“Okay... one in each hand, two people, that’s sixty million.”
She ignored my math and said, “But there are also fifty-dollar bills, and twenties, so there are more than four trunks.”
“How many?”
“My grandfather said ten.”
“Each weighing four hundred pounds?”
“Yes. A twenty-dollar bill weighs the same as a hundred-dollar bill.”
“Right. That’s four thousand pounds of steamer trunks.”
“Give or take.”
If I’d known this in Key West I would have gone to the gym. “How about the gold and jewels?”
“The gold may be too heavy to take. But there are four valises of jewelry which we’ll take.”
“Always room for jewelry. And how about the property deeds that you mentioned?”
“That’s another steamer trunk.”
I pointed out, “This could be a bit of a logistical problem. You know, getting the trunks out of the cave, onto a truck, then to the boat.”
“Carlos has a plan.”
“Well, thank God. Would you like another cup of coffee?”
She stared at me. “We wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t think we could do it.”
“Right.”
A pretty waitress cleared our plates and smiled at me.
It was almost 8 A.M. and people from various tour groups were making their way toward the lobby. We stood and I left two CUCs on the table, and Sara said, “That’s three days’ pay.”
“She worked hard.”
“And she had a nice butt.”
“Really?”
The Yale group was already boarding and Sara and I got on the bus together, said good morning to José, Tad, Alison, Professor Nalebuff, and our travel mates as we made our way toward the rear and found a seat together.
The efficient Tad did a head count and announced, “We’re all here.”
Antonio hopped aboard and called out, “Buenos días!”
Everyone returned the greeting so we could get moving.
“We will have a beautiful day!” said Antonio.
Sí, camarada.
Chapter 20
The bus wound its way out of Havana and again I had the impression of a once vibrant city that was suffocating under the weight of a rotting corpse.
Hemingway’s house, Finca Vigía, was a handsome Spanish Colonial located about fifteen kilometers from Havana, and we got there in half an hour.
The house was well-maintained, according to Alison, because of a rare partnership between the U.S. and Cuban governments. Art and culture bring people together, said Alison, and that was why we were here; we were ambassadors of goodwill.
Even as ambassadors, we weren’t allowed inside, but dozens of tourists were peering through the open doors and windows into the rooms that had been left exactly as they were when Hemingway left Cuba after the revolution.
Antonio told us that Señor Hemingway had given Finca Vigía and all its contents to the Cuban people. Professor Nalebuff, however, told us that Hemingway had willed Finca Vigía to his fourth wife, but when Hemingway took his own life in 1961, the Cuban government forced his widow to sign over the property to them.
It occurred to me that Antonio wasn’t lying to thirty educated people; he lived in a time warp and an information desert like everyone else here and he had no idea of the truth. But reality was on the way. Unless the regime could stop it.
Anyway, Ernest had a nice swimming pool, and his boat, Pilar, was displayed in an open pavilion. Nice boat, but not as nice as mine — the one I used to own. On Pilar’s fantail were the words KEY WEST, which was where I’d rather be.
Neville’s wife, Cindy, was insisting that her bestselling husband pose for photos. He complied, but he wasn’t smiling, maybe thinking that people never took photos of themselves in front of his house, wherever that was. But maybe they would if he blew his brains out like Hemingway did. Just saying.
We left the grounds of Finca Vigía, and Antonio led us to a row of souvenir stalls where Sara bought me a Hemingway T-shirt, made in China.
We reboarded our air-conditioned Chinese magic carpet and went to lunch at an open-air restaurant. Lunch consisted of black beans, rice, fried plantains, and what appeared to be chicken that had been cut up by Jack the Ripper.
Then to the organic farm. A nice older gentleman explained, in Spanish, all the strides they were making in organic agriculture. Antonio translated, and Sara said to me, “All the farms in Cuba are organic because they can’t afford chemical fertilizer.” She added, “Most of this food goes directly to the Communist Party comemierdas — the shit eaters.”
Antonio overheard that, and he shot her a nasty look.
After two hours in the hot sun, looking at beanstalks, bugs, and plants that I’d never heard of, we staggered back to the bus.
Sara, sensing I may not have enjoyed smelling manure all afternoon, said, “Tomorrow morning is the walking tour of the Old Town. We’ll see my grandparents’ house, and my grandfather’s bank.”
“I look forward to that.”
“I have mixed feelings.”
“Maybe someday you can buy the house.”
“Maybe someday I can legally claim what was stolen.”
“Don’t hold your breath. Meanwhile, we can make a cash withdrawal from Grandpa’s bank vault.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. Don’t hurt the hand. I need it to carry steamer trunks.
As the bus approached the Parque Central, Tad reminded us that he was giving a lecture on the history of Cuban music at 5:30, and please be on time.
Alison reminded everyone that the bus left for the Riviera Hotel right after Tad’s lecture, so please be dressed for dinner. Also, there was a swimming pool on the roof if we were so inclined.
We got off the bus and I invited Sara to join me for a swim or for a cold beer at the bar.
“I need a nap and a shower.”
“Am I invited?”
“I’ll see you at the lecture.”
So I went to the bar. I didn’t recognize anyone from our group, but soon after I sat and ordered a Bucanero, Antonio sidled up next to me. He asked, “Did you enjoy your day?”
“I enjoyed the Hemingway house.”
“Good. Most Americans do.” He asked, “Did your companion enjoy her day?”
“She’s actually not my companion.”
“I see... So will she be joining you here?”
“No. She went to the nude swimming pool.”
Antonio had no comment on that and took a seat next to me. He had a bottled water that he stole from the bus, and he lit a cigarette, saying, “I am supposed to ask you if you mind if I smoke.”
“It’s your country.”
“It is.”
Antonio appeared to have dropped his tour guide persona and he seemed slightly less of a clown, though I didn’t know why he wanted my company sin Sara.
He asked, “Do you read Hemingway?”
“I did. How about you?”
“Yes, in Spanish and English. There is... how do you say...? A cult of Hemingway in Cuba.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In the Hotel Ambos Mundos, which we see tomorrow, there is the room where he lived and wrote before he purchased Finca Vigía. The room is now a museum.”
My beer came and Antonio continued his unpaid lecture. “Some of his novels are what we call his Cuban novels. Many of his books have a socialist theme.”
“I missed that.”
“But it is true. His books show people acting in a... a way that is for humanity... not for the individual.”