“Right. Well, I think you smoked him out. Now he wants to talk to us.”
“We’re not talking to him.”
“You and I need to talk about that.”
“Later. Maybe.”
We caught up to our group, and Antonio escorted us into a room that had been turned into a stand-up movie theater, and we watched film clips of La Revolución in color and black and white, narrated in Spanish. I saw on the screen a young Fidel and a young Che Guevara, and a lot of other bearded guys moving through the bush carrying rifles. They looked like Taliban.
The scene shifted to Havana, New Year’s Day 1959, and a convoy of rebel fighters in trucks and Jeeps was moving through the city, and crowds of Habaneros were cheering in the streets. Next was a scene at the Hotel Nacional and I looked for Michael Corleone and Hyman Roth jumping into their getaway cars, but they must have left already.
The Riviera Hotel appeared on the screen and, as Antonio promised, there was a newsreel of guerrilla fighters and civilians smashing up the casino, including the bar. This was a sad ending, so I left the theater.
Sara joined me and said, “My father told me that was the most frightening day of his life.”
I guess it would be if you were a young boy waking up in a mansion on New Year’s Day, wondering why the servants hadn’t brought you your breakfast. I pointed out, “Everyone else looked happy.”
“Yes... It started out with high hopes for the Cuban people... but then it turned into a nightmare.”
“Right.”
The Yale group filed out of the theater, and Antonio led us outside to what was once the back garden, and was now the Granma Memorial — a massive glass structure that preserved the yacht, named Granma, that had brought Castro and his small band of revolutionaries from Mexico to Cuba in 1956. The rest, as they say, is history.
Sara informed me, “When Cuba is free, this is all coming down, and this garden is where my memorial to the martyrs will be built.”
And Eduardo could use the garden walls to shoot all the Commies. I said, “Good location.” I was really feeling like an outsider now, caught in a family feud that went back to Christopher Columbus.
Anyway, around the Granma Memorial were some bullet-riddled military vehicles and a jet engine that Antonio said was from an American U-2 spy plane that had been shot down during the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis. I wasn’t born then, but I knew that this crisis had taken us to the brink of nuclear war with the Soviet Union. And if that had happened, I wouldn’t be standing here. It occurred to me that Cuba had always been a thorn in America’s ass, and that America had always tried sticking it up Cuba’s ass.
This was not a happy garden, so Sara and I left the group and walked out to the street. Our next stop was the nearby National School of Ballet, where we were scheduled to see a rehearsal, and we headed that way.
As we walked, I said to Sara, “We need to meet Antonio.”
“If we meet him, that’s an admission that we’re not innocent tourists.”
“I follow that logic, but if you’re at the craps table you have to throw the dice.”
“No, you can pass.”
“Let’s try another cliché — you can’t ignore the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room.”
She stayed silent as we walked, then said, “I’ve already agreed that you can meet Jack tonight. I’m not agreeing to meet Antonio.”
“Aren’t you curious about what he has to say?”
“I know what he has to say. He wants five hundred dollars. It’s just another shakedown of a Cuban American tourist.”
“You know there’s more to it.”
“Yes. It could also be a sting. We give him five hundred American dollars, and the police appear and arrest us for bribery and currency violations — or, worse, trying to recruit a spy.” She added, “That’s happened before. And espionage is a capital offense here.”
“I can go alone.”
“You will not.”
“All right... but—”
“You don’t understand the Cubans, Mac.”
“Compared to the Afghans, the Cubans are Boy Scouts.”
“If we ever go to Afghanistan, you’re in charge.”
“Sí, comandante.”
“Not funny.”
We reached the National School of Ballet and sat on the front steps sharing a bottled water and waiting for our group. I said to Sara, “Antonio wants to tell you what interest the police have in you.”
No reply.
“He’s a Mafia wannabe. He wants to live the good life. He wants two years’ salary. It’s as simple as that.”
“All right, I’ll think about meeting Antonio. Meanwhile, there’s no group dinner tonight. What am I supposed to do while you’re out drinking with Jack?”
“I’ll meet you at Floridita at... nine o’clock. I’m going to break Hemingway’s daiquiri record.”
She smiled. “I’ll take pictures.”
Our group arrived and Antonio invited everyone to enter the ballet school with Tad and Alison, then he came over to us and asked, “Are you joining us?”
“We’re thinking about it.”
“And have you thought about my offer of a drink?”
“Are you buying?”
“No. I’m selling.”
I glanced at Sara. Still sitting, she looked Antonio in the eye. “We’ll be there.”
“Good. It will be worth your time and money.”
“We’ll be the judge of that.”
He nodded, then hopped up the steps like he’d just made two years’ pay — which he had.
Sara looked at me. “I’m trusting your judgement on this.”
“Trust my instincts.”
She stood. “We’ll see.” She asked, “Do you want to see sweaty young girls in leotards?”
Yes, but... “How far is it to the Parque Central?”
“About three blocks, right down this road.”
“Let’s go.” I stood.
“We’ll miss the Museum of the Firefighters.”
“I’ll show you my hose. Come on.”
She smiled and took my hand. “If we’re playing hooky, we first need to go see if the fleet has arrived.”
“If we’re being watched, we don’t want to go anywhere near that terminal.” I said, “We can check out CNN or Tele-whatever in the room.”
So hand in hand we hurried to the Parque Central for a spontaneous afternooner.
Chapter 30
On our way to the Parque Central, we passed one of the old men who hawked the Communist Party newspaper, Granma, and Sara gave him ten pesos from her stash and took a copy.
We entered the hotel and stopped at the front desk, but there was no fax or phone message from Carlos, and I said, “No news from Carlos is good news.”
The elevator came and I asked, “My place or yours?”
“I think I was assigned a bugged room.”
We rode up to my room, and I put the DO NOT DISTURB sign out and double-locked the door.
Sara turned on the TV and sat cross-legged on the bed, dividing her attention between Tele Rebelde and Granma.
“See if you can find the Mets score.”
The minibar was stocked and I opened two Bucaneros and gave one to Sara, then sat in a chair with my beer and watched the news. The anchor guy and his female sidekick sounded like they were reading an eye chart in Spanish.
Sara used the remote to switch to CNN, but there was no signal so she turned back to Tele Rebelde, sipped her beer, and flipped through Granma again. “I can’t believe there’s not one word in here or on TV about Pescando Por la Paz.”
“If the tournament was cancelled, the regime would be happy to report that and lay the blame on some American treachery.” I repeated, “No news is good news.”