The chest no longer rises and falls, the monitors flatline and for an instant, only the doctors know what has happened. They hesitate in the sudden silence and everything truly does stop around the bedside for that instant. Then the doctors whirr back into life like a car engine responding to the ignition key on a cold morning. Once the moment of silence and suspension has passed, the news begins to swell outward, pounding on the shore of the nation like a great storm.
As news of the death of the Great Leader spreads, minds and tongues are in motion, trying to figure out what has changed and what is the same. The man who collects and sells parts for the 1960s cars tries to imagine what he could possibly do instead. The woman peeling potatoes for the restaurant she runs in her living room imagines opening a real restaurant. The boy with the magic hands, the boy who has tamed a thousand basketballs over a thousand afternoons, dreams of going to college in America. The manager of the state-run hotel catering to the Europeans wonders if he’ll still have a job in a year and if he does, whether the work will be harder or easier. The Minister of the Interior in charge of prisons has a sudden urge to do something quieter and less lucrative.
Life after college is like tennis, Ramon thought to himself, cringing at the very thought of having such a silly thought. You have to know when to go to the net and when to play the baseline. Life after college is like tennis. You have to keep your eye on the ball. Worse. Much worse. Maybe it’s like a tennis tournament. Whether you have a high seed or a low seed, you always have a chance. That’s a lie. Life is like the locker room before a tennis match. Even the greatest player puts his pants on one leg at a time. So it is in the great locker room of life—we should treat each other as equals. Equals in our underwear, stepping into our pants. Beautiful. Now he was really on a roll. Maybe life is nothing like tennis. In tennis, love is zero, but in life, love is everything. Would that work? No, it’s horrible, he thought. It’s worse than horrible.
It was Friday morning. Graduation day was Sunday and Ramon couldn’t figure out how to end his graduation speech. He was happy enough with the rest. It would make trouble for Ruth Lieber, but he couldn’t see any way around that. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about this old woman he hardly knew who had talked to him a handful of times? There was no way he could give in to her. There was no way he could repudiate what he believed in just to please her. Still, his speech was a chance to redeem what had happened at the protest, a chance to purge the taint of dirty money from his university. Finally, he’d be in control without the shenanigans of Heavy Weather and his friends.
Forget the ending. He still had a couple of days. Maybe a bike ride would clear his head. Give the speech a rest and work on the hills, instead. He headed west on Page Mill Road, on his way to a park in the hills above Palo Alto. It was a brutal ride, but the view from the top was worth it. He attacked the road and ripped his way to the top of the ridge that separates the Bay from the sea. Soon enough, the relentless effort pushed his thoughts away from protests and prices and even Ruth Lieber. At the top, he found the park and headed for the bench at the vista he and Amy liked to admire, high above the Bay, the university below him, the Hoover Tower visible and then the water and the bridges and the hills on the other side across the water. He felt his cell phone vibrate and looked down to see his mother’s caller ID. She must be calling to confirm her flight for tomorrow.
“Hey, Mama. What’s happening,” he said in Spanish.
All he could hear on the other end was static interrupted by his mother shouting something into the phone over and over again. Music in the background blurred everything together.
“I can barely hear you. Are you all right?”
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” she screamed.
“Who’s dead?” Oh, God. Uncle Eduardo. He’d been sick. Ramon pulled off the road. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? Why are you sorry? He’s dead! Castro is dead!”
“Castro! I thought it was Uncle Eduardo.”
“Uncle Eduardo? He’s right here getting drunk and dancing.”
They talked for a while, a surreal conversation, Ramon three thousand miles away, in this serene landscape seemingly untouched by the change that was rocking his mother’s world and the world of all his relatives. When he finished talking with his mother, he sat for a while. Then he got back on his bike and headed for home.
Ramon’s cell phone vibrated again. He looked down. Amy.
“Hey.”
“Are you all right?”
“What’s wrong?” She sounded upset, almost frantic. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m on my bike. About thirty minutes from home. Where are you?”
