Suspicion of Rage (10 page)

Anthony Quintana said, "Mario! Don't you remember me?"

Mario looked around. "Yes! It's good to see you again, sir." He held out his hand.

"Come here." They embraced quickly, and Mario felt several firm pats on his back. He smelled the cleanliness of Anthony Quintana's clothing, the cologne on his skin. "What is this?" The beads at the ends of Mario's braids clicked through his fingers. He laughed. "No, I like it. It suits you. How old are you now, Mario? Forgive me. Tune passes so quickly."

"I was twenty last month, sir."

"Imagine that. Please, call me Anthony, not 'sir.' We should greet each other as men. Let me introduce my daughter, Angela. Sweetheart, come over here."

Her hand was cool and delicate, but it closed around his fingers with surprising strength. "I am very pleased to meet you." She had an American accent. Mario was aware that her father was talking about other people. Danny. Gail. People he would meet soon. The girl's eyes were the color of milk chocolate. They moved over his face. "My father says you're a musician?"

"A flautist."

She didn't understand. He held his hands to one side and moved his fingers. "Flute."

"Oh." She smiled. "Flute." He revised upward his estimate of her age. Eighteen?

Just in time Mario heard the general's wife say, "Papi, get up. Come on. Are those pants clean? Why didn't you wear the new ones I bought you?"

He growled, "How the hell am I supposed to know the difference?"

"Let's go. Everybody's waiting for us at the house."

"Excuse me," Mario murmured. He went over to greet the general's wife. "Good afternoon, Señora de Vega. May I speak with you?"

She crossed her arms over her stomach. Her mouth was colorless and tight. "Be quick. We're in a hurry."

Everyone was watching. Mario's words tumbled out. "I have a request, in honor of your father, Luis Quintana Rodríguez, whom I respect and admire and have come to know in friendship. I would like to become his driver, to do him—and your family—the honor of taking him to and from your house. You're a very busy woman, and ... I believe this would help you. I have talked with your father about it, and he said yes. He wants me to ask your approval
      
as a courtesy. I could start today. Or tomorrow, if you wish."

The general's wife looked at her father. "His driver? He doesn't need a driver."

"Yes, but we have talked, Señor Quintana and I, and he said it would be agreeable to him."

She said, "Thank you, but no. We can manage."

"You don't have to pay me much—or anything. I would do it for the experience. Out of respect for your father... who is a hero of our nation."

She raised a brow.

Anthony Quintana said, "Why not, Marta? It would save you the trouble."

But she was already pulling on her father's arm. "It's no trouble. I like coming here. Papi, love, put on your sweater."

He jerked away from her. "I can do it."

Mario's mother handed him his cane. "We'll see you tomorrow, Luis."

"Thanks, beautiful." He straightened with dignity. "All right. Where's that pretty granddaughter of mine? Angela!"

Anthony Quintana sent Mario a slight smile and a shrug. He let his family go out the door first. "My sister likes to take care of our father herself. She has nothing against you."

That was a lie. They all knew it.

Mario hid his frustration behind a smile. "It's all right."

"So... you are well, Mario?"
 

"I am, thank you, sir."
 

"We must see each other again" Anthony said. "I have something for you, but not knowing you would be here, I didn't bring it with me."

His mother put her arm around him. "Mario is coming to dinner tomorrow. I told him about your marriage. He wants to meet your wife. Don't you, Mario?"
 

"You will like her," said Anthony. "I am sure you will. She is very American, but curious about everything Cuban."

"José and I will love her as we love you. We'll make a party to celebrate."

"You needn't do that, Yoli."

"But we want to. It's a special occasion."

"All right, but allow us to bring some food. Steak. Would you like that?"

"No, no, no, Anthony, my dear, really, there's enough. We have some fish. Does your wife like pargo?"

"I'm sure she does, but ... let us bring something. Some bread. Wine. Tell me."

"If you want to." Mario's mother smiled and lifted a shoulder. "A bottle of wine."

"Red or white? No, I'll bring both. And some Scotch for José."

"You will spoil us completely!"

