North of Havana Read online

  “Couldn’t be helped, man. God has gotten involved, so who’s going to argue? On the phone, when I told you that Rita disappeared every day? I finally found out what she was doing.”

  “Yeah, but you said ‘Julia’ ‘cause, if you remember, she used a fake name. Or did that slip your mind? She’s been lying to you the whole time. What I’d be willing to bet is, she set you up from the moment you met her. Meets this guy who has a record of being pro-Castro… so who are the Cubans going to give their full attention if you two show up unexpectedly? The night you’re supposed to sail back to Florida, she spikes your drinks so she could hijack your boat, sail it herself twenty-some miles to—”

  He was nodding. “Exactly; that’s just what happened. But that was before she trusted me, man. Before she explained everything. Turns out, where she was disappearing was to see these people. She’s connected, man. This hard-ass American chick, using me to sneak back into Cuba—I love it. But Saturday, the morning after I talked to you, Rita, she realized she was being followed. I mean, someone completely trashed our room at the Hotel Nacional, so we had to run for it.”

  “She tell you why?”

  “You’ll have to ask her, man.”

  “She say how she plans to help your revolutionary buddies?”

  “She wants to tell you, she’ll tell you, Doc.”

  Grab Tomlinson by the arms and shake the hell out of him—maybe it would do us both some good. I said, “Are you aware that I could have been killed tonight? Are you also aware that someone was killed? That guy they called Rosario. I think Molinas slit his throat. The blood all over his shoes? It didn’t come from a broken nose.”

  I had a hard time controlling myself when Tomlinson answered, “A bad day for the life insurance people is a good day for the morticians. You’ve got to look at the big picture.”

  And it had been difficult for me to imagine him killing a cockroach.

  I said, “I hope you’re kidding. You’d better be kidding. A man gets his throat cut and you shrug it off with some bullshit aphorism?”

  “A syllogism, man—two truths and a conclusion. An aphorism is… it’s like what Chairman Mao said, ‘A noble end justifies any ignoble means.’ In other words, you name it: terrorism, murder, whatever has to be done to reach a noble goal.”

  Christ, he was talking to me like some Ivy League teacher now.

  “Besides,” he said, “the guy was out to murder you. You said it yourself.”

  “I strike you as the type to walk up to a disabled man and cut him? Because that’s just what Molinas did.”

  That got me a long look of evaluation—a little bit of the old Tomlinson showing through. “No… you wouldn’t do that. It’s in you, but you fight it. How many times I said it? Your whole life, that’s your karma—fighting your own nature. Remember that line from Flaubert? ‘Be regular and orderly in your life so you may be violent and original in your work.’ That’s you, but you hate it.”

  More quotes.

  He said, “But these people are revolutionaries, man. They’ve got a righteous cause. A week here, I could see what Fidel’s done to this country and it’s about turned my stomach. Every girl over the age of ten trying to sell herself, adults walking around like robots, skulls for faces, standing in line for beans, man. For beans.”

  Now he was starting to wave his arms around, something Tomlinson always did when he got excited. “It’s like those kids you see on the street, the Malecón every night; the ones wearing those cheap-ass rags but trying to look like punk rockers. They got the hair, they got the attitude—” He had to think for a moment. “They call themselves something.…”

  I thought: Roqueros.

  He said, “Whatever the hell it is, but… these kids, man, they’re like me, like my comrades from the sixties—the dropout generation. Probably way too sensitive and smart for their own good, and you know what they’re doing now? They’re injecting themselves with HIV-infected blood. Giving themselves AIDS! These teenagers, man, these straight teenagers because they got no other way to protest; showing what they think of that slogan—shit, I used to say it—the slogan you see all over Havana on billboards: Socialism or Death. And why?”

  I expected him to say because of the U.S. boycott; some political inanity—that would have been the old Tomlinson. Instead he said, “It’s because Fidel’s too proud to say he was wrong. Like his ego’s the only thing that really matters, which is a fucking crime against humanity! No, what I’m saying is… here’s the way I see it: Back in the states, I was his biggest fan. I worked for the guy. Now I feel like a schmuck; ‘bout pig stupid and butt ugly.”

