Hector was well aware of the fact that he could be physically abused, beaten, even executed, at the whim of whoever had ordered him jailed. People disappeared in Cuban prisons, never to be heard from again.
The parallels between his situation and that of Christ while awaiting his crucifixion immediately leaped to Hector’s Jesuit mind. Not far behind was the realization that Fidel Castro had also been imprisoned before the revolution.
Perhaps prison is a natural stage in the life of a revolutionary. Imprisonment by the old regime for one’s beliefs was de facto recognition that the beliefs were dangerous and the person who held them a worthy enemy. The person imprisoned was automatically elevated in stature and respect.
These thoughts swirled through Hector’s mind as he sat on a hard wooden bunk without blankets and gave in to his emotions. He found himself shaking with anger. He paced, he pounded on the walls with his fists until they were raw.
Finally he threw himself on the bunk and lay staring into the gloom.
Angel del Mar pitched and rolled viciously as she wallowed helplessly in the swells. In every direction nothing could be seen but sea and cloudy sky. The sky was completely covered now with cloud, the wind was picking up, and the swells were getting bigger, with a shorter period between them. Aboard the boat, many people lay on their stomach and hugged the heaving deck.
Everyone on board suffered from the lack of water, some to a greater degree than others. Ocho Sedano, who had had only a few mouthfuls since the boat left Cuba and had pushed himself relentlessly, without mercy, was desperate. His eyes felt like burning coals, his skin seemed on fire, his tongue a thick, lifeless lump of dead flesh in a cracked, dry mouth.
He wasn’t perspiring much now. Of all his symptoms, that one worried him the most. As an athlete he knew the importance of regulating body temperature.
Dora lay in the shade cast by the wheelhouse and said nothing. She had been sick a time or two, vomit stained her dress. She seemed to be resting easier now.
Beside her lay her father, Diego Coca. He was conscious, his eyes fierce and bright, his jaw swollen and misshapen. He hadn’t moved in hours, unwilling to let anyone else have his spot in the shade.
Ocho sat heavily near Dora, scanned the sea slowly and carefully.
My God there must be a ship! A ship or boat — something to give us food and water …
In all this sea there must be hundreds of fishing boats and yachts, dozens of freighters, smugglers, American Coast Guard cutters hunting smugglers, warships … Where the hell are they? Where are all these goddamn boats and ships?
From time to time he heard jets flying over, occasionally saw one below the clouds, but they stayed high, disappeared into the sea haze.
Under the mast an old woman sat weeping. She was the one who grieved for the captain, for some of the people who were washed overboard that first night. She wept silently, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in gasps.
He wanted to hug her, to comfort her, but there was nothing he could say. His brother Hector would have known what to say, but Ocho did not.
He looked longingly at Dora, Dora who was once beautiful, and he could think of nothing to say to her. Nothing.
All the promise that life held, and they had thrown it away on a wild, stupid, doomed chance. Diego had led them, prodded them, demanded they go, and still he could think of nothing to say to Diego.
He was so tired, so lethargic. He had pumped for hours, just keeping up with the water. If the water came in any faster … well, he didn’t want to think about it. They would all die then. They would have little chance swimming in the open sea.
Ocho slumped over onto the moving deck. He was so tired, if he could just sleep, sleep ….
The old fisherman shook him awake. The sun was setting, the boat still rolling her guts out in the swell.
“A fish …” He held it up, about eighteen or twenty inches long. “No way to cook it, have to eat it raw. Keep up your strength.”
With two quick swipes of his knife, the fisherman produced two bleeding fillets. He offered one to Ocho, who closed his eyes and bit into the raw fish. He chewed.
Someone was clawing at him, tearing at the fish.
He opened his eyes. Diego Coca was stuffing a piece of the fish in his swollen mouth.
The old man kicked Diego in the stomach, doubled him over, then pried his jaws apart and extracted the unchewed fish.
“He’s manning the pump that keeps you afloat, you son of a bitch. He has to eat or every one of us will die.”
Diego got a grip on the fisherman’s knife and lunged for him.
He grabbed for the slippery flesh, swung wildly with the knife.
This time the old man kicked him in the arm. The knife bounced once on the deck, then landed at an angle with the blade sticking into the wood, quivering.
The fisherman waited for the boat to roll, then kicked Diego in the head. He went over backward and his head made a hollow thunk as it hit the wooden deck. He went limp and lay unmoving.
Retrieving his knife, the fisherman ate his chunk of raw fish in silence. Ocho chewed ravenously, letting the moisture bathe his mouth and throat. He held each piece in his mouth for several seconds, sucking at the juices, then reluctantly swallowing it down.
Dora watched him with feverish eyes. He passed her a chunk of the fish and she rammed it into her mouth, all of it at once, chewed greedily while eyeing the old man, almost as if she were afraid he would take it from her.
After she swallowed it, she tried to grin.
Ocho averted his eyes.
“Your turn on the pump,” the old man said.
Diego lay right where he had fallen.
Ocho got up, went into the wheelhouse and down into the engine room. The water in the bilge was sloshing around over his shoes as he began working the pump handle, up and down, up and down, endlessly.
Hours later someone came to relieve him, one of the men in the captain’s family. Ocho staggered up the stairs, so exhausted he had trouble making his hands do what he wanted.
The people on deck had more fish. Ocho sat heavily by the wheelhouse. In the dim light from the stars and moon, he could see people ripping fish apart with their bare hands, stuffing flesh into their mouths, wrestling to get to fish that jumped over the rail when the boat rolled.
He collapsed into a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
One of the butlers unlocked the bedroom door and took Mercedes to see Colonel Santana, who was standing behind Fidel’s desk sorting papers. He didn’t look up when she first came in. She found a chair and sat.
“The government has not yet decided when or how to announce the death of el presidente. No doubt it will happen in a few days, but until it does you are to remain here, in the residence, and talk to no one. Security Department people are on the switchboards and will monitor all telephone calls. The telephone lines that do not go through the switchboard have been disconnected.”
He eyed her askance, then went back to sorting papers. “After the official version of Fidel’s death is written and announced, you will be free to go. I remind you now that disputing the official version of events is a crime.”
“Everyone swears to your history before you write it?” she snapped.
Santana looked at her and smiled. “I was searching for the proper words to explain the nub of it and they just came to you”—he snapped his fingers—“like that. It is a gift, I think. When you say it so precisely, I know you understand. Ignorance will not be a defense if there is ever a problem.”