Mario looked from one of them to the other. They seemed to have forgotten he was there.

His mother was saying, "Oh, there are flowers in our yard just now, carnations. I'll bring them inside for the table. Everything will be so festive, you'll see. José wants to give you a book, some essays he wrote."

"I would be honored," Anthony said.

Then she turned to Mario and took his face in her hands. She was happy. Her eyes were shining. "Well? Will you come? My darling one?"

He said, "I have nothing to bring as a wedding gift."

"There's nothing we need," Anthony Quintana said. "You. That's enough. Play your flute for us. I would like that very much. You will come, young man, or I will find you and thrash you." He took Mario in the crook of his arm and shook him. "You are not too old for this, are you?"

Mario laughed. "Stop. I'll be there!"
 

When Anthony left, Mario and his mother walked a little ways down the hall to see him out. The girl was waiting by the front door. She took her father's arm and they went onto the patio.

Mario knew what would come next.

She looked back at him over her shoulder.

 

There were benches in the park along Paseo de Martí. In the evening Mario would often find one that wasn't occupied, sit down, take out his flute, and play. People walking by would drop some money into his case, and when he had enough, he would buy dinner. He couldn't appear to be a beggar; the tourist police with their batons and gray uniforms were on every street corner in the old section. He always brought sheet music with him. He would politely say he was in the student orchestra at the University, and he was practicing. Sometimes the police told him to move on. Usually they left him alone.

Tonight he wasn't far from the Hotel Inglaterra. He had already collected four dollars and two pesos, not worthless
moneda nacional
but convertible pesos he could use as dollars. He was halfway through Lecuona's
Siboney
when he noticed that three women had stopped to listen. Tourists liked the old stuff. He wouldn't make as much playing his own compositions.

The women were whispering to each other. Mario picked out a word or two in French. One of them walked closer and smiled down at him.

He cut the tune short and lowered the flute to his lap. "Hey, mamita. You like Cuban music?" She put a dollar in his case. "The music, very good." "Thank you, beautiful," he said. Her friends giggled.

The woman stood over him. He knew what she wanted: Where are you from, pretty lady?
D'où ètes vous, ma belle?
You French? Want to see the city with me?
Voulez-vous voir la
ette
avec moi?
That was all he knew of the language. He would speak slowly to her in Spanish. She would understand. You want to have a party? We buy some rum, go dance? You pay for a taxi?

Her hair was very short, like blond fur. Skinny French woman in tight white pants with a food stain on the thigh. A black pullover that said ANTIGUA
in fake diamonds.

Unfolding a ten-dollar bill, she sat beside him, and her hip touched his. "I like Cuban men." She slid the money down the neck of his T-shirt, and her fingernails scratched across his chest before she withdrew her hand.

He pulled the money out and looked at it. He tore it in half and let the pieces flutter to the ground. "Fuck off."

Her mouth opened, then a laugh came out. She cursed, shoved him hard in the shoulder, then got up to find the pieces of the note. She said something to her friends, and they fell on each other laughing.

As they walked away Mario picked up his flute and fingered the keys. One of them was getting loose. The metal surface of the flute was scratched and discolored. He had been tempted many times to throw it over the seawall. He thought that if he were standing on the Malecón this moment, he would do it. Pitch it into the darkness so far he wouldn't be able to see the splash.

Mario glanced around when someone sat on the other end of the bench. Tomás. He held a little cone of popcorn. He picked one out and tossed it into his mouth. The streetlamps outlined the wire frames of his glasses.

He chewed slowly. "You should have taken the money."

"It was only ten dollars, my friend. A
woman like that, I want at least fifty." When Tomás stared at him, Mario smiled. "It's a joke, Tomasito."

"Was it?"

"Sure. Everyone gets screwed. The least I can do is set my own price."

Tomás shook some kernels into his palm. "Did you arrange things with the old man?"

"His daughter said no. She would rather pick him up herself. She doesn't want her family tainted by any connection to José Leiva."

"Ah. A problem," said Tomás.