“I’m standing outside your apartment. I came by to get a book I left there last night and I can’t get near the front door. The street is swarming with people and campus police and TV crews, those vans with the big antennae. Fox is here. CNN. ESPN. All the networks. Every local station has a truck here. You sure everything’s OK? Any idea why all these people are camped on your doorstep?”
“Can’t imagine. Haven’t won any tennis tournaments lately or spoken at any protests. It’s just a typical, ordinary day. Except Castro died. My mother just called. She couldn’t stop—”
“That’s it.”
“What?”
“The TV crews. The people on your front steps, in the street. They’re waiting for you. They want a reaction.”
“Why would they want to talk with me? I’m a Stanford student who plays tennis. Who cares what I think? My mother’s a different matter. She could give them a good quote. But I have nothing to do with Castro. I left the island when I was five. All those people must be there for some other reason. Maybe that guy in the apartment upstairs went off the deep end and—”
“Ramon. Wake up. Don’t you see? You’re the most famous Cuban in the world. Or at least the most famous living one. It used to be that guy with the beard and a cigar. But he’s gone now. You’re it. After the president of the United States, you’re the man they’re all going to want to talk to.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. At first, Amy thought maybe Ramon’s phone had cut out in the hills. Then she heard him breathing as he stood on the pedals and punished the bike forward, taking in her argument and knowing she was right.
“Can we get together? Someplace quiet where I won’t be easily recognized.”
She thought for a moment.
“Baylands.”
“Perfect. I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes. Only the hawks know me there. Meet you at the nature center.”
On a weekday morning, Amy and Ramon had the marsh to themselves. The swallows danced and darted, oblivious to the only two people walking through the marsh. Ramon and Amy leaned on the railing of the observation deck that sat in the middle of the marsh, looking out toward the hills across the Bay.
“So how do you feel?” Amy asked.
“Weird. I’ve never thought much about Castro. My mom hates him. Hated him,” Ramon corrected himself before continuing. “My mom hated him but I always figured that my dad must have thought he was okay or he wouldn’t have stayed.”
“Did your mom tell you that?”
“No. She doesn’t like to talk about it. Maybe it was something they fought over. I’ve always wondered whether it had something to do with me.”
“Put yourself in your father’s shoes. You’re beloved by the people. Closely watched by the government. You have a young wife. Soon you have a young wife who’s expecting a child. Would you want to move to a new country?”
“Only to find out if I could get around on a major league fastball.”
“And that would matter a lot. But so would those other things. I’m not sure you can tell much from knowing that he stayed. How often do you think about your dad?”
“Not that often. Just every day.”
Amy took his hand. They were quiet now, watching the birds.
“Do you ever wonder what your life might have been like if your mom had stayed in Cuba?”
“Sure. There are a lot of things I don’t like about America. But there are so many things here I could never have experienced back in Cuba.”
“Such as?”
“Tennis, for one. Tennis isn’t a priority there. I probably would have been a baseball player. Or who knows. I might have gotten involved in track. Would I have enjoyed it? Probably. But I doubt I’d have liked it as much as tennis.”
“Anything else?”
“Life is easier here. Sometimes I worry about whether it’s too easy. But I know easy is often very good.”
“Anything else?”
“Like what?” he said, smiling.
“Oh, I don’t know. Anything at all. Better dental floss here in America. I’m sure you can think of something else here in America that you wouldn’t have if you grew up in Cuba.”
“Can’t think of a thing,” he said, turning toward her and kissing her, a long lingering kiss. “Well, other than the blondes,” he added, finally. “Blondes named Amy. You just don’t find that many blondes named Amy in Havana.”
“So what do you think will happen in Cuba now?” Amy asked. “Do you think things will change? What do you want to see happen? Do you want to talk about it to the press or at graduation? That’s what people are going to want to hear from you.”
“Hard to know what will happen next. It feels like a turning point. Maybe. If things really do change, if somehow, some kind of freedom comes to Cuba, I wonder if my mom would think of moving back.”
“And you?”
Ramon shrugged. The whole thing was too surreal.
“Hard to imagine. Meanwhile, I have a slightly more pressing dilemma. What should I do about that crowd waiting at my place?”
