“I told them that I was an architect, and that if I could reclaim the house, I would restore it for them, top to bottom, and take a small apartment for myself.”
“Did they believe that you would let them stay?”
“I mentioned a rent of five dollars a month.”
“How’d that go over?”
“Not very well.” She added, “They have a long way to go here. They’re frightened of the future.”
“Who isn’t?”
She kept staring at the house, then said, “My grandmother’s piano is still in the music room. I took a picture of it for her... She didn’t want to see it.”
I glanced at my watch. “You want a daiquiri?”
“No.”
“You want a picture?”
She nodded and handed me her cell phone.
I took a few photos of her standing across the street from her former family mansion, then a few close-ups under the pillared portico while I listened for the sounds of imminent collapse.
We began walking back to the Ambos Mundos. I understood the emotional attachment and the sense of loss that Sara Ortega must be feeling, but you really can’t go home again. Unless you’re just there to pick up what you left behind.
Chapter 27
We got back to the Ambos Mundos as our group was exiting the hotel, and Antonio led us to the nearby Plaza de San Francisco de Asís. On one side of the plaza was the newly restored Spanish-style Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal, which Antonio pointed to and said, “Today, at some hour, an invasion fleet is arriving from America.”
The Yalies chuckled tentatively, waiting for a further explanation.
“It is actually a fishing fleet which has sailed out of Key West. This is a new tournament called Pescando Por la Paz—” He translated, “Fishing for Peace. A... how do you say, a double entendre. Very clever. Yes?”
The clever Yalies seemed to think so.
Antonio continued, “The fishermen will come through this terminal and walk directly into this beautiful plaza, and be welcomed by the people. And then they will find the good bars and get drunk like sailors.” He laughed at his own lame joke.
I looked around the plaza, but there were still no signs of the fleet’s arrival — no dignitaries, no reporters, no banners or bands.
The arrival of the fishing fleet from America was not exactly world-shaking news, but it was news in the wider context of the Cuban Thaw, so it should be marked by some sort of official ceremony and appropriate news coverage. Unless, of course, the regime wanted to ignore it or downplay it. Or cancel it.
Sara said, “I’m getting worried.”
“Let’s assume Antonio has the latest update.”
Antonio fixed his gaze on me. “Mister Mac is a fisherman in Key West, so perhaps he will want to drink with his fellow fishermen tonight.”
I didn’t respond, and Antonio moved on to other points of interest.
Our next and last plaza of the morning was Plaza Vieja — the Old Square — and on our way there Sara asked me, “Why did he say that?”
“I’m not reading anything into it.”
“He practically said that he knows you’re going to meet someone.”
“There are only three people in the world who know that — me and Jack, and now you as of an hour ago.”
She seemed frustrated with me. “He’s made the connection between you — a Key West fisherman — and the Pescando Por la Paz.”
“There is no connection. Only a coincidence which anyone would comment on.”
We reached the Plaza Vieja and Antonio talked as he walked. “This square was laid out in 1559 for the private residences of Havana’s wealthiest families, who in former times would gather here to watch the public executions.” He added, “Now, of course, those wealthy families are gone.”
Having attended their own public executions. But Antonio didn’t say that. He said, “Please look around. Ten minutes. Then to lunch.”
Half the group headed toward the fountain in the center of the plaza to get their fountain photos, and some headed for the shade, as did Antonio, who retreated under a tree, lit a cigarette, and made a cell phone call. I said to Sara, “He’s calling for a firing squad.”
“You deserve one.”
Funny. I said, “You need to calm down—”
“And you need to ask yourself if this mission has been compromised.”
“If it has, you should thank Antonio for letting us know.” I added, “He may be reporting to the police, but he knows nothing. And if he’s fishing for something, he’s not using the right bait.”
“But why is he fishing?”
Good question, and I’d thought about that. “Well, it could be that you came to his attention as a Cuban American, and he’s trying to be a good chivato, making himself sound important to the police.”
She didn’t seem satisfied with my explanation, so I continued, “It’s also possible that the immigration or customs people at the airport notified the police about you, and the police checked to see who the tour guide was for this group and told the guide — Antonio — to keep an eye on Sara Ortega.” I reminded her, “You’re supposed to be giving your three hundred thousand pesos to charities. And maybe that’s why you’re on their radar.” Or there was a leak in Miami, and if that was the case, the game was over.
She looked at me. “You’re either very cool, or you have your head up your ass.”
Which reminded me of an old Army saying — “If you’re taking intense fire and you’re keeping cool while everyone around you is scared shitless, then you’re not fully understanding the situation.” I didn’t think that was the case here.
“Do you think Antonio believes we just met?”
“We did just meet. You need to believe your cover story.” Recalling my unpleasant hours in a mock interrogation cell, I added, “We’d be questioned in separate rooms and our stories need to match.”
“I know that.”
Our ten minutes of architectural appreciation were up, and Antonio called the group together. “Now to lunch.”
We followed Antonio out of the plaza and into a street that led back to Centro.
Something had changed in Sara’s positive attitude, and it probably had to do with last night. That’s what happens when you have something to live for.
We walked in silence awhile, then Sara asked me, “Is it at all possible that the police have made a connection between you and Fishy Business?”
“Anything is possible. But let’s trust Carlos on this.”
“I do. But...”
“Even if the police somehow discover that I once owned one of the tournament boats, that’s all they know. They may find it curious, or suspicious, but that doesn’t lead them to any conclusions about why I’m in Cuba.”
“No... but it could lead them to questioning you about that coincidence.”
“You can be sure I’ve already thought of the right answers.”
Clearly Sara was worried, so I let her know, “I don’t see, hear, or sense anything that endangers us or the mission. If I do, I’ll let you know.”
We stood facing each other. She said, “This is Cuba, Mac. Not Afghanistan. The first sign of danger here is usually a midnight knock on your door.”
“You’re the one who said that the only thing the secret police are good at is instilling fear.”
“Well... sometimes they get lucky.” She thought a moment and said, “Maybe the money is not worth our lives—”
“It’s not all about the money. It’s also about stealing something from under their ugly noses. Remember? It’s about finishing what your grandfather started. And, as I just discovered, it’s also about something that’s going to please me, whatever that is.”