Suspicion of Rage (28 page)

"I should come to Havana."

"That's not necessary. Not yet."

"Señor Anthony... I'm worried. Garcia is a bad man. Very bad. I heard that he has a place he goes to in the Sierra Maestra, where he keeps the bones of the people he killed. He has over twenty skulls lined up on a shelf."

"Who told you that?"

"A friend of Señor Ernesto."

"Oh, Jesus, Hector. Why do you listen to those maniacs?"

Patiently, slowly, Hector said, "The guy that told me knew a sergeant who used to be in the Chinaman's unit. He saw things. He wouldn't He. Señor Ernesto knows him a long time."

Anthony remembered the general's small, tilted eyes, cold as stones. Even if he were a necrophiliac, it wouldn't interest the CIA. If they wanted Ramiro Vega, it was for some other reason. Not to ask if Castro had found the billion dollars necessary to finish a nuclear reactor that the United States would bomb before the switch was turned. And not even to confirm the existence of Cuban spies in Venezuela. That there were spies, Anthony had no doubt, but it was not why they wanted Ramiro.

 

After lunch in the veterans' home, most of the residents sat in the main salon to catch the news on television. Luis Quintana, who could see only the vaguest outlines of his world, found a chair by a window. He had put on a sweater. The sun was too fickle to warm his shoulders.

Anthony had come to have lunch with his father. Not to burden the kitchen, he had picked up some cold cuts and cheese at a dollar market. The old men at the table had shared the food, asked him about his kids, and wanted to know if it was true that Liván Hernández would sign with the Expos.

He had hoped to see Yolanda, but they'd kept her busy in another part of the building. He wanted to ask about coming by her house later to talk to José. On his way back to the city, he'd recalled that José Leiva had written articles about Abdel Garcia, and at least one of them had mentioned Juraguá.

More information might come from Olga Saavedra, who used to sleep with Céspedes. Olga wanted something, but Anthony had brushed her off. After talking to Bookhouser, he knew what it was: a way out of Cuba. He could give it to her, but she would have to tell him what she knew about her former lover. Tonight he would see her. After dinner at his sister's house, he would drop in on Olga Saavedra.

On Tele Rebelde the big story was the debate in the United Nations on using military force in Iraq. The U.S. ambassador believed they were hiding weapons of mass destruction; the Iraqis denied it. President Castro was opposed to war. The picture occasionally flipped into a horizontal roll, and one of the men would get up to adjust the antenna. Through the window Anthony heard laughter and glanced out to see a foursome on the porch playing dominos. There was a bottle stashed under the table in a bag.

He leaned toward his, father, elbows on his knees. "Papi, what time do you want me to take you to Marta's? I'm not rushing you, but I have something I could do later."

"I'm not going to Marta's today," his father said.

"No?"

A smile appeared. Luis groped for Anthony's arm and finding it, pulled him closer. "It's my day with Zo-raida. Her uncle lives here. She comes from Matanzas every two weeks to visit him. She pays her respects, then she waits for me in my room. What breasts she has. Her skin, like rose petals. And the perfume between her legs! She's a goddess."

"How old is this woman?"

"Thirty. So what? I'm not as old as you think."

"Do you give her money?"

"Don't make it sound ugly. I like helping her out. She has a child to support She's a good girl, very clean. What do you want me to do, go out in the streets?"

"Just be careful."

"Pah! Don't worry about me. And don't tell your sister." With a finger to his lips, Luis leaned back in his chair to listen to the television. One of the men must have been deaf, because the sound was turned up so far it threatened to shake the plaster off the ceiling.

Anthony set his empty cup on the window ledge and told his father he would be back.

He found Yolanda upstairs mopping the floor. The blue paint on the walls had disintegrated in patches, showing yellow beneath, and pink beneath that, creating an abstract pattern of decades of paint. Light streamed in from the open doors to a balcony. Her reflection shone on the wet tiles, fading out slowly as the floor dried.

"Yolanda."

She turned around.

"Did the housekeeper tell you I was here?"
 

"Yes. I'm sorry, Anthony. I had to finish this."
 

"They make you mop floors instead of having your lunch?"

