Alejo Vargas thought he had the finest office in Havana, indeed, in all of Cuba, and perhaps he did. He had the whole corner of the top floor, with lots of glass. Through the large windows one got a fine view across the rooftops of Morro Castle and the channel leading into Havana Harbor from the sea. The desk was mahogany, the chairs leather, the carpet Persian.
William Henry Chance paused to take in the view, then nodded appreciatively. He turned, saw the old United Fruit Company safe in the corner, now standing open, and the display of gold and silver coins from the Spanish Main under glass. He paused again, ran his eye over the coins just long enough to compliment his host.
“Very nice,” Chance said, and took the chair indicated by Alejo Vargas. At a nearby desk sat Vargas’s Chief of Staff, Colonel Pablo Santana, who nodded at Chance when he looked his way, but said nothing.
Colonel Santana was dark, with coal black eyes and black hair combed straight back; he had some slave and Indian somewhere in his bloodline. He slit the throats and pulled the trigger for Alejo Vargas whenever those chores needed to be done.
Chance forced himself to ignore Santana and look at his host. “I appreciate you taking the time from your busy day to see me, General,” the American said, and gave Vargas a frank, winning smile.
Chance was tall and angular, with craggy good looks, and dressed in
a light gray suit of a quality one could not obtain in Cuba for love or money. He appeared perfectly at ease, as if he owned the building and were calling on a tenant.
No wonder the Russians lost the race to the Americans, Vargas thought ruefully. A true Latin male, he was acutely aware of his own physical and social shortcomings, his lack of grace and self-assurance, so he was quick to appreciate the desired qualities in others.
“I understand you have been discussing a business arrangement for the future with officials of several departments,” Vargas began.
“That is correct, General. As you probably know, I represent a consortium of stockholders in several of the major American tobacco companies. My errand is discreet, not for public discussion.”
Vargas certainly did know. He had a complete dossier on William Henry Chance in the upper right-hand drawer of his desk, a dossier decorated with a half dozen photos, photocopies of all the pages of Chance’s passport, and one of his entry in Who’s Who. A senior partner in a major New York law firm, Chance had represented tobacco companies for twenty-five years. That Chance was the man in Havana talking to the Cuban government was a sure signal that major money was behind him.
Indeed, Chance was in Vargas’s office today because Fidel Castro had asked Vargas to see him.
“Alejo,” Fidel had said, “our future depends on Cuba getting a piece of the world economy. The Americans have kept us isolated too long. If we can make it profitable for the Americans to lift the embargo, sooner or later they will. The Yankees can smell money for miles.”
If William Henry Chance knew that Castro had personally asked Vargas to see him, he gave no sign.
The less he understands about our government, the better, Vargas thought. He cleared his throat, and said, “I am sure you understand our concern, Señor Chance. Cuba is a poor nation, dependent on sugarcane as the mainstay of the economy, a crop that is, as usual, a glut on the world market. Your client’s proposal, as I understand it, is to cultivate tobacco in Cuba instead of sugarcane.”
Chance gave the tiniest nod. A trace of a grin showed on his lips. He glanced at Santana, who was scrutinizing him with professional interest, the way a cat examines a mouse.
“Your comprehension is perfect, General.”
“Through the years, señor, the price of tobacco on the world market has been even lower than that of sugar.”
“This meeting shall be a great help to my clients,” Chance declared. “Here today I will show you the many benefits that will accrue in the future to the nation that keeps an open mind about tobacco. I am not talking about cigar leaf, you understand, which is a tiny percentage of the world market. I am talking about cigarette tobacco.”
“The price of which will collapse in America when the American government ends its subsidy to American tobacco farmers.”
“Indeed,” said William Henry Chance. “The United States government will soon cease supporting the price. But of greater interest to our clients, the government will increasingly regulate and tax the cigarette business. Plainly stated, the government is hostile to our industry. The current administration has stated that their eventual goal is to put the industry out of business.”
Chance moved his shoulders up and down a millimeter, settled deeper into his chair. “The American public is gradually giving up the cigarette habit. In a few years the only Americans smoking will be rebellious youth and addicted geriatrics.”
