Suspicion of Rage (24 page)

Ramiro considered the soft orange glow at the end of his cigar. "I admit I've considered leaving. Who hasn't? Even Abdel Garcia wants to get out."

"He told you that?"

"Well... not in those words, but I know him. He plans for contingencies. If the airplane is running low on fuel, it's a good idea to locate the parachutes."

"What about Olga?" Anthony repeated. "Did you tell her you wanted to leave?"

"I may have mentioned it, but I never tòld her definitely yes. Olga has her dreams. Spain, the Costa del Sol, a little house by the sea. She wants to grow olives and lie in the sun and become as fat and brown as a gypsy. Not a bad life, eh?" The alcohol was making Ramiro's words slide together.

"Ramiro. Look at me." His companion's eyes shifted to settle on Anthony's face. "You want to sleep with her, that's your business. But you have a wife. I think I might want to break your neck if you try to leave without her."

A puff of smoke escaped Ramiro's lips. "Who's leaving?"

"I saw Olga yesterday at your place," Anthony said. "She came by to talk with Marta about the birthday party. Olga wanted to speak to me privately, to ask a favor. I turned her down. Do you have an idea what favor she's talking about?"

"Let me guess." He took a sip of cognac, then rested the glass on his stomach. "She'll ask you to help her get out because I wouldn't do it. After her last trip, I made sure her exit visas were refused. Why? Why did I chain her to Cuba? I didn't want her to go. I'm a selfish son of a bitch. Go on. You can say it."

Exhausted, Anthony rubbed stiff fingers across his forehead, then lifted his hand to signal the waiter.

"Have another drink," Ramiro said.

"It's past one o'clock. I got three hours of sleep last night."

"You should have stayed in Cuba, my brother. We could have used you. If more men like you had stayed, maybe we could get good coffee in this country. It's a scandal."

"I was thirteen at the time, Ramiro. I didn't have a say in the matter."

"You could've come back. You
do
come back. You like it here, don't you? Yes, you do. Why does anyone want to live in the north? You are rich, but you work like slaves, you put metal detectors in your children's schools, and the world hates you."

Anthony said, "We like making choices, even bad ones."

The waiter came, and Anthony took out his wallet. The bill was for $175. He said, "Mother of Christ."

A smile dimpled Ramiro's cheeks. He tugged on the waiter's sleeve. "You want to hear another joke?"

The young man glanced around, then said, "All right."

"Pepito says to his teacher, 'Teacher, my cat had five kittens, and they all believe in the Revolution!' The teacher is so impressed, the next day she takes Pepito to the director and says, 'Tell the director about your kittens.' 'Oh, my cat had five kittens and three of them believe in the Revolution.' The teacher says, 'Pepito, yesterday you told me that all five believed in the Revolution.' 'Yes, I know, teacher, but last night, two of them opened their eyes.' "

Ramiro broke into giggles, and the waiter laughed. "Very funny, sir." He took the money and left.

Anthony shook his head. "Who's going to tell me jokes if you're in prison?"

"I know who my enemies are. That keeps me ahead of them." He finished his drink.

Pushing in his chair, Anthony said, "Come on. Give me your keys. I'll drive."

Ramiro looked up at him. The whites showed under the dark brown irises, and his forehead furrowed. He gripped the front of Anthony's jacket and pulled him closer.

"When you call your friend, say I'm thinking about it. I've got some conditions, which he and I can discuss. Don't tell Marta. I'll tell her. Maybe. She might try to kill me. What's the matter? You look disappointed."

"I'm surprised."

"So am I. They make me a general, and I kick them in the teeth. My God. What am I doing? I must be crazy. My heart wants to break. I am going to cry." Tottering slightly, Ramiro stood up. He put a hand on Anthony's shoulder to steady himself. "It's not such a bad country, you know. Cuba. I love it. How I love it so."

 

 

 

 

19

 

 

Years ago, a narrow road from Havana wandered southeast through hundreds of acres of orange groves. Taking this route, Abdel Garcia had always slowed down and put his head out the window. In the spring the orange blossoms had filled the air with their sweetness. When the ripe oranges were processed, that was another sort of perfume, rich and heavy with citrus peel.

