Suspicion of Rage (13 page)

Disturbed from her sleep, she raised up on an elbow and murmured, "What time is it?"

"About two-thirty."

"Nothing from Hector?"

"Not yet."

"Do you think somebody intercepted the call?"

Anthony laughed softly. "They aren't listening on every line, sweetheart. Hector is taking his time. This hour of the night, his friends won't be too eager to get out of bed."

She scooted up until her head rested on his chest. Her voice was a warm touch on his skin. "Ramiro won't leave here, you know. I think Marta would kill him. She's such a dedicated socialist. Do you mind if I say that?"
 

"It's true."

"The system isn't working. Ramiro makes jokes about it. But Marta says it's great. Does slje really believe that?"

"Absolutely People don't like giving up illusions they've spent their entire lives creating. I used to sing the same song when I was a child. Oh, you would have loved me in my little Pioneer uniform, so cute. We all believed in heroes in those days. In magic. In the perfectability of man, which is even more fantastical."

"You're still cute." Gail made small circles on his chest with her fingernails.

"We have no gods anymore," Anthony said. "That's why people wanted the Cuban experiment to succeed. It was a rebuke to the idea that life can be boiled down to how much you own, and that owning is a measure of meaning."

"What's with all the philosophy tonight?"

He took a final pull on his cigar before snuffing the ember. He sent the smoke upward. "Havana does that to me."

"Politics and religion," said Gail. "It's all the same."

"Not really. Politics is easier to believe in because it doesn't seem as irrational. You don't feel naive saying you're a socialist, you feel proud of yourself. I am talking about here in Cuba, of course, or anywhere you want to spit in Uncle Sam's eye. That's what makes Fidel a hero—he stands up to Washington. It's not his fault Cuba is poor, it's our fault. We're evil. We want to destroy Cuba because we can't have it. There are those who would die believing that."

"Marta isn't
that
extreme, surely."

"I doubt it." Anthony smiled. "She has a household to run. Dying is for young men and crackpots."

Gail's laughter tickled the hairs on his chest. "Oh, dear. We're such a corrupting influence. You know this, right? Bringing them all that stuff from Macy's. Promising to take Janelle to La Maison. Did you know that Gio likes hip-hop? Your son brought him about a dozen CDs, according to Karen, my chief spy. Eminem, Outkast— capitalist poison."

Anthony laughed too. "There isn't one Cuban kid who doesn't think the system is crap. They all want to go abroad to study. Paula would have, but she got pregnant. They are complete realists, these kids, on
both
sides of the water." He added, "But it's sad, you know? When I was Danny's age, I felt that I had a purpose."

Sitting up, Gail raised her knees and brought the blanket to her chin. "Marta said something funny tonight. I mean funny
weird,
not ha-ha. She said she was walking on a tightwire for Ramiro. What does that mean?"

Anthony thought about it. "I don't know. What else did she say?"

"Well, after my mother happened to mention Ernesto, Marta said she didn't have anything to do with
those people,
the Miami Mafia, and so on, but she didn't include
you
in that group. She says you're on her side. Or for Cuba, which is the same thing."

"Marta creates her own reality," he said.

Gail shifted a little so she could see him in the vague light from the doors. "Really, Anthony, you're such a chameleon, aren't you? Abdel Garcia doesn't know where you stand, either. He wants to find out, doesn't he?"

"I'm not on his side," Anthony said. "General Garcia is out for himself. If not for the Revolution, he would be a provincial cop. And Ramiro would own Coca-Cola of Cuba. He's a capitalist at heart, if only he knew it."

"I guess Marta was embarrassed," Gail said. "Her husband's boss showed up, and there she was, caught in the act, entertaining a bunch of Americans in her house."
 

"We're not Americans, we're family." Extending an arm, Anthony felt around on the nightstand for his watch. Two forty-five. What had become of Hector? Had there been someone at the telephone desk who had recognized the name Anthony Quintana? And then called the security officer at the hotel? There was always someone on the staff with a connection to the political police—

He heard Gail halfway into one of her questions.

