North of Havana Page 8

  “Yeah, but what’s that have to do with you?”

  I said, “This guy, the one with the gun, was a Cuban-American in the country illegally. Somehow he’d slipped in, like he was a member of the team or something.” Trying to remember what Junior Santoya had looked like—I’d met him only once—I said, “Later, some people claimed they’d seen me talking to the guy. That’s why the State Department made me and a couple of other players take a special plane home. That the guy and I had been seen together the night before, drinking beer at a hotel called the Havana Libre.”

  “Were you?”

  I said, “Maybe. It’s a busy bar. What matters is, they believed I was. Plus, their president wasn’t a fan of mine after our conference on the mound.”

  “Like this guy was planning to shoot Castro.”

  “That’s what they apparently thought.”

  “And you think they’re still after you… what? Twenty-some years later.” Her tone said: I don’t buy it.

  “They’d still have my name on file. You can be sure of it.” Not my real name. I’d never used my real name in Cuba, but I didn’t tell her that. In ‘seventy-three, I’d gone as…? It took me a moment to recall the last name I’d used—an absurdly ironic choice, as it turned out.

  Dewey said, “What’s so funny?”

  I said, “Nothing, just something I remembered. So you see why you can’t go.”

  She had a little bit of wine left—becoming quite the cosmopolitan drinker. She tilted the last of it down, showing me her pale throat, shaking her head at the same time. “What’d that friend tell you? Go as a tourist?”

  I hadn’t mentioned Juan Rivera’s name, but I’d told her that was what I planned to do.

  She said, “Who looks more like a tourist? A big blond nerdy gringo traveling alone, or a guy and his girlfriend—his mistress, maybe—who want some private time in the tropics?”

  She had a point.

  Dewey placed the wineglass back on the table; picked up the napkin and dabbed at her mouth. Said, “Doc, for once in your life, try to be logical.”

  8

  As the sun-bleached old Soviet-built Tupolev jetliner strained to free itself of the smudge, the frenzy, the diesel and mango stink of Panama City, Panama, Dewey looked down upon the toy cars and the horizon of rooftops and she said, “I could see you were right at home; knew your way around that place, but I’ve got to tell you, buddy, I’m glad to be in the air again.”

  We’d arrived the day before, Sunday, and I’d spent the evening showing her the sights; took a couple of private hours to renew one or two old contacts. Then it was dinner at the Continental Hotel on Via España Avenue which, prior to the fall of Noriega, had been run by Panama’s Defense Forces. I liked the irony of that—sitting beneath crystal chandeliers, among tuxedoed waiters, in a restaurant that had been the late-night meeting place for Noriega and his Cuban advisors… lots of cigar smoke and nervous Spanish as they coordinated weapons shipments in advance of the U.S. invasion.

  Now Dewey fidgeted in her seat and said, “You give a pretty good tour, but I feel a lot more comfortable up here than I did down there.”

  The veteran of an international tennis tour that focused myopically on the world’s big-money glamour cities, Dewey had been unprepared for the slums and the noisy poverty of what, in comparison, was one of Central America’s wealthiest, healthiest cities. That she was glad to be in the air also told me that she didn’t know a damn thing about Tupolev jets.

  We were side by side on threadbare seats, sitting port side, forward of the engines, in a fuselage not much wider than a commuter bus. Two broad-shouldered Americanos among forty, maybe forty-five Latinos—business types and embassy types wearing suits or guayabera shirts—in an aluminum tube crammed with seats for more than a hundred.

  The door of the forward bulkhead was open and I looked through into the cockpit. Saw the co-pilot—maybe the pilot—standing there, smoking a cigarette, laughing with a stocky, busty flight attendant whose body was too pudgy for her gray Cubana Airlines uniform. Watched him pull out the pack—Marlboros—and offer her one. Watched her lean to his lighter.

  “Holy shit!” Dewey had grabbed my arm. “What’s happening?”

  White vapor was pouring out of the overhead vents like steam from a fire hose, filling the cabin with a haze dense as sea fog.

