Suspicion of Rage (8 page)

"Excuse me, but I would like to know if we're in any danger here."

"We are not in danger, and neither is Karen, if that's what's on your mind. I will tell you one more time." He lowered his head to look at her directly. "You know nothing about it. I don't want to hear another word on this subject. Do you understand?"

"Yes. And don't fucking speak to me like that."

He raised both hands. "Jesus. I apologize. All right?" At the door he said, "Let's go. I could use a drink."

"Go ahead. I'll be right down."
 

"What's the matter now?"
 

"I'll be there in a
minute,
I said."
 

He went out, shutting the door hard, just short of a slam.

Gail exhaled to relieve the pressure in her chest. She headed for the bathroom to splash some water on her face. She jerked the pink towel off the rod. Through the small window, cluttered with bottles and jars and a vase of plastic daisies, a salsa beat came from the neighboring house. Gail wondered if she could stand this for ten more days.

 

 

 

 

5

 

 

The cool curve of aluminum slid under Anthony's palm. His footsteps echoed in the space below. Marta had moved most of the furniture out to make room for the tables and chairs that would be delivered for the
quinceañera.
He had been to a couple of his sister's events. She would have a five-piece band on the patio and people running back and forth to the kitchen with trays of food. The liquor would flow. But Janelle's birthday was about to be eclipsed by her father's promotion. Anthony expected to see the Cuban flag on a polished brass pole. A framed color photograph of Ramiro getting his new star, shaking hands with the
comandante en jefe.
Fidel looking pale in the photo, age spots on his forehead, beard getting thin. But still alive, still pissing on his enemies. Icon and scourge, as entrenched as Mao. The Cubans making a sly new pun:
coma-andante,
the walking coma.

Anthony was never sure how far Marta bought into the system. She had asked him to bring her some Johnnie Walker Black, but she wouldn't serve American liquor at her parties. There had once been a swimming pool in the backyard, but Marta had it filled in. She'd said it was a "bourgeois indulgence." Anthony's nephew had told him that the pool had started leaking and they couldn't afford to fix it. Anthony suspected that both versions were true.

Cuba itself was a contradiction, an impossibility. That it still functioned was a miracle. Not to see this was to shut yourself off from reality: You stay in a hotel on Varadero Beach and take a guided tour of Old Havana. Or you could see it but not care. Tell yourself it didn't matter. Like a missing toilet seat. That Gail had noticed this made him uneasy. With what? Her criticism? His own reaction to it? All right, maybe he had shown some irritation, but what had she expected him to say—that he liked having his family's shortcomings pointed out to him?

Anthony sat on a long teak bench by the front windows, the only piece of furniture remaining in this half of the room. He had wanted her to accept Havana on its own terms, the beauty and the misery, without judgment. But Gail Connor was the kind of woman who noticed things.

Gradually he recognized the noise that had worked itself into his mind over the past minute or so. An angry voice—his sister yelling at someone. Anthony had an idea who. He walked to the open archway in the long stone wall behind the stairs. Ramiro kept an office at home. Anthony stopped a few paces from the open door.

Marta was outraged. The food would be an embarrassment; the musicians were second-rate. This was not just any birthday party. Many important people had been invited. "I asked you for the best. Why are you giving me this shit? Is this what you think a man of my husband's rank deserves?"

Another voice said, "Maybe we should talk to Ramiro. He hired me, you know."

Olga Saavedra.

Marta retorted, "I don't care, you deal with me. And don't call him Ramiro. You will refer to him as General Vega. Such disrespect! Let me see that menu again."

With a sigh Anthony retraced his steps and headed for the kitchen. He opened a bottle of Cristal beer and carried it back to the living room. The voices were quieter. He was about to go back upstairs to see if he could coax Gail out of her mood when he noticed his mother-in-law in the front yard with her camera. Her red hair curled from under her wide straw hat. She flitted from plant to plant, zooming in on a flower, pulling back to capture a tree. She couldn't be still for a minute. Something like her daughter.

