CHAPTER 5

The bubbling and spurting had ceased, the coffee already served by the time Serguey and Victor went to the kitchen. Serguey could sense the cumbrance of the newly-formed bags under his eyes as he stared at the dark liquid. He had tossed in his bed, trapped in a purgatory between sleep and alertness for most of the night. He had gone to the bathroom twice, though he didn’t really need to. His appearance in the mirror was worse the second time. He had splashed water on his face, attempting to wake himself, but his body moved as if loaded with drugs, his mind skipping like a record: it’s over, it’s over, and he could do nothing else but return to the bed.

“I’m sorry if the coffee tastes funny,” Anabel said. She was standing barefoot by the stove, wearing a sunflower-patterned nightgown. “Did Serguey’s underwear fit you fine?” she asked Victor.

Victor sipped his coffee. “They’re uncomfortable.” The bravado was gone from his tone. “Not the best thing for a day like today, but I guess I have no choice.”

Serguey blew into his cup and stirred it carefully.

Anabel said to Victor, “Let your brother handle things, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I mean it. If he ends up in trouble because of you, you’re going to deal with me.”

Victor drank all his coffee and gave the cup back to her. “He’s the lawyer.”

Serguey scoffed. “Which in this case means exactly nothing.”

Anabel pushed her lips to Serguey’s stubbled cheek. “You should be on your way already.”

He drew her close and kissed her mouth. “I’ll see you soon.”

Serguey hadn’t asked anyone for a ride. The authorities could interpret a mere favor as collusion, and what assurance did he have that a person involved in helping him wouldn’t crack under the pressure of a system willing to punish the slightest sign of dissent?

He and Victor had half a century of history working against them.

With no car at their disposal, they had to take two buses. Brimming with morning commuters, the second bus grinded to a halt a handful of stops before their destination. People congregated outside by the door, jeering and hissing. The driver, slack-faced, checked behind the wheels. Eventually he waved his hat and told the crowd the vehicle was out for the count. People converged on him, one man telling him that he was a mechanic. The driver opened the rear hatch. The parts, tubes, and cables were coated by smut, some of it so black that it gave the appearance of charring, as if the bus had been on fire. The mechanic tinkered with some cables and clicked his tongue.

“Burnt all the way through,” he said. “Ride’s over, people.”

The brothers walked on an empty road, far enough from both the city and the sea for foreign investors and the government to bypass development. Nearly three desolate kilometers later, they were at the prison’s entrance. The white walls of the complex had lost their luster. The cylinder-wrought bars casing the windows had corroded like bad plumbing. The front gate and name of the prison, however, were freshly painted—the letters slanted and curved, as if handwritten. The surrounding streets were barren, blanketed with dust and rocks. The remnants of two adjacent buildings had been picked apart, used for basic renovations and repairs, a common practice in Havana. It was as if the area had been leveled and Calderas had survived, proud of its sturdiness and scars. The heartbreaking resilience of a neglected place, Felipe had written in the last play he’d authored, referencing Havana. Serguey had never been inclined to revise the phrase, to change it for himself: it spoke for every weathered ounce of brick and mortar still standing in the city. What lay inside Calderas, that was another story. He had visited on several occasions as a defense attorney. On his last visit, he had ridden on a bicycle carrier, his briefcase nestled between him and the man who was pedaling—his client’s good-hearted nephew.

Serguey presented his credentials to the guards at the gate and explained that his father was being held there. “I’m looking for Colonel Montalvo.”

The guards patted him and Victor down. One of the men, sporting a fishbone-shaped scar on his forearm, frowned and said, “Go ahead, comrades.”

At the sign-in desk, they provided their IDs and gave Felipe’s name. They were required to fill out a form and be searched once more.

“Montalvo will see you now,” the desk clerk said. “Officer Yenier here will escort you.”

Serguey felt a growling in his stomach, but it actually made no sound. They followed the officer through a long corridor, opposite a group of cellblocks.

Serguey whispered to Victor, “Let me do the talking.”

Victor closed his eyes and nodded.

A series of rectangular windows offered a passing view to the shabby courtyard below. The open space served as the prisoners’ recreational area. The basketball boards and hoops were missing. All that was left were the cement posts spearing up, the tops slightly bent. Serguey had heard a story about an inmate who’d tried to hang himself from one of the posts, putting on a show in front of the entire complex. The guards did nothing but watch the man fail miserably. They were so amused that they didn’t punish or isolate him. Instead they asked some of his fellow inmates to give him more shoelaces and encourage him to repeat the attempt, just for a laugh. Looking at the posts, Serguey saw that the angle at which the top of the structure bowed did not allow for any leverage. It was obvious that a rope or cord wouldn’t hold without sliding down.

