Suspicion of Rage (22 page)

They talked about the garden, the neighbors, the dog that kept them up all hours. Gradually the talk turned to the past. Anthony explained to Irene what the elementary school had been like in their little town of Cascorro. Yolanda said that Anthony had been very bad, always in trouble. Anthony denied it. His Spanish became faster, more colloquial, and Gail couldn't keep up.

Laughing about something he had said, Yolanda raised her arms and loosened her hair clip. Her arms and face and the V of her neckline shone white against the darkness. She raked her fingers through her hair, then refastened the clip.

Anthony fell silent. The light from the house was behind him, and Gail couldn't see his face. He resumed speaking, and she felt a pain in her chest, a heavy tug like a cord pulling across her heart.

 

 

 

 

16

 

 

Against the edge of the ocean, the city twinkled with gold lights. Across the harbor Karen saw some cruise ships, a park, and a small fort. The Malecón was behind the buildings, but she could see the bell tower of the church that Mrs. Vega had shown them today, and the dome of the capítol.

She looked around at Mario, who was putting his flute together, and at Angela, who hadn't taken her eyes off Mario. Karen jumped off the low rock wall and sat beside her.

Mario turned the pieces of his flute to get them to line up right. He ran his fingers up and down the keys, then put the flute to his mouth. His lips looked like he was kissing the mouthpiece, and the music came out beautiful and sad. His black eyebrows lifted, and he moved with the music. Angela stared up at him like this was the first time in her life she'd ever heard a flute.

Danny wasn't there. As Mario was driving through downtown, Danny said to let him out, he wanted to hook up with Giovany. Angela told him he was going to get in trouble, but Danny didn't care, as usual. After Danny got out, Mario continued through a tunnel under the harbor, then up a hill to
La Fortaleza de la Cabana.
Mario paid their way in, pesos for Cubans, and dollars for tourists. There were loads of tourists, and everybody walked to the other side of the fort and watched while men came out wearing Spanish army costumes with silver breastplates and helmets. The commanding officer yelled the orders. They set the cannons off, then the soldiers marched back inside.

Mario asked if he could show them a good view of Havana, so they drove around the fort to another hill with a white marble statue of Christ at the top. They were laughing going up the hill because the car nearly stalled out, and Mario's seat kept sliding backward, and Mario had to hang on to the steering wheel and pull himself back up. A Cuban flag and strands of glass beads swung from the rearview mirror, and a bobble-head black woman smoking a cigar fell off the dashboard.

At the top Mario bought them a cola. He wouldn't let them pay for anything. He and Angela talked in Spanish, and Angela translated. After a while, they were just talking, like Karen wasn't even there. She wished that Mario was playing his flute just for her.

His fingers moved faster and faster. His silver rings sparkled in the light reflecting off the white marble statue. He opened his eyes and looked at Angela as he played. She smiled, then swivelled around like she was interested in the view.

People started coming around to listen. When Mario finished the song, they applauded and wanted him to keep playing. He bowed and shook his head. He took his flute apart and put it back into its case.

He helped Angela up, then held out a hand to Karen. He was being nice to her. She knew who he was interested in. When she stood up, he kissed her on the cheek and said she was pretty.

She laughed and felt her face burning.

Mario held Angela's hand, and Karen followed behind them as they walked back to the car. Their voices were low, and she thought Mario was asking if he could come pick her up tomorrow, and Angela was saying yes, she'd like that a lot.

 

 

 

 

17

 

 

By now his movements were as automatic as a machine's. He could do it with one hand. Pop the latches, remove the pistol, aim, shoot.
 

The long, narrow case had come with the flute, which he had purchased used. He could have had a more modern case made of heavy plastic, but he liked the feel of the leather and the faded green velvet. The forms that cushioned the flute had been removed, leaving a space just wide enough for the Makarov. The case hung horizontally at his right hip, and the strap went across his chest. He had just used some scissors to cut the strap to the proper length.