Laughing, she said, "No, it was my idea. I'm leaving a little early today."

He walked closer. There were doors open along the hall, but he saw no one in any of the small, tidy rooms. "You don't have to work at all, you know."

"I don't mind. Really."

"Your husband gets enough money from outside, doesn't he? You could stay home and help him."

"You sound just like José."

He said, "Don't accuse me of that."

"I like it here," she said. "It's very peaceful. And they depend on me. The doctor at the clinic can't be found when you need him. They say he drives a taxi." With a laugh, she tucked some hair into her ponytail. He saw that she wasn't wearing her new silver ornament. Well, no. Not here. It was too much. She was not a woman who showed herself off. Her scent was the simple violet water sold in every Cuban market.

Dropping the mop into the bucket, she said, "Let me finish this. I'll come downstairs before I leave."

Anthony looked at her sideways, appraising. "Are you avoiding me?"

"No. Why would I?"

"I don't know."

She pushed on the mop handle to roll the bucket a little farther down the corridor. The wheels wobbled on the tiles. "I'm in a hurry because at three-thirty I'm going to meet your mother-in-law. She wants to buy us some Internet cards. I'm grateful to you for letting her do it."

"Of course. If Irene wants to help you, that's all right with me." Anthony walked alongside Yolanda. "Whatever you need, you have only to ask."

She glanced at him, and the light filtering through the trees just outside put flecks of emerald in her eyes. Her brows were pure black; silver framed her face. "That's very kind of you."

"It isn't kindness, Yoli. You and José have been my friends for many years." He stopped himself from putting an arm around her, and slid his hands into his pockets instead. "Come downstairs and see me before you leave. I brought you something to take home."

"Oh, please, you shouldn't."

"Something edible."

"No, we don't need ... what is it?"

"Apples from Oregon. They're delicious. I had one."

"Where is that? Oregon?"

"A state north of California."

"So far! It would be rude to say no." She smiled and pushed down on the lever that squeezed the mop head. "I'll be there in a while. Go on."

He watched the mop move across the floor, making a wide, shining arc.

"I've been thinking about Mario," he said.

"Mario?" She looked at him, surprise fleeting across her face.

"He's a brilliant young man. Well-mannered. Ambitious. Tell me, what is his future in Cuba? What opportunities are there for him here? Very few. You must know this."

"We've talked about it," she said. "Mario doesn't want to leave."

"Of course he doesn't. He thinks he would be on his own, no friends or family. But Gail and I would help him, gladly. If he wants to enroll in a university, I would take care of his tuition. It's no problem. He could join a band if he wanted to. There are many young Cuban musicians in Miami. He could go to New York if he wanted. Anywhere. When things change here, he could come back and have something important to contribute."

Yolanda's eyes were focused on the bucket and its gray water. Anthony wanted to take it to the balcony and pitch it into the yard.

"He wouldn't be lost to you, Yoli. He'd come every year. As often as you like. I'd make sure of that."

"He's twenty years old," she said. "Not a child. It's not my decision."

"But he will ask for your advice. I want you and José to discuss it before I talk to Mario. Will you? He loves you. He would stay for your sake. You shouldn't let him."

"I know that." She pressed her lips tightly together, and for a second he thought she might cry. "Yoli?"

She cleared her throat and turned away, dropping the mop once more into the bucket. "If he asks me, I'll say he should go. Now, would you please let me finish? I'll be down later."

Anthony walked a few paces before pivoting and coming back. "I almost forgot what I came upstairs to ask you. Will José be available later this afternoon? I need to talk to him. It's not about your son. It's something else."

"I don't believe that José has to go anywhere." She looked past him down the hall. "What's it about?"

He made a noncommittal noise, then said, "We'll talk later. I'll be there around four, all right?"

"I might not be home."

"Ah. You'll be with Irene."

"And after that I have some things to do."

Anthony clamped his teeth together to keep from blurting out,
What are you afraid of? That I might force you to admit how much you hate mopping floors?

