I realized with a shock that I was in more real danger than ever before in my life. But I still couldn’t get over the fact that Guadalupe Solano had finally made it to Cuba. Who cared if I was stuck in a sailboat, eaten by mosquitoes, with a hugely pregnant woman I didn’t really know? I was home, for the first time.
Looking around, I felt that my eyes would never get enough of the place. I saw royal palms in the distance—the symbol of Cuba—as tall and regal as I always imagined. I think every Cuban exile family has something—a painting, a photograph—of that symbol in their home, always reminding them of their heritage and origins.
From the bow of the Mamita I could see mountains in the distance. I flared with anger at myself for not knowing more about Cuban geography, for not knowing the landmarks. In my dreams of going home to Cuba it was always through Havana, stepping from a 747, clutching my Louis Vuitton carry-on bag. I never pictured arriving in a sailboat at some godforsaken fishing village on the rocky northern coast.
I took out the binoculars and looked around some more, every colorful detail imprinted upon my memory forever. I looked at the butterflies circling up the coast, and at the lush plant life—captivated for the first time ever by the wild variety of nature. Osvaldo would have been proud. But I couldn’t sustain this level of wonder for too long; reality started to intrude on my thoughts more and more.
Two hours passed. The morning sun seemed more tropical, reflecting against the water and making my skin feel too hot. Absolutely nothing had happened: no one appeared, the Cuban navy didn’t arrive to arrest us. I had started to pick at my cuticles—definitely a bad sign—and I watched Barbara smoke her way through an entire Montecristo Number One. No small feat.
The silence rang in my ears through the stagnant air, broken only by the buzzing of insects. Mosquitoes had begun to dive-bomb us in exotic, military-style formations. I told myself that if nothing happened in the next hour, we had to come up with another plan. Miami never sounded so good.
“There’s someone in the bushes there, to the left of that palm tree,” Barbara whispered, her lips barely moving. “Two men, maybe three of them. They’ve been there for a few minutes now, watching us.”
My heart beat so fiercely in my chest I was sure the men could hear it. I tried to glance casually at the trees and the high grass, but I couldn’t see a thing. Part of me wanted something to happen; the other part wished nothing ever would. If I closed my eyes long and tight enough, when I opened them I would be in my chintz bedroom palace in Cocoplum.
“There’s three of them, and they’re coming closer.” Barbara held out a hand for me to stay still. “I recognize two of them, Alberto’s cousins, but there’s an older one I don’t know.”
The hell with it. I turned and looked straight at the three men approaching the shore near the Mamita. They looked harmless enough, if you didn’t mind the rifles they were carrying. They climbed into a small wooden dinghy hidden in the marshes and rowed toward us.
“Barbara, welcome back,” the man in the front of the boat called out. His face and those of his companions were obscured by wide straw hats typical of Cuban peasants, and all three wore shabby canvas work pants and short-sleeved button-up shirts. They all looked poor.
When the boat got closer the man in front stared at me and called out, “I don’t see Alberto. Where is he?”
“He didn’t come, Pedro, he had another job he had to do this time.” Barbara smiled and pointed to me. “Marta here came instead.”
“Hola. Nice to meet you,” he said. I smiled with as much confidence as I could manage, keeping my hands where the men could see them.
I looked over at Barbara and saw her nostrils flare with anxiety. She tried not to, but she kept staring at the older man. He was obviously not part of the usual picture, and I knew that we had already lost control of the situation. I wouldn’t have been too worried, but Barbara was graver than I’d ever seen her. I wondered if we should have brought some muscle along for the trip. It hadn’t seemed necessary, since the Cubans were desperate and motivated by greed—which I figured would ensure our safety. Now I wasn’t so sure.
Something definitely wasn’t right. The men gave me the once-over, and apparently accepted my presence. As they carefully climbed aboard the Mamita, Barbara stealthily placed her machete under the waistband of her long skirt.
“I’m so sorry,” she said as they came on board. “I forgot my manners. Marta, these are Alberto’s cousins, Pedro and Tomas. I’m afraid I’ve never met their friend before.”
The old man’s face clouded when Barbara drew attention to him. He stood behind Pedro and Tomas, preoccupied with the boat’s instrument panel. There was something at once different and familiar about him. The cousins resembled each other, though Pedro was obviously a few years older than Tomas, with more lines of age and sun in his Spanish features, but the older man seemed unrelated to them. His hair was white, long, and sparse, and a thin snowy beard partially obscured his angular features.
“My name is Alvaro,” he said, bowing to Barbara and me in a courtly manner. He had a slight accent, difficult to place.
Pedro stood with his arms folded, squinting into the morning sun. “Well, since Alberto couldn’t come, we might as well start our business. What did you bring us from Miami?” A demanding tone crept into his voice. “I hope you were generous. Things here lately have been very, very bad.”
We watched warily—it seemed the prudent thing to do—as the three men went into the cabin and began to search it. They opened the cabinets and found a manila envelope full of cash Barbara had left there.