Montalvo’s office was consistent with the rest of the prison. His desk and chairs were small and worn. The ceiling was in need of repair. Brown stains, smelling of tobacco, smattered the floor like squished roaches. A large photograph of Fidel and Che Guevara, both wearing berets and decked in military attire, hung from the wall. A pale Cuban flag curtained the window behind Montalvo, projecting shards of red, white, and blue over his head, like a kaleidoscopic halo. What was left of a cigar was jammed into the corner of the colonel’s mouth. His hands were on the top of his head, allowing Serguey and Victor a view of the round sweat blots in his armpits. The escorting officer stood next to the colonel, his countenance grave as ragged stone. Just like the suicidal inmate with the shoelaces, Serguey surmised, they were putting on a show.

“How may I help you, comrades?” Montalvo asked, the cigar waggling in his mouth.

“We’re here to see our father.”

“You’re Serguey, right?”

“Yes.”

Montalvo grinned and shot a glance at the escorting officer. “He looks like a Serguey, doesn’t he?”

Yenier remained unfazed.

The ex-colonel looked back at Serguey. “I’ll get to the point. Your daddy’s in big trouble. He pissed off people so high up, I’m still trying to get them out of my ass.”

“What did he do?”

“The question is why. The only reason you and your brother were allowed in here is that we’re hoping you’ll tell us.”

“We don’t know anything,” Victor said.

“I highly doubt it, but I respect the sentiment. I have a father too. Bastard used to hit me with a belt, but here I am, so he must have done something right.”

Serguey said, “Colonel—”

“That was in another life. Call me Montalvo.”

“I apologize. Montalvo, I’m a lawyer, so believe me, I know these are special circumstances. We would appreciate it immensely if you’d let us see our father. We’re willing to cooperate in any way we can. We just want to make sure he’s okay.”

Montalvo put his feet down and his elbows on the desk. “I thought you’d be smarter than this. You’ve just implied there’s a chance your daddy’s not okay, that we’ve hurt him. I’m no lawyer, but what you just did can be interpreted as questioning state authority. You have no faith in the system? Hell, that almost makes you a counterrevolutionary!”

“That’s not what he said,” Victor put in.

Montalvo chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re letting your brother talk.”

“I’m asking for a favor,” Serguey said. “You can jot me down as his lawyer. A routine visit. It can stay between us.”

Montalvo again glimpsed at the escorting officer. “You see that? He’s trying to build trust. He doesn’t understand that not all military people are stupid. All right, you boys sit down.”

Serguey and Victor hesitated.

The ex-colonel widened his eyes, and the brothers obeyed. He stood up, the tri-colored halo now shining around his shoulders and arms. “Felipe Blanco, to put it simply, is in deep shit. He’s been an active participant in subversive activities for quite some time, and we have proof. The list of things he’s going to be charged with makes War and Peace look like a pamphlet. He’s not getting out any time soon. It’s black and white. He fucked up.”

Montalvo stopped, letting what he’d just said settle in. The weight of it overtook the room. Serguey had dealt with military men before, but never of Montalvo’s rank, and not with such puny leverage to offset their authority. He stammered for a moment before Montalvo cut him off.

“Despite all this, you boys are in luck.”

Serguey controlled his exhale, waiting for the obtuse but reasonable man Gimenez had described to take possession of the ex-colonel’s body.

“For some reason,” Montalvo said, loosening his features and inciting a dash of optimism that made Serguey stir in his chair, “I’ve been asked to make this black and white situation a little gray. If you cooperate, and by that I mean you tell me what you really know, we can make some considerations, maybe even exceptions.”

“We don’t know anything,” Victor said, frustrated.

Montalvo looked at Serguey. “What’s it going to be?”

“We don’t know anything,” he said, emboldened by his brother.

“Don’t insult me,” Montalvo said. “You don’t want to piss off this State Security officer, believe me.”

Serguey was frozen, without words. The thought gagged him further.

“You’re an educated man,” the ex-colonel added,” so you should appreciate this. I had a detainee once—a writer, actually, kind of like your daddy—describe me as a veritable nightmare. Since then, I’ve been trying to live up to it.”

Serguey had nothing to barter with the ex-colonel. He had no choice but to stand his ground. “We got nothing.”

“Not a thing?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” Montalvo went to Yenier and tapped him on the back. “Take these comrades to the front desk so they can be on their way. There you’ll be told to come back in a month to visit your father, though by then he might be transferred to another province.” He spread out his arms like a large bird approaching ground. “I’m at the mercy of the system I’ve devoted myself to.”