  “You feel responsible for a screwed-up country because you came down here, cut sugar cane for a month? Spare me the guilt rationale. You and your wealthy hipster friends—”

  “No, what I’m saying is, I get a chance to help the Ochoas, man, I’m going to do it.”

  I stood staring at him; wished I could look through his eyes clear to the back of his brain, see if there was any hope of reasoning with him. It was like trying to reason with some academician clone; someone whose view of the world was one-dimensional, tunneled and sharpened by his own cloistered antecedents. I was still staring at him when he said, “Man, I bet I know what you’re thinking.”

  I said, “You don’t want to hear what I’m thinking.”

  I got another perceptive look—yeah, the old Tomlinson was still in there. “That’s good. Havana, it’s a dangerous place to say anything out loud. No matter where you are.”

  Was he trying to tell me something?

  I said, “What I think we ought to do is get Dewey, then find the quickest, safest way possible out of Cuba. That’s what I think. I don’t know what they did with Rosario’s body, but someone’s going to miss him and we want to be long gone by that time. If we have to, pay somebody to see that your boat gets cleared and sailed to a neutral place—the Yucatán, maybe. We can pick it up later.”

  Tomlinson said, “I can’t do that, man. The revolution needs me.” But he was nodding his head: Yes.

  Watching him closely, I said, “It may need you, but it doesn’t need us. Tell me something—do you trust Rita?”

  Emphatic shake of the head. “Of course I trust her. Now that I understand her motives, I trust her completely.”

  Hell no, he didn’t trust her.

  I said, “Then maybe you could convince her, Molinas, and the rest to help us find a way out. I think flying back commercial’s out of the question.”

  He was shaking his head again—no. Did that mean we couldn’t fly commercial or that he didn’t trust any of them? Listened to him say, “You gotta do what’s best for you, I gotta do what’s best for me. But, yeah, we can bounce it off the Ochoas. I know Valdes has something to do with shipping. Or knows somebody involved, because I overheard him talking to Rita about how their cargo ships can only go to Panama. Cuba’s cargo ships I’m talking about. Like he’s definitely got some juice in that department. Who to pay off, how to do it. So yeah, maybe he could get you guys on one of those boats.”

  I thought: Panama? Colón was the major Caribbean port there, and I knew several people in Colón knowledgeable about shipping.

  I said, “Would you go with us if we got it arranged?” expecting him to nod. Instead, he shook his head again—no. What the hell did that mean?

  “Can’t, man. I’ve got a karmic obligation to Taino. That’s in God’s hands, not mine.”

  Damn it, there was no making sense of the man. I took a step, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him to me. Into his ear, I whispered, “Do you mean that?”

  Tomlinson pulled away, actually seemed surprised. “What the hell you think I’ve been talking about?”

  Eleven-thirty p.m., still no sign of Dewey.

  Four men had arrived earlier—they didn’t introduce themselves—and Molinas, with his broken nose already swelling, had left with them.

 
Now I was pacing around the underground room alternately checking my watch and listening to Tomlinson, Rita, and Valdes talk among themselves.

  A strange discussion to monitor. Everything in Spanish except for Tomlinson, who Rita was translating fairly accurately. Didn’t take any crap off him, either. In Spanish, heard her say once, “Tomlinson, if it wasn’t for the brain damage, I’d say you’re full of shit.”

  So I wasn’t the only one who knew that he wasn’t well.

  But, yeah, it was true—Tomlinson understood.

  They had a map spread across the table, discussing places, discussing routes. Rita had in her hand notes from what she said was a three-page letter given to her by a trustee after the death of her grandmother, wife of the late Eduardo Santoya, heir to one of the great fortunes in Cuba before Castro came to power.