"—just an observation, the way they were talking about her. I don't mean to insult your brother-in-law or anything, but don't you sort of wonder what's going on there?"

Anthony said, "Going on?"

"She's sexy, she works for him, and Marta is jealous." Gail waited, then said, "Haven't you thought of that?"

"You're referring to Olga Saavedra?"

"That's what I just said. You weren't listening?"

He moved farther up on the pillows. "They're not having an affair."

"How do you know?"

"I asked him. He said no."

"See? You did think of it. Well, he's not going to tell
you,
is he? His wife's brother?"

"Gail, if he says no, that's where I'll leave it."

"Fine, then. I was just wondering." She stared at the ceiling. "Do you think this room might have a listening device?"

"MININT doesn't have the resources to bug every hotel room in Havana." "Who? Minute?"

"MIN-INT. The Ministry of the Interior. State Security."

"This creeps me out," Gail said. "Like we're playing spies. They're following us, and the phones are tapped. God, it is
freezing
in here. Did you turn into an Eskimo?" She got out of bed and threw on the terry cloth hotel robe she'd left over a chair.
 

"No, I'm a hot Cuban," he said.

"You certainly are. I've got burn marks all over." On her way across the room, she turned around and walked backward, touching her hip, her breast. "Here and here. And here. Ouch." As she slid the. glass door shut, the robe slipped from her shoulder, and she caught the front of the voluminous thing in one hand.

"I like you better in nothing," Anthony said.

Glancing over her shoulder, she opened the robe like wings, then let it slide down her back, down to the cleavage of her buttocks. "Is that far enough?"

"All the way off," he said.

The robe dropped to the floor, and her body was a dark curve against the window. Where the thin white curtains came together, she grabbed the edges and flung her arms out. "Here I am, Havana."

"Gail, don't do that."

"Why? We're twelve floors up. Nobody's looking. I thought people were supposed to go wild in this city, all the sex and salsa and rum. But if you ask me, Havana just looks kind of shabby and sad. Except for those women in the lobby with the European guys. What do you call them? I forgot."

"Jinetera.
It's from the word for jockey."

"Oh, I get it. Bring on the whip." Gail stood in the gap between the curtains. The faint wash of light turned her body into a living white-marble statue. Her breasts were outlined by darkness, and a small V of light shone between her legs. "Havana," she murmured, then bent to pick up the robe.

"Leave it off," he said. "I like looking at you."

She hooked the robe by one finger over her shoulder. "If I were that girl downstairs, how much would you pay for me?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"You want me too much. You couldn't stop yourself."
 

"Well, that's true."
 

"Come here."

The curtains swung slowly together, and Gail crossed the room. When she reached the bed she lifted the sheet and crawled under it completely. Her hands on his body were like ice cubes.

He doubled over, reaching for his groin.
"¡Ay, qué frías las manos!"

Her mouth was a flood of heat.

 

The telephone rang at half past three, pulling him out of a dream that vanished like smoke the moment he opened his eyes. He reached for the handset. Hector's voice could have been coming from the next room.
"Llámame de afuera."

When Anthony swung his legs off the bed, Gail asked him where he was going.

"Hector wants me to call him from outside. Stay here. I won't be gone long."

He turned on a light. She got up with him and went to the dresser, where she had laid her clothes. She said she had to get dressed. She couldn't lie naked in a hotel room while he went God only knew where.

"A few blocks down the street," he said. "There are some pay phones across from the park. I won't be long. Wait for me."

 

He took an elevator down and walked past the plainclothes security guard, who stood at the entrance to the elevator bank with a walkie-talkie.

Instead of going out the front entrance, Anthony cut across the lobby and into the restaurant, brightly lit and open twenty-four hours. He walked through and pushed open the glass door. The crowds were still heavy, and would be until dawn, but the marquee of the Yara theater was dark. The movie was
Spider-Man,
probably bootlegged.

Walking down the hill toward the Malecón, he zipped up his jacket to keep the wind out. A young
mulata
in tight pants and a blond wig walked alongside for a few paces, until he shook his head. She shrugged, and he noticed her big hands and narrow hips. A transvestite.

