred to me that Cuba had always been a thorn in America’s ass, and that America had always tried sticking it up Cuba’s ass.
This was not a happy garden, so Sara and I left the group and walked out to the street. Our next stop was the nearby National School of Ballet, where we were scheduled to see a rehearsal, and we headed that way.
As we walked, I said to Sara, “We need to meet Antonio.”
“If we meet him, that’s an admission that we’re not innocent tourists.”
“I follow that logic, but if you’re at the craps table you have to throw the dice.”
“No, you can pass.”
“Let’s try another cliché—you can’t ignore the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room.”
She stayed silent as we walked, then said, “I’ve already agreed that you can meet Jack tonight. I’m not agreeing to meet Antonio.”
“Aren’t you curious about what he has to say?”
“I know what he has to say. He wants five hundred dollars. It’s just another shakedown of a Cuban American tourist.”
“You know there’s more to it.”
“Yes. It could also be a sting. We give him five hundred American dollars, and the police appear and arrest us for bribery and currency violations—or, worse, trying to recruit a spy.” She added, “That’s happened before. And espionage is a capital offense here.”
“I can go alone.”
“You will not.”
“All right . . . but—”
“You don’t understand the Cubans, Mac.”
“Compared to the Afghans, the Cubans are Boy Scouts.”
“If we ever go to Afghanistan, you’re in charge.”
“Sí, comandante.”
“Not funny.”
We reached the National School of Ballet and sat on the front steps sharing a bottled water and waiting for our group. I said to Sara, “Antonio wants to tell you what interest the police have in you.”
No r
eply.
“He’s a Mafia wannabe. He wants to live the good life. He wants two years’ salary. It’s as simple as that.”
“All right, I’ll think about meeting Antonio. Meanwhile, there’s no group dinner tonight. What am I supposed to do while you’re out drinking with Jack?”
“I’ll meet you at Floridita at . . . nine o’clock. I’m going to break Hemingway’s daiquiri record.”
She smiled. “I’ll take pictures.”
Our group arrived and Antonio invited everyone to enter the ballet school with Tad and Alison, then he came over to us and asked, “Are you joining us?”
“We’re thinking about it.”
“And have you thought about my offer of a drink?”
“Are you buying?”
“No. I’m selling.”
I glanced at Sara. Still sitting, she looked Antonio in the eye. “We’ll be there.”
“Good. It will be worth your time and money.”
“We’ll be the judge of that.”
He nodded, then hopped up the steps like he’d just made two years’ pay—which he had.
Sara looked at me. “I’m trusting your judgement on this.”
“Trust my instincts.”
She stood. “We’ll see.” She asked, “Do you want to see sweaty young girls in leotards?”
Yes, but . . . “How far is it to the Parque Central?”
“About three blocks, right down this road.”
“Let’s go.” I stood.
“We’ll miss the Museum of the Firefighters.”
“I’ll show you my hose. Come on.”
She smiled and took my hand. “If we’re playing hooky, we first need to go see if the fleet has arrived.”
“If we’re being watched, we don’t want to go anywhere near that terminal.” I said, “We can check out CNN or Tele-whatever in the room.”
So hand in hand we hurried to the Parque Central for a spontaneous afternooner.
CHAPTER 30
On our way to the Parque Central, we passed one of the old men who hawked the Communist Party newspaper, Granma, and Sara gave him ten pesos from her stash and took a copy.
We entered the hotel and stopped at the front desk, but there was no fax or phone message from Carlos, and I said, “No news from Carlos is good news.”
The elevator came and I asked, “My place or yours?”
“I think I was assigned a bugged room.”
We rode up to my room, and I put the DO NOT DISTURB sign out and double-locked the door.
Sara turned on the TV and sat cross-legged on the bed, dividing her attention between Tele Rebelde and Granma.
“See if you can find the Mets score.”
The minibar was stocked and I opened two Bucaneros and gave one to Sara, then sat in a chair with my beer and watched the news. The anchor guy and his female sidekick sounded like they were reading an eye chart in Spanish.
Sara used the remote to switch to CNN, but there was no signal so she turned back to Tele Rebelde, sipped her beer, and flipped through Granma again. “I can’t believe there’s not one word in here or on TV about Pescando Por la Paz.”
“If the tournament was cancelled, the regime would be happy to report that and lay the blame on some American treachery.” I repeated, “No news is good news.”
She nodded. “You may be right.” She said, “We need to discuss a few things about tonight. But first bring your map here and I’ll decipher it for you.”
I looked at my watch. It was almost 5 P.M. and I didn’t want to be late for my six o’clock with Jack, so I suggested we talk in the shower, and we got out of our sweaty clothes.
The shower was freezing, but I left the water running in case my room was bugged, and I turned on the water in the bathtub, which, as per Tad, was warm. We climbed into the tub, facing each other.
Sara leaned toward me and said, “On your way to where you’re meeting Jack, I want you to swing by the cruise terminal. If the fleet isn’t in, you’ll come directly back here.”
“No, I go see if Jack shows up at our meeting place.”