“I have no idea. But I think I know someone who can help.”
Ruth Lieber was drinking coffee on her patio, trying to finish up the past Sunday’s New York Times Magazine crossword puzzle, while she waited for a phone call she was expecting. Five letters, Mexican actress. She had no idea. Maybe she needed to get out more. Her mind wandered to her favorite tennis player and his upcoming graduation speech. The Stanford president had called earlier to remind her that Bob Bachman would be in town to watch his daughter graduate. Was Ruth planning on getting together with him while he was in town to close the deal on that new interdisciplinary center?
His daughter! Ruth had forgotten about Cordelia Bachman. What a mess. If Ramon Fernandez used his speech to stick a knife into Big Box with Bob Bachman sitting in the crowd, she could kiss that next Big Box donation goodbye. And any more down the road. What was she going to do about it? Well, it was only money. OK, it was a lot of money. But she couldn’t think of any way out of this one.
Besides, she had come to think the world of Ramon Fernandez. He was better company than Bob Bachman. Plus he had the potential to be at least as influential an alum as a CEO like Bachman. At least that’s what she told herself when trying to justify her inaction. Leaving him alone was really a no-brainer. Just forget about it, she told herself. Back to the Mexican actress, first letter an H. Nothing. She put the puzzle down and saw Ramon Fernandez coming through the side yard, Amy at his side.
“Sorry to intrude,” Ramon said. “No one answered the phone or the front door.”
“Are you guys OK?” Ruth figured something extraordinary must have happened to prompt an unannounced visit.
“Castro’s dead,” Amy said.
“I know. Saw it on the Internet.”
“It’s created a little bit of a problem for Ramon.”
Amy explained the media crush at Ramon’s apartment.
“It’s complicated my life, too,” Ruth said. “Though you can see it’s a little quieter here.”
“What’s wrong?” Amy asked.
“Our main commencement speaker may not make it. She’s a former secretary of state. The president wanted to see her about Cuba. Not the president of Stanford. The President. Something about a ‘window of opportunity.’ She went. I don’t blame her. She can’t promise she’ll be back in time. I’m waiting for a phone call from her right now.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I told the president—of Stanford that is—that we should just go with our student speaker and give him a little more time. He’s got plenty of star power and everyone wants to hear what he has to say, anyway. Can you handle being the headliner? I figure you’re used to it. And I figure your speech is already written. It is written, right?”
“Most of it. I’ve been struggling with how to end it. This solves my problem. I’ll add something about Castro and Cuba. As long as I don’t have to talk twice as long.” Ruth shook her head. “My biggest problem right now is getting into my apartment,” Ramon said.
“Why don’t you schedule a press conference at the admin building for this afternoon, say two o’clock. That’s what—three hours away? That will give you time to think of what you want to say and prepare a statement. The evening news people will be happy because they’ll have the tape they need for tonight. I’ll send someone from media relations over to your apartment to spread the word. That should dispel some of the crowd.”
“I probably ought to change into something a little nicer than sweats if I’m going to hold a press conference. But I’ve got a change of clothes at the tennis center that’ll do.”
“Let’s get you some help with your statement. Let me call Jeff Jacobson. He’s the university’s chief communications guy.”
“You don’t have to do that. He doesn’t have to do that. It’s my problem. I can handle it. At least I think I can.”
“I’m sure you can. But look. Castro’s death is going to lead the news tonight. There’ll be interviews with someone from the State Department or the White House. Some man-on-the-street stuff with people in Little Havana. And there’s going to be something from you. Your talking head is going to be seen on a lot of television sets. Underneath that talking head is going to be your name. Underneath your name, it’s going to say Stanford University. That makes it part of Jeff’s job. He’s good. Very good. He can help you walk the finest of lines you might want to take. Trust me.”
Ramon realized that he did.
“Come on,” she encouraged. “I’ll go in with you. I’ve got some graduation details to take care of with Jeff, anyway.”