Pulling the hammer back before placing the gun in the case saved time and improved his aim. The trigger took only a feather's touch, so Mario put no pressure on it until he was ready. He put the pistol back into the case and snapped the latches. Walked across the garage, turned, came back. Raúl sat backward on a chair in a cloud of cigarette smoke with his bad leg extended. Mario walked past him, opened the latches, and let the pistol fall into his right hand. He pivoted, extended his arm, and placed the barrel behind Raul's ear.
 

Click.

Raúl released some cigarette smoke toward the rafters. "I hope you can get that close."
 

"I will get that close."

The garage was in Guanabacoa behind the house of a friend of Raul's, a toothless man of about eighty, with black skin and hair like cotton, who decorated his house with painted gourds and beads and candles. He lived alone. For a rent of twenty dollars he had given them the garage, which backed up on a vacant field. The floor was dirt, and the place smelled of oil and burned wood. The old man had a stone fire ring just inside the wide, sliding door. If it rained, he could perform his
Palo Monte
rituals without getting wet. There were some bones in the ashes, perhaps a chicken or a small goat. It was hard to tell. The only light was a kerosene lantern on the workbench.

Nico lay on the backseat of an old car getting drunk. Ever since the police had taken Chachi two nights ago, he hadn't been home. Raúl had brought him here.

The side door opened, and Tomás came in with some beers.

Mario dropped to one knee and put Tomás's startled face in the sights.
 

"Mother of God!"
 

"It isn't loaded," Mario said.

"Even so, please don't do that." Tomás dropped a beer into Nico's outstretched hand and tossed another to Raúl.

Raúl said, "Mario. Tell Tomás what you just told us."

Mario whirled around and aimed at the window, which they had covered with sheets of cardboard. He studied his silhouette. A man. A gun in. his extended hand. "I saw Ramiro Vega tonight."

"Where?"

"At his house. Vega was just leaving when I returned with Anthony Quintana's daughter. I'd met her at my parents' earlier, and we went out—she and I and her stepsister. Taking them home, I saw Vega. We spoke to each other. He is shorter than on television, and even more ugly. He was wearing a blue-and-white shirt and a jacket. He looked almost like a normal man."

Nico's voice was sloppy. "Should've had the pistol instead of your fucking flute."

When Tomás held up a beer, Mario waved it off. He wanted to keep his head clear. His nerves were singing. He felt that he could run ten miles without stopping.

"Quintana introduced us. Hello, how are you,
et cetera.
Good evening, General Vega, an honor to meet you. Vega knows who my father is. He didn't shake my hand, but he didn't tell me to get out, either. I was still there when he left. I went inside the house with Angela Quintana to greet Vega's wife. What a cold one she is. She said I look like an American metalhead. The youth of Cuba have no respect for the sacrifices of the Revolution. But.. ."Mario tossed the Makarov to his left hand and shut one eye to sight down the barrel. "But she gave Angela and me some coffee. Before she threw me out."

"He's almost a member of the family," Raúl said. "The girl likes him. She's going to sneak him into her bed, isn't she, Mario?"

"She isn't one of your whores, Raúl." Mario put the pistol into the case left-handed and nearly dropped it. This would take more practice.

"Did you get your tongue in her mouth, at least?"

"Would you like me to stuff yours down your throat?"

"Take it easy, both of you," Tomás said.

Nico rolled off the car seat and staggered to his feet, using the workbench as support. He had worn the same clothes for two days, and they were crusted with dirt. "Tomás! What about Chachi? What did you find out?"

"Nothing." Tomás dragged a chair closer but seemed too distracted to sit. "I spoke to his mother. She can't find him. The police say they don't know where he is."

"What the hell do you mean, they
don't know!"

"She went to the station in Vedado, then to the main headquarters. The police say they never heard of him. She went to State Security. Same story. Nothing."

Raúl lit a cigarette and shook out the match. "This is strange." He looked at Nico.

"Do you think I was
lying!
I saw the car. It was the National Revolutionary Police. They beat him up and they threw him in the car, and they took him somewhere. He's in one of their damned jail cells, I tell you."

Tomás opened a beer as he paced to the window and back. His shadow moved across the wall. "No one has been asking questions about us. No one has been to Nico's apartment looking for him. It is possible that Chachi hasn't talked."

