North of Havana Read online

  “Ortodoxo,” I said.

  “Hey!, that’s it. Ortodoxo. This rich guy, Eduardo, with nothing to gain, doing it because it was right. His brother, Angel, was involved, too, but he was more into the power part of it. You know how some rich kids are just total shits? That was Angel Santoya. So young Fidel Castro comes along and Angel wants him in the party but Eduardo sees the guy as the clown he is and says no way.

  “The brothers have a hell of a fight; splits the whole family. In fifty-nine, when Fidel comes marching down out of the mountains, guess who’s right there patting him on the back, telling him what a genius he is? Angel Santoya, by then a working informant. Same day, Eduardo is packing the one bag he’s allowed and hustling his wife and teenage son to the airport to escape Fidel’s firing squads. They left a couple of mansions behind, a couple thousand acres of prime sugar, I don’t know how many yachts and cars. That’s the kind of wealth we’re talking about.”

  “This girl, Rita, she claimed to be the daughter of the teenage son?”

  “Right. Eduardo the second, Eduardo Senior’s only child. Senior, he started out in Miami, then moved up to Trenton, I think—somewhere in New Jersey—where he started from scratch and built a new fortune. I think it was car sales; something like that. But then he went bust. Lost it all. Less then a year later, Eduardo-two—married and a daddy by that time—gets caught by Castro’s people back in Havana. They decide he’s there to assassinate Fidel, so they march him down to Mariel Harbor, stand junior on a cliff in front of a firing squad, and shoot him.”

  When Jimmy Gardenas said the word “junior,” the name suddenly clicked in my memory: Junior Santoya. I thought, Jesus, I knew the guy.

  I said, “That was in seventy-three, right?”

  Heard mild laughter through the phone. “A gringo who knows the history better and speaks the language better than me.” Like: Why do I bother telling you?

  “I remember reading about it,” I said.

  Jimmy said, “Sure, Doc. Sure. That’s not what my friends with Alpha tell me, but, fine. If it’s what you want me to believe.”

  Meaning Alpha Sixty-six, the Cuban Exile Brigade that trained privately and secretly in the Everglades, readying to invade the homeland. With willing intelligence sources in Nicaragua, Masagua, Cuba’s Interior Ministry, and Panama’s G-2, it was not surprising that certain members knew about me… at least knew what I had once been.

  I said, “After the son died, what happened? Rita told you all this?”

  “Some of it; some of it I’d already heard. What happens is, Eduardo Senior gets the news about his son being executed and he dies within the month. They said it was a heart attack, but it was more like a broken heart. You know how Cubanos love their kids. Which leaves the grandmother, the mother, and the new daughter all orphaned, penniless. So yeah, a girl comes in here saying she’s Rita Santoya, you bet I tried to help her. The Cuban community, we take care of our own.”

  “Did she say why she wanted to go back to Cuba?”

  “She told me she wanted to go back, see where her roots are. Said her grandmother had just died and she’d been reading her grandmother’s letters, going through her things, and got the urge. I got the impression her mother was somehow out of the picture. Remarried or something like that; left the girl on her own.”

  “She’s in her twenties?”

  “Late twenties, yeah. Not beautiful but handsome-looking. You know the look—outdoorsy, into climbing maybe; like that. She struck me as intelligent; pretty well educated. When I told her it might not be too smart, someone named Santoya poking around Cuba, she didn’t seem surprised. Like she’d already thought about it. I figured that’s why she wanted to go as crew on a boat. If she flew, she’d have to use a passport.”

  “That’s why she gave Tomlinson a fake name.”

  “Maybe,” Jimmy said. “Thing is, I never saw her talking to Tomlinson. I’m not even sure she was at the table when he came in. ‘Fact, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t. That’s why it didn’t click right away.”

  “Any of the people you introduced her to offer to put her on a boat?”

  “They said they’d check around, but I got the feeling they weren’t going to risk it. She probably read it the same way.”

