Suspicion of Rage (19 page)

 

Everett Bookhouser was waiting for him at the end of the Malecón, where the road turned south to the port. The area was thick with tour buses, horse-drawn carriages, drivers hawking rides in old American cars. Bookhouser fit in: He had the camera and fanny pack. A map of Havana stuck out of the back pocket of his hiking shorts. They crossed the road and stood by the seawall to talk. Anthony did not mention his phone call to Miami.

Along the wall, the fishermen circled their weighted lines around their heads, then let them go. The monofilament spun out like spiders' webs. Across the harbor entrance, the age-blackened limestone walls of the massive
Fortaleza de la Cabana
stretched along the promontory. Anthony had seen the inner walls; they were pocked by bullet holes from the hundreds of executions ordered by Che Guevara.

"The apartment," Bookhouser said. "What street were you on?"

"South of Dragones. I'm not sure. I could probably find it."

"You didn't see anyone else?"

"Just the aide. He made some coffee, then Garcia told him to leave." When Bookhouser fell silent to ponder this, Anthony asked, "Is this how State Security operates? Or did the army set it up?"

"Don't know. The goons at State Security don't usually take people up to a fourth-floor nookie pad in Chinatown, but I'm willing to be surprised."

"I want Garcia off my back," Anthony said.

Bookhouser didn't answer. A Panamanian freighter glided past, churning the green water, rocking the small boats tied to jetties along the seawall.

"Tell you what," he said. "I need to have a conversation with some people about this. You contact Garcia tomorrow and tell him you'll look into it. Tell him you need some time."

"I see. You want me to feed Garcia a story that someone in Washington puts together." Anthony straight-armed the wall and took a breath. "I should have told you to go screw yourself two days ago."

"I don't like getting civilians involved, but like I said, we need your help."

"Can you get my family out of here if I decide it's necessary?"

"That would look a little strange," Bookhouser said. "There's no immediate danger to Ramiro and certainly none to you or your family. Just talk to Garcia. We'll give you something to throw to him, and that will be the end of it."

While waiting at the bar with his Scotch, Anthony had thought about the question on which Gail had fixated.
Why Ramiro?
He had never been able to give her an answer. "Let me ask you something, Bookhouser. You want Ramiro Vega. Why? Because's he's a general? No. There has to be more than that. I believe it's related to Céspedes and what he told the Intelligence Committee— whatever that is."

Bookhouser followed the freighter on its way toward the Straits of Florida. "What you want to keep your mind on is this: Ramiro needs to get out of Cuba. Otherwise, he's going to be in trouble."

"Who's after him?"

"Céspedes wasn't specific."

"Bullshit. He told you, and Ramiro will ask me."

"Ramiro will know, or he can figure it out." Bookhouser looked at Anthony. "I'm giving you as much information as I can. We need you to get back to Garcia. Tell him you're working on it, and you think you can get the answers. Tell him you want an apartment on the beach. Tell him you want better Cuban-American relations. Whatever floats his boat. Let me know what he says, the questions he asks."

Bookhouser's gaze went back out to sea. "When are you going to talk to your brother-in-law?"

"I had planned to do so later tonight. Gail and the kids and I are having dinner with the Leivas. Maybe I should wait. After this with Garcia..."

"No, I want you to go ahead. If Vega is interested in what we discussed, he can ask you to get back in touch with me, or he can do it himself. Give him my number. Either way, call me tomorrow. If you need to meet me, I'll be around."

Anthony gave a short laugh. "This is great. I love it,"

Bookhouser said, "You're doing the right thing."

"How do I know?"

"We're not the bad guys, Quintana."

"In Cuba you are. If they found out I was talking to you, Ramiro would be suspected as a traitor for taking me into his house. I give him enough problems already, the grandson of Ernesto Pedrosa. They would like to put his head on a stake in the
Plaza de la Revolución"

"Are you going to do this or not?"

"Carajo.
Yes, of course I will do it. Of course. Do me a favor. You want me to play spy for you, okay, fine. I haven't asked anything for myself, but this is what I want. Arrange U.S. visas for José Leiva and his wife and her son."

"They want to leave?"

"They might."