Raúl exchanged a glance with Mario, then said, "Maybe he can't."

Nico stared at them, and even in the weak flame from the lantern, the tears gleamed in his eyes. "I hope he is dead."

Mario said, "But where is he? No, he can't be dead, Nico. They would have turned his body over to his family and told them a story. Your son was hit by a car. He fell from a roof." Again Mario felt his nerves burn like electric wires in his body. He ejected the magazine from the pistol and slammed it back in.

Tomás was still pacing. "We can't delay any longer. If he is alive, he could talk. On Saturday there's the party at General Vega's house. Olga's handling the arrangements. That would be a good time to do it. Mario, if you go as the girl's guest, you could mix with the crowd."

Raúl grinned. "Half the army will be there. You can take them all out. To hell with the pistol. Let Nico make you some fireworks."

Nico whirled around so fast he nearly fell. "No. I won't do it. We don't bomb people, only
things"

"It was a joke, my friend." Raúl downed some of his beer and wiped the foam off his mouth. He lifted his shoulders and smiled. "A joke. Come on."

"Cretin."

Still holding the pistol, Mario lifted his hands. "Wait. Should we do it at his house at all? I've been thinking that's a bad idea. His wife and children would be there. What would the world press say about us then? That we are brutal, that we have no morals. It could be counterproductive."

Raúl said, "Are you having second thoughts? Is it the girl? You don't want
her
to see you do it?"

"The girl means nothing to me. She is how we get inside. That is all she is."

"All right, all right."

"I will blow Vega's brains to the ceiling, and it will be the ceiling of his own house if necessary. I will be happy to put this pistol to his head, but if we kill him in the presence of his family, we make it worse for ourselves. Let me find out where he goes and when and with whom. I could follow or be waiting for him."

Raúl squinted through the smoke. "Maybe we should consider it, Tomás."

"Impossible. We've already planned everything. We have comrades who will help him escape. They have the route mapped out, a place where he can stay as long as necessary. If he needs to leave the country, I know someone who can get him out."

"I'm not leaving Cuba," Mario said. "Listen to what I am saying: We can release all the statements we want, but if we kill the innocent, we will fail."

"Who suggested that? Did I? Mario, it's too late to alter our plans. We can move them forward, but they can't be changed. We have to proceed." Tomás finally sat down. "Please put that gun away."

Mario opened his flute case. He noticed that Nico had fallen asleep on the dirt floor. His beer had tipped over, making a puddle.

"When do we do it?" Raúl asked.

"Security will be tight at the party," Tomás said. "On the other hand, if he's a guest, no one would notice him."

"I will decide when," Mario said. He looked from one of his companions to the other. "I will decide and tell you in advance. Don't talk to Olga Saavedra about it. She knows too much already. My father is sure she's working for MININT. That could be true. She has friends there. Yesterday she told me to let someone else kill Vega. She said she liked me. Could it be a warning? I don't know. Consider another fact. She's Ramiro Vega's mistress. Why would she betray her lover?"

Cigarette smoke swirled as Tomás shrugged. "She wants to help us."

"Does she? You told me that she heard a rumor that the state is planning to arrest the dissidents. Who gave her that information? Who is she talking to?"

Tomás tiredly replied, "She gets it from Vega."

"Vega. Yes, that makes sense. But tell me again why Olga is helping us. Explain it to me."

"She wants to leave. I will use the word 'desperate' to describe how much she wants to leave. I told her that if she helps us, I can arrange it."

"Is this true?"

"She believes it."

"You lied to her?"

Tomás's narrow face turned toward him. He smiled, and the flame of the lantern shone in his glasses. "My friend and comrade, may I inquire where you developed this acute moral sensitivity? You who are planning to end a man's life."

"He's our enemy. We're at war."

"Exactly so. At war. When we have delivered our fellow citizens from tyranny, will you complain that in order to do it, we had to tell a few lies?"

Mario looked at him for several seconds. The words and arguments and counterarguments collided in his head. "Are you lying about getting me out of Cuba? I don't intend to leave, but were you lying about that too?"