  She’d intentionally left the letter back in the states, Rita said, because she wasn’t sure she’d find a boat in Key West, plus she didn’t want to risk all the details falling into the wrong hands.

  I’d thought: Right.

  Knowing I was listening, Rita and Valdes took the time to tell me vaguely, very vaguely, the significance of the map and the letter; what they were doing. The letter was a kind of treasure guide; told Rita where grandfather Eduardo had hidden all the valuable things that his family couldn’t carry when they fled.

  That wasn’t uncommon: Even as late as Mariel, the country was still being potholed by desperate Cubans as well as troops under orders, all looking for assets left behind by those who had evacuated.

  I’d asked her, Gold? Jewels?

  Got a sharp look and an evasive reply. She said she wasn’t sure. She said that her grandmother’s letter didn’t say specifically. Just valuables.

  “The Eduardo Santoya family left millions,” Valdes said. “Had to; things that have never been accounted for. Angel Santoya never found it—of that we are certain. Our revolution needs money. Even a small amount would help. That’s what this is all about.”

  Knowing that he wanted to, I waited for him to drop a hint about the money I’d brought for Tomlinson—why else would they have told me anything?—but he didn’t, as if deciding to hold off. I also noted the weary cast to his voice; like he knew what he was up against, had thought it all through thoroughly. Fighting Castro in a country where there was no communication, no freedom to organize, and where only the military was allowed to keep weapons?

  More so than the others, Valdes seemed a rational man.

  I also got the impression that they were having problems making Rita’s notes jibe with the map of Cuba spread across the table. Once heard her say, “What’s she mean, ‘La Esperanza’? Cuba’s got three or four little villages, all the same name, and my family had property near every one.” Later heard her say, “Candelaria? No, there’s nothing in Candelaria. I already told you, that’s the first place I went. I spent, what? Two days looking for a mausoleum that was either torn down or, somehow, Grandma got the directions mixed up.”

  I thought: Two days? If there was nothing to find in Candelaria, why spend so much time? Pre-Castro mausoleums tended to be large and ornate. Plenty of room to hide lots of stuff, and easy enough to find in a village as small as Candelaria. Was I the only one who suspected that Rita was lying?

  At one point, Tomlinson said, “What you people need is a first-rate logical mind. Hey, Doc—you want to step over and take a look at this?”

  I told Tomlinson I wasn’t going to do anything, didn’t want to hear another word until I knew Dewey was safe.

  I listened to Tomlinson tell Rita, “The big guy’s a little stressed-out right now. Someone tries to murder him, it really screws with his aura. But he’ll come in handy, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.”

  Listened to Rita tell Tomlinson, “One more remark like that—my pretty little head? Just shut up and concentrate on what I’m saying.”

  She struck me as one of those dilettante ball-breakers, standing there in her muscle T-shirt playing a role, maybe seeing herself on some internal theater screen and getting into it—street-tough American girl hanging out with revolutionaries. Perhaps… or running her own private scam…

  I had to also think: I met this girl’s father….

  I couldn’t remember his face well enough to judge if there was much of him in her. Junior Santoya. But then, physical appearance wasn’t the key—that was in the delicate synapse junctions, the genetic coding passed from parent to child, parent to child.

  Now, as I paced, I noticed that the small mulatto boy they’d used to lure me into the alley was pacing along with me. At first, I thought he was making fun of me—this kid, maybe eleven or twelve years old, his face a synthesis of Africa and Spain and pre-Columbian Cuba. Skin the color of old wheat, long bony arms sticking out, big brown eyes, African nose and lips, but straight brown hair. Wearing slacks that were bunched at the waist like a garbage bag, a ripped T-shirt that read Que Viva Cuba!

  But no, he wasn’t mocking me. He was just up too late, tired and bored. Probably lonely, too. From the moment I took the time to ask his name, he paced when I paced. He sat when I sat. That small bit of attention had won his allegiance.

  He’d smiled slightly at my question and barely whispered: Santiago.

