North of Havana Read online

  Knowing, sympathetic laughter. “Her Highness is doing very well, Marion.” He said it with the empathetic tone that men use when discussing another man’s lost girl. “She is busy, always busy.”

  Busy indeed. Under Pilar’s guidance, the banana-republic economy of Masagua had been jump-started, social reforms were being implemented, the largely Mayan citizenry was already benefiting from more schools and better health care, and the government—for the first time in Masaguan history—was stable.

  I said, “I have read about her. The people still love her?”

  “They worship her. Who would not?”

  Imagining Pilar—the silk-black hair, her face, the coolness of her skin—I said, “But I have heard very little about her husband, the former president.”

  “Tevo? Hah!” A name spoken with contempt. “Who knows or cares where that worm is. In Spain, I heard. She says that she is no longer married to him, she is now married to her people. And of course…” I waited through his indecision—should he bring it up? “… Her Highness is absolutely dedicated to her son. Marion, he has grown so large so quickly! Such a brilliant boy, already reading books while others his age are just starting school. But an athlete, too—the way he charges around the palace, always with a baseball or a bat in his hands. I am teaching him to pitch!”

  I said, “He couldn’t have a better coach, General.”

  “It is what I tell him! But already he contradicts me. This child, Marion, he forgets nothing and is very precise about everything!”

  Increasingly, I regretted that I had asked; I held the phone slightly away from my ear as he said, “Can you imagine? This blond boy with glasses, correcting me? Me—the greatest general in Masaguan history? It makes me angry but it also makes me laugh…”

  I was shaking my head very slowly; it was impossible not to listen.

  “… do you know that feeling, Marion? A feeling that squeezes the heart but also causes one to smile?”

  I said, “Yes. I know the feeling.”

  “That is how this child affects me. Offended and happy, both at once.”

  Imagining the way it had been with Pilar: the clean muscularity of her legs and Indio hips… the way glossy hair swung when her head tilted in thought… the way her face softened when I surprised her, as if her aloofness was a wall to all but me, I said, “I am very happy for her.”

  Rivera said, “I will tell Her Highness that you asked.”

  “Thanks, Juan.”

  “And one more thing? If you go to this place, do not make the mistake of trying to go quietly. Go as all American tourists go. Wear a colorful hat, a bright smile. Carry a camera around your neck. Ask for directions in very loud English!”

  “Very good advice, General.”

  It was, too.

  7

  That night, Dewey stayed up after I went to bed. Restless, I lay awake thinking, listening to the crackle of Christmas paper, the ripping of Scotch tape, feeling the weight of her through the vibrating floor and shifting pilings. The high-pressure system was now stalled squarely over western Florida; the temperature outside had dropped into the forties. The windows of my little house were fogged with condensation.

  “You asleep?”

  I looked, to see Dewey’s head peeking around the clothes locker.

  “No.”

  “Still mad at me?”

  While shopping, she had stopped at a travel agency and booked two seats on Bahamas Air, Miami-Nassau, because the agent told her—incorrectly—that Cubana de Aviación flew daily from Nassau to Havana. But I had already checked and the only Monday flight into Havana was out of Panama City, and I had booked it and a Sunday afternoon flight, Miami-Panama. One seat only.

  She had insisted that she was going; I had insisted that she was not. We had argued briefly.

  I said, “Nope. Not mad.”

  “You’re not exactly talkative.”

  “It’s not you. There’s a lot on my mind.” What I’d been thinking about was what Juan Rivera had told me about Pilar; the way he described things. That… and Dewey’s biological clock…

  She said, “We didn’t have our workout today, did we?” Said it like a kindergarten teacher placating a grumpy child.

  “I did. I ran. It’s too cold to swim.”

  I watched her unbuttoning her shirt while simultaneously unbuckling the belt of her jeans, as she said, “Well, I didn’t, and I’ve got a lot of energy to burn.” A few seconds later, I heard her say, “Scooch over. Geeze-oh-Katy, you’re hogging the whole bed.”