Chance leaned forward slightly in his chair and looked Alejo Vargas straight in the eye. “The future of the cigarette industry is to sell American brands to non-Americans. All over the world people in developing countries want the image American cigarettes present: prosperity, sex appeal, luxury, a rising status in the world. These images are no accident. They have been carefully created and nurtured at great expense by the American cigarette companies.”
Chance paused here to see if his host had anything to say. He didn’t. Alejo Vargas sat silently with a blank, expressionless face. Not a single muscle revealed a clue about its owner’s thoughts. Through the years Alejo had had a lot of experience listening to Castro’s long-winded expositions.
William Henry Chance summed up: “Minister, under the benevolent eye of a government that wants the industry to succeed, the prospects for profit are enormous. In the future the cigarette companies will grow the tobacco, process it, advertise, and sell the cigarettes. Cubans could own part of the companies, which would pay taxes and employ Cubans at a living wage. Here is a product that could be produced locally and sold worldwide. Cigarettes could be gold for Cuba in the twenty-first century.”
Now Alejo Vargas smiled. “I like you, Señor Chance. I like your style.”
“You can’t fool me,” Chance shot back. “You like my message.”
“Cuba needs industries in addition to sugar.”
“The key, General, is a stable government that will protect the industry. Let me be frank: my clients have a great deal of money to invest, but they will not do so without the clear, unequivocal prospect of a stable government that will guarantee their right to do business and earn a fair profit.”
“Any promises or guarantees must come from the proper ministries of our government, with the consent of our president, Señor Castro,” Alejo Vargas said from the depths of his padded leather chair.
“It is the future of Cuba I wish to discuss with you, General. I state unequivocally that my clients will not invest a dime in Cuba until such time as the American government lifts the economic embargo. Candidly, the embargo will not be lifted as long as Castro remains in office.”
“Your candor deserves equal honesty on my part,” General Vargas said. “Castro will remain in office until he chooses to leave of his own free will or until he dies. Do not be mistaken—regardless of what drivel you hear from the exiles, Fidel Castro is universally admired, loved, revered as a great patriot by virtually everyone in Cuba. There is no opposition, no movement to remove him … none of that.”
“It is the distant future I wish to discuss with you.”
“Very distant,” the general said.
“After Castro.”
“I do not have a crystal ball, Señor, Chance. I may not live so long.”
“Nor I, sir. But very likely the cigarette industry will still be in business and looking for new opportunities to grow.”
“Perhaps,” Alejo Vargas admitted, and cocked his head slightly. He had seen transcripts of Chance’s telephone calls to the United States and a transcript of the conversations that had taken place in his room. The man hadn’t said one word about Castro’s health nor had anyone mentioned it to him.
Still, it was a remarkable coincidence that he was here in Havana talking about post-Castro Cuba, and Castro was dying.
Alejo Vargas didn’t believe in coincidences. His instincts told him that William Henry Chance was not who he appeared to be. As he listened to Chance talk about cigarette marketing and demographics in the Third World, he removed the file on Chance from his desk drawer. Holding
the file in his lap where Chance could not see it, he carefully reviewed the information it contained. The photographs he could not scrutinize closely but he was willing to accept them as genuine. Mr. William Henry Chance of New York City was probably a senior partner in a large law firm—after looking once more at the file Vargas would have been shocked if he weren’t. All the right things were in the file. At least the file collectors were thorough, if nothing else, Vargas thought. Still, Chance’s position and profession might be an elaborate cover.
When he finished with the file Vargas returned it to the desk drawer just as Chance was summing up. The lawyer had charts and graphs. Vargas didn’t even glance at them. He studied Chance’s eyes, the way they focused, how they moved, how the muscles tensed and relaxed as he talked.
It was possible, Vargas decided. William Henry Chance might be CIA.
Thirty minutes later when Chance was packing his charts and graphs to leave he pulled a small package from his briefcase and offered it to Vargas. “Here’s something you might enjoy, General. Sort of an executive pacifier. These things are hot right now in the States so I picked up a few at the airport.”