With Jacobson’s help, Ramon crafted an opening statement for the press conference. Then Jacobson drilled Ramon on the type of questions he thought the press would ask. When they were done practicing, Ramon stopped by Ruth’s office and thanked her for the help.
“My pleasure, Ramon. I’m going to miss talking with you. Watching you win tournaments on TV just won’t cut it.”
“Always the optimist. I appreciate your confidence. I’ll miss you, too.”
“Stay in touch. Drop me an e-mail when you have a chance to read any of those books I gave you.” She looked down at her watch. “Well, you better go. You’ve got to be back here by 2.”
She was right. He had to get going. But something about the mood he was in made him ask the question that had been bothering him.
“Professor Lieber, why have you been talking to me these past few weeks? Why have you made me one of your students?”
She smiled. She hadn’t expected the question but she had thought he might be wondering. She took a deep breath.
“I wanted you to understand something of possibility and prosperity. We human beings are very different from other animals.”
“Yes, we play tennis and they don’t. We study economics and they don’t. We …”
“I was actually thinking of something a little more interesting. We dream and they don’t. We imagine. We look to the future in a way that lets us plan. We save. We invest. We forego pleasure today for something greater tomorrow and we understand why we’re doing it. Jonas Salk dreams of curing polio or Fred Smith dreams of a way to get a package to someone overnight or Steve Jobs dreams of a way to carry 20,000 songs in your pocket or Tom Warson makes that golden widget that sustains the Internet or David Kornfeld takes a laser and finds a way to save lives with it. And it’s not just the entrepreneurs doing the dreaming. We dream, too. Just to take one example, millions of Americans now try to lead healthier lives than they did in the past. They decide to exercise more and eat better. Think of the enormous range of things that have to happen and that do happen to let those plans and dreams come to reality. New kinds of food in the grocery store. New kinds of grocery stores. New kinds of running shoes and racquetball shoes and walking shoes. New kinds of clothes made of new materials that make sweating more pleasant. New kinds of exercise machines. Videos to go with them. New kinds of bikes. More tennis rackets. New kinds of tennis rackets. People to make all those things and work in all those places making and selling and explaining to people about the new choices that are available. An enormous army of workers and creators springs into action. The plans of all the people who want to eat better and exercise more got matched with the plans of all the entrepreneurs who strove to make money meeting those desires.”
“That’s a good thing, sure,” Ramon interjected. He didn’t see what she was getting at.
“But who made sure that those dreams and desires, those plans and actions didn’t conflict with each other or with the thousands of other dreams and plans under way at the same time? All the resources—the workers and the raw materials—that had to be mobilized to make sure that life elsewhere in the economy wasn’t hopelessly disrupted? Who settled those disputes over how much land would be devoted to organic food and how much to junk food? Because there’s more and better junk food, too. What a world we live in. You can get organic milk and four kinds of mesquite flavored potato chips! The dreams of a healthier America didn’t shut down the dreams of those who wanted to be couch potatoes playing video games. Some biochemists even figured out ways to reduce the cholesterol of the couch potatoes so they wouldn’t pay too high a price for not exercising. Who made sure there were enough biochemists and enough engineers working on the lasers? Who made sure that Nike would find all the rubber and fabric and workers it needed to cushion the feet of all those runners while other shoemakers were looking for materials and workers because a TV show made higher heels all the rage? Who let David Kornfeld develop that laser while laser tag parlors were opening at the same time? How is there seemingly always plenty of the things we want? And all without fights and chaos and turmoil? What is the source of the unseen harmony around us?”
Ramon said nothing. Her passion silenced him. He waited for her to go on.
“Who is the weaver of dreams?” Ruth continued. “Who makes sure that all the dreams can coexist peacefully? Who weaves together all the plans to make sure that they work in parallel rather than producing conflict?”
“I don’t know. I have a feeling from our earlier conversations that there isn’t one.”