  I reached my hands out to fend her off—it was Dewey’s bullheaded independence that I found so compelling but also so maddening. I said, “Do we really have to go through this whole discussion again?”

  As she gently pushed my hands away, she answered, “Nope. But we’re going to keep doing the other thing till we get right.”

  I said, “Are you sure?”

  Sliding into bed beside me, she said, “For a guy so quiet, you sure do ask a lot of questions.”

  And just like that, it was done.

  An hour or more went by and she was up again, lights on, walking around naked. She had a towel in her hand, toweling off sweat. She was talking to me as I lay in bed watching her—an attractive woman to watch, the way she moved. As she used the towel, she said, “I gotta tell you, it was a whole lot different for me this time. This time it was… fun. Even with you in one of those Gary Cooper moods, it was a really good time.” She reflected for a moment. “Something like that, how many calories you figure?”

  How much energy had we burned, as if I were her physical trainer.

  “More for you than me. You were all over the court.”

  “Nope, just exploring the foul lines, that’s all.” I watched her disappear into the main room, heard the refrigerator open, heard her say, “I called Bets this afternoon. Talked to her when I was in town.”

  I listened.

  “She wanted to know if you and I’d done the deed yet.”

  I continued to listen.

  “She said I was heading for another disappointment if we did, which is when I told her… wait, listen to this—” Dewey came into full view again: skin golden in the light of the reading lamp, hips canted, a quart of milk in her hand, drinking right from the bottle. “I said to her, ‘Look, Bets, I already know you’re a better kisser, but Doc’s a lot better hung. So it’s kind of a toss-up.’ That’s exactly what I said. Didn’t even piss her off; actually made her laugh.”

  I threw the covers back, took the bottle from her and held her; felt her bury her face in my shoulder. “She’s back in New York? Maybe you should fly up there, spend Christmas with her.”

  Dewey pulled away just enough to look into my face. “You got water in your ears or something? Bets and I are no longer a couple. We’ll stay friends, but the other thing’s done.” When I started to speak, she held her palm to my lips, shushing me. “No need to get nervous, Ford. I don’t have any mixed-up dream of moving in with you or any other man. It’s not all clear in my mind yet, but I’m getting there—figuring out who I am, what I want. What I am and will always be is a gay woman. It’s where my friends are; I like it.” She gave me her bemused and slightly wicked smile before she added, “It’s just that I have broader interests. Like tennis and golf. Why can’t you enjoy both?”

  Laughing, I kissed her, then kissed her again. “So which am I?”

  She thought for a moment before she said, “Doc, you’re more like arena football.”

  The next day, Sunday—anticipating that I would still be in Cuba on Christmas Day—I carried a sack of small presents around the docks, handing them out to a few of my marina friends. When I got back to the house, I tried once again to call Armando Azcona. I had listened to his recorder so many times that I was taken aback when I heard him answer the phone in his singsong Ricky Ricardo English.

  I said, “Armando, this i
s an old associate of yours. The bird-watcher, remember? Back when we were both birdwatchers.”

  I knew the first thing that would come into his mind was sitting in the bushes by a path, at night, on the southwestern shore of Mariel Harbor, Cuba, at the time of the refugee exodus. 1980. A thousand American boats in the harbor—stinking shrimp boats and cruisers; anything that could float and carry human beings—but the two of us interested in only one boat, a sailing vessel named Peregrine, and concerned only with the three Cuban Interior Ministry agents, posing as refugees, who had been ordered to sail her to a major U.S. port.

  Armando’s tone communicated little surprise and less enthusiasm. “Yes,” he said, “bird-watching was once a hobby of mine. But no more.”

  “I’ve given it up myself.”

  “I see. Then you haven’t called to discuss old times.”

  “No, I’m calling to ask a favor. Do you remember the place where we went to study falcons?”

  I waited while his brain made the quick translation. “Of course I remember. I remember it very clearly.”