  We spent the next few minutes talking about what Cuban-Americans love to talk about: What happens to Cuba when Castro falls? Talked about how it would be; the fast changes that would take place on the island the exiles were forced to leave but where, in their hearts, they still lived. Just before we hung up, Jimmy said, “I’ll tell you one thing—they find out Tomlinson’s with Rita Santoya, the daughter of the man who wanted to kill Fidel, he’s apt to lose a lot more than his boat.”

  Dewey had gone off mysteriously; disappeared in her rental car—which really wasn’t much of a mystery. Four days before Christmas, people are prone to disappear. She’d probably driven to the mainland; was shouldering her way through the Edison Mall circus, doing her shopping. So I worked around the lab, alternately trying to telephone my friend Armando Azcona—kept getting his recorder—and finishing up unfinished business. Because I had already left a message with the secretary of General Juan Rivera, down there in the small Central American country of Masagua, I didn’t want to stray far from the phone. The general would call me back; he always had. I was less certain of contacting Armando.

  Armando Azcona was an old associate and now a Miami businessman who was involved with the Cuban American National Foundation, a politically powerful Cuban exile group that lobbied effectively in D.C., had worked closely with the Reagan and Bush administrations, and was the organization most likely to provide political infrastructure once Castro was out of the picture. Known as CANF, the group had set up a government in exile and, presumably, had knowledge of and perhaps supported anti-Castro ranks living in Cuba. Not that there could be many—anyone Fidel’s people suspected of being a dissident was imprisoned or shot.

  In Cuba, it was a fact of life not mentioned in Castro’s famous “History Will Absolve Me!” speech.

  If such a fifth-column group existed in Cuba, I wanted to know about it. If I got into trouble, real trouble, an underground network would be the only place to hide.

  So I futzed around the house and the lab, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for Dewey to return, occasionally hitting the redial button, getting Armando’s recording again and again. To leave a message, I’d have to leave a name, and I didn’t want my name on tape.

  It was nearly dark. Through the west window, I could see that the guides were in, hosing down their skiffs. Watched Felix, from his skiff, toss Jeth a can of beer. Watched Jeth bobble it and drop it off the dock. Smiled at his can’t-I-do-anything-right? expression. Watched him jog to get his landing net so he could fish the can out. Saw Mack standing by the bait tanks taking it all in, enjoying it. He was wearing a Santa Claus hat at a jaunty angle. Even so, Mack did not look elfin.

  Another day of charters off the calendar… another Christmas Saturday done at Dinkin’s Bay.

  I sat at the table, thinking about my conversation with Jimmy Gardenas—the what’ll-happen-when-Castro-falls? discussion that all Cubans enjoy.

  Like most Cuban-Americans, Jimmy knows that it will not go as smoothly as he likes to pretend. By air and boat and inner tube, more than a million Cubans have immigrated to the United States and, when Castro falls, the return migration will not be as peaceful, nor as massive, as some believe. The Cubans are one of the great American success stories. They are a brilliant people: smart, industrious, family-oriented, goal oriented. In the space of less than two generations, they have accumulated extraordinary wealth and power in the wealthiest and most powerful nation on earth. Were they really going to abandon that?

  A few years ago, the Miami Herald ran the results of a poll which indicated that, even with Castro gone, only one in five Cuban-Americans would return to their native island. Although the poll did not supply demog
raphics, it is not unreasonable to assume that, of that number, most would go expecting to recover their old properties and resume their old lives.

  It’s a pipe dream. It will never happen.

  Even organizations such as CANF agree that an attempt to regain expropriated properties will result in chaos. If the Cuban-Americans are smart, which they are, they will settle for a compensation program in which properties are sold to the highest bidder and the revenue prorated.

  The life they knew, in homes and on the island they loved, is gone forever.…

  Another fallacy is that, after the fall, Cuban-Americans will receive a warm welcome from their long-suffering countrymen. Despite the lengthy political separation, weren’t they still brothers?

  Nope. They are not brothers… and never were.

  It is a ticklish problem; one seldom discussed, but the fact is that ninety-five percent of the Cubans who fled the island were white. With their exodus, blacks became the racial majority in Cuba… and it was Cuba’s black population—historically used as little more than slave labor—who rushed to take over the homes and properties abandoned by the exiles.