“You mean these two?” Victor angled his head at the photograph of Fidel and Che.

“Wait.” Serguey coughed to unlodge his throat and repeated, “Wait.”

Montalvo smirked. “Happens every time.”

Serguey got up. “Let’s cut the bullshit.” Victor made as if to join his brother, but Serguey motioned for him to stay seated. “If you had anything on us, you would’ve picked us up. You would’ve come to us before arresting our father. You would’ve searched my place, told me to sign some kind of statement.”

Montalvo’s smirk was gone. “I can still do that. Your brother has five arrests. I can make it six and ensure this one sticks. I can bring your wife in. What’s her name, Anabel? Maybe she knows something. Or maybe her sister knows. She works with your father, doesn’t she?” The ex-colonel slammed his palm on the table and began to walk back to his chair. “Now that I think about it, I’ll just call the Ministry where you work and ask the State Security department there to interview everyone who’s been in contact with you for the past six months. I’m sure they’re going to love that.”

Serguey moved toward the desk. “You extended the courtesy of talking to us so we would volunteer some information, to see if we were desperate enough. Victor’s right. We have no idea what the hell our father did. We don’t snoop around his private life, so we have nothing to trade. All I have left is to ask you, not as a lawyer but as a son, to let us see him. We just want to leave here with the peace of mind that he’s fine. That’s all.”

“Goddamn, Serguey,” Montalvo said, smiling again. He retraced his steps and grabbed Serguey’s collarbone near the neck, much like Felipe liked to do. “I had you pegged all wrong. You’re the sentimental type.”

Serguey felt as if in mid-air—a mix of weightlessness and panic hurtling through his body. Anabel’s voice kept ringing in his ear: Do what you have to do. “With all due respect,” he heard himself say, raising his shoulder against Montalvo’s touch, “I don’t care what you think of me. What’s my father accused of, exactly? What has he done? Is he even here?”

“Brash!” Montalvo clapped. “I like it. No wonder you’re about to land an embassy assignment at such a young age. And you’ve done it all with a counterrevolutionary father right under your nose. It’s unfortunate. Tragic, really. A criminal for a brother and a dissident for a father.”

“Let’s go,” Serguey said to Victor.

Montalvo said, “We’re not ready to divulge the specifics of Felipe’s case. But he’s here. I have him in an interview room waiting for you two. Yenier will accompany you.”

Victor chuckled and shook his head.

“Thank you,” Serguey said, with a smidge of respect for the ex-colonel’s performance.

“I didn’t lie. Your father is fucked. He’ll tell you so himself. I’m just hoping you can convince him—as his lawyer or as his son, I don’t give a shit—to cooperate. And don’t think that because you called my bluff, I can’t call yours. You do know something, and I’m going to find out what it is. Maybe a visit to your lovely wife is in order after all.”

Victor took a step toward Montalvo.

Serguey held him back. “I understand. I’m aware of how this works.”

Montalvo spit the moist butt of his cigar on the ground and flattened it with the heel of his boot. “You have no idea.”

At the end of a long corridor, they made a right. Soon they were in a small, bare room, hugging their father. Felipe looked disheveled and reeked of sweat. His eyes were inflamed, the skin around his lips bloated. Serguey was relieved to see no bruises or scars. He’d heard of political prisoners beaten so badly they’d lost teeth, suffered broken or fractured ribs, spat blood for days. Some hadn’t been given medical attention, despite documented histories of chronic ailments. Luckily, Felipe was a healthy man for his age.

Yenier, who’d taken a spot in one of the corners, was watching all of them diligently.

“I told you not to involve Serguey.” Felipe said this to Victor so wearily that it didn’t carry the weight of a reprimand.

Victor screwed up his mouth and looked down.

“Dad, don’t be stupid,” Serguey replied. “What have they done to you?” He didn’t trust a visual appraisal of his father—there could be hidden injuries, strategic places where they’d beaten him.

“They haven’t touched me. I just haven’t slept.”

“Did they interrogate you?”

Felipe blinked laboriously, as if it required agonizing exertion. “What do you think?”

“Viejo, what the fuck’s going on?” Victor asked, stealing a peek at Yenier. The officer wasn’t trying to hide the fact that he was there to listen.

“Did you speak with Montalvo?” Felipe said.

“We did,” Serguey said.

Felipe scratched his eyes. “They think I’m involved in something, some kind of dissident organization.”

“Why do they think that?”

“It’s a mix-up. That’s what I’ve been telling them. I’m just a theater director.”

“A mix-up?” Serguey said, incredulous.

“After this, I won’t be able to direct a play in my own living room.”

