Suspicion of Rage (35 page)

Gail and Anthony took their coffee to the patio.

The air was still slightly chilly in the shade of the trees, so they pulled the old metal chairs into the sun. Shafts of light wavered as the breeze moved the branches. On the patio, puddles of rainwater darkened the mossy tiles. Anthony stood silently staring out at the backyard for so long that Gail tugged on the sleeve of his shirt and asked him what was wrong.

He quickly smiled at her and sat down with his coffee. "Nothing. It's beautiful this morning, no?"

"You're afraid this is the last time," she said.

"No. We'll be back. I am sure of it. My father is here."

Gail whispered, "Can't you talk to Luis about coming to Miami?"

"I have. He refuses."

"But if he knew that Marta was leaving. He could live with us. Okay, a condo isn't what he's used to, but we could find a house with a cottage in the back."

Smiling, Anthony reached over to squeeze her hand.
"Te quiero."
He looked around when his daughter came out of the house. He held out his arm, and Angela leaned against him.

"Papi, could I ask you a favor? I'd like it if Mario could come over tomorrow night. Not for dinner. He would just come by to say hello."

Gail said, "Oh, Angela, I'm so sorry. You wanted me to mention it to your father, and I completely forgot."

"That's okay. You had a lot on your mind after... you know, finding that woman. I would've been catatonic all night. So, Dad. What do you think about Mario coming over?"

Anthony set his
café con leche
on the side table. "It's up to your Aunt Marta, don't you think?"

"I know it is, but she'll probably say no unless you ask her. You're such good friends with Mario's parents. They're critics of the regime, but why must that fact be held against Mario? It isn't right that if Mario wants to see me, or you, we have to go somewhere else to talk to him. He's polite and educated. He won't start any arguments. He avoids political discussions completely. Aunt Marta and Ramiro don't
know
him. If people would just put aside their prejudgments, the world wouldn't be in the state it's in."

"He has an excellent advocate." Anthony smiled and took her hand. "I'll talk to Marta tonight."

"Well... he needs an answer this morning. He's trying to arrange his schedule. Band rehearsal and so forth."

"All right. Tell Mario to come over. I'll deal with your aunt."

"Thanks, Dad." She kissed his cheek and turned to run back into the house.

"Angela! How are you going to get in touch with him?"

"A lady in his building lets him use her phone. She takes messages."

"Before you leave, sweetheart, would you write the number for me?"

When Angela had gone, Anthony picked up his coffee. He said to Gail, "Even his mother doesn't have that number."

"Will you ask him about Olga Saavedra?"

"If I can find him, I will." Anthony closed his eyes and tipped his head back. The sun put gold lights on his skin and mahogany in his hair. "Mario should leave here. I'm going to ask him about it. Help me twist his arm, will you? I spoke to Yolanda yesterday on the subject."

"Oh? You didn't say you'd seen her."

"I had lunch with my father, and she was there. I said, 'Yoli, if you love your son, let him come to Miami.' She knows it's for the best. I believe that in the back of her mind, she wants to leave here, too. It's crazy to risk arrest and imprisonment when they could do their work from Miami. Yolanda wouldn't leave without her husband, of course, but she's saying to herself, 'Oh, to be away from here. If I could just persuade José to leave. If I could do that' "

Anthony's eyes came open. He squinted, and the sun cut across his lashes. His lips slowly parted in a smile. "I am his devil. José organized a union of independent journalists, and I would tempt him with the easy life in Miami. Wouldn't it be funny, if José and Ramiro ran into each other in Little Havana? Ramiro would be waiting tables at Versailles Restaurant, and he looks down, and there is José Leiva, ordering a big plate of
puerco asado.
José says,
''Oye, compañero,
so how is life in America treating you?' "

Gail smiled. "And where would Yolanda be?"

Anthony thought about it. "Getting her hair styled at a salon in Coral Gables. Yes. She wants to look nice because Mario has a concert on South Beach with his band."

 

Seen from the limestone bluff behind the Hotel Nacional, the Malecón was a long curve of concrete laid across the spoil rocks in the shallows. Waves broke on the rocks and exploded into froth. In the distance, sea mist diffused the pastels of Old Havana's crumbling colonnades.

