Friday afternoon Michael went back to the warehouse in Old Havana. It was hotter than his first visit, and despite the fan, he felt like he was entering hell. Sweat dripped down his neck and clung to his shirt. Instead of music, the radio was blasting out a baseball game with lots of static. Cubans loved their baseball, he recalled his mother telling him. Fidel himself had been a professional ball player once. In fact, many Cubans swore the game had been invented here.
The two men were frozen in the same positions as his first visit. The same bald jowly man and his grizzled partner, both hunched over the press. If he didn’t know better, the scene could have been a still life. This time, though, the men nodded as he knocked, as if they’d been expecting him.
“Welcome back, Señor DeLuca,” the bald man said. “I trust Habana has been good to you?”
“I can’t complain.” The guy was trying to be social. Odd, given his coolness before. Michael went on alert.
“So my friend, where in America are you from?”
Something was up. Michael squinted. “Why do you need to know?”
The bald man let out a nervous laugh. “Just curious. I have cousins in Miami. But I know others in New York, and Chicago.”
Michael smiled. “Refugees from Cuba are always treated well in my country.”
“That is what we hear.”
Michael looked around. The warehouse was as dim as before, and nothing seemed different. Still. “So?”
The bald man spread his hands. “Ahh… Lo siento. Mucho. I tried but I could not find anyone who was in Lucapa or Dundo during the war. I talked to many people.” He nodded vigorously as if it would attest to his efforts. “But no one was posted that far north.”
“Perhaps you didn’t try hard enough.” Michael rolled his thumb and fingers together, indicating the international symbol for money.
The man drew himself up with an air of feigned indignation. “Señor, we Cubans are not that desperate. I tried. I failed. I am sorry.”
Michael would have to start over. Maybe go to the hotel Carla’s friend had suggested a few days ago. Or take an entirely different tack.
The second man flicked his eyes to the back of the warehouse, then back at Michael. Michael caught it.
“How long will you be staying in Havana?”
“I don’t know.”
The bald man cut in. “Well, if one of my contacts does come through, how can we reach you?”
Michael thought about it. He’d told them the other day he was a doctor. “I am helping at the neighborhood clinic in Vedado. If I’m not there, leave a message. They will give it to me.”
“Bueno. Again, I am sorry we could not locate your—associate. But do not give up hope. In Cuba one never knows.”
After Michael was gone Luis Perez stepped out of the shadows. He knew who Michael was the moment he saw him. A younger version of both him and Francesca, right down to the dark eyes, prominent nose, and high cheekbones. Even his posture, straight with his head canted a bit to one side, was like her. Seeing his son, however, didn’t prepare him for the wave of sorrow that washed over him; a feeling so raw it was as if Francesca had been taken from him only yesterday, not thirty years ago. He tried to erase the image Michael’s presence had conjured up. He couldn’t.
The two men’s faces filled with curiosity. “So?” the grizzled man said. “Do you know this man?”
Luis tried to focus. Why was his son here in Cuba? Did Francesca send him? Was she delivering a message? And if she hadn’t sent him, who did? His mind was suddenly reeling with possibilities. But prudence dictated he keep his thoughts to himself. The bald, jowly man had been under his command, but Luis trusted no one.
“Gracias, Sargento. I appreciate that you contacted me. It has been a long time since Lucapa, no?”
The bald man nodded. “When he mentioned Dundo, I knew I should look you up.”
Luis nodded back. “You were right to do that. It is an interesting situation. Unfortunately, I do not know this man. I have never seen him, not in Angola, not here, not anywhere.”
The bald man cocked his head. “But he is so certain he knows you.”
Luis turned up his palms. “That does not change the facts. I fear he has made a long journey for nothing.”