Vargas unwrapped the tissue paper. He was looking at a small plastic frame from which three odd-shaped crystals dangled, suspended by strings.
“These crystals are man-made and react to differential heating,” Chance explained. “You put this on the windowsill and the crystals dance around, refracting the sunlight. Very colorful.”
“Thank you,” Vargas said mechanically, and sat the toy on his desk.
When Chance was gone Colonel Santana called an aide, who examined the device visually, then took it away to be examined electronically.
An hour later the aide returned with the toy in hand. “It is what it appears to be, sir, merely three lumps of oddly shaped crystal on strings. The crystals and frame are entirely solid; they contain nothing.”
“Americans! Executive pacifier!” Vargas said contemptuously.
Colonel Santana put the toy on a south-facing windowsill, watched the crystals dance in the sun for a moment, then forgot about it.
William Henry Chance took his time walking to his hotel, the Nacional, a classic 1930s masterpiece near Havana harbor. He left his locked briefcase
in his room, then went downstairs to the hotel restaurant, which charged truly stupendous amounts of American dollars for very modest food. In fact, the only currency the hotel staff would accept was American dollars. Colorful wooden panels and ceramic accents, and peacocks wandering around like refugees from an aviary, gave the place an overthe-top Caribbean look, Chance thought, sort of South Miami Beach racheted one notch too tight.
Chance ordered a sea bass, blackened and grilled, black beans and rice, avocados, and a mojito, a delicious concoction of lime juice, sugar, mint leaves, and rum—just what the doctor ordered to prevent scurvy. He savored the fish, sipped a second mojito, contemplated the state of the universe and his fellow diners.
The hotel staff, he knew, were employees of the Cuban secret police. When they weren’t rushing here and there with daiquiris and fruit drinks they worked for Vargas, spied on the guests, listened to their conversations, searched their luggage, filled out written reports.
Chance knew the routine. He also knew that the Cubans would learn nothing by watching him because there was nothing to learn.
As he drank his second mojito he carefully reviewed everything Vargas had said during his interview. He thought about the general’s face, the total lack of expression when the demise of Fidel Castro was discussed.
Of course Alejo Vargas knew that Castro was dying. He must know. What Vargas didn’t know was that the CIA was equally aware of Castro’s medical condition.
When Chance finished dinner he went out on the street for a walk. First he had to work his way through the crowd of Cubans loafing around the entrance to the hotel. Knots of poor, bored Cubans with nothing to do and nowhere to go thronged the sidewalks in front of every nightclub and casino listening to the music that floated out through open doors and windows. Occasionally people danced or sang, but mostly they just passed the time chatting and watching the tourists, and beggars and prostitutes trying to extract dollars from them.
Several blocks away Chance stopped to buy bread. The man who sold him the bread gave him a peso in change.
One peso meant yes, two meant no.
Chance smiled, nodded his thanks, and walked on.
The crystal device was working. The vibrations of human voices in the room changed the motion of the crystals in predictable, minute amounts. When a powerful optical device was focused on the crystals,
the refracted light was processed through a computer into human speech. The crystals were a totally passive listening device.
So far so good, Chance reflected, and walked on aimlessly, for the exercise, drinking in the sights, sounds, and smells of Havana. She was like a painted old whore, he thought, trying to keep up appearances. The tourist attractions were gay and lively, temples of hedonism set in a gray communist wasteland.
Outside the tourist area the city reeked of destitution and decay. The crumbling, rotting buildings were choked to the rafters with people, often four families to every apartment. The people fought daily battles to get enough food and basics to sustain life. Away from the clubs and hotels, the faces of the people were gloomy, drawn, without hope.
The poison of communism had done its work here, as it had in every nation that had ever embraced it. After the revolution the government expropriated almost all private property, from the vast estates of the rich to the corner grocery. Hopeless, grinding poverty became nearly universal. Forty years after the revolution the average wage was ten dollars a month, girls from all over Cuba flocked to Havana to prostitute themselves on the streets, everything necessary for a decent life was outrageously expensive or unavailable at any price. The social justice that the communists had promised was as far away as ever: the pain and misery that blighted and made wretched millions of lives had not brought that goal one step closer.