  I patted her hand. “Relax—it’s because they just turned on the air conditioning. It’s the way these planes are built; the way the system works.”

  “You sure? Geeze-oh-Katy!”

  “Notice anyone else getting nervous? They’ve flown Cubana before.”

  She was beginning to relax her grip on my arm. “Hell, I can’t even see anyone else.”

  I smiled. The fog wasn’t that bad. No one else even seemed to notice. People settling back with magazines… a man sitting to our right shaking open Granma, the national newspaper of Cuba… a couple of women forward of us peering into a sack, pulling out bananas and an atamoya. Even so, there was no vacation giddiness; none of the we’re-headed-for-paradise cheer that is the hallmark of other island flights.

  Dewey said, “Long as the plane’s safe, I don’t care.”

  How was I going to reply to that? Cuba, like all former Soviet bloc countries, was suffering the gradual breakdown of its mechanical infrastructure. The Tupolev, its replacement parts, and its technicians all came from a place that no longer existed. The same was true of Cuba’s bulldozers, harvesting machines, power plants, buses, medical hardware, oil refineries, radios, televisions, and windup toys—the entire metal-electrical scaffolding upon which modern civilization is built. A couple of years ago, a friend of mine, who happens to be a National Security Agency research analyst, explained it to me. “By the late eighties, there were nearly thirty thousand Soviets living and working in Cuba,” she said. “They kept the machines going, kept the systems working. The Russians didn’t mix much with the Cubans; they never learned the language. They had their own clubs, their own restaurants, schools, and sports facilities. There wasn’t a lot of knowledge exchanged. Why bother? The Soviet Union and its satellite countries were going to last a thousand years, right?

  “But then the U.S. came up with the Strategic Defense Initiative,” she said. “Remember how the press called it Star Wars?”

  Yes, I remembered. I remembered that time all too well.

  She said, “Our people laughed at it, but the Soviets weren’t laughing. They believed SDI would work and all but went bankrupt trying to come up with their own version. Perestroika was a result. The Soviets began to withdraw financial support from Cuba. Then the collapse came and all the technicians were called back to Mother Russia. Left the Cubans high and dry.” She chose an interesting metaphor to illustrate the predicament. “Years back, when VCRs first came out? A few people, a very few, chose Beta—and ended up on a dead-end street. Well, Castro chose Beta.”

  I decided that, with Dewey, evasion was the kindest course. I patted her knee and said, “I’ve flown these jets before, never had a problem.” I had, too. Out of Saigon, out of Hanoi, out of Shanghai—always tight-sphincter flights filled with dread; the kind of flights that dissolve our public personae, forcing us to reassess as we peer over the tippy-toe edge of the black abyss, wondering: Has my life been of value? Have I contributed some tiny piece to the puzzle…?

  Dewey relaxed a little; shifted in the cramped seat. Said, “Well, if you’re not scared, I’m not scared.”

  Pretending to ignore the creaking wings, the hydraulic whine of frayed cables, I told her, “Know what might help? When that flight attendant finishes her cigarette, maybe she’ll bring us a couple of beers.”

  Through the starred Plexiglas, from 21,000 feet, I watched the mosquito coast of Central America slide by: sea as luminous blue as a country club swimming pool; jungle a green so dark that it implied the gloom of caverns, the silence of a great void.

  “I d
on’t get it. Is that Jamaica or what?” Dewey had a little map open on her lap—“Might as well make it a learning experience,” she had told me—and she was looking from the map’s coastline to the coastline outside the window.