Over the top of his sunglasses, Bookhouser's pale blue eyes studied him. "That won't make Navarro happy. José Leiva has been fairly critical of the exiles and of U.S. policy. Certain people in Miami think he's a Castro stooge. Which I suppose you know about."

'"Three visas. José Leiva, Yolanda Cabrera, Mario Cabrera. If it becomes necessary to get them out, I don't want any problems at the other end."

"All right."

Releasing a breath, Anthony leaned on the wall for a minute, suddenly aware of the tension that had twisted the muscles down his back. "I will be grateful for whatever you can do for them."

"You're welcome," Bookhouser said.

Anthony said, "When I talk to Ramiro, he will ask me about the informant."

"Informant?"

"The person who told Céspedes that Ramiro wants to defect, your 'reliable source.' Navarro wouldn't give me a name. It would add some credibility with Ramiro if I knew who it was."

Bookhouser hesitated. "His girlfriend. Her name is Olga Saavedra. I wouldn't tell him about it unless I had to. She could be at risk. I'm sorry. Your sister probably isn't aware."

"Probably not." Anthony showed no reaction. "This woman. How does she know Omar Céspedes?"

"From MINBAS. She does some work for their public relations office. She and Céspedes had something going in the past, and he helped get her the job. Olga gets around." Bookhouser scanned the park across the street. "Well. I'm going to tour that fort before it closes. They've got some nice ceramics. Have you been in there?"

"Not lately," Anthony said. "Where are you staying?"

"A colleague and I are renting a room in a
casa particular
under the name Philippe and Sophie Dubois. You don't need to know the address. I'm reachable by phone."

"Dubois. Are you French now?"

"From Lyon. I manage a chain of photo supply stores. My wife is an artist who spends a lot of her time at the museums." A smile appeared fleetingly on Bookhouser's thin lips. "The owners noticed that we don't share the same bed. I think they feel sorry for me. We'll talk tomorrow."

Everett Bookhouser went back across the street and headed west, swallowed up by the crowds of people milling about the crafts fair, lines of booths with hand-carved ox carts and maracas and the other assorted trash that tourists took home.

There would be taxis over there. For a few dollars Anthony could find one to take him back to Maria's house. Gail would ask him what had happened this afternoon, and he didn't know what he would tell her.

The fishermen stood twenty yards farther down the sidewalk, a bottle of cheap rum or
aguardiente
next to their bait bucket. More men fished from small boats close to shore. A teenager floated on a truck inner tube. The fishermen on the sidewalk began to talk about whether to use the next fish for bait or keep it to eat. From their accents Anthony guessed the men had come from central Cuba, perhaps Camagüey.

He vaulted to the top of the seawall and sat facing the water.

The men's backs were wide, their long arms heavy with muscle, their skin dark as belt leather. Anthony remembered such men in the cane fields in Camagüey. He had seen them riding with their machetes in open trucks on the long, straight roads. His grandfather Quintana's mixed-race family had worked at the
central,
the sugar mill owned by a family so wealthy they had sent their sons to Harvard. The owners fled to Miami after the Revolution and settled in Palm Beach.

In elementary school, Anthony had gone with his classmates to the sugar collective. The kids provided no real help; the purpose was to teach them about work. It was summer, and they wore long pants and long-sleeved shirts and gloves to protect their skin from the sharp edges of the cane stalks. Carrying armloads of it, they sweated like pigs under their straw hats, and their red scarves quickly soaked through. The sugarcane had seemed twenty feet tall, and as the men swung their machetes, the steel sounded like bells, and the cane fell as though pushed over by the wind. Yolanda Cabrera had been there, too. When Anthony ran out of water in his canteen, she ran to refill it for him.

The steel clanged on the tough stalks, and the kids sweated and sang.
Barquito de papel, mi amigo fiel, llévame a navegar por el ancho mar
— Little paper boat, my faithful friend, take me sailing on the wide sea—

Smiling, Anthony shook his head, unable to remember any more of it. Yolanda had known all the songs, all the words.

He watched one of the fisherman pull in a fish, drawing it out of the water, rolling the line around his plastic yo-yo. He tossed the fish into a cooler, and it beat against the sides for a while, then was quiet.

