CHAPTER 11

The next morning, Anabel accompanied Alida to her apartment so she could stuff a bag with clothes and bring it to El Vedado. They agreed that she should stay in the spare bedroom for the time being. She didn’t want to search for another job until Felipe’s situation was resolved, and being around the other actors wasn’t a healthy choice—and possibly an unsafe one: the net of government suspicion could be widely cast.

The women had already returned when Vilma paid her visit. She introduced herself as Vilma Carrero, and the man who was with her, to Serguey’s surprise, as José Angel Despaigne. She explained, standing at the door, that José Angel was also a colleague of Felipe’s and an acquaintance of Mario.

“We’ve all been playwrights and theater directors at one point,” she said, tilting forward and lowering her voice, as if working in theater were some sort of secret cult.

Serguey figured Vilma had been afraid to come alone. Donning a serious face, he let them in.

Vilma looked to be in her late forties. She had perfectly combed black hair that fell straight down her back. She wore white-rimmed glasses, and her ankle-level skirt stretched and folded as she walked. José Angel, possibly ten years Vilma’s elder, was bald and prick-skinned. A pen was clipped to the chest pocket of his striped shirt, which needed a good ironing. He had droopy eyelids, his vision slightly askew, giving the impression of subservience or social anxiety. Serguey wondered how much help Vilma expected him to be if indeed she had brought him out of apprehension.

Anabel gave them each a cup of coffee. They accepted and celebrated it, as was customary in Cuba. Alida remained somewhere out of sight in the apartment. Serguey refrained from mentioning her, in case she preferred it that way. Vilma described how she’d learned about Felipe’s arrest through a critic and professor, a mutual friend. She was beside herself. It was incomprehensible for someone as admirable as Felipe, she said, with his artistic capacities and selfless personality, to be degraded and persecuted by the brutes at State Security.

“Felipe’s too clever to immerse himself in politics,” she said, dismantling Serguey’s suspicion that maybe she and José Angel had been involved in whatever had landed Felipe in prison. There was still a chance, however, that the whole thing was an act, that they were testing the waters.

“I was stunned,” José Angel contributed with a shrug, his eyes fixed on Serguey’s television set.

“We all were,” Vilma said. “Really.”

Serguey told them he appreciated their concern. Vilma replied that she was already discussing the possibility of drafting a formal statement with many of her colleagues, asking for Felipe’s release.

“None of us have been able to find out the reasons why they went after him,” she said.

“Me neither,” Serguey said. He was holding off on asking about Mario. He had to test the waters as well. “I’m as much in the dark as you are. They won’t tell me anything.”

Vilma seemed disappointed. “Felipe has a lot of fans. But what I’m hearing is that people are confused as to what’s going on.” She paused and tapped her knees together. She relaxed her features, looking almost defenseless. “You’ve got to admit it’s effective. No one wants to go around asking too many questions and getting themselves arrested.”

“It’s difficult,” Serguey said.

“It’s also appalling. There has to be some integrity left. If we keep allowing the government to push us around, what will become of us?”

He appreciated her solidarity, but indignant Cubans were a dime a dozen, and Vilma’s tone was far from earnest. Public outcry had always been monitored and cowed. Protests and demands were as rare as apples or decent yogurt in Havana. Serguey did not for an instant believe that Vilma and her colleagues were really writing a formal statement. “It’s easier said than done,” he replied as a way to divest her of responsibility for Felipe’s situation, refusing to cast aspersions.

“I won’t argue that,” she said. “But still.”

He wanted to inquire about Vilma’s exact relationship with his father, but he found it imprudent. Their friendship could be genuine, after all. His father seemed capable of that. Serguey had no obligations with Mario, on the other hand, no matter how much of a friend the men were, so he asked Vilma about him.

“Do you have his number?” he said.

“It’s disconnected, but I’ll give it to you.” She fished inside her drawstring canvas bag and retrieved a pocketbook.

Serguey saved the number on his cell phone.

“No one can find him,” Vilma said.

“I think he might’ve left the country,” José Angel said with what sounded like an involuntary sigh.

“Well, we don’t know for sure,” Vilma said.

Serguey asked her, “Has someone mentioned that possibility?”

“It’s all conjecture. I heard he hasn’t been in his house since your father’s arrest. Another playwright who is good friends with him told us.”

Serguey put away his cell and looked at the door.

“Do you have a plan for helping Felipe?” she asked quickly. “Anything we can do?”

