Casa de la Rosa, Cuba
After finishing their meal, Erin followed her father back out into the early evening. The sun had fallen behind the western trees, changing the harsh tropical light to a soft pearlescent glow.
“Let me show you the clinic,” he said. “And you can see for yourself the good we are doing here.”
He took her through the front screen door of the plantation house. The expansive entrance hall had been turned into a typical doctor’s waiting room. Except, however, like everything else in the compound, they’d made do with whatever furniture they could find. A couple of once-elegant chairs and an old, threadbare couch lined one wall, while on the other side, someone had built a long wooden bench out of spare lumber. Opposite the entryway, a reception table sat in front of a pair of French doors. Beyond that, she caught a glimpse of the central courtyard, alive with color.
“Cuba has made great strides since the revolution,” Emilio said. “All her citizens have access to free medical care.”
“Then why the need for DFL?”
He shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Because drugs and medical supplies are not so easy to get.” He started toward an interior door on their right. “The US trade embargo has made sure of that.”
She might have argued with him if she’d sensed any accusation or outrage in the statement. As it was, he’d spoken as calmly as if he’d claimed the sky was blue. So she followed him into the right wing of the house without comment. After all, she wasn’t here to discuss politics.
“This is the heart of the clinic,” he said. “As you can see, we took down the interior walls.”
The wide-open room was divided into six sections, each consisting of an examination table, workstation, and retractable curtain. Unlike the waiting area, the equipment here looked new and in good shape.
“Nothing like this exists in Santa Rosa,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “DFL equips its facilities well, and that is why they are needed here.”
It made sense. Free medical care solved only half the problem. Equipment and medications were the missing pieces an international aid organization could furnish that the post-revolutionary Cuban government could not, or—depending on your point of view—would not, supply.
She caught a glimpse of Emilio Diaz that she hadn’t expected. “That’s why you work for them, isn’t it?”
“The Cuban people need what DFL offers.” There was a strength and conviction in his voice she hadn’t heard before. “But it is not easy dealing with this government, with their interference. Other organizations have already pulled out. But, this is my country, my people, I understand how things work. If I can help by working for DFL, if I can keep the organization here, how could I do any less?”
She couldn’t respond.
This was a side of her father she had never considered: a man fighting for a principle, dedicating his life to a bleeding people. The thought bothered her, fighting the image she’d built in her mind of him over twenty-seven long, lonely years. She had more questions, but the answers might solidify this new view of a man she didn’t want to admire. She wasn’t certain she was ready for that.
Emilio broke into her thoughts, bringing her back to the mundane, the world as she knew it. “We have two examining rooms in the back for when we require privacy, and,” he motioned toward a side door to the veranda, “direct access outside for when we have people waiting for inoculations or vaccinations. Sometimes the lines are very long.”
Her reality slid back into place, though it seemed a bit off now, not quite right, as did her perception of the man at her side. “Does that happen often?”
He shrugged. “Now and then.” He paused, studying her for a moment, then added, “Tomorrow we start to vaccinate for dengue. All the volunteers, and as many villagers as we can get to come in.”
“I thought that was under control.” Dengue and dengue hemorrhagic fever were mosquito-borne viruses usually found in the tropics. Eradication of the disease was one of the touted success stories of the revolution.
“So the government would like you to believe.” Her father shrugged, and again, she detected no judgment on his part. He was just stating facts as he knew them. “The last doctor who reported a case was jailed. So, we do it here. Quietly. Since we are not part of the state system, no one questions us.” He paused, sighed, and added, “We all do what we have to do.”
He led her toward the back of the house, past the two private examination rooms. Then they stepped out into the central courtyard, onto a covered breezeway that framed all four inside walls.
“This is lovely,” Erin said.
The exterior of the house may have been patched together in haphazard fashion with functionality as its goal, but this garden had been tended with an eye for beauty. Water danced sweetly in a small central fountain. Meandering stone paths led from the house through clusters of pink oleander, red hibiscus, and frothy palms. And several stone benches sat strategically beneath a sprawling ficus tree.
“It is an indulgence.” Her father smiled, a bit self-consciously. “Several of the women from Santa Rosa tend it. It gives them work and needed dollars. Besides, it is good for the patients and staff to have such a place.”
Erin didn’t know what to say. It was another jarring note, another unwanted side to this stranger that shoved her thoughts down unfamiliar paths.
“Come,” he said. “I have one last thing to show you.” He headed across the garden and through a door leading to the far wing of the house. “This is our hospital wing.”
The left side of the house was divided into two sections, one for men and one for women, each containing eight beds.