  To pass the time, I began to try to talk to the kid. Where did he live?

  Shrug of the shoulders. It maybe meant here, underground, maybe in that alley, maybe from house to house—the kinds of places that constitute nowhere.

  I said, “Are these people your friends?”

  Smaller shrug. “More or less.”

  “You hungry?”

  No, he said he’d eaten that morning.

  I wanted to ask about his parents—what kind of people or person would allow a child to be in this place… not that it was uncommon in the Third World… or in any other world, for that matter. Poverty spawns indifference, then allows the stepchildren of both to be fed upon in the streets.

  I asked, “You have any relatives who should know where you are?”

  I realized that Valdes had been listening to us when he walked over and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He gave me a kind of camp counselor smile as he said, “Everybody in Cuba is related to Santiago. We take care of him, he takes care of us all.”

  I watched the kid react to that; slightly pained expression—he was too streetwise for that kind of sap. I liked the way he wouldn’t be patronized—this twelve-year-old dressed in rags, wide awake at two a.m. I wanted to smile but didn’t. Instead, I gave him a private look, winked. Shaking his head slightly, the kid winked back.

  Valdes said, “Santiago’s mother died five or six years ago.” Valdes had to stoop to look into the kid’s face. “It was in some kind of accident, wasn’t it?”

  The kid said, “The house caught on fire. I tried to wake her up, but she was drunk as hell.” Monotone, as if he’d told the story way too many times before.

  Valdes said, “Santiago’s father was a good man. Sergio. I knew Sergio. Not well, but a friend of mine did. In the ‘cane fields, he was a mechanic. Fixed the pumps, fixed the harvesters. Always had grease on his arms and his face, and he was a joker, that Sergio. Always making jokes.” He stooped again to look at Santiago. “Your father, he was a very clever man. People always said that about him. He was very clever.”

  The kid didn’t react. He might have been hearing a story about a stranger. He had found some fishing line in his pocket and was now playing with it.

  “What happened to Sergio is, he… you don’t mind me telling this, do you, Santiago?” Valdes waited for the kid to shrug again—Why should I care?—before he continued, “For some reason, the housing committee had to find a new house for Sergio, and so… wait—what am I thinking? It was because of the fire. That’s right, this fire, it destroyed his house, so he has to apply to the housing committee for a new place to live. Which meant Sergio had to spend maybe two,
maybe three weeks going from office to office, standing in line for hours, then filling out forms, being interviewed—“Valdes stopped, looked at me before he said, “You don’t know what it’s like here,” before he continued, “and, of course, he and Santiago had no place to live in the meantime. They’re sleeping outside, probably in the yard of this burned-down house.

  “So Sergio gets to the final committee. It’s his turn. He’s waited nearly a month for this. The housing committee… it’s six party members—my wife and I, we’d been before them—and these six people have complete control. You live where they say you will live. Houses, apartments—they can’t be bought or sold. So the committee people, they show Sergio a map, point to three or four housing projects—places the Russians had built—which are the worst places around. Everything poured cement, apartments built on apartments, gray, no grass, no maintenance, probably two or three thousand people living in each project.”

  I said, “Santiago’s father—” I was picturing this clever man, his drunken wife dead, he and his son alone. “—he didn’t like that.”

  Valdes said, “Who would? But Sergio, he’s a joker. He looks at the places on the map—he knows those places; we all know those places—and then Sergio looks at these six people sitting behind the long table. Party people talking to a man who works in the ‘cane fields. The way they stare at you—my wife and I, when we were very young, we’d been there. They make you feel like an insect. So you know what Sergio says?”

  I said, “What?”—liking Valdes more and more; I liked this kid. If Dewey’d just arrive, I’d have started feeling better about the situation.

  Valdes said, “Sergio tells them, ‘You know where I’d really like to live?’ He’s talking to six of the most powerful people in Cuba, keep in mind. Sergio says, ‘Out of all these nice places, where my son and I would really like to live is north of Havana.’ “