Suspicion of Rage (15 page)

"It's safe. Nobody asks questions."

"I'm not coming back. That's it."

Mario looked up at her, an odd view of breasts and chin and the point of her nose. Why had she come at all? Tomás had met Olga Saavedra when she'd done a TV documentary about the musicians at the Varadero hotels. She wasn't in love with him. She was older. She had a car, a job, money.

"Why are you in this, Olga?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because I'm not sure I trust you."

Her face turned down so she could see him directly. She smiled. "You have your reasons, I have mine." She tossed her keys in her hand, then sat on a crate next to him and slid a cigarette out of the pack he held on his thigh. "This isn't my favorite, Popular, but I'm getting desperate."

He said, "I don't have any matches."

Olga found a lighter in her bag, and Mario lit a cigarette for each of them. She crossed her legs and settled back. She was wearing tight black pants with a slit at the ankle, and as she swung her foot in its high-heeled sandal, her toe ring sparkled. "I'll tell you why. Someday, love, everything will change, and I'm going to be on the right side. I want them to know it."
 

"Them?"

"Those who take over."

Mario smiled, and smoke drifted from his lips into the still air. "We can't know who will take over. Your reason doesn't make sense."

"It's as good as yours. You want to send a message. Who is listening? Really, who?"

He gestured toward the doors and windows in the long, low wall of concrete across the street. "They are."

"They're asleep," she said.

"Not for long."

"Oh, my God." Olga Saavedra laughed quietly. "When you light that fuse, I want to be out of here." She was silent for a time, then said, "Do you really have to do this?"

"Yes."

"Why? He is not so important." "He is the first break in the wall. Do you care about him?"

"No. I hate him. I only meant... how can you do it? You know ... to kill a man inside his own house. Can you do that? What if his wife is there? Or his children? And if they see him die... all the blood—"

"Quiet! Are you drunk or only stupid?"

"Don't be mean. I like you. You're a nice person, I can tell.
Un ragazzo simpatico.
That's Italian."

"I know."

"I've been to Italy two times," she said. "Paris once, but only to change planes on my way to Rome. Paris is so pretty from the air. The Eiffel Tower was like a little toy, and I could see the river. What is that river called?"

Mario smoked his cigarette. "The Seine."

"That's right. You're very smart." Olga touched his hand and turned one of his rings around so she could see the head of the silver snake that lay across its own tail. "Such beautiful hands. Long fingers. Good for a musician, no? I bet you have lots of girlfriends." She nudged him with her shoulder. He could smell her perfume, feel the heat of her body.

At the east end of the street, the roofs of the buildings had become distinct from the sky. Dawn had pulled them back to earth. The tiles were no longer black, but their usual reddish gray. Birds on the electric wires had started their song.

Olga said, "Tomás says that you know Anthony Quintana, the son of Luis Quintana. He's a great friend of your family. Is that true?"

"My parents know him."

"So do I." The early light turned her eyes green as new shoots of grass. "We are friends for many years. His mother's family, they got out. They're very rich, very connected to the government. I might ask him to arrange for me to go to the United States. He could do it."

Mario put his elbows on his knees, moving away from her. "If you want out so badly, why didn't you stay out when you had the chance?"

Laughing, she replied, "Because how did I know? How did I know it was my last chance to get out of this circus of horrors? They locked the door. Maybe they think I will run. They are right." She played with one of his braids, then her breath was in his ear. "Mario, can I give you some advice? Let someone else take Vega. You get out of here. You could have a good life, a boy like you."

Tapping his cigarette, he watched the ashes fall to the sidewalk between his feet. He brushed off the toe of one dark blue canvas shoe. The rubber was peeling away from the fabric.

She leaned back against the wall. "Myself, I will get out too. I will. Have you seen Spain? I would like very much to live in Spain. Oh, my God, you would love it. I might go to Costa Rica. I'm sure I could find a job there. I used to be a TV journalist, did you know that? People would see me on the street. 'Oh, look, it's Olga.' "

A sudden and unaccountable fury clenched Mario's throat and sent the blood to his head. "Olga Saavedra, the famous Olga. You worked with my father. You accused him of selling videos to foreign journalists. You set him up, and they fired him. He spent four years in prison."