"I can still get inside," Mario said. "I believe that I can. Quintana's son is here from Miami with his family. They're staying at Vega's house. I've known the son for a long time. He's a friend of my parents. If I go to the house to meet him, he'll let me in."

On his knee Tomás folded the cone into a flat square. "You're sure?"

"If not, then his daughter. Her name is Angela. I have a feeling about her. Yes, I think she would let me in."

"You and women. A talent I do not possess."

"Did you bring something for me?" Mario asked.

Tomás slid a bag across the bench. The bullets rattled as Mario dropped the bag into his flute case. He lowered the lid and the latches clicked shut.

"Contact me tomorrow, will you?" Tomás stood up.

"Tomás ... I've been thinking. Maybe someone else should do it. I'm ready, don't worry about that, but I'm thinking what effect it would have, my doing it."

"Effect?"

"On José Leiva. On the movements that he's involved with. They would be suspected of helping me. It could be bad for them. Look, I'm not backing out, but we should consider these things."

Tomás looked along the avenue, and the trees shifted in the wind, sending shadows across the paving stones in the sidewalk. "The effect. I will tell you the effect. We show that we can cut the head off a snake. Listen. I hear things from Olga. The Ministry is talking about cracking down on the dissidents."

"Another rumor from Olga. Why do you trust her? She's not so smart, you know?"

"True, but she's useful, and I believe she's right about this. What I am telling you, my friend, is that they're going after the opposition whatever we do. Shall we cower like children for fear of what might happen? Think of Nico's brother, Carlos, who was our brother as well. They put our brother Carlos in prison for the crime of acting like a free man. The movement needs you, Mario. What you do will matter. The liberty of our people—"

"For the love of God, Tomás, will you shut up?"

Tomás blinked behind his glasses. "Raúl can't get close to him; you can. You're the only one who can."

Mario felt tired. Empty. "Yes. I'll do if."

"Good. I leave you to your flute, then. And don't be so quick to turn down the next tourist. Nobody said you had to starve."

 

 

 

 

7

 

 

Ramiro Vega sat on one side of the long dining table, knees apart, arms spread. He was a man who took up space, not because of his size, which was only average, but by the energy that surrounded him, radiating outward, throwing off sparks. His head was the shape of a melon, and his taut brown skin reflected the lights in the brass chandelier over the table. When he laughed, dimples appeared, and his cheeks would redden and push his eyes into two inverted smiles. His mustache was thick with gray wires, and his strong, square teeth flashed as brightly as a cloud hit by a bolt of sunlight.

He gulped his beer from the bottle, ate with both hands, and stood up to reach across the table for more. He speared fried plantains with his fork and poured beans directly from the bowl onto his rice. Unless one quickly said
no, gracias,
he might drop another chunk of roast pork on the plates of those who sat near him. He tucked a paper towel into the open collar of his short-sleeved plaid shirt, the same shirt that he had worn home from the Ministry. Gail had expected to see him in a uniform. She had expected to be half afraid of him.

The general was openly affectionate with his children. He had hugged Giovany and Janelle and kissed them before they had gone upstairs half an hour ago. They wanted to hear the music that Karen had put on her iPod. Anthony's kids had gone with them.

The older Vega daughter, Paula, and her new boyfriend, whose name Gail had already forgotten, sat at the far end of the table. Neither of them spoke any English. Their attention was on Paula's baby, who was ripping bread into pieces on the tray of an old wooden high chair. The boy's grandmother got up to brush the crumbs into her hand and complain about the mess on the floor. Gail had the feeling that Marta liked complaining. It showed who was in charge.

At first Gail had tried to keep up with the conversations in this boisterous family, which were almost entirely in Spanish. She had asked Anthony to fill in what she couldn't understand, but by then the Vegas were on to something else.

Ramiro grabbed his beer bottle in his fist. "Gail! Irene! Listen, I got a joke. It's complicated. I don't know how to say in English. Tony, help me out, okay?"

Gail and her mother waited while Ramiro took a swallow of beer and wiped the foam off his mustache. His black eyes sparkled, and dimples flickered in his round cheeks.
"Un tipo va al infierno—"

Marta groaned. "Ramiro, please—"