  “I’m going back soon. But not as part of a study group. I was hoping you might know someone there who’d be willing to show me around. If I needed help.”

  I wondered if that was too cryptic… but no, Armando was right with me. I listened to him say, “I’m surprised you’re not going there to study. It’s such an interesting place.”

  “As I told you—I gave it up. This is strictly a personal trip.”

  As Armando asked, “Are you looking for a tour guide?” I could picture him that night in Mariel, standing to stretch his legs at precisely the wrong time… could hear the stunned thoracic noise that he made when he realized we were not alone… could see the smoky red disc of a gun-sight laser beam on Armando’s forehead…

  I replied, “I don’t need a tour guide. Just the name of someone who might help if I get lost.”

  Knew that Armando had to be remembering it, too… hearing me charging through the bushes from behind; feeling the impact of my body hitting him behind the legs, knee-high, knocking him to the ground. I wondered if that night had scarred him with the same dream I suffered.

  I listened to him say, “Lost? You really think it’s possible you might get lost. You once knew the place so well.”

  “It’s unlikely. But it’s been a long time. The name of someone who can come to the rescue”—I laughed when I said that, as if it were a joke—“like in the movies? That’s the favor I’m asking.”

  I thought that he would want some time; tell me that he would call me back, give himself some wiggle room and an opportunity to check with other members of his group. Armando was a respected businessman now. He could be expected to take things through proper channels.

  But after a very long silence, he said, “I think I may know the names of one or two people. But these are very, very busy people—”

  “Only if I really have trouble finding my way around,” I told him. “That’s the only reason I would impose on them.”

  “I’m not certain how much they could help you.”

  Meaning the lives of these people were already in danger and they probably had very little authority.

  I said, “I realize that, too.”

  Another very long silence. I could hear a sound, like a file drawer being opened, then the sound of papers being moved. Knew that, in his businessman’s mind, this was final payment on a very old debt. “In that case,” Armando said—and he gave me a name.

  An hour later, General Juan Rivera’s secretary—not that he identified himself—supplied me with another.

  * * *

  That night at dinner, I tried to explain to Dewey why she couldn’t leave with me in the morning for Cuba.

  “I’ll be down there and back,” I said. “A couple of days—unless I sail to Key West with Tomlinson. It’s not like you’re missing anything.”

  “Bullshit, Ford. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “Let me put it this way: I don’t want you to go.”

  I was rewarded with a coy mock-smile. “I can see you’re undecided, sweetie. Perhaps we should sleep on it.” As if she might get me in bed, use sex as leverage.

  “I don’t know how else to put it.”

  “Well,” she said, not kidding now, “you might try telling me the truth.”

  We had driven my twenty-foot Hewes Light Tackle flats boat north through Pine Island Sound to the restaurant on Cabbage Key. It was a cold and blustery night for boating, but Dewey had insisted. So now we sat by candlelight on the back porch of the old inn looking out at the heavy foliage of banyan trees, air roots twisting down. Every few minutes, Kim, the blond bartender, would come cruising by—“Need another beer? How’s the grouper?”—and we could hear Jerry Shell on the keyboard playing Jimmy Buffett in the bar.

  I said, “What do you mean tell the truth? What makes you think I’m lying?”

  “Because you keep saying no and can’t give me a good reason. You’re the logical one. You always have a reason for everything you do.” She didn’t say that very kindly.

  I looked across the table at her—handsome face suspended above candle flame, blond hair bright as platinum spilling onto the black turtleneck sweater she wore. I said, “It bothers you that I try to be logical?”

  She folded her fingers together and rested chin on hands. “Sometimes it bothers me that you let it run your life… but I’m just realizing it bothers me a hell of a lot more when you aren’t. Logical, I mean. That’s what I’m saying: Give me one logical reason. You’re going to go off, leave me here all alone for Christmas? You can be a shit, Doc, but you’re usually not this big a shit.”