When he walked onto the terrace Irene saw him and waved. "Hi. I hope it's all right if I take some pictures of the house."

"Yes, it's fine." He sat in one of the metal rockers. "What do you think of Havana?"

"Well, I haven't really seen it yet, but you know, it's so much like Miami, the weather and the plants and all."

"That's why we Cubans settled in Miami. It's not so different." He began slowly to rock. The motion soothed him. He drank his beer and felt the warm sun on his face.

Irene came up the steps. "Tell me, do we dress for dinner tonight?"

"We never dress for dinner," he said. "Wear what you have on, or shorts if you prefer. No, Cubans are very casual at home. If we go out to dinner, that's another matter."

"I'll just freshen up, then." She thought of something else and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Anthony, you lovely man, I'm so very grateful that you invited me along."

"My pleasure." He took her hand and kissed it.

She laughed. "Well. Guess I'd better check in with the gang. See you later.
Hasta luego."
With a flutter of her yellow skirt, she vanished through the door.

Anthony closed his eyes and rocked. He heard the voice of the old flower-seller, singing his refrain:
"Flores, florero ... flores, florero."
It was illegal, selling without a government license, but nobody cared. There were flowers on every table.

He thought about Gail. It had been unfair of him to expect her to adjust to the rhythms of Havana so quickly. He gave the chair another push. The metal rockers clicked on the tile floor like the slow tick of a clock. At the condo in Coconut Grove there were no front porches with rocking chairs, nor at his previous house, nor at the house where Gail had lived with Karen's father. In suburban America one could drive down the street and see one closed garage door after another.

The sound of an engine made him look toward the street. The kids had come home. Janelle got out and opened the gate so her brother could drive through. Angela waved from the backseat. Anthony lifted a hand. The car went under the portico at the side of the house. Nobody went back to close the gate. It didn't matter.

He settled back in the rocking chair.

Someday, when things changed, he would spend more time here. He could help rebuild the country. His country. Still his country, even after thirty years of separation. They could buy some property he and Gail. A second home, a house on the water. The kids would visit. They would bring grandchildren. He would take them to Camaguey to see where he had grown up. He would teach them to fish in the clear streams, as his father had taught him.

The truth was an ache in his soul: He wanted to come back. As the grandson of Ernesto Pedrosa, he was here on sufferance. If Ramiro defected, what then? Who would be blamed? Whose name would appear on that long list of people who would never be let in?

He had thought of saying nothing. Let fate work itself out. If General Vega had skimmed money from the regime, he could pay for it. But there was Marta to think of. The children.

When would he talk to Ramiro? Soon. Tomorrow, the next day. Where? Not here. Someone in the household could be reporting to State Security. The housekeeper, the man who came to trim the plants. Even Cobo, who had lived here ten years. A part of the family. Gail had called him a house slave. She noticed things, and often out of context, but her vision was clear. Upstairs she had asked the question that had been rattling around in his own head. Why was Ramiro so important? It wasn't Navarro who wanted him; Navarro was only the messenger, useful because of his connection to Ernesto Pedrosa. Was it Everett Bookhouser who wanted him?

Gail had been on the mark about Bookhouser. Before leaving Miami, Anthony had told Hector Mesa to find out what he could. Hector had once been employed, unofficially, by the CIA. That had been years ago, when Oliver North and his pals were trying to topple the Sandinistas, but Hector had kept his friends. Hector had confirmed Anthony's suspicions: Bookhouser was a high-level spook.

Why did he want Ramiro Vega? Ramiro had just been made a general. His job was to oversee industrial facilities; he had nothing to do with strategic planning. Maybe Bookhouser was handing him a plate of bullshit. Using him to take a reading on loyalties at
las Fuerzas Armadas.

Anthony felt the chair come suddenly to a stop. He looked around.

Olga Saavedra was holding on to the back of it. A bleached-blond pony tail spilled over one shoulder. She slowly shoved gold-trimmed sunglasses into her bangs. Her long nails glittered. She spoke to him in her own bizarre mix of Spanish and English.

