Antonio reminded Neville, “You must stay with the group. It is your State Department which does not allow you to go where you wish in Cuba.”
It was ironic, I thought, that it was my government, not Antonio’s, that restricted our movements in Antonio’s police state. But soon Sara and I would have a unique opportunity to fulfill the stated goal of this trip — Discover Cuba for Yourself.
Antonio, however, had some good news. “There is no group dinner tonight, and you are all free to go to the Plaza de San Francisco and perhaps find some of the fishermen and crew from the tournament.” He looked at me.
I wanted to get away from that subject, so I asked Neville, “Where do you get your ideas?”
He didn’t seem to know.
Antonio dropped the subject and said to me and Sara, “We missed you at Ambos Mundos.”
I let Sara reply and she said, truthfully, “I showed Mac my grandparents’ home.”
That seemed to interest him. “So you knew where it was?”
“I have the property deed, which goes back to 1895.”
“Well,” he joked, “hold on to it for another hundred years. You never know.”
Sara, of course, didn’t think that was funny and said, “It’s now a crumbling tenement.”
“It is a home for the people.”
“It’s not fit for animals.”
Antonio looked at Sara. “You speak your mind.”
“It’s an American habit.”
“Yes, I know.” He asked her, “And what did your grandfather do to afford a large house in Havana?”
“He was an honest businessman. And he had the good fortune to escape to America before he was arrested for no reason.”
Antonio had no reply.
I was wishing that Sara wouldn’t provoke Antonio, but it seemed to be in the DNA of the exile community to bug the Commies. I get it, but it’s safer to do it in Miami. Having said that, I, too, needed to control my mouth.
The Nevilles seemed to be feeling left out or uncomfortable, and Richard announced that he was going outside for a cigarette. I hoped Antonio would join him, but he didn’t. Cindy asked where the baño was and Antonio told her.
So now we were three.
Antonio looked at Sara. “Do you still have family in Cuba?”
“I do not.”
“May I ask — why have you come back a second time?”
“Obviously I enjoyed my first visit.”
“Good. Cuba is like a mother who welcomes the return of her sons and daughters.”
“Some of whom have been arrested on trumped-up charges.”
Antonio had no reply, and Sara asked him, “How do you know this is my second visit?”
“Someone mentioned it to me.”
“Why are you asking about me?”
He smiled. “I thought you were... unattached.” He looked at me. “I congratulate you, señor.”
Hey, no contest, señor.
Antonio looked over his shoulder at the front door, then looked toward the baños, and I thought he was trying to decide if he needed a cigarette or a pee, but he leaned toward us and said, “Perhaps we can have a drink tonight.”
Neither Sara nor I replied.
He continued, “Tonight is your free night. I can meet you both at seven at a bar called Rolando in Vedado.” He smiled. “No tourists. No Hemingway.”
Sara glanced at me, and I said to Antonio, “Thank you, but we’ve made other plans.”
“Then tomorrow night. Same time and place. You will excuse yourselves from the group dinner.”
This was not sounding like a friendly invitation anymore. I thought his next line was going to be, “You can meet me at the bar, or you can meet me at police headquarters.” But he said, “This will be worth your time and trouble. And your money.”
“Excuse me?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“For what?”
Richard Neville was returning from his nicotine break and Cindy was making her way back to the table.
As they both reached the table, Antonio said, “As Hemingway wrote, the Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out.”
Which may have been the answer to my question.
The Nevilles sat and Richard asked, “Still Hemingway?”
No one responded, and the apps came.
Antonio said, “I hope everyone likes octopus.”
What the hell was this guy up to?
Chapter 29
After lunch, Antonio led us on a short walk to the Museum of the Revolution, a neo-classical building that was once Cuba’s Presidential Palace. In front of the former palace was a Soviet-made tank that Antonio said was used by Castro’s forces to help repel the U.S.-backed Bay of Pigs Invasion. “The invasion failed,” said Antonio, “so we invaded Miami with a million Cubans.”
Sara said to me, “He won’t find it so funny when the exiles start returning and buying up Cuba.”
And round it goes.
As for the Yalies, they didn’t know that their proudly patriotic Cuban guide was just another guy on the take. Five hundred bucks. Two years’ salary for Antonio. But for what? Information? A shakedown? One way to find out.
Sara, however, on our walk to the museum told me she didn’t want us to meet Antonio. She was in charge, but my instincts said we should meet him. It was possible, of course, that the meeting was some kind of entrapment and we’d get arrested. But in Cuba you could get arrested for no reason, so we may as well get arrested while having a drink. I needed to talk to Sara.
We went inside the huge palacio. Antonio was excited about showing us something, so we followed him to a lobby space near the grand marble staircase. He said, “This is the Rincón de los Cretinos — the Corner of the Cretins.”
And who were the cretins in the corner? Well, they were cartoonish murals of ex-President Batista, plus George Bush and Ronald Reagan in cowboy clothes, looking like characters out of Mad magazine. In fact, George looked like Alfred E. Neuman.
Even the Yalies thought this was a little over the top, and I didn’t think Cretin Corner would help improve relations.
We climbed the sweeping staircase and moved on to other rooms, all of which glorified La Revolución, though many of the exhibits were in bad taste, including grisly photos of revolutionaries being tortured and executed by former Cuban regimes. Also on display were blood-stained military uniforms that looked unsanitary. Unfortunately, there were a number of school-aged groups viewing all of this. That’s probably how Antonio got his little head screwed up.
We entered the former executive office of the late President Batista, and Antonio pointed out a gold-plated rotary-dial phone that AT&T had given to their important customer, then he launched into a diatribe about American imperialism. Sara thankfully kept her mouth shut.
Tad, to his credit, said to Antonio, “We should move on.”
So we checked out more of the Museum of the Revolution, which was deteriorating like most of Havana, and like the revolution itself.
Antonio showed us a secret staircase that Batista had used to save himself when a group of university students stormed the palace and tried to kill him. Antonio said, “Many of the students were arrested, tortured, and executed.”
Apparently they take student protests seriously here. The group moved on without us and I said to Sara, “Let’s escape down the secret staircase.”
“Try to learn something while you’re here.”
“Okay. I learned from Antonio at lunch that his interest in you was personal.”
“It was never personal. You know that.”
“Don’t be modest. Also, you shouldn’t have pressed him on why he was asking about you.”
“Sometimes, Mac, you just have to confront people who are causing you anxiety.”