The land was part of a military base now, no access by civilians. The trees still bore fruit, he supposed, but the processing facility had been shut down for lack of parts. Weeds had invaded the place, and birds nested in the rafters. The equipment had been removed, leaving only the empty concrete shell, rusty metal, and broken sorting tables.

The half moon sent a shaft of pale blue light through the window. Garcia stood in what had once been the factory's office. The others were in an adjoining room. He couldn't see what was happening but he could hear it. Screams had become moans, the moans had turned to grunts. Garcia had been present at many sessions like this one. The variety of sounds could be astonishing.

He lit another cigarette.

As a boy he had worked in the groves. It had been hot, heavy work, and the thorns on the branches had torn his flesh, but he had done it without complaint because it needed to be done, and he, like everyone else, had been filled with the spirit of the Revolution. And then it was gone. Not all at once. It was like coming slowly awake in a strange bed and seeing a calendar that did not correspond with memory. All one could do was to find a way out.

How had it happened? What had caused the old to forget and the young to become social deviants? Young men like this one, with his bleached hair and his clothes bright as a bird. He had soft hands. He played the keyboard in a rock band. And he had made bombs and burned a police car and set trash bins on fire.

His identification booklet revealed his name: Camilo Menéndez Rojas. Age twenty-one. Place of birth: Regla, Province of Havana. Occupation: student. Menéndez had told them his father was deceased, and his mother was a translator at the Italian embassy. He had two sisters, one married. He had given their names.
Fuck your sisters. Who are your friends, faggot? Your friends in the Movement?
He said he had no friends.
Who is your boyfriend?
He denied he was a homosexual.
Who was the boy who ran away?
He had been alone. He didn't know what boy they were talking about.

They had started with a bucket of water, submerging his head, holding him there. He had passed out several times. Garcia would have done the interrogation himself, but he didn't want the boy to see his face. It was still possible they would take him back to Havana and let him go.

The sounds coming from the other room made Gar-cia's skin tighten. He grasped a piece of broken glass stuck in the window frame and tugged until it came out. Like a tooth. He smiled to himself. He had left several teeth in Angola.

He wondered how long the boy would last. The sounds said that he was getting close. Dusting his hands, Garcia turned away from the window. He quickly wiped the moisture from the corner of his mouth and returned his handkerchief to the pocket of his tunic. On the base he was always in uniform.

He walked to the doorway of the next room. White light fell into the corridor. He could smell the repulsive, animal odor of feces. The two men stood at a metal table. They had tied the boy to the four corners, and Garcia could see only his bare feet, which jerked and arched and pointed. The men blocked the view of his body. His clothes, the white pants and green jacket, lay on the floor.

Give me the names of your friends in the movement. If you want this to stop, you have to help yourself. It's in your control. Give us the names.

One of the men must have felt Garcia's presence. He looked around.

From the doorway, Garcia motioned for him to proceed.

It had been pure chance that the boy had arrived at the Vedado police station at the precise moment when Garcia's contact had been there. He had turned the boy over to him instead of to State Security.

Garcia returned to the office. He watched the clouds drifting across the pewter-colored moon, the many shades of gray and dark blue and purple. The points of the moon seemed to snag the black mass and break it into tumbling fragments. For several minutes his thoughts drifted pleasantly to a beach on the Pacific coast of Mexico. Night. A house overlooking the sea. His house. A terrace, open windows, a piano concerto. The wind cooling his body.

He heard footsteps, then a voice. "General."

"Yes?"

"He's talking."
 

"Is he?"

"He admits he belongs to the Movement. He's giving us the names."

Garcia blotted his mouth. "That isn't enough. I want to know how and when. Who will carry it out?"

The footsteps retreated, and a minute later there came an odd sound, like the yipping of a dog.

Garcia remembered his own interrogator, a UNITA captain in a ragged green uniform, a big black man with enormous nostrils and a face shining with sweat. The man beat him ceaselessly, untiringly, then bent over him and spoke in Portuguese. "I don't like to hurt you. I don't like it. Please let me stop." There was blood on his uniform. Garcia's own blood, he realized later.