  I told her, “It’s the northern border of Nicaragua. Where it humps out?” I touched the map. “A couple of more minutes, we’ll be right over the capitol of Masagua—” I had to stop mid-sentence, realizing where we were… that I’d be only—what?—four miles above Pilar and her young blond son. It was the closest I’d been to her in slightly more than six years; the closest I’d ever been to him. I wondered if the Christmas present I had sent anonymously, always anonymously, was down there under the palace tree. A Rawlings Heart of the Hide catcher’s glove, Gold Glove series. More likely, Masaguan security had piled it with the public’s other gifts to the royal heir. Probably distributed them to the poor kids on Christmas Day, which would be just like Pilar. And besides… that damn Juan Rivera was teaching him to pitch anyway.…

  “Then what I don’t understand,” Dewey said, “is why we’re flying up the coast first when it’d be a hell of a lot closer to fly straight north across the ocean.”

  “Nope, it’s about the same distance,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her the truth: Aware that the Tupolev was a bad risk, the Cuban pilot probably didn’t want to stray far from an emergency runway. I said, “This way, you get a look at Central America. See? That’s Masagua City down there.”

  She was looking, shaking her head—it was a how-do-you-know-so-much mannerism with which I was growing familiar. “You’ve been there, too, I suppose.”

  “A couple of times. You’d like the parks and there’s a palace tour. Some pretty spectacular Mayan ruins, too.” As if I’d visited as a tourist. Even so, I could feel the question coming; the same question she’d asked me in Panama City.

  “A marine biologist who spent all his free time traveling.” She said it quizzically, thinking it over. Yesterday, my reply—“I used to travel a lot”—hadn’t put the subject to rest. I could see her wondering: Why is he being evasive?

  So I decided to stop it before it went any further. “Traveling in my free time? I never said that. I went to these places, Panama, Masagua, some others because it was part of my work.”

  Dewey nodded, listening. Finally, it was all going to start making sense.

  I said, “See, what happened was, when I got out of school, I was recruited by a company to do research—”

  “This was after you played baseball.”

  “Yeah, just after I played ball, but pretty close to that time, though.” Already lying to her. “This company, they’d pick a research area then provide funding so I could set up a research station. Usually a small house or shack, and money for a boat and a lab. Or the host country would provide me with a place, like a kind of educational exchange. I’d be there a few months or sometimes as much as a year or more.”

  All true.

  She said, “We’d send them our people, they’d send us theirs?” Not doubting it, just asking.

  “Right. But usually it was just this company, the one I worked for, setting me up, paying the bills, while I did my work. For a biologist, it was a great opportunity.” Also true. I said, “I was able to spend time in places, do the kind of serious work that most people in my field only dream about. Like Masagua—” It was gone from the window now; once again I was leaving Pilar behind. “—I spent more than a year in Masagua. I had this great beach shack and lab on a deserted stretch of shore about fifty kilometers from the city. The fishermen there—same as the fishermen in Honduras—had a legend about a place off the coast. They called it the Magic Mountain—”

  “Underwater, you mean.”

  “Yes. An underwater mountain. Not that you could tell it was there, but the fishermen, they knew. They claimed that every year sea turtles and manta rays came there by the thousands. They could see them on the surface, understand. And they weren’t making it up. I confirmed it. Biologists are still researching it, but the fact that the mountain contains large deposits of iron ore probably has something to do with the migration. Turtles and rays both have great navigational abilities; fragments of iron in the mastoid area, like a built-in compass. Some people think it has to do with that.”

  Dewey said, “Man, I’ve got to pull things out of you.” Like: Why didn’t you ever tell this story before?

  I was enjoying talking about it; pleased that I could neutralize the subject so easily. That, plus it was nice being honest for a change. “I spent nearly a year in Africa,” I said, “studying freshwater sharks on the Zambezi River. Later, I studied the same shark—bull sharks, we call them—on Lake Nicaragua, more than a hundred miles from the sea. Only now the Japanese fin industry has all but exterminated them.”

  “And this company paid you to do this. Like one of the really big conglomerates.”

  “The parent company, yeah. But the group that hired me was very small. You’ve never heard the name. No one has.”

  “Hoping you might discover something and they could make a lot of money off it.”

  “Or contribute to their overall knowledge. The sea products industry is a huge global business. It had to do with that.”