"Hola,
look who is here.
El norteamericano de Miami.
How you doing,
mi amor?
You looking
muy
handsome and rich,
como siempre"

"Life in America," he said. "You don't appear to be suffering either, Olga. Are you still traveling?"

"Oh, yes." She pronounced it
jess.
"To Barcelona last winter for the
festival del cine."
Her shiny pink lipstick filled in the brown pencil lines on her mouth.

He said, "You must have been a sensation."

"I wish so! I was es-stuck in the hotel pouring drinks for the Minister
de Cultura
and his buddy-buddies. I should have stay in
España,
you think?
Ay,
Cuba,
qué horror,
it's get so bad. The new year will bring good fortune,
si Dios quiere.
You never know."

"No se sabe nunca,"
Anthony agreed, switching to Spanish.

Olga did the same. "So you got married to an American. Your sister told me."

"Her name is Gail. I brought her with me. My children as well."

"Is she as pretty as me?"

"How could I compare you to anyone, Olga?"

She laughed, showing a gap between her front teeth. "You are full of shit, baby." She touched his cheek with a forefinger, drew a line. "I still like you."

He jerked away from her hand as if it had been a mosquito.

"I tell you the problem with Americans," she said. "They lack passion."
 

"My wife doesn't think so."
 

"I didn't mean
you.
You aren't American."
 

"Part of me is."
 

"I hope not
that
part."
 

"Enough, Olga. I don't have other women."
 

"No?"
 

"No."

"How sad for you." She dropped her sunglasses back into place, hiding her eyes. She went down the steps, then came back. "Maybe we can talk sometime. Just to talk."

Anthony looked over her head and rocked in his chair.

She said, "I have to tell you something, love. You should be careful when you visit José Leiva. They're watching him. They take pictures."

"I know, from the house across the street. They probably have some of me."

Olga came closer, holding her portfolio tightly to her chest. She wore a gold bracelet with a heart dangling from one link. In the center of the heart, a diamond so small that Anthony was stirred to feel sorry for her. When she was younger, her lovers had been more generous.

She said, "If they come to his house, and you're there with him, they could take you too. There are rumors about getting tough on the opposition. I speak sincerely."

"Thank you for the warning."

"Anyway, you can't trust Leiva. I lost the best job I ever had in television because of him."

"An old complaint. You should let it go, Olguita."

Her teeth caught her lower Up before she said, "Anthony, love... I need to talk to you. A big favor. Please."

He shook his head. "As you say, may this be a better year for all of us."

She looked at him a moment longer through her sunglasses before turning away. He watched her go, swaying on her high-heeled red sandals. She walked like her hips had been dipped in hot oil. Each half moved independently—the glorious backside of the Cuban female.

Halfway between the house and her car, she looked over her shoulder and laughed.
"¡Oye!"
In English she said, "If you change your mind, you know my phone number."

He could only grind his teeth and pray that Gail wasn't still standing at the upper window. He put the beer to his lips and drank.

In a cloud of diesel smoke, Olga's car turned the corner and was gone.

It was hard to say what Olga Saavedra knew, much less what she believed in, beyond her own survival. She seemed to be surviving well enough, despite her complaints about Cuba. Everyone complained about Cuba. He considered the warning she had passed on to him. The dissidents had become a constant, low-grade headache for the regime, but he didn't believe that José Leiva would be picked up and sent back to prison. He was known by the international press. They would start howling if the political police dragged him down to Villa Marista for nothing.

He heard the door open. His daughter came out and held onto the scroll of decorative metal on the porch support. She swung out over the edge.

"Hola, mi angelita. "

"Dad, does your cell phone work in Cuba?"

"No, m'ija, no funciona aquí en Cuba."

"Oh, God, please don't make me speak Spanish. My brain is exhausted. That's all Gio and Janelle speak. I
know
it would do me good to practice, but I can't right now."

He held out an arm, and she came over to stand next to him. "Are you having a good time, sweetheart? Do you like it here?"