  On the day that Castro came to power, Havana’s Miramar and Vedado neighborhoods were made up of tasteful mansions and estates. Now most of those mansions are black tenements and slums.

  On the day that Castro took control, Catholicism was the national religion. Today the most widely practiced religion is Santería, an Afro-Cuban belief very similar to Haiti’s voodoo. Santería plays prominently in Castro’s political decisions. The predictions of Santería priests are even reported in state newspapers.

  Is this new Cuban majority eager for the return of the Miami exiles? Absolutely not. Indeed, they are terrified at the prospect. In Castro’s essentially all-white puppet government, blacks have very little input. But they had absolutely no influence at all when the people who fled Cuba were in control.

  That’s why they don’t want change. And that’s why they will probably fight it when change comes knocking on their door.

  The what-will-happen-when-Castro-falls is an enjoyable conversational game, but the reality is much darker. It will be a difficult and painful transition… and it also may be very bloody indeed.…

  * * *

  The first words out of my mouth in Spanish when I picked up the phone and heard the voice of Gen. Juan Rivera, prime minister to the sovereign Republic of Masagua, were, “How is your arm, General?”

  Meaning his throwing arm. Rivera has lived an interesting and varied life: cane-cutter, guerrilla leader, army general, and now politician, but he has always viewed himself first and foremost as a gifted pitcher who, because of politics, was slighted by the American major leagues.

  “My arm—what a coincidence you should ask, Marion. My arm is wonderful! I threw a hundred pitches this morning as a demonstration for the president of Nicaragua who happens to be visiting on state business. Never have I had better control or velocity!”

  Sitting at the desk, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, I could picture Rivera—six two, grizzly-sized with black and gray beard, cigar in the mouth, probably still dressing in fatigues—as his voice boomed through the receiver. Could also picture him out on the mound: big leg-kick, loosey-goosey slingshot release, his expression predatory, taking it dead-serious even though he is nearly fifty years old.

  Rivera said, “I allowed the president to attempt to hit against me three times—as a kindness. The results were expected: three strikeouts!”

  Enjoying the formality of Spanish, I said, “I am not surprised, General. Not at all surprised.”

  “True, the president of Nicaragua is not a gifted player. Madame President told me that she had never played the game before.”

  I cleared my throat, took a sip of iced tea before I said, “That’s very difficult to believe. In Nicaragua, where everyone plays—”

  “Exactly! Perhaps it is what we call ‘political dissimulation.’ “Gave it a sly touch—we both know she’s lying—before he added, “A woman of her age has certainly had a few at-bats. Even so, I did not pitch as I would pitch to a quality player. No breaking pitches; all fastballs. And yet, the results were expected.”

  “General,” I said, “I still believe that you should be pitching in the major leagues.”

  “As do I!” Said it with conviction and a touch of anger. “When a catcher of your abilities—my very favorite catcher—says this, then I can only wonder why the Dodgers of Los Angeles do not return my calls.”

  I had caught Rivera six or seven times when I was living and working in Central America. In those days, collecting information about people like Rivera was part of my job. More than once, I had joined a team or joined in a game to do just that. It was astonishingly effective.

  I said, “But Pittsburgh contacted you—”

  “Yes, yes, your friend, the Pittsburgh Pirates manager… Mr. Gene Lamont? Mr. Lamont suggested I play a season in a place called… Birmingham. In your minor leagues. A thing he called ‘single-A.’ A very attractive offer, but I have so many duties as prime minister… always some meeting to attend or some dignitary to meet.” Said it like he would much prefer to be in Birmingham. “For the good of my people, I decided that I could not run the affairs of our country while pitching in Alabama.”

  I said, “Baseball’s loss, Masagua’s gain. You did what you had to do.” Then I said, “General—may I ask how your connection is?” Meaning: was he speaking on a secure telephone line?

  Rivera said, “Very good. Excellent, in fact.” Meaning I could speak as freely as I wanted to.