He crossed his arms. “I’m exploring several options. My brother and I got to see him. He seemed fine, in a manner of speaking.”

“That’s wonderful! Did he tell you anything?”

“He claims it’s a mistake.”

José Angel raised his eyes. “Those people don’t make mistakes.”

“Well, José Angel, it has to be a mistake.” Vilma wriggled in her seat. “Felipe wouldn’t—”

José Angel didn’t wait for her to complete her sentence. “I just mean that the arrest wasn’t a mistake. Could they have ulterior motives? Sure. But they don’t arrest people like Felipe on a whim.”

Serguey found the man’s frankness refreshing.

“It’s all speculation,” Vilma said uneasily. “But we assure you, Serguey, that we’ll take a public stance. Your father’s not alone.”

“I appreciate that. And if you find Mario, I’d also appreciate it if you let me know.”

“We will.”

Anabel reappeared and asked them if they wanted a glass of water before they left. José Angel said yes. Vilma commented on the apartment, saying the view was lovely. Serguey ushered them to the balcony, where José Angel drank his water as if it were hot tea. Serguey dove right into small talk, telling them how it was strange calling this neighborhood home, highlighting Gimenez’s generosity. Vilma mentioned how proud Felipe was of his sons. Her diffident tenor betrayed her attempt as mediator: she was being cordial, saving face for her friend. She’d been to the house in Santos Suarez on several occasions.

“Your father and I have collaborated on many projects,” she said.

“For as long as I can remember,” Serguey said, “he’s had people over at that place. He loves company.”

Vilma smiled and stared out to the sea, permitting a few seconds to tick by. She turned to José Angel at length and said, “Are we ready to go?”

He handed the glass to Serguey. “Thank you.”

“It was all the wife.”

José Angel waddled like a penguin, searching for her, but there was no one down the hall. “Tell her ‘thank you.’”

“I will.”

Following convivial goodbyes, they began to head for the stairs.

“Is the elevator still broken?” Serguey asked them.

“There was a sign on it,” José Angel said.

“Oh, I apologize.”

“At my age,” Vilma said, “I can use the exercise.”

Serguey watched them leave quietly, their steps withdrawing farther and farther to the lower floors. He wondered why Vilma hadn’t referred to the letter again. Maybe, as he’d believed, it was just a hollow, dissembling promise. She could always blame precarious circumstances for not following through. If she was on the fence about it, however, probing a little more—or even openly telling her how helpful such a document could be—might have improved the chances of it being drafted. But dashing down the stairs was a desperate move, and it was too early for desperation.

There was also the fact that, if indeed they wanted to help, how much could they actually accomplish? Felipe was not a popular television actor, a famed musician, an identifiable political figure. He was esteemed in a very particular circle—the performance arts world—his followers and colleagues all of scanty means. His shows attracted a very intellectually creative but politically disengaged crowd, people looking for a distraction, for emotional entertainment and stimulation. Many were students with artistic aspirations of their own. In Cuba, there were no patrons, no sponsors, no theater devotees with enough cache and influence to demand transparency in Felipe’s case. That would require independent funds, the result of foreign capitalist enterprises. The country’s communist government closely oversaw these kinds of people and entities. They forbade direct interaction between them and those who reached mass audiences, like theater directors. The government employed the majority of recognized artists in Cuba, and as the employer, they enforced and bent the rules at will. Express dissent and find yourself unwaged, forlorn. In a phone conversation with Serguey a few nights prior to the start of Electra Garrigó, Felipe had mentioned a speech by Eduardo Real, a prominent painter whose work had found its way to galleries and museums abroad, including New York City’s Museum of Modern Art. Mr. Real, reading from a piece of notebook paper (his own manufactured touch?) said that Cuban artists should be willing to work for free, considering all the advantages and opportunities the country had provided for them.

“The nerve of some people,” Felipe railed. “Put a couple of dollars in their pocket and a paid ticket to Europe, and they forget where they came from. Real’s from the slums of Marianao. Now he wears designer hats, has dinner with foreign dignitaries, and thinks the rest of us should make art for the love of art.”

Like every other sector of the Cuban workforce, artists were helpless. Best-case scenario, Felipe’s colleagues would write their letter, and if fortune were so inclined, maybe it’d get some international press.

That night, Serguey checked in on Kiko. His friend was still waiting to hear from Claudia, but he sounded optimistic.