After José's arrest, Yolanda had called Miami, waking Anthony in the middle of the night. She had raged and wept. How could José have been so stupid? He'd known what he was doing. He had
wanted
them to put him on trial, as if the world would even notice. Such pride, such egotism! She didn't want to be married to a man who loved martyrdom more than he loved his wife. On his next trip to Cuba, Anthony rented a car and took Yolanda to the prison in Ciego de Ávila, more than 250 miles away, to visit her husband. Halfway there he pulled off the highway and told her she didn't have to stay in Cuba. She could come to Miami. He would find her a place to live, a good apartment. He could support her until she found work. When José was released, he could join her. Or not, if he preferred to suffer. She said she would think about it, but the subject never came up again.

"I'm leaving now," he said. "If I don't see you today, then some other time."

She held out her cheek to be kissed.

As he walked away, she said, "Don't eat all the apples."

 

 

 

 

23

 

 

Sitting on the terrace with her mother, opening a granola bar lifted from Karen's stash, Gail heard car tires on gravel, then an engine go off. She tore the cellophane with her nails and watched the front of the house. Through the open terrace doors she could see into the long, empty living room, which was still waiting for delivery of tables and chairs for the party. The stairs were a curve of floating horizontal lines.

Marta had rushed out more than an hour ago, saying she had to pick up some things for lunch. This threatened to screw up Gail's plans to meet Olga Saavedra at two o'clock. She had hoped that Marta could take her downtown. She would have asked Cobo, but God only knew where he'd disappeared to. Gail was afraid that Olga would leave before she got there. She had tried to reach Anthony, but he wasn't answering his cell phone, and the damned thing had no voice mail.

Irene squeezed a wedge of lime into her rum and Tu-Cola. "Is Marta coming back? You should put that snack bar away, darling. It will hurt her feelings."

"Where has she
been!
An
hour
to pick up a loaf of bread?"

"I offered to fix you some leftovers."

"Oh, please. That chicken last night was so vile."

"It wasn't that bad."

"It was all skin and fat! I saw you blotting it on your napkin. My pants are getting loose. Look! I'll have no butt left."

Irene scooted down in her chair and turned her face to the sun. "Don't be so grumpy, Gail. You should have eaten breakfast before we went shopping."

She heard a car door slam.

The morning had been spent crisscrossing Havana, Marta chain-smoking her Hollywood cigarettes, clutching her vinyl handbag under her arm like a holstered weapon, parking in VIP spots with the
Fuerzas Armadas
sticker on the minivan, looking for a dress for Janelle that wasn't so expensive she'd feel guilty about letting her have it. Finally at a shop in the
galería
at the El Comodoro Hotel, Janelle spotted a little two-piece outfit with rhinestones on the straps. Eighty dollars. Under threat of more tears, Marta surrendered. Gail put four twenties on the counter, thinking that at least the dress was the correct political hue—red.

Driving home, relieved it was over, Marta had been in a marvelous mood, recalling that she herself had never had a
quinceanera,
not in those days, when the Revolution required so much sacrifice. But Janelle deserved a party. It would be a statement of how far they had come. It would be a celebration for the family and most of all, for Ramiro. You don't know, Marta had told them, how hard he has worked for this promotion.

Gail had sat in the front passenger seat staring out at the street, realizing with perfect clarity that he hadn't told her. General Vega had not told his wife that he was going to defect. She didn't know.
Would
he tell her? Or was he planning to take someone else? Like Olga Saavedra? Gail didn't know why Olga wanted to talk to her, but she expected to come away with something of use.

Glass louvers rattled as the front door closed, and voices echoed in the living room. A moment later a skinny figure appeared, dodging around the dining table, coming onto the terrace. "Hi, Mom. Hi, Gramma." Karen wore a screaming pink T-shirt and a matching South Beach ball cap. The wind had tangled her hair, and dirt smudged the knees of her jeans. She gave Gail a kiss. "Mwah!" Gail said.

"Hello, sweet pea." Irene set down her drink and reached out for a hug. "Did you have a good time?"

Karen looked at both of them, her eyes shifting under the bill of her cap. "There was a dead guy in the park."

"Excuse me?" Gail said.

"I am totally serious. We went to Lenin Park, and we were walking to the stables so we could ride the horses, and there were police everywhere. Mario went over to see what was going on. They found this dead guy in the woods. He'd been there for like two or three days."