She thought about that, then asked, “Where are you meeting him?”
“At a prearranged place. It’s safe.”
“What time?”
“Six.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
She looked at me and we locked eyeballs. Finally, she said, “All right... do what you have to do. But make sure you’re not followed, and make sure he wasn’t followed. There can’t be a connection between—”
“I passed that class.”
She seemed a bit miffed. Glad I got laid last night.
In fact, she seemed to be thinking the same thing and said, “That’s what happens when you sleep with a man. They step all over you.”
“Not if they want an encore.”
“I should have waited until Sunday.”
“I’m free Sunday.”
“I should have listened to Carlos.”
“You have to listen to your heart. Not your lawyer.”
“And what organ are you listening to, señor?”
“My heart.” Dick, too.
She looked at me. “I believe you.”
We kissed and made up. Sex changes the rules and the dynamics. You get some control, but you lose some control. That’s life.
I scanned the horizon with my binoculars, but there were no boats heading for the harbor.
I had a few other things on my mind and I asked her, “How well do you know Felipe?”
“I’ve met him. Carlos and Eduardo know him.”
“Can we assume that Carlos or Eduardo have vetted him?”
“Felipe is actually the grandnephew of Eduardo.” She added, “We try to keep these things in the family. Like the Mafia does. If you can’t trust family, you can’t trust anyone.”
She hasn’t met my family. But maybe she would. That should be interesting. I said, “I would have worried less about Felipe if someone had told me who he was.”
She stayed silent awhile, then said, “We rarely include... outsiders in our business. And when we do, we don’t say more than we have to about... anything.”
People who know the Scots say we’re clannish, and the MacCormicks, who are of the Clan Campbell, can be that way. But I suspect that the Cubans make the Scots look inclusive.
Sara took my hand and said, “We have a special relationship now.” She smiled. “You’re practically one of the family. You’ll see when we get back to Miami and we have a big party to celebrate.”
I pictured myself partying in Miami wearing a guayabera and my clan kilt. More to the point, this mission was like an onion that needed to be peeled away, layer by layer. There had to be an easier way to get laid and make three million dollars.
Chapter 26
At the base of the old fort was the Plaza de Armas, which was lined with royal palms, and the group took cover from the sun while Antonio gave a history lesson. I didn’t want to bring up the subject of Antonio again, but I asked Sara, “How did Antonio know you were here before?”
“I don’t know... I mentioned it to Alison, and she must have said something to him.”
Or Antonio had some info from the police, who would have copies of our visa applications, which were filled with information.
Sara looked at Antonio, who was now texting. “Why is he asking about us?”
“We don’t know that he is.”
“And why did he quote those Hemingway lines to you? ‘The Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out.’ ”
“Don’t know.”
“I’ll be happy when we get out of Havana.”
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Antonio led us to a pedestrian street called Calle Obispo — the Street of the Bishop — lined with old shops and some new, trendy stores, art galleries, and cafés. Creeping capitalism.
Sara stopped and we let the Yalies go on. She looked across the street at a large neo-classical stone and stucco building with a white portal that was decorated with carved four-leaved clovers for some reason. The building seemed derelict, though there were official-looking signs and revolutionary posters in the grimy windows. I knew this was her grandfather’s bank.
She said, “I can picture him walking to work every morning, dressed in his dark suit and tie.” She added, “The Habaneros dressed well in those days. Well... the gentlemen and ladies did. Despite the heat, and no air-conditioning. It was important to look good.”
I was feeling a bit inadequate in my Hemingway T-shirt.
“If Batista hadn’t been such a corrupt thug, kept in power by the American Mafia, American corporations, and the American government... the Communists would never have won.”
“And you would have been born here in luxury and we’d never have met.”
She forced a smile. “We would have met. It’s in our stars.”
“That’s a nice thought.”
She kept looking at the former American bank, now a government office where people signed for their libretas — their ration books. She said, “Maybe this building will be returned to the American bank as part of the negotiations.”
“Maybe. But we’re not returning the money to the vault.”
“No. But we’ll return it to the rightful owners.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
She took my hand and we caught up to the group.
As Antonio promised, we stopped at the Hotel Ambos Mundos, a pastel-pink edifice whose façade had been restored to its pre-revolution glory.
Antonio said, “You can use the baño here, visit the bar where Hemingway drank each night, and have a daiquiri or mojito if it is not too early for you. For two CUCs you can see his room where he wrote Death in the Afternoon. Fifteen minutes.”
The Yalies filed into the hotel, including Richard Neville, who looked like he was going in for a root canal. I was thinking about a cold beer, followed by a leak in the same urinal that Ernest Hemingway used, but Sara said, “I’ll show you my grandparents’ house. It’s close.”
“Okay.” I followed her down Calle Obispo, then we turned onto a cobblestoned side street of old baroque mansions. As we walked I could see that a few of the grand houses had been restored, and Sara said they had been turned into luxury apartment houses for non-Cubans by foreign developers in a joint partnership with the Cuban government. Sounded like a nice deal for everyone except the former owners. It struck me that the issues of legal ownership and compensation could drag on for half a century, which again made a good case for stealing what was stolen from you.
I saw that a number of the old houses seemed to be in a state of limbo — condemned but inhabited. Sara pointed to one of these balconied baroque mansions across the street. “That is my grandparents’ home — where my father and uncles were born.”
I looked at the four-story house of faded blue stucco, most of which had fallen away, revealing the stone core. Some of the windows were gone, as were most of the louvered shutters. The house had an imposing entrance flanked by red granite pillars, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine this huge house as it had once been. And it also wasn’t difficult to understand why the socialist government thought it was too big for a family of five. Plus servants, of course.
I could see people through some of the big windows, and an elderly couple sat on a balcony that looked like it was held up by the Holy Spirit.
Sara told me, “I went inside when I was here. All the plumbing leaks, and there are only two working bathrooms. The kitchen is in the basement and it’s communal, and the house is filled with mildew and vermin. When the rent is free, as it is in Cuba, you get what you pay for.” She asked me, “Would you like to go inside?”
“Only with a hazmat suit.”
She assured me, “The people were very nice to me.”
“Did you tell them you inherited the deed to the house and you wanted it back?”