“Why—?”
“Because the fleet could have been delayed. Or if the government wants to low-key the arrival, it could have been diverted to someplace out of town, like the Hemingway Marina.”
“All right . . . but when you get to where you’re meeting Jack, call me from a pay phone and leave a message at the front desk. The message will be either, ‘We’re having a drink,’ or, ‘He’s not here yet.’ ”
I watched the water rising above my periscope.
“Are you listening to me?”
“I am.”
“If he’s there, I’ll know that the fleet is in. But if he hasn’t shown up by seven, you’ll leave and meet me here in the lounge. And on the way back here, you’ll swing by the cruise terminal again.”
I was going to wait for Jack at the Nacional, but I said, “Sí, comandante,” so I could get laid.
“And make sure you’re not followed.” She informed me, “The best way to do that in Havana is to take a Coco cab.” She explained, “You have clear visibility all around, and the Coco cabs take shortcuts through back alleys and narrow streets that cars can’t use.”
Same in Kabul.
“And I don’t have to tell you not to give your driver your actual destination, and get out a few blocks before.”
“Right.” The water was now starting to float Sara’s tub toys, so I turned it off, but the running shower provided some background noise.
She reminded me, unnecessarily, “If The Maine—Fishy Business—is not in Cuba, then we have no way to get the money out of here.”
I pointed out, “We don’t have the money yet.” I asked her, “Aside from the money, how about the other thing that will please me? Is it bigger than a bread box? And can we get it out of Cuba without a truck and a boat?”
“I shouldn’t have told you about that.”
“You should tell me what it is.”
“I can’t.” We made eye contact and she said, “The important thing tonight is to see if the fleet is in.”
“Right. And if the fleet is in, and Jack confirms to me that they’re going to Cayo Guillermo, then we’re in business—and then we need to think about if we’re going to wait in Havana for our contact, or head off on our own to Camagüey. We also need to meet Antonio to see what he’s selling.”
She thought about all that, then said, “Carlos, Eduardo, and I were very confident that we had a perfect plan . . .”
“It’s a wonderful plan,” I assured her. “That’s why I agreed to it. Unfortunately, none of it has gone right. And, by the way, it never does. So we have to make it go right.”
“I like your can-do attitude.”
And I liked that she was back on track. “We make a good team,” I agreed. “And that’s why you hired me.”
I lay back and closed my eyes. This was a pleasant moment, and I enjoyed sharing the warm tub with a friend and teammate.
I felt Sara’s fingers fondling my bolas and I smiled.
My teammate said, “Now that I have you by the balls, where are you meeting Jack?”
Funny. I think. I reminded her, “The less you know—”
“I need to know in case I need to get hold of you.”
“You’ve already got hold—don’t squeeze. The Nacional. Hall of Fame bar.”
She released my bolas and said, “If Jack doesn’t show up and you don’t see the fleet at the Sierra Maestra Terminal, we’ll take a taxi to the Hemingway Marina.”
“Okay.”
“Have we covered all contingencies?”
“And some.”
I don’t recall life without cell phones, voice mail, texting, and the Internet, but in the good old days—according to my parents—all plans, contingencies, and meeting places had to be discussed and understood before people parted or hung up the phone, and my generation was spoiled, they said, and lazy, irresponsible, and too dependent on technology, includ
ing electric toothbrushes, and if anyone moved my dinner plate six inches to the left, I’d starve to death.
Well, my five years in the Army proved my parents wrong. I could survive without my iPhone.
“What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking that if we have Plan B and Plan C, we now need Plan A.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Insert Tab A into Slot B.”
“I fell right into that one.”
“You did.”
So we made love in the tub. Good meeting.
* * *
Sara sat in bed wearing one of my clean T-shirts, with the TV tuned to Tele Rebelde and the volume turned up to cover our words. As I got dressed in slacks and a sports jacket, she said, “Be careful, and don’t forget to call.”
I looked at her. “If I don’t call by seven—or if my message is, ‘Don’t wait up for me’—that means I’m in the company of the police.”
She didn’t reply.
“Go directly to the U.S. Embassy and get yourself inside—one way or the other. Meanwhile, go find some company in the lounge so you don’t get that knock on the door.” I added, “That’s the last contingency.”
She nodded.
I assured her, “All will go well tonight. See you at Floridita at nine.”
“Say hello to Jack.”
“You’ll see him in Cayo Guillermo.”
“Come here.”
I went to the bed and we kissed. She said to me, “I’m going to call my friend in Miami now.”
“Use the phone in the business center.” And keep it short.
I went down to the lobby, where I exchanged five hundred dollars for CUCs at the cashier’s desk, then I went outside and found a Coco cab. “Malecón, por favor.”
And off I went in the little motorized tricycle.
Well, next time I get bored with life I’ll try hang gliding.
CHAPTER 31
My little Coco cab was weaving through traffic, so there was no way anyone could have been following me unless he was the Lone Ranger mounted on Silver. Nevertheless, I did not swing by the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal. If Jack was in Havana, I’d know soon enough. Plus, I was running late.