"That wasn't my fault." Bewilderment clouded her face, and unable to reach for anything more logical, she blurted out, "José Leiva is your stepfather."

"He's my father, and you betrayed him."

"I didn't." Olga shifted away.

"So if I don't trust you now, figure out why."

"Maybe you're not as nice as I thought."

"I'm not nice. Get out of here, Olga Saavedra, before somebody thinks you're for sale."

She stood and threw her cigarette at him. "Go to hell." Her eyes moved to the door. Tomás was there, a slight figure in wire-rimmed glasses. She shouted, "Mario called me a whore."

Tomás said, "Keep your voice down, Olga. Mario is sorry. Go on, apologize to her."

Mario made a tired laugh. "Tomás, shut up."

"Yes, Tomás, shut up." Olga turned and angled directly for her car. Her high heels clicked on the pavement.

"Let me have a cigarette." Tomás took one from Mario's pack, then pulled it through his fingers one way, then the other. "You've got to control your temper, my friend. We're at a critical stage. We can't start attacking each other. Our enemy isn't Olga." He leaned down to light his cigarette off Mario's. "Come back inside. We have things to discuss."

They heard the diesel engine crank, then clatter to life. The Mercedes pulled away from the curb and turned the corner. Its lights were off, but they weren't needed. Gray light filtered through the clouds.

"I don't trust her," Mario said.

"I know you don't, but she's all right. Olga ... Olga wants to be important."

"That's not good enough."

"You trust me, don't you? Leave her alone."

"She betrayed José Leiva," Mario said.

Tomás sighed. "Olga was trying to survive. At the time, it was Leiva or herself. In a totalitarian state, we are expected to turn on our friends. Perhaps to help us now—to help you—is her way of redeeming herself."

"It is very strange, Tomás, to hear you, of all people, speak of redemption. Have you become religious?"

He allowed a thin smile. "I was only giving you my interpretation of Olga. Come inside."

Standing up, Mario extinguished his cigarette under his heel. He noticed a movement behind Tomás. A young man in black clothing was running toward them. His hair stuck to his forehead in dark, sweaty points.

"Nico?"

When Tomás turned to see, Nicolás fell on both of them. "You're here. I was afraid you'd already gone. They got Chachi. They took him. They beat him up. I was all over the city hiding until I was sure nobody was behind me."

"Inside." Tomás threw his cigarette away, and the two of them pulled Nicolás through the door.

Mario put a finger to Nico's lips as a warning. They hurried him across the courtyard. A woman on the walkway above watched disinterestedly over the railing as she drank her coffee. They took Nico into the apartment and closed the door. It was still dark inside except for the one lamp on the table.

Nico's friends came closer with their mouths open. Raúl limped over from the sink drying his hands. "So there you are at last." He frowned. "Mary, queen of whores, what happened to you?"

Mario pulled out a chair at the table, and Nico collapsed into it. "He says they got Chachi."

Tomás leaned down. "What happened? Why did they take him? Nico!"

"We wrote on a wall.. Near La Rampa. We were on our way here. Someone saw us, and the police came. Sons of bitches! They caught him and took him away in a patrol car." Nico's voice shook. "They beat him. They used their batons. He was on the ground. They kicked him. They hit him in the head."

For a long moment the only reactions were contained in glances exchanged around the room. Then Raúl balled his towel and threw it. "Shit! I told you idiots to stop writing on the walls!"

Nico said, "I need some water." Mario went to the sink and came back with a glass. Nico emptied it, then started to cry.

Tomás told him to stop it, to be strong. "What did you write? Was it about the Movement?"

He wiped his face on his sleeve. "Yes. I went first, then Chachi was writing 'Down with tyranny,' and that's when they came. They caught him just south of San Lázaro. They didn't see me. Not well enough to recognize me. I'm sure of it."

"Where'd they take him?" asked one of Nico's friends.

Nico shook his head.

"Villa Marista, probably," said the other.

Raúl glared at the door. "Satan screw their mothers!"

Mario sat down next to Nico. "Nobody saw you. You're sure?"

"A woman. She came out of her house when they were arresting Chachi, and she saw me, but only for a second. It was dark. Nobody saw my face, and I got away."