“I should get back to you in a day or two,” he said.

Serguey gave him Mario’s number and asked if he could do something with it. “I couldn’t get the guy’s address, though people keep saying he’s gone.”

Kiko chuckled. “I’d be, too, with so many people looking for me. I have a buddy who used to work for ETECSA. Maybe he can do something with the number. Just know that it might not go anywhere.”

“I’ll take whatever small thing he can give you,” Serguey said sincerely.

A short while later, Victor called to announce he had an idea: they should go to the National Council for the Performing Arts.

“That’s technically where Dad works,” he said. “Maybe we can find Mario.”

Serguey told him he’d already tried it to no avail, though he conveniently avoided the details. “Don’t even think of showing your face there,” he cautioned. “I mean it.”

Anabel’s mother also phoned. She had requested a meeting with the priest, and like Kiko, she was waiting on a response.

With hours of waiting ahead of him, Serguey was confronted with his own powerlessness. The role he could have in all of it—what he could bring to the table—the truth was that having a law degree in Cuba didn’t mean much. After graduation, if you were top of your class, you were signed up to the National Organization of Collective Law Offices, pools of state-regulated attorneys. The salary was laughable, and the cases even more so. Clients were guilty until proven innocent. Political prisoners weren’t afforded a lawyer of their own choosing, as he’d told Victor, their offenses so heinous and unpardonable, apparently, that they deserved no proper defense. In those cases, a handpicked attorney served as a stand-in, silent as statues during court proceedings, for the accused, whose sentences would only worsen if they dared speak on their own behalf. The press was controlled by that same state. So were the modes of mass communication. Protests against the government were prohibited, punishable by a good licking from a police baton, a follow-up thrashing at the police station, and an indelible stain on your civilian record. Get brave enough and you might win some prison time. Serguey had always known how the system was designed and assembled, how it was put into effect and to what ends. Not until his father’s arrest had he been compelled to concede and confront its flaws, its irrationality.

Despite the shortcomings of practicing Cuban law, there was honorable repute associated with being a young lawyer graduating at the top of his class. No one in Havana wanted to be a prosecutor. Most of those who did accept these jobs quit after their two or three years of compulsory service, leaving the country’s prosecuting pool eternally inexperienced. New graduates were herded into prosecuting offices year after year. Only the elite, like Serguey, got to join the much older ranks of lawyers, holding on to little victories and their clients’ generosities. In this constant war versus disgruntled ex-classmates, as Serguey heard fellow lawyers call it, he found some fulfillment.

Right out of school, he had been assigned to minor cases: thieves, violence-prone alcoholics, black market food distributors. The penalties weren’t too severe, not unless the accused already had an extensive record or said the wrong thing in court, pissing off the judge. In a handful of instances, Serguey had succeeded in obtaining a reduced sentence or as little as a fine. Occasionally, he won outright. But the outcome of his cases often depended on luck. The prosecutors were former students whose grades hadn’t been high enough to land them a position as defense lawyers. Bitter and jaded, they feasted on their more privileged counterparts, the law disproportionately on their side. Judges were sometimes given preordained results to their cases, regardless of the evidence that was presented. Two men who had each killed a child, for instance, might receive entirely different punishments simply because their names had been inked on separate sections of the docket. To all of this Serguey had turned a blind eye, always racing ahead.

Throughout his years at the university, he’d noticed the blatant discrepancy between the students of modest means like himself and the offspring of high-ranking government officials, corporation managers, and state-sympathizing celebrities. The future of this favored group was bright, a direct line plugging them into the kinds of jobs Serguey and his poor peers couldn’t realistically aspire to. Serguey witnessed many brilliant classmates drop out of school, disillusioned and outraged by the politically charged courses, at the narrow interpretations of communist law. A surprising number of them had desired to become attorneys inspired by movies and television shows: A Time to Kill, Philadelphia, In the Name of the Father, A Few Good Men, Matlock, Law & Order. But practicing Cuban law was so far removed from the ideal of truly representing and potentially saving your client, that it took a special kind of aspiration or necessity to keep one going. Serguey’s main fuel had been his impassioned desire to achieve what to the advantaged students was a basic expectation. He had an irrational belief that his break would come if he just waited long enough, if he kept looking for it.

As it turned out, he didn’t even have to.