The tourist attractions were the supreme irony, of course. These monuments to greed and sins of the flesh were owned and operated by the socialist state to attract hard currency. The dollars were brought in and spent here by decadent capitalists who earned the money exploiting the workers of the world somewhere else.
If Karl Marx only knew. With the banners of social justice flying in the blue tropic sky, the Cubans had joined the Pied Piper of the Sierra Maestra as he marched bravely down the road to hell. The crumbling buildings, decrepit old cars, hookers on every corner, universal hopelessness—it looked as if the whole parade had almost arrived.
Very curious, William Henry Chance thought. Curious as hell.
From this vantage point he could see all of it, his whole life, as if it were a play being performed before him. The memories came back vivid and clear, the scenes scrolling before his eyes. The mistakes and lost opportunities
and petty vendettas played endlessly, inevitably, and he lived it all again, powerless to change a word or gesture.
He was in pain these days, a lot of it, and the doctor this morning had given him a strong narcotic. Now he floated, half-asleep, the pain that had doubled him into the fetal position now a tolerable dull ache. Even as his mind raced, his body relaxed.
Mercedes Sedano sat in a chair in the darkened room beside the bed, looking into the gloomy darkness and lost in her own thoughts.
She reached for Fidel when he moaned and put her hand on his forehead. He had always liked the sensual coolness of her fingers. Her touch now seemed to quiet him. He relaxed again, then tossed restlessly as the ghosts of the past paraded through the recesses of his mind.
An hour later, his eyes opened, though they didn’t focus. Finally the head moved and the eyes sought her out.
Fidel Castro said nothing, merely looked.
He could feel the narcotic wearing off. The pain was coming back. He opened his mouth to ask for the doctor, then thought better of it.
He licked his lips. “I want to make a videotape,” he whispered, barely audible.
“Are you strong enough?”
“For a little while, I could be, I think. It must be done.”
“What will you say?”
“I don’t know exactly. I need to think about it.”
“When do you wish to do this tape?”
“Soon, I think, or never.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow. Tell the doctor. I must be alert tomorrow, if only for a little while.”
“Why?”
“I want to dictate my political will.”
She leaned forward and put her face next to his. “Can you visit a moment with me?”
“Te quiero, mujer.”
“Y yo te adoro, me viejo.”
“We will talk for a little bit, then the doctor and the needle.” He was perspiring now, his body becoming tense.
“I am being selfish. I will call the doctor now.”
“In a moment. I want to tell you … I love you. You have been the rock I have held on to the last few years.”
She wiped away her tears and kissed him.
Then he said, “I have made many mistakes in my life, but I have always tried to do what I thought best for Cuba. Always. Without fail.”
“Why do you think I love you so?”
“I want the Cuban people to remember me well. They are my children.”
“They will never forget.”
“I must help them march into the future.”
He drew his knees to his chest. His eyes were bright, perspiration coursed from his forehead and soaked into the pillow.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “I will think. Get the doctor now.”
She squeezed his hand, then left the room.
Maximo Sedano spent the evening on his yacht cruising in sight of Morro Castle. The breeze blew the tops off occasional waves under a deep blue sky. Maximo’s two guests looked decidedly pale as they huddled with him around the small table near the galley.
“If Castro dies, will the drug smugglers continue to do business with us?” asked Admiral Delgado, head of the Cuban Navy. For the last fifteen years he had limited his nautical activities to visiting patrol boats tied to piers.
“If we can guarantee the continued safety of their products and their people, of course,” Maximo said.
“We can’t guarantee anything,” General Alba, Chief of Staff of the Cuban Army, said bitterly. “The whole thing is going to fall apart; we are going to lose something very sweet.”
It was typical of Delgado and Alba, Maximo thought, that their very first thought of the future was of their pocketbooks. Money. These small, petty men lived for the bribes. Truly, they were unable to see what lay outside of the tiny circle where they lived their miserable, corrupt lives.
Alas, the best military man in Cuba under the age of eighty, the air force chief, died last month. Castro had yet to name a replacement, and probably would not.