Anthony had wanted to rent a car and take Danny to Camagüey with him, the two of them. He had wanted to show him the town, Cascorro, where he'd grown up, its dirt roads and concrete houses, the stream where he used to go fishing. The elementary school, how small it was. On a trip to Cascorro, they would have to carry their own food and take things to give away. It would be good for Danny to see that.

Would have been good. There wasn't any chance now that they would be going to Camagüey.

 

 

 

 

15

 

 

The lenses were scratched, and a bent wire held one of the hinges together. José Leiva took off his bifocals, revealing the deep lines at the corners of his eyes and dark pouches beneath. He unfolded the new glasses and held them up to the light. "Yes. Very nice."

Leiva slid the earpieces through his shaggy white hair and settled the glasses on his nose. He picked up a book from the side table, turned it over, and read the print on the back, tilting his head to bring it into focus. He lifted the book toward his visitors, a salute.
"Son perfectos.
Thank you, Anthony. Thanks to all of you." His smile went around the small living room to include his six visitors from America, jammed onto the sofa and sitting in chairs brought over from the dining table.

Sipping her wine, Gail watched with interest José Leiva's reactions to the things that Anthony took out of the bag: a notebook computer, a staple remover, a box of paper clips, ink cartridges for the printer, film for the camera. Leiva would look at whatever was put into his hands, nod politely, and explain how that this or that item would be helpful in his work. The more personal items—a shirt, some underwear, a package of socks— received the same solemn appraisal. He reminded Gail of her political science professor in college, a gentle but melancholy man past middle-age, with a small white beard like Leiva's. The professor had been so conscious of the misery of human affairs that suggesting in his classroom the possibility of happiness would have been as much a
faux pas
as laughter in a confessional.

Leiva's wife, Yolanda Cabrera, walked from his armchair to his desk, stacking and arranging. There were CDs of classical music, double-A batteries, a can opener, a pack of 60-watt lightbulbs, vitamin pills for him and calcium tablets for her. She set his old eyeglasses alongside the other gifts, perhaps saving them for the day that the new pair might break. Gail thought Yolanda would be the sort of woman who could make dinner from one egg and a carrot.

When she came back, Anthony handed her a set of Caswell-Massey bath products that Gail had bought for her. With a cry of delight, she bent down to give Gail a hug. She opened the hand lotion and rubbed it into her skin. "This is wonderful! Thank you, Gail. You are too good."

Trailing the faint scent of lilies, she put the box on the desk, then detoured by the front windows to pull back the lace curtain and look out at the street.

Reading her mind, Leiva asked,
"¿Mario no viene?"

"Me dijo que sí. "
Yolanda told him that Mario would be here. He had said he would. She let the curtain fall into place.

The house was located in the Santos Suárez district. Ramiro Vega's driver had brought them in the minivan just past sunset, not too late to view the run-down condition of the neighborhood. The house two doors down might have been built a century ago, with its Doric Columns of poured concrete and its rusted metal railings. No one lived there. The roof had fallen in, and weeds grew in the cracked walls. Leiva's house was newer, perhaps from the 1940s, with a small front yard and a chain-link fence. Windows of frosted glass set in flat metal bars enclosed the porch, and potted flowers brightened the doorway.

José and Yolanda had given a tour of their library—three walls of books in what had once been the garage. Shelves made of old lumber went floor to ceiling. Anthony gave them the hardcover books he had brought: the latest Octavio Paz and Mario Vargas Llosa; Spanish editions of Milan Kundera, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, and Vaclav Havel. José Leiva examined each one carefully, running his hands over the covers, flipping through the pages.

In the last light of day, Yolanda had led them into the backyard. More flowers. A trellis. Folding chairs where one might sit and listen to the birds. A garden to supply, fruits and vegetables. For twenty pounds of boniatos and a bag of mangos, a neighbor had repaired the brakes on their car. Yolanda tended the garden, worked at the retirement home, organized the library, and still managed to keep her floors mopped, the laundry done, and a smile on her face. Gail thought that she herself, put in Yolanda's shoes, would have wanted to cut her wrists.