Gail wore sunglasses, though the sun was more hazy than bright. After having a late breakfast on the veranda, where no conversation could go past the trivial, she and Anthony had found a bench in the back gardens. The wind snapped the Cuban flag, which flew over an antique cannon pointed at the sea.

She shivered, but it was more than the wind sending a chill through her body.

Anthony had posed a question. What if the Cubans had uranium at Juraguá?

"Someone's going to assume that Castro would use it. He's sliding toward eighty years old. He can't save his Revolution, but why not strike a final blow against the enemy? The U.S. would invade, without a doubt. Would the President ignore a potential terrorist threat on our doorstep? At last we have an excuse to take out the
hijo de puta
who has been making us look like idiots.for forty-four years."

"Insanity," Gail said.

Anthony's brows rose over his sunglasses. "There are people who would believe it."

"Of course there are. Your grandfather. And Bill Navarro. And half the population of Miami. They would dance in the streets for a month if we invaded."

"It won't happen without proof. That's why they need Ramiro Vega."

Gail said, "How would he know? Ramiro never worked on the nuclear project."

"He worked with Céspedes. He's at the Ministry of Basic Industries. Gail, I don't have the answers. Céspedes could be telling Navarro what he wants to hear in exchange for money, for prestige. There have been defectors who have told falsehoods, and we believed them. It could be that Céspedes is a double agent. Castro wants to draw us into another embarrassment. He's good at that. It keeps him in power. We demand that he turn over his nuclear material, and this provokes a confrontation. Once again, he stands up to the mighty Americans."

"I'm getting ill, thinking of it," Gail said.

"It's only a theory." Anthony put his elbows on his knees. He seemed to be watching the endless horizon, blue and calm. "Maybe in a few months, Ramiro and Marta will fly to Spain with the kids for a vacation. They don't come back. He tells the CIA that Céspedes is a liar, and everyone is happy."

And you can keep returning to Cuba,
Gail added silently.

She leaned forward and put her arm against his. The dark green fabric of his sleeve was warm from the sun. "What does Ramiro have to say about your theory?"

"Nothing. He's being very sly. He doesn't trust me. I'm working for the CIA. How does he know I'm not trying to set him up? If he told me too much, they wouldn't need him, would they?" From Anthony's pocket came a muffled ringing, and he shifted to get to it. "Ramiro is right. He shouldn't trust anyone. He should wait until he's safely on the Costa del Sol with money in the bank." He put the phone to his ear.
"Hola, dígame."

He listened, then said they would be there in five minutes.

"That was Mario, returning my call."

They picked up the car from the valet, drove out the long, palm tree-lined entrance of the Nacional, then took a left and parked at a run-down snack bar outside the Servi-Cupet gas station. The yellow-and-red striped awning shaded the tables underneath. Gail saw a phone booth and assumed that Mario Cabrera had used it for his call.

He stood up as they approached. There were handshakes. Anthony went over to the window to buy some sodas, and they moved nearer the street, where the noise of traffic would muffle their conversation. The sodas remained unopened, pushed to one side.

Mario wore jeans and a black knit shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and clung to his lean torso. He sat directly across from Anthony at the square table. Though she tried to avoid it, Gail found herself comparing their faces. Mario's eyebrows curved; Anthony's were thick and straight. Mario's eyes were lighter, with flecks of green. His ears were smaller, the lobes different. His earring was the shape of a crescent moon. When he clasped his hands on the table, Gail noticed the long fingers and square palms. She counted four silver rings and a heavy link bracelet. She saw two chains around his neck. They were cheap gold, but gold nonetheless. Anthony liked jewelry. Gail thought of the leather jewelry box in his bureau, Anthony taking off his rings and bracelet the night before they left for Cuba.

When Mario spoke, she studied his mouth. Full and symmetrical, the upper lip making two defined points. Lines that curved at the corners when he smiled. The lines around Anthony's mouth were deeper, but he was older by twenty-four years.