  I told him, “I am not so sure of my own.” Meaning that he should follow along, read between the lines.

  I said, “Some years ago—it was nineteen seventy-three—I caught another pitcher; a pitcher you once admired, though his fastball was very poor compared to yours. It was in an exhibition game before the start of an amateur world series.”

  Rivera said, “Yes! This man—he was once drafted by the Giants of New York?”

  It was a lie that Rivera and many others chose to accept as truth—that Fidel Castro had been courted to play in the major leagues.

  I said, “That is the pitcher. On Monday, I am flying to this pitcher’s homeland because a friend of mine is there and in trouble.”

  “Is he in prison?”

  “No. It is a matter of money.” Without using Tomlinson’s name, I explained what had happened, then I said, “It should be an easy thing for me to do. I have the money; I give it to them. But what if they take the money but refuse to release my friend’s boat? Or refuse to release my friend? It is a worry.”

  Rivera said, “Marion, hear what I am saying to you: that is the least of your worries. Please remember I know why you were there for that baseball series—just as I knew why you played baseball with me… and just as I know the thing that happened when you visited that place in nineteen eighty. What happened that time is what you should remember most.”

  I thought: How did Rivera find out? Was he bluffing? No… the tone of his voice, the way he emphasized it—the thing that happened—he really did know. Listened to him say, “Take my advice, old friend, stay away from this weak-armed pitcher.”

  I said, “I have no choice. My friend is in trouble.” Let that hang there, because it was something Rivera understood—the Latinos, some of them, still believed in a code of honor—then I said, “I seem to remember that you have a house at this place.” Meaning the Masaguan Embassy. It, too, was in Miramar, west of Havana; a small house among bigger estates on Embassy Row.

  “Yes,” he said. “I have a house there.” Said it carefully, not volunteering anything. We were getting into politics now, something he took very seriously.

  “I think you know what I am asking, Juan.” Used his name for the first time, making it personal.

  In the long silence that followed, I knew that he was calculating the political fallout
while also reminding himself that he still owed me one very, very big favor. Finally, he said, “The answer is yes—but only if things become extremely difficult.”

  “Of course,” I said. “No other reason.” Then I added, “To avoid having to impose, it would also be useful for me to know the names of anyone—local people, I’m talking about—who might be willing to help outsiders in a time of need.”

  Still guarded, Rivera asked, “People who are friends of this pitcher?”

  “No. People who are not his friends.”

  Another long pause. “It is possible. But let me ask you again, on the honor of our friendship—do you go only to help your friend?”

  “I swear to you. It’s the only reason. In fact, you know him. The last time we played baseball together? He nearly hit a home run off you.”

  Heard Rivera hoot. “The hippie!”

  “Yes, he’s the one.”

  Sitting in a staff tent in the jungles of Masagua, Tomlinson and Rivera had spent evenings exchanging baseball trivia, drinking rum, arguing political theory.

  “Marion, why didn’t you say so? Of course, for him—the great DiMaggio, remember?—I will check on these names. A man of such abilities deserves to be helped.”

  I hadn’t planned to ask, but Rivera’s enthusiasm seemed to invite it: “Perhaps, General, you could help our friend by telephoning this pitcher? Asking for his release?” Cuba had only one sovereign friend left in Central America— Masagua. There was no doubt that Masagua’s ruler had enough political clout to get small favors done quickly.

  But Rivera said, “No, no… that is asking too much, Marion.” Now being very open; no more diplomatic sparring. “You know how these things work.”

  Yes, I knew. If the nation of Masagua asked Cuba for a favor, Cuba would politicize it, use it, demand a far more costly favor in return.

  There was something else I wanted to ask but was reluctant to, because the answer, any answer, would bring back uncomfortable memories, unwanted emotions. I heard myself say, “You have been a tremendous help, General. Please pass along my compliments to your people… and also to Her Majesty,” meaning the sovereign of her country, Pilar Fuentes Balserio. Then I heard myself ask the question anyway: “How is she doing, Juan?”