Maximo sighed. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said. “But change always
presents opportunity, if one knows where to look for it. Gentlemen, it all boils down to this: Who will rule Cuba when the dust settles after the funeral?”
“It won’t be you,” General Alba said curtly. “Five of my regional commanders are in Hector Sedano’s pocket, and there is little I can do about it unless I relieve them and put someone else in their place.” He gave a tiny shrug. “Castro must endorse the order. If I make a major move like that without his consent, he will sack me.”
“He is sick.”
“His aides will sack me, using his authority. I cannot disobey Fidel while he draws breath. You know that as well as I.”
“Perhaps you should shoot these disloyal subordinates,” the admiral said slowly, eyeing his colleague.
“If you have some loyal men who will wait until the right moment,” Maximo added.
“When Castro dies?”
“No. When I give the word. Not until then.”
“I have some loyal men, certainly,” the general said. “I have spread the money around, made sure it got all the way down the chain. Only a fool plays the pig or hands great wads of money to someone else to distribute. My men get their share. The devil of it is that the disloyal ones think Alejo Vargas puts it in their pockets. They think he is the good fairy.”
“Will they obey you without question?”
“The loyal men will obey me, yes.”
“And will you obey me?” Maximo Sedano demanded.
General Alba stared at Maximo impudently. “I will not lift a finger to put you on the throne as the new Fidel unless …” he said roughly, still looking Maximo straight in the eye, “unless you represent my interests, which are also the interests of my men, and you have a chance to win. I don’t think that you have such a chance.”
“I hear you, Alba. We have worked together for years; there is enough sugar here for all of us.” Maximo glanced at the admiral. “Do you agree?”
“Oh, there’s enough. But money isn’t everything. The fact is that Alejo Vargas is a blackmailer and has been gathering his filth for twenty years. His spies are everywhere; he sees and hears everything.”
The admiral picked up the thought. “Vargas has corrupted people
you would not suspect, and those he can’t corrupt, he blackmails. I give you my honest opinion: You have no chance against this man.”
“Without friends, I do not, that is true.”
“I tell you now, Maximo, you have no friends who wish to die with you. Few men do.”
“What I cannot understand,” the soldier said, “is why Fidel tolerated your brother’s antics. He has been told repeatedly of Hector’s activities, of the meetings, the speeches, the subtle criticism of Fidel and the choices he made. Why does Fidel tolerate this?”
“I asked him that question once,” Maximo said, “a year or so ago. Believe me, he has been carefully briefed on Hector Sedano.”
“What did he say?”
“He said Hector was a barometer. The people’s reactions to his message told Fidel how unhappy they were with him, with the government. People routinely lie to government clerks, but if they go out of their way to listen to Hector Sedano make a speech, that means something. For my part, I think Fidel wisely considers what the Church might think. Like it or not, Hector is a priest. Fidel has carefully reached out to the Vatican the last few years—he cannot afford to antagonize the pope.”
“Are you saying he doesn’t care what Hector says?”
“Three or four years ago when Hector first came to his attention, I think Fidel found him extremely irritating. Believe me, I warned Hector repeatedly, tried to get him to use reason, to control his tongue. He ignored me. Flouted me.
“I think Fidel intended to imprison Hector when he had said enough to convict himself with his own mouth. I told Hector he was playing with fire. But as Fidel got sicker, I think he lost interest. He just listens to the reports now, asks a few questions about the size of the crowds, who was there, and goes on to another subject.”
“Surely Fidel doesn’t intend that Hector Sedano rule after him?” Admiral Delgado asked, his disapproval of Castro’s attitude quite plain.
“If we are to have a chance at the prize, we must strike when Fidel breathes his last,” Maximo said. “And quickly. Alejo Vargas must be assassinated within hours of Castro’s death. Within minutes.”
“We would have to kill Santana too,” the general said. “I have trouble sleeping nights knowing he is out there listening to everything, planning, scheming at Alejo’s side.”
“Who is going to do this killing?” the admiral asked.
No one spoke.