Mario spoke English to include the American at the table. He thought that Anthony had come to warn him to keep his hands off his daughter. "Señor, I am a friend of Angela. I have much respect for her and for your family—"

"I am glad to hear it," Anthony said, "but that's not why I wanted to talk to you.
No es eso, Mario."
He went on to say it had to do with Olga Saavedra. He asked Mario if he had heard the news.
"¿Supiste que está muerta? Un homicidio."

"Yes. Yes, I know it. I am sorry for her."

"My wife went to see Miss Saavedra yesterday on some business. She found her body."

"That is true?" Mario glanced over at Gail, surprise on his face. Anthony explained that shortly before two o'clock, Gail had been waiting to cross the street. She had seen Mario go into the building and come out again. She had said nothing to the police because she was sure Mario had only knocked at the door. That was the case, was it not?

Mario stared at him, then said yes. Speaking quickly, he raised his hand as if to knock on a door.

Anthony asked him why he'd gone to see her.

He didn't answer for several seconds. Then he shrugged. "She make the party for Janelle. They have...
un conjunto.
A band. Me too. Mercurio. That's my band. So ... maybe ... Olga Saavedra wants Mercurio for the parties. I say, okay, talk to her."

"You thought Olga Saavedra might hire your band to play for other parties."

"Maybe. Yes." He smiled. "Is a very good band."

Anthony nodded. "Another question.
¿Por qué dejaste el carro tan lejos, en la otra calle?"
Why had he left his car so far away on another street?

Mario answered, finishing his reply with another shrug.

"He wasn't sure where Olga lived." Anthony's glance at Gail said he wanted her opinion on whether this made sense, but it wasn't her language, and the subtleties were lost. She gave her head a little shake.

Anthony spoke slowly, and his next question was clean Did Mario have any other reason for going to Olga Saavedra's apartment?

"No." Mario's brows rose, and he shook his head, looking at Anthony, then at Gail. "No. To ask her for the band.
¿Qué otra razón?"
What other reason could there be? And he was sorry she died. "Very terrible thing, no? Maybe
un ladrón.
A thief? The police find him?"

"Not yet," Anthony said. He leaned on his elbows. "Mario.
Escúchame bien, m'ijo."

Listen, my son.
But this meant nothing, Gail thought. Men used the word all the time with boys they didn't even know.

Anthony explained to Mario that in the United States, he was a lawyer. Mario knew this, didn't he? In the United States, Anthony advised people who were in trouble with the law, and sometimes not in trouble, but the police suspected them for the wrong reasons.

Nodding, Mario said to Gail, "I know. In Cuba, the police ..." He quickly touched his eyes. He meant they were everywhere, always looking.

Anthony continued. If Gail had told the police Mario had been there, they might have asked questions. Mario's father and Olga Saavedra had sold videos to foreign reporters, but only José went to prison. Olga saved herself by turning against José. Anthony hoped that Mario didn't know about that. If the police ever asked him about it, well, of course it would not be good to lie to them, but in this case, he wanted to protect his father. Didn't he?

Mario nodded. He would do anything for José. He would die for him.

Anthony smiled.
"No es necesario.
No, Mario, you must live a long time. Do you understand when I speak English slowly? I want Gail to hear this too."

"Yes. I understand."

"It's all right," Gail said. "Please say it in Spanish. I can understand most of it."

Anthony said that there was something else he wanted to discuss with Mario, and since they wouldn't be in Cuba much longer, he would bring it up now. Anthony explained how close he had always been to the family, how he respected and admired Yolanda and José. He was sure they would want their son to have a future. Had Mario ever thought of coming to the United States? Anthony listed the benefits—work, education, a career. Anthony said he would help him. He said that Mario should think of him as his
padrino,
his godfather, his friend, a part of his family. Someday Mario could come back to a free Cuba, and he would have the tools to help rebuild his country. If he stayed here, what would he have? How could he hope to support a wife and children?

Mario lowered his eyes. He had thick black lashes. Several seconds passed. He said he would think about it. Yes, he certainly would. It was very generous.

Anthony said they would see each other tonight at his parents' house, at the meeting of independent journalists and librarians. Mario nodded and said that Angela wanted to meet him there, but he couldn't stay very long, as he had things to do. A rehearsal with the band. They hoped to find work soon.