“That’s right. There isn’t one. Each of us takes the unique strands of our hopes and dreams and adds them to everyone else’s. Yet, somehow they all fit together and the tapestry of our lives just gets more interesting and varied and human. But how do our choices manage to fit together without a weaver of dreams? How is it that some of us can become vegetarians or exercise fanatics or couch potatoes or take up the guitar or become gardeners or engineers or teachers and all the products and tools we need are out there waiting for us without us having to let anyone know what we’re going to choose? How is it that 100 million Chinese can leave the countryside and their kids start using pencils and bicycles but there’s still graphite for that magic wand you wield on the tennis court? Who sends out the memo to put all the effort into motion to make sure all the dreams can coexist so peacefully?”
“No one does, Ruth. I’ve learned that from you. But I don’t know how it manages to happen.”
“The prices. Our choices fit together because the price of everything can adjust and steer resources and knowledge throughout the economy. In a course like Amy’s, we learn about how the prices do their magic. You and I didn’t have time for that. But we did have time for you to see a glimpse of the magic. We only see our own little corner of the tapestry. No one can see the whole thing. But the genius of the system is that our little corner is all we need to see. No one has to know the price of everything even though the price of everything is always adjusting in response to all the changes going on in our incredibly dynamic economy. The graphite owner can focus on the price of graphite and spend the rest of the time learning about how to find cheaper ways of getting graphite out of the ground. And because no one has to know the price of everything, our knowledge grows, our world gets better, and no one has to master all the dreams going all at once to make sure they somehow fit together. I wanted you to understand something of that, something of the poetry of the possible.”
Once again, Ramon studied the face of the woman in front of him. Ramon saw nothing there suggesting guile, strategy, or manipulation. Was she trying to help him the way she had claimed before the protest—spare him embarrassment, by steering him from the wrong path in that speech she never mentioned? Why wouldn’t she just come out and say it, straight out? Was she just afraid that if she said it explicitly it would merely strengthen his resolve to stick to his principles? Maybe there was something deeper going on, something he sensed but couldn’t grasp. He couldn’t help but wonder what dreams she was weaving.
“I wanted you to understand,” Ruth went on, “that not everything glorious that we observe in the world around us is the result of someone’s intention. There is wonder in the world that we humans create without any one of us fully understanding it. Appreciating that is part of being an educated person. Someday you’ll be glad to know about it.”
“Someday or Sunday?” he asked, trying to get to what was pushing her so hard.
“Sunday? What do you mean, Sunday?” She stopped, confused. Then she understood. She started laughing. “Did you think the time I’ve been spending with you has something to do with your speech on Sunday?” Ramon was totally bewildered. Either she was a total mystery to him or the greatest actress who never appeared on screen or stage.
“I don’t care about Sunday,” Ruth said, shaking her head and regaining her composure. “Except that you give a good speech. Say whatever you want. Speak from the heart. Otherwise, you’ll fall flat, like most graduation speakers. Speak from the heart.”
What a woman, he thought. In one sense, she was simply practicing what she preached. Leaving things alone. But Ramon knew that leaving things alone wasn’t Ruth Lieber’s only strategy in life. He knew from Amy how hard she prepared for her classes. She didn’t expect her lectures to emerge without lots of planning. Even her stories of the economy having an unplanned orderliness about it had people within their own part of the economy planning and using the information available to them. So what was she doing? Instead of stopping him from giving his speech, it looked like she was giving him an even bigger stage. Did she agree with him in some sense and feel that taking money from Big Box was a mistake even while she disagreed with him about the wisdom of letting prices work in the aftermath of a catastrophe? He didn’t know what to think. But he knew that her advice to speak from the heart was genuine. He’d do the best he could. He still needed an ending.
Ramon headed to the tennis center for his change of clothes. He opened his locker and saw a post-it note, taped to the top shelf. On the note was a big arrow pointing to the bottom of the locker. At the bottom of the locker was a package and a card. He opened the card. “Dear Ramon, Happy Graduation, With respect, Ruth Lieber.”
Ramon smiled and opened the package. It was a book, but to his surprise, it was a collection of poems by Mary Oliver and not the economics treatise on emergent order he expected. On a bookmark, Ruth had written, “Don’t miss this one.” Ramon sat down on the bench in front of his locker and read the poem. Then he read it again. Maybe it was an economics book after all.