“Our problem is going to be staying alive,” the general said, “because Alejo Vargas and Santana will eliminate us at the slightest hint that we might be a threat.”
“What about Hector?”
“Hector will have to dodge his own bullets.”
“You are sheep,” Maximo muttered, loud enough for them to hear,
“without the courage to take your fate in your own hands. The wolves will rip out your throats.”
Toad Tarkington and his wife, Lieutenant Commander Rita Moravia, were seated in the back corner of the main wardroom aboard United States, drinking after-dinner coffee and conversing in low tones. A naval test pilot, Rita was on an exchange tour with the Marine squadron aboard Kearsarge so that she could gain operational experience on the tiltrotor Osprey prior to its introduction into navy squadrons.
As usual when he was around Rita, Toad Tarkington had a smile on his face. He felt good. Life is good, he thought as he watched her tell him what their son, Tyler, now four years old, had said in his most recent letter. She had received the missive earlier today. Of course Tyler wrote it with the help of Rita’s parents, who looked after him when Rita and Toad were both at sea.
Yes, life is good! It flows along, and if you surround yourself with interesting people and interesting problems, it’s worth living. Toad grinned broadly, vastly content.
“May I join you?” Toad and Rita looked up, and saw the new chief of staff standing there with a cup of coffee in his hands.
“Please do, Captain. Have you met my wife, Rita Moravia?”
Gil Pascal hadn’t. He and Rita shook hands, said all the usual getting-acquainted things.
After they discussed the command that the captain had just left, Pascal said, “I understand that you two have known Admiral Grafton for some years.”
“Oh, yes,” Toad agreed. “I was just a lieutenant in an F-14 outfit when I first met him. He was the air wing commander, aboard this very ship in fact. We went to the Med that time, had a run-in with El Hakim.”
“I remember the incident,” Pascal said. “The ship went to the yard
for a year and a half when she got back to the States. And Admiral Grafton was awarded the Medal of Honor.”
Toad just nodded. “Rita met the admiral a few months later in Washington,” Toad said, trying to move the conversation along. Conversations about El Hakim made him uncomfortable. That was long ago and far away, when he was single. Now, he realized with a jolt, things were much different—he had Rita and Tyler.
He was thinking about how being a family man changed his outlook when he heard Rita say, “Toad has served with Admiral Grafton ever since then. Somehow he’s always found a billet that allowed him to do that.”
“You know Admiral Grafton pretty well then,” Pascal said to Toad.
“He’s the second best friend I have in this life,” Toad replied lightly. He was smiling, and deadly serious. “Rita is numero uno, Jake Grafton is number two.”
From there the conversation turned to Rita’s current assignment, evaluation of the new V-22 Osprey. After a few minutes Toad asked Rita, “May I get you more coffee?”
At her nod, Toad excused himself, took both cups and went toward the coffee urn on a side table. Normally a steward served the coffee, but just now they were cleaning up after the evening meal.
Captain Pascal asked, “Have your husband’s assignments hurt his career?”
Rita knew what he meant. Toad had not followed the classic career path that was supposed to lead to major command, then flag rank. “Perhaps.” She gave a minute shrug. “He made his choice. Jake Grafton appeals to a different side of Toad’s personality than I do.”
“Oh, of course,” said the captain, feeling his way. “Spouses and friends, very different, quite understandable …”
“Jake Grafton can trade nuances with the best bureaucrats in the business, and he can attack a problem in a brutally direct manner.” Rita searched for words, then added, “He always tries to do the right thing, regardless of the personal consequences. I think that is the quality Toad admires the most.”
“I see,” said the chief of staff, but it was obvious that he didn’t.
As Toad walked toward the table with a coffee cup in each hand, Rita Moravia took a last stab at explanation: “Jake Grafton and Toad Tarkington are not uniformed technocrats or clerks or button pushers. They are warriors: I think they sense that in one another.”
The shadows were dissipating to dusky twilight as Ocho Sedano walked the streets toward the dock area. Over each shoulder he carried a bag which he had stitched together from bedsheets. One contained a few changes of clothes, a baseball glove, several photos of his family—all that he wished to take with him into his new life in America. Truly, when you inventory the stuff that fills your life, you can do without most of it. Diego Coca said to travel light and Ocho took him literally.