The cabin started to smell of the men’s sweat. They opened all the cargo holds with a sense of ownership, within fifteen minutes taking everything Barbara purchased for them, as well as our own clothes and most of the few possessions we brought. I really didn’t care what they took, as long as they didn’t make off with the gasoline we needed to return to Miami. I half expected to see them roll out big gas drums, but thankfully they didn’t.
Pedro handed the goods down to Tomas and dispatched him and Alvaro to the shore, where they unloaded everything into a metal cart.
“You did well,” Pedro said approvingly to Barbara. “This should last us awhile.”
Pedro was right. I was astounded by what she bought with the cash I gave her. She should have won Shopper of the Year: She brought the Cubans all sorts of toiletries—shampoo by the gallon, soap, toothpaste, deodorant, hand lotion. She bought all kinds of small electrical appliances, batteries, fans, flashlights. There was at least a pantryful of canned goods, with rice and flour, and beer on ice. An impressive stash, and the Cubans recognized it.
Tomas returned for another load while Alvaro stood on the shore, watching us and smoking a cigarette. Barbara and I stood with Pedro in the hot cabin, looking at each other like uncomfortable guests at a strange party, not knowing how to break the ice.
Tomas dropped the last of the goods into the cart and returned with the dinghy. Alvaro called out from the shore, “Barbara and Marta, you come with us to the house while we get organized.”
His tone didn’t encourage debate. Until then I thought Pedro was the de facto leader of this group, but it seemed that Alvaro was going to make the policy decisions. I didn’t like that, because I couldn’t read him at all and because he was the only member of the group Barbara hadn’t met before.
She and I were reluctant to leave the safety of the Mamita, but we had little choice. We secured the cabin and took the dinghy to shore.
We walked with the men for about a mile through scrub brush along the coastline, with Tomas pushing the heavy cart on the rough path carved through the countryside. The place had an air of desolation about it, and I turned away when I felt Pedro’s eyes on me. Alvaro took the lead, whistling softly to himself and saying nothing.
We passed through a clearing into a small grove of palms and were suddenly at the outskirts of a tiny village. Smells of the sea permeated the air. Drying, half-torn fishing nets were strewn everywhere, with dilapidated boats up on racks in need of repair. A few shacks were arranged in a circle, each begging for a coat of paint.
There were no people around anywhere, and the whole place had an abandoned air about it. We were still on the outskirts of the town, but it was strange not to see anyone. With every step we took I felt more and more sure that I was losing control of the situation—and a growing certainty that I had miscalculated. The men kept their rifles pointed toward the ground, but somehow I understood they were ready to use them.
Barbara and I walked side by side, and I suddenly noticed that the men were on either side of us. I felt like a prisoner rather than an honored guest. When we reached a gate in front of a newer, marginally better-kept house, Alvaro turned on us without warning.
“We stop here,” he said. His face was in shadows again, covered by the straw hat.
He opened the gate, which led to a path covered in little white stones that crunched as we stepped on them. Dust clouds whirled around our feet as we made our way up to the front door.
Alvaro motioned toward the door. “Please come in.”
We were still alone in Isabela de Sagua, if that was where they had taken us. The dilapidated, abandoned air of this place made me fear that Alberto’s cousins and their friend had taken us somewhere else.
We had no choice. Alvaro led us into a relatively large, sparsely furnished living room. He motioned toward a door to the left of us.
Before following his orders like lambs going to slaughter—and that’s what it felt like—I had a close look around. I wanted to remember as much as I could about the place, in case I needed the knowledge later on. I had Papi to thank for teaching me from an early age to read blueprints and pay attention to architectural layouts—once a contractor’s daughter, always a contractor’s daughter.
The front door led directly into the square-tiled living/dining room. I tried not to let the revolutionary posters on the wall distract me, though it was hard to ignore the heroes of the “glorious Cuban revolution”—Fidel, Che, and Camilo—watching my every move. The ceiling was high, easily fifteen feet. I counted five doors off this main room, two to each side and one directly opposite the front door. I could see inside the latter door a little, where there was a dirty kitchen. The other doors were closed. I feared the only way into the place was through the front door.
The house was in poor shape, all peeling paint and sagging walls. There was mildew on the wood. The sole couch and pair of armchairs arranged around a glass coffee table looked cheap and dirty and lent the place the air of somewhere unlived in and uncared for. Fatima would say it had bad vibes. I thought it looked like a place where nothing good could happen.
Alvaro apparently decided we’d waited too long to follow his command. He cleared his throat with a nicotine rumble—very charming—and held the door open for us. This was obviously more than an invitation.
“If you would like to freshen up, everything you need is in there,” he said politely.
I knew what was about to happen. We entered the room slowly, Barbara first, then me. When we were inside, the door shut behind us. We heard the key turn in the lock, then the front door closing. Then there was nothing.