  I picked up my can of beer, sighed, settled back. “Okay… I’ll tell you.”

  “Then there is a reason.” Nodding like, See, I was right.

  “Because it could be dangerous. I mean it. It’s because I might be a dangerous traveling companion.” When I saw that she was unconvinced, I added, “This won’t be my first trip down there. Cuba, I’m talking about.”

  “I know that. You mentioned it once before. Some reference—‘The time when I was in Cuba.’ A long time ago. So?”

  I cleared my throat. “The first time was in nineteen seventy-three—”

  “Jesus,” she said, “you were practically a kid—”

  “Close to it. The United States sent a baseball team to Havana—actually, two baseball teams to play in an amateur world series. I was a bullpen catcher. The only time I played was in this exhibition game. Only got a couple of at-bats, didn’t even get a hit.”

  “Cubans don’t like Americans who are bad hitters? That’s why it’s too dangerous—?”

  “Give me a chance to explain it. It’s involved. See”—I wanted to word it carefully—communicate details without communicating the truth—“during the exhibition game. The one I played in? As a goodwill gesture, the teams switched pitchers. It was a meaningless game. The coaches played; one of their military people, a guy named Ochoa, was at second base. A very gifted officer and a first-rate man…” I caught myself. She didn’t need to know about Arnaldo Ochoa… now the late Gen. Arnaldo Ochoa. I said, “The point is, Castro pitched two innings for our team.”

  I watched her eyes widen. “Fidel Castro? You were Castro’s catcher? Damn, Doc, you never told me this before.” Like I had been holding out on her. She leaned forward on her elbows. “How was he? Any good?”

  “He was terrible. Worse than terrible. At the time, he was like forty-four, forty-five years old. Even so, I could tell the man had never been any good. Zero velocity, no control, clumsy motion. If a guy really played, he can pick up a ball twenty years later and you can tell, right? Just the way he handles himself.”

  Dewey was taking it in—she understood sports. She said, “The same with tennis. Exactly the same.”

  I said, “So there I am catching Fidel Castro and I’m call
ing pitches—nothing but fastballs, because he can’t throw anything else, but he keeps shaking me off. He wants to throw the curve. Understand, he’s pitching against his own guys who, of course, keep striking out. A ball over their head, they swing. Two feet outside, they swing. Like they’re praying they won’t hit the ball by accident and offend the Maximum Leader—which is what he likes to be called.

  “Finally, he waves me to the mound. Castro with the beard, wearing this floppy uniform that says Sugar Kings on the front. In the stands—this was the main stadium in Havana—there are at least thirty thousand people and he’s trying to act like he’s not pissed off, but he’s fuming. When I get close enough, he grabs my shoulder and whispers, ‘I think you are calling a terrible game; a shitty game—’ “

  “He said that?”

  “In English, too. Pretty good English. He says, ‘I think I will call my own pitches. No more signals from you!’ “

  “Yeah? What did you say?”

  I had to smile, remembering it. “I said what a catcher is supposed to say in that situation. I said, ‘Pitchers aren’t supposed to think. First time you cross me up, I’ll make you look like the rag arm you are.’ “

  Dewey’s expression described shock and delight. “You really said that?”

  Had I? Something similar—“Be quiet or I’ll make you look worse than you are.” Pretty close. Nodding, I said, “He was so mad he was shaking. But what could he do? All those people in the stands, watching us. So he pitches the rest of the inning, never says another word.”

  “And you didn’t call a single curveball.”

  “No, I called three. Just to make him happy.”

  “You’re telling me that’s it? That’s why you’re dangerous; why you can’t go back to Havana again?”

  I had to say the next part very carefully. Could I tell her about Mariel? No… there was no way to disguise what had occurred in Mariel. I said, “That and something else that happened. When Castro called me out to the mound, turns out some guy in the stands chose that moment to drop a gun he’d been hiding. Dropped it right in front of one of the security people. Bad timing.”