“There is a state hospital in Santa Rosa,” her father said. “But the patients must supply their own sheets and soap. So, in some cases, it’s better when they come here.”
A bit dazed, she followed him as he stopped and talked to each patient, asking a question, giving an answer here, offering a word of reassurance there. She desperately sought to take a mental step back to the anger she’d always felt when she thought about her father, or even to the grudging sympathy and curiosity of a few hours ago. She couldn’t do either. Not faced with the people in these beds, sick and hurting, and the kind man who tended them.
Finally, they were outside again, where Erin felt she could breathe.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
What could she say? “You’re doing good work here.” Beyond that, she needed time to think over what she’d learned about him, about the man who was her father, and put it into perspective.
“We could use your help.”
She looked at him, suddenly wary. “Besides teaching?”
“Your classes are only in the afternoon, yes?”
She nodded.
“As I told you, we start vaccinating for dengue tomorrow. We are short volunteers and could use an extra pair of hands.”
She stepped back and crossed her arms. “I’m not a nurse.” Plus, her mission required uncommitted time when she wasn’t expected in any particular place. Already DFL’s bureaucracy had cost her the morning hours when she could have gotten a better look at the path she’d seen the previous night.
“No, but your help would free up the nurses we have.” Then, before she could respond, he added, “Think about it. Now come, I will walk you back to your room.”
As they started toward the cabins, however, a truck turned off the road and pulled into the yard, stopping between the stables and house. It was the first vehicle she’d seen since Armando had dropped her off the day before.
“Finally,” Emilio said beside her. “They are weeks late.”
“What is it?”
He started toward the truck. “Drugs, medical supplies, equipment.”
Erin followed him.
Armando and another man climbed out of the truck’s cab, chattering in rapid Spanish as they raised the rear door and prepared to unload. Two of the aimless men she’d come to think of as guards walked over to the truck, though neither offered to help. Instead, they laughed and poked fun at the Cubans’ expense.
“Hey, amigos,” one guard taunted. “If those boxes are too heavy, we can get one of the girls to help you.”
Armando and his partner ignored them, hauling boxes off the back of the truck and piling them high on handcarts. Then, with one of the guards in the lead, the three of them headed toward the back of the converted stable.
“Where are they going?” Erin had expected them to take everything into the clinic, but it looked like they were headed toward the path she’d stumbled on last night.
Emilio glanced at her, his expression distracted. “We have a locked storage facility in the woods.”
A place armed men visited in the middle of the night?
“Isn’t that risky?” Cuba’s population was poor, and drugs difficult to get. A thief could demand and get a high price for them on the black market.
He brushed her question aside with a wave of his hand, all his attention focused on the truck. “It is very well protected. Plus, there is no road. You cannot drive a truck back there and load. It would make it difficult to steal much.”
Erin nodded.
On the surface it made a certain amount of sense, but she didn’t buy it. Even the best security systems could be breached with the right equipment, and if the place you wanted to rob was off the beaten path, it would be that much easier. There had to be another reason for the storage shed’s location.
Before she could question her father further, however, the three men returned with their empty handcarts. As they’d done before, Armando stayed on the ground while the other workman climbed into the truck bed and handed down cartons. One box after another, they unloaded, until, while wrestling a particularly large one, Armando lost his grip. The box dropped and split open, spilling and shattering glass at the men’s feet.
The guard sneered, laughed. “Clumsy idiot.”
His face tight, Armando crouched to pick up the box and its contents. Erin glanced at her father, whose expression was as unreadable as the man’s on the ground. Though, she noticed his fists, tightly clenched at his sides. The man in the truck climbed down, evidently to help, but stopped as the second guard waved him aside.
“Hey, you,” the guard said, nudging Armando with a booted foot. “Aren’t you going to apologize to the good doctor here? You broke some of his precious supplies.”
Emilio took a step toward the guard. “Leave it.”
Ignoring him, the guard said to Armando, “I’m talking to you.” He again used his foot, this time hard enough to knock Armando off his haunches. “Apologize.”
Laughing as Armando scrambled to his feet, the guard turned to Emilio. “Where do you find these monkeys?”
Armando brushed off his clothes, muttering. “Hijo de puto.”
The guard spun around, his smile gone, and grabbed Armando’s arm. “What did you just call me?”
Armando shook off the man’s hand. “I said you are a son of a whore.” Then he backed up and spit on the man’s boots. “And I spit on you.”
Face flushed with anger, the guard moved with dangerous speed, slamming the other man against the truck and pressing a thick-muscled arm across his neck while a 9mm Soviet Makarov appeared in his hand, jammed beneath Armando’s chin. “You want to say that again?”