Anthony crossed the street, doubled back toward the Yara, and paused on the corner to scan the crowd. He doubted that anyone had followed. If they had, they were damned good at keeping out of sight. He went south to Coppelia Park and veered back across La Rampa.

At the Etecsa kiosk in the next block he paid twenty dollars for a phone card and dialed the number in Miami.

 

 

 

 

10

 

 

Leaving the nightclub on La Rampa, Nicolas walked backward and held out an arm to signal the drivers. Chachi was in his own happy world, singing out loud to anyone who would listen. They had to meet the others across town in half an hour. If they could catch a ride, they would make it. There were no buses at this hour, and it was hard to find a taxi that wasn't already taken, even if they had possessed enough dollars in their pockets to pay for one. They could usually find someone who would give them a lift for a few pesos, or for nothing. Headlights reflected on a tourist sign pointing the way to the Malecón.

"My friend, a ride!" Nicolás clasped his hands in prayer as the car came closer, but five or six people were already jammed inside. The car picked up speed down the hill and turned out of sight.

"Sexy lady, dance with me,
ayy,
look so good tonight—" Chachi stumbled over a break in the sidewalk.

Nicolás pushed him upright and put an arm across his shoulders. "I think you're drunk, baby."

A long line of streetlights shone on the Malecón. Lovers walked along the sidewalk or sat on the seawall, tiny figures at this distance. There weren't so many cars, and Nicolás began to worry they might have to walk all the way to Raul's place in Cerro. The meeting was set for four-thirty, about the time Raúl would get there after a gig in Chinatown.

A black dog wandered out of an alley, a thin bitch dog with long teats and matted fur. It watched with yellow eyes as they walked by. A bad omen, Nicolás thought. He doubled his pace and gave Chachi a shove.

"Come on, let's cut over to Infanta."

"What's the rush? If we're late, we're late."

"Tomás will be on our ass."

"Screw him." Chachi stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and kicked a paper cup into the street. "Who crowned him king? He didn't start it, we did. It's our group, not his."

They went behind the Habana Libre on Avenue M, walking past the same trash containers where last month Nicolás had tossed a pipe bomb. He noticed something new and smiled: a security guard half asleep on the steps of the loading bay. Infanta would be a few blocks ahead, a street running due south, the direction they needed to go. Away from the activity of the Rampa district, the neighborhood was quiet, no one coming or going from the apartment buildings.

Nico slowed to a stop. Just ahead, in the cone-shaped glow of a security light, a gray concrete wall came out of the darkness, the side of a building whose front faced the street. A sign had been pasted to the concrete: the Beard in his green uniform.
COMANDANTE EN JEFE, ¡ORDENE!
Time
had faded the colors and lifted the paper at the corners.

Chachi saluted as they approached. "Yes, tell me what to do, my leader, my commander. Order me, and I will obey."

"Chachi, wait. Give me the chalk."
 

"Not here, are you crazy? Someone will see us for sure."

"Who? You stand behind me. They'll think I'm taking aleak."

"All right, then. Piss on the sign while you're at it." Chachi reached into his pants pocket and handed the chalk to Nicolás, who turned to face the wall.

At waist level he signed the name of their movement, M28E. The birth date of José Martí,
Movimiento veintiocho de enero.
Poet, writer. Died in 1895, fighting to liberate Cuba. Nicolás thought it would be good to die in battle, like Marti. The concrete ate into the chalk, and white powder sifted to the ground.

"All right, let's go." Nicolás tossed the chalk back to Chachi.

"Not yet. You didn't
finish?
Chachi glanced around, then wrote. DOWN WITH ...

Nicolás watched the street. "Hurry up."

"I'm telling you, Nico, we need to have a camera. Give the pictures to CNN. They would send a camera crew and a reporter."

"Unless they're right behind us, there won't be anything to film."

As soon as the sun came up, someone would report the graffiti to the block leader of the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, and the CDR would wash it off. But people would see. They would tell their neighbors, and they would look out their windows. One of them might take a picture.