  Dewey had finished her beer. Hatuey, in a can. She crushed the can with one hand—her jock side showing—and thought about it before saying, “I can see why you liked it, but I can see why you quit, too. All those places you mentioned, wasn’t there always a lot of fighting going on? Like revolutions and stuff? Panama, Nicaragua, Masagua, that’s all you ever read about.”

  I didn’t like the direction the conversation was headed. I said, “That was the great thing about being a marine biologist. A credentialed researcher. The world’s scientific community takes pains to be nonpolitical. No one much notices us. I could come and go as I pleased.”

  “Still,” she said, “you’d think the company would have sent you to places that were safer. Africa? Wasn’t there fighting there?”

  I was nodding, eager to be done with it. “Yeah, it started getting dangerous. You’re right. That’s why I quit.”

  She said, “I don’t blame you. Jesus, Ubangis with guns. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  That was true, too.

  After the jungles of Central America, after the space and light of the Caribbean, western Cuba looked barren, untended—like some massive ranch that had been worked too hard then abandoned. Treeless hills on a treeless windscape etched with dirt roads that seemed to originate from the sea and traveled architect-straight to nowhere. No cars, no movement, no people. The jetliner’s pressurized silence assumed the silence of the land beneath us. Then we were descending and Cuba accumulated life—but not much light—as we neared Havana. I looked away when I saw the bluffs and basin of Mariel Harbor… looked again and saw the blanketing gray suburbs and high rise hotels along the beach and lichen black Morro Castle bonded to rock above Havana and the sea… then we touched down fast and heavy on the tarmac, but contrary to Latino custom, no one applauded upon landing, and I wondered if my fellow passengers were subdued by our destination or simply exhausted with gratitude at having survived the flight.

  As we waited in line at immigration, Dewey said, “Christ-o-mighty, it’s hot, huh?” She thought about that for a few seconds before smiling. “Hey, it is hot. Two days before Christmas, they’re freezing up in Florida but it must be like eighty-five down here in Havana town. And Bets is stuck in New York!” Very pleased with herself; she had talked herself into a vacation in the tropics and was already enjoying it.

  Good. Dewey was no actress. For me to be convincing as a tourist, Dewey had to be convincing. It had to be real.

  “Doc, know what I think I’ll do? We find Tomlinson, get checked into our hotel, I think I’ll go down to the beach and bake a little bit. I haven’t been really warm in about a month. Maybe send Bets a post card and rub it in.”

  Her mind still in New Y
ork, up there with snow and smoking chimneys… and her lover.

  “Wait and call her when you get back. That would be faster. A card out of here would take a couple of weeks. Maybe a month.”

  “I don’t care. I want her to get it and picture me down here on the beach. Up there freezing her ass off and she goes to the mailbox and there it is.”

  I smiled. “Because you’re friends.”

  Received a catty smile in return. “Yeah, because we’re friends.”

  I was less aware of the heat than of the three men watching us—a customs officer in naval blue and two soldiers in khakis. Baby shit brown, Tomlinson had described it. Not shy about staring at us, either. Ruddy faces, short black hair and with eyes you expect to find behind mirrored sunglasses. Looking right at us and not looking away when my eyes briefly met theirs. Forty-some people in line—still outside on the tarmac beneath a sign that read “Welcome to José Martí International”—and they had singled us out.

  I touched Dewey’s arm. “Give me a kiss.”

  She said, “Huh?”

  “Give me a kiss. Like you mean it.”

  Privately, our relationship had changed. But publicly, Dewey was still Dewey. She was a nudger and a rough-houser, not a hugger or toucher. Public displays of affection were as out of character for her as they were for me. She said, “Knock off the mush, Ford. Not in front of all these people.”

  I gave her a tender smile, turned my back to the men and formed the words: “We-are-being-watched.”

  Received a quizzical expression—she’d missed it. Listened to her whisper, “Truthfully, ‘bout the only time I like to kiss is when we’re screwing. No offense,” as I touched my lips to her ear and said, “Don’t look. Those guys in uniform are staring at us.”