The other bag contained bottles of water. He had searched the trash for bottles, had washed them carefully, filled them with water, and corked them. Diego hadn’t mentioned water or food, but Ocho remembered his conversation with his brother, Hector, and thought bringing water would be a wise precaution.
He also had two baked potatoes in the bag.
Diego would laugh at him—they were not going to be at sea long enough to get really hungry, or so he said.
Please, God, let Diego be right. Let us be in America when the sun rises tomorrow.
There would be a man waiting in the Keys, waiting on a certain beach. Diego showed Ocho a map with the beach clearly marked in ink. “He was a close friend of my wife’s brother,” Diego said. “A man who can be trusted.”
The boat was fast enough, Diego said, to be in American waters at dawn. They would make their approach to the beach as the sun rose, when obstructions to navigation were visible, when they could check landmarks and buoys.
Diego was confident. Dora believed her father, looked at him with shining eyes when he talked of America, of how it would be to live in an American house, go to the huge stadiums and watch Ocho play baseball while everyone cheered … to have a television, plenty to eat, nice clothes, a car!
Dios mio, America did sound like a paradise! To hear Diego tell it America was heaven, lacking only the angel choir … and it was just a boat ride away across the Florida Straits.
Of course, Diego said they would probably get seasick, would probably vomit. That was inevitable, to be expected, a price to be paid.
And they could get caught by the Cubans or Americans, get sent back
here. “We’ll be no worse off than we are now if that happens,” Diego argued. “We can always try again to get to America. God knows, we can’t get any poorer.”
Dora with the shining eyes … she looked so expectant.
She was the first, the very first woman he had ever made love to. And she got pregnant after that one time!
When she first told him, he had doubted her. Didn’t want to believe. She became angry, threw a tantrum. Then he had believed.
He thought about her now as he walked the dark streets, past people sitting in doorways, couples holding hands, past bars with music coming through the doorways. He had spent his whole life here and now he was leaving, an event of the first order of magnitude. Surely they could see the transformation in his face, in the way he walked.
Several people called to him, “El Ocho!” Several fans wanted to shake his hand, but no more than usual. This was the way they always acted as he walked by—this was the way people had treated him since he was fifteen.
He left the people behind and walked past the closed fish markets and warehouses. His footsteps echoed off the buildings.
The boat was in a slip, Diego said, behind a certain boatyard.
He rounded the corner, saw people. Men, women, and children standing in little knots. Hmm, they were right near the slip.
They were standing around the slip.
He saw Diego standing on the dock, and Dora.
People stepped out of the way to let him by.
“All these people,” he said to Diego, “Did you announce our departure at the ballpark? I thought we were going to sneak out of here.”
Diego had a sick look on his face. “They’re going with us,” he said.
“What?”
“The captain brought his relatives, my brother heard we were leaving, talked to some of his friends … .”
Ocho stared at the boat. The boat’s name on the stern was written in black paint, which was chipping and peeling off. Angel del Mar, Angel of the Sea. The boat was maybe forty feet long, with a little pilothouse. Fishing nets still hung from the aft mast. The crowd—he estimated there were close to fifty people standing here.
“How many people, Diego? How many?”
“Over eighty.”
“On that boat? In the Gulf Stream? Está loco?”
Diego was beside himself. “This is our chance, Ocho. We can make it. God is with us.”
“God? If the boat swamps, will He keep us from drowning?”
“Ocho, listen to me. My friends are waiting in Florida. This is our chance to make it to America, to be something, to live decent … . This is our chance.”
People were staring at him, listening to Diego.
Ocho looked into the faces looking at him. He tore his eyes away, finally, looked back at Diego, who had his hand on Ocho’s arm.
“No. I am not going.” He pulled his arm from Diego’s grasp. “Go with one less, you will all have a little better chance.”
“You have to go,” Diego pleaded, and grabbed his arm.
“Ocho,” Dora wailed.
“You have to go,” Diego snarled. “You got her pregnant! Be a man!”