Garcia had tried to spit in the captain's face, but there was no saliva left, and he could only laugh. He had been lying in the dirt. The captain stood up and kicked him in the face with his boot Garcia heard the bones in his jaw snap. The men left him lying there for two days, and a week later they traded him and some others for UNITA hostages. If they hadn't given up so soon, would he have talked? Garcia thought that the answer was probably yes.

"General?"

Garcia looked around.

"He says they're going to kill Vega with a pistol."

"I
know
that." Garcia imagined bringing a stick down on this idiot's face. "I don't want to see you again until he tells you when and how."

"He says he doesn't know."

"Of course he knows. Go ask him again."

When the man had gone, Garcia rested his forehead on the window. He had hoped not to do this. He had hoped the boy would just tell them. He wanted the truth, a simple thing, but he wasn't getting it. The Movement had been infiltrated, but Garcia didn't trust the people he had put there. They were incompetent. They lied. Everyone lied. It was a miserable fact that only pain could sort it out.

After a while, the noises stopped. The soldier came back. His boots stopped halfway into the room.

This time Garcia didn't bother turning around. He let go some smoke through the broken glass. "Tell me."

"He says Mario Cabrera is going to enter Vega's house with a pistol hidden in a flute case. He will shoot him in the back of the head."
 

"Go on."

"Cabrera knows a girl at the house, Vega's niece. She's going to let him in."

Garcia dabbed at his mouth with a knuckle. He felt his hand shaking. He had been told that Cabrera would become a chauffeur for the Vega family. Now there was another plan. It could be a lie. Or not a lie. How could he be certain?

"And then? After he shoots Vega?"

"Cabrera will leave the house, and the others will be waiting nearby in a car. Menéndez doesn't know the details of the getaway or where Cabrera will be taken. He doesn't know when. He thinks it will be in two weeks."

"Not true."

"No, General."

"They advanced the date after Menéndez was arrested."

"But Menéndez doesn't know that, sir."

Garcia waited, then said, "Is that all?"

"He gave us everything."

"Make sure."

"I am sure, General."

"Is he dying?"

The man paused. "I don't know."
 

Garcia threw his cigarette out the window. "Let me see him."

He left the office and stood at the door of the other room. The two soldiers placed themselves at the ends of the table. Except for the blood, the boy's skin was smooth and pale as ivory. He walked closer. The boy made no indication that he saw him. His hairless chest moved quickly, and a high-pitched wheeze came out with each breath.

"What shall we do with him?"

"Dress him. Take him to Lenin Park." Garcia stroked the boy's head. His hair was still wet. "I hate doing this, you know?"

 

 

 

 

20

 

 

Gail didn't know what time it was. Three o'clock? Four? The streetlight at the corner sent a wash of pale gray into the bedroom, reducing its contents to colorless shapes: rectangle of closet, grid of lines on the baby crib, curve of mirror. A fan whirred by the door. Anthony had put it there to mask the sound of their voices, although it was hardly necessary. They shared the same pillow, and his mouth was inches from her ear.

Would Ramiro tell Marta that he wanted to leave? When he defected—however those things were accomplished—would he bring his family? Or would he come alone? Ramiro was capable of leaving Marta a note or calling her from outside the country, or something equally as shabby. Anthony was torn between his duty to his sister and the certainty that if anyone found out, Ramiro would be imprisoned for the rest of his life, if not blindfolded and put against a wall.

Gail might have given an opinion but Anthony didn't pause long enough to ask what she thought. He was almost vibrating with tension. If Marta knew, would she be so angry that she might betray her husband to his superiors in the army? Ramiro had to be considering that possibility.

With Anthony's arm around her, Gail held on to his hand and kissed his fingers. She turned his wedding band so she could see the row of diamonds, which sparkled even in the low light.

The rest of the Vega house was quiet. The girls had played music until midnight, when Marta had yelled at them to turn it off. Danny and Gio had sneaked in around one-thirty, and Marta had gone into another tirade. Finally the men had come back, and Ramiro, singing off-key, had staggered down the hallway to bed. No screaming had come from behind the marital door, so Gail assumed that Ramiro was putting off any discussions until tomorrow or possibly never.