"It doesn't matter," Raul said.

"I got away. No one followed me here."

"It doesn't matter!" Raúl shoved the back of Nico's chair.

Nico's friend spun Raúl around and with both hands pushed him in the chest. "He said they didn't see him."

Raúl knocked his hands away. "You're as stupid as he is, then. It doesn't matter who saw him or didn't see him. They have Chachi."

"Chachi won't talk," Nico said.

Mario exchanged a glance with Tomás.

"He won't!" Nico grabbed Mario's arm. "We've discussed this. He knows what to say. He wrote the name of the movement for a joke because he sees it on walls. He doesn't know what it means."

"Of course they'll believe him." Raúl spread his arms wide. "He looks so innocent. Fairies don't throw bombs."

"No, listen," Nico insisted. "They haven't shown up here. If he had talked, they'd be here, wouldn't they?"

"They haven't shown up
yet"
said Tomás. He folded the drawing of the general's house that Olga Saavedra had made. "We'll know soon enough. The moment they start asking questions, we'll know. All right. We expected this could happen, and we have our plans. Other places to stay, places to meet, methods of communication. Nico, you'll have to disappear. Don't go back to your apartment. They will ask Chachi who you were, and he might tell them. I'll contact his mother. She might be able to find out where he is. In the meantime, we proceed. Our timetable has just been moved forward. Mario, take the diagram and the photographs and memorize them, then burn them."

Mario opened his flute case and put everything inside. He thought about Chachi. What they would do to him. The police wouldn't have him for long. They would turn him over to State Security. Mario had heard about their interrogations from José Leiva, who had seen strong men, brave men, come back to their cells, curl up on their concrete beds, and cry like children. Chachi wasn't weak, but the pain and fear might be too much. As that thought grew in Mario's mind, so did his anger. He wanted to kill them. He wanted to trade places with Chachi. He would find a way to kill at least one of them, to feel bones snap, to see blood spray across the walls. He would not fall on his knees and pray for them, as José Leiva had prayed for his interrogators.

He and the others picked up clothing and books, pillows and matches, any piece of evidence that could tie them to this apartment. They swept the floor and wiped off fingerprints. They were finished in less than ten minutes. Nico left first, and the others followed at intervals, each taking a different route out of the neighborhood.

 

 

 

 

11

 

 

They stood on the narrow balcony—a grid of aluminum, a pipe for a railing. Gail leaned against it with her take-out cup of coffee. On his way back upstairs, Anthony had brought
café con leche
and some rather soggy croissants from the all-night restaurant off the lobby. The coffee had gone cold.

When Gail bent to set the cup on the floor, Anthony paused and waited for her to come back within range of his voice. He had been speaking so quietly that no one more than a few feet away could have heard him, a precaution hardly necessary since the other balconies were empty at this hour. Gail thought they must be the only human beings on the entire northern face of the Habana Libre Hotel.

The sun had just come up, too weak to penetrate the overcast. Above the flat gray sea, clouds hinted at rain. Gail pulled her sweater closed and crossed her arms. She followed the progress of some seagulls gliding toward the center of the city, vanishing to small, flapping dots. Anthony's gaze seemed focused on the jumble of nondescript buildings below, some painted turquoise or pink, another with curved Art Deco corners. Several blocks away, waves rolled in, broke against the rocks of the Malecón, and turned to froth.

As he talked, he used his napkin to dust off the railing before leaning his forearms on it. He didn't want to get the sleeves of his windbreaker dirty. It wasn't new, but he could be obsessive in that way. As soon as they got back to his sister's house, he would probably have a shower and shave. Stubble darkened his jaw and upper lip, and lack of sleep made him squint.

Looking over the edge, Gail saw past the air handlers on top of the four-story building across from them, past the tattered green canopy of a restaurant, and then down to the narrow street below. Her stomach gave a lurch, and her hands tightened on the railing. It wasn't just the altitude giving her vertigo. While Anthony was making his phone call to Miami, she had wondered if he would be back. The scene had played out in her mind: men following him on the dark street, pushing him into an unmarked sedan, tying him to a chair in a room lit by a single unshaded bulb.
What are you doing here in Cuba, Señor Quintana?