“Now you got the space,” Victor said.

It took a few weak breaths for Felipe to speak. “How much did they take?”

“Everything. Typewriter, books, paintings, your boxes.”

“Years of work, out the window.” Felipe sighed with profound heaviness, as if a vital part of him were leaving his body.

“What do you want us to do?” Victor said.

“I want you to let me deal with this myself. There’s nothing you can do.” Felipe rubbed his eyes again and let out a faint groan.

“Did they use pepper spray?” Serguey asked.

“Hey!” Yenier said, leaning forward. “Watch your mouth.”

“It’s fine.” Felipe lifted his hand defensively. “No pepper spray. I’m just tired. They told me I’m getting some food when we’re done here. I want you both to go home. Victor, you be a model citizen from now on, all right? Serguey, go back to your job and Anabel. I’m going to reason with them. I’ll call a couple of people in the Department of Culture who will vouch for me.”

“I can contact them for you,” Serguey said.

“Not necessary.”

“I’m a lawyer, Dad. Let me help.” As he said this, Serguey was immediately aware that he was embarking on a pointless mission to convince his father. Felipe was a theatrical man in every sense, keen on sacrificial acts. He had a proclivity for martyrdom, for keeping distance and touting self-reliance, for mapping out a reality in which all roads led back to him, always on his own terms.

“Serguey’s right,” Victor said. “Don’t be stubborn. I’m sure there are things we can do.”

Felipe grabbed their hands. “I’m happy to see you two together. If that’s the only good thing to come out of this, it’ll be worth it. Now, get out of here and go back to your lives.”

“Do you know what’s happening?” Serguey said, fighting his own instinct to give up the argument, to give up altogether and leave his father to his martyrdom. “They’re talking about sending you to another province, not letting us visit for months.”

“Smoke and mirrors. I’ll be released by the end of the week.”

“What if you aren’t? What are we supposed to do, move on like it never happened? What if we don’t hear from you again?”

“I tell you what, if a month from now I’m still incarcerated, you come see me and tell me how wrong I was.”

“Can’t you stop being such an arrogant idiot?” Victor said.

“We’re not afraid of these people.”

“Tell us how we can help,” Serguey said.

“This will ruin you, Serguey. It’s a misunderstanding, nothing more.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Felipe rubbed his eyes vigorously. “It’s the pepper spray. They used it.”

“Out!” Yenier said, pulling Felipe toward himself, then to the door.

Serguey put his arms out. “Hey, easy!”

“Let him go,” Victor said, raising his fists. “You son of a bitch!”

“Do anything stupid,” the officer said, “and we’ll put him and you in the hole for a week. You want that?”

“Easy,” Serguey repeated.

“Go home,” Felipe said. “It’s a mistake.”

Yenier dragged Felipe out of the room. He called a guard over and asked him to take the detainee back to his cell. He signaled for Serguey and Victor to exit the room.

“You touch him, and I’m going to fuck you up,” Victor said.

“Victor, stop it,” Serguey said. He began to lead the way down the corridor. His father had mentioned the pepper spray on purpose. He was sure of it. Montalvo didn’t want the torturing of a respected theater director to become news. Now his father could be paying the price for revealing what he had been forbidden to say. As he walked, Serguey stole another glimpse at the courtyard and pictured the old man hanging from one of the cements posts, the other inmates mocking and taunting him. He refused to lose his head. His father’s decision would be for nothing if he and Victor ended up in a cell. He advanced toward the prison’s exit, quickening his pace with every stride.

“You have no idea how we can get to you,” Yenier said. “Montalvo doesn’t bluff twice.”

“We can’t leave Dad in here,” Victor said.

“Do you want to join him?” Serguey said.

“We can’t leave him!”

“He doesn’t want to be helped.”

Victor stopped. “Where’s Montalvo?” he said to Yenier. “Where’s that motherfucker?”

The officer shoved him along. “You had your chance.”

Other officers had gathered at the reception, brandishing weapons. The black metal of the rifles, the wooden sheen of the magazine and handguard made Serguey think of the Cuban militia, of marches and the images of war shown on television during the Cold War, when he was a child. His skin became suddenly sensitive, to the point of pain. Victor thrashed his arm around, trying to free it from Yenier’s grip. The officer had shoved his hand under Victor’s shoulder, hoisting him up like a bar drunk. Another officer began to thrust the butt of his rifle into Victor’s back. Finally, he desisted as Yenier carried him outside. Serguey kept his arms up during the jostling, impelled along by some of the other men.

As soon as they passed the front gate, Victor yanked Serguey’s wrist. “You coward!”

“Not here,” he replied. “Shut up and move.”