During his last case, Gimenez had sat in the audience. He and Serguey’s law school advisor were childhood friends. The advisor had highlighted Serguey as the perfect protégé, someone intelligent Gimenez could train and mold to his taste. Serguey’s client—if he could be called that—had been charged for stealing cell phone minutes. The man had discovered a way to re-code the phone so that his allotted minutes automatically reappeared without having to pay ETECSA, the country’s service provider. Allegedly, he had taught friends how to do the same. One of them, threatened with jail, gave him up.

Serguey was prepped by his own client. The man explained the ins and outs of cell phone trickery with such specificity that Serguey was able to pepper the prosecutor’s lead witness and an ETECSA representative with technical questions. He got them to boggle, mumble, and say, “I don’t know,” “I’m not sure,” “I’d have to verify that information.” The fact that ETECSA didn’t have concrete proof of misconduct forced the judge, who ostensibly hadn’t been ordered to decide one way or the other, to dismiss the case.

Gimenez took Serguey to dinner that night: an exclusive Italian-style restaurant. Gimenez had a good rapport with the maître d’ and the waiter, and he made a big show of it.

“Just bring my favorite,” he told the waiter. He slit his eyes enough to suggest thoughtfulness. “I have a feeling he hasn’t tried real Italian wine yet.”

Serguey admitted, without much abashment, that he hadn’t. He could count on one hand the people he knew who had ever tried imported wine.

Gimenez’s argument for Serguey to switch careers, though unnecessary, was persuasive: a low stress desk job; tangible possibility to be stationed abroad, sometimes for years at a time; access to foreign goods. Not too far down the road, he could vie for his own car, maybe a beach house for a couple of weeks out of the year. Not to mention the numerous government and business connections he could make.

“Most of the kids who get in our doors are somebody’s son or daughter or nephew,” he said, pouring a tad more wine for himself than for Serguey. “And most of them are inept. From what I’ve seen and heard about you, they will all be choking on your dust in a couple of years.”

Toward the end of the meal, Gimenez dabbed his lips with his napkin and folded it neatly beside his partially empty plate, whose leftovers he offered Serguey to take home when the waiter asked if they were finished. Serguey shrugged, and the waiter smiled.

“Don’t be shy,” the man said, palming the plate. “Even in a place like this people take leftovers all the time.”

Gimenez stretched across the table and tapped Serguey’s hand. “He’s right.”

At first, Serguey wondered if Gimenez was gay. He thought it natural to have such a suspicion. Gimenez’s mannerisms were too refined. The absence of a wife and the way he studied Serguey seemed like clues to a much larger puzzle. It wasn’t until he and Anabel attended a party at the home of the Ministry’s Legal Director, as Gimenez’s personal guests, that Serguey realized his new boss had a special infatuation for Anabel. Thankfully, he didn’t flirt or hover around her. Instead he whispered in Serguey’s ear, his breath a mix of alcohol and cologne, when another man engaged Anabel in conversation. It was as if Gimenez wished to vicariously feel the jealousy of a husband. Serguey wasn’t proud of it—the husband letting his boss ogle at, or worse, manipulate his own relationship with his wife. But Anabel happily accepted her role. She even rebuked him when on the way home he complained about Gimenez’s intrusions.

“These old men are used to getting their way,” Anabel said. “As long as they don’t touch or say anything offensive, we play our part.”

Not long after, Gimenez tendered the apartment as a rent-free gift. It was at this stage that Serguey decided the doctor was just looking for company on his own terms, particularly after his sister deserted him. He wanted a human pet project, young people he could be proud of. Given the circumstances, Serguey was willing to oblige, since Anabel was too. In Cuba, one sold oneself out sooner or later, and it rarely was to achieve what Gimenez was offering.

All things considered, Felipe’s ordeal had come too soon, too early in Serguey’s career. Had it happened in five or ten years, he might have been more established, might have had sufficient independence and power to deal with the risks on his own. Serguey found it difficult not to see it as a kind of test, perhaps a punishment, especially now that he was at the mercy of strangers. Should Anabel have been more insulted by Gimenez’s insidiousness? Should he have declined the job, the apartment? Should he have stayed closer to his father and brother, despite their differences? He needed something to snap him out of his stupor, to keep at bay the dread that comes from knowing that resisting the inescapable is to invite the tragic, and that the answer to some or all of these questions, whatever the end of Felipe’s situation, might be “yes.”

He was spared further brooding when Kiko phoned the next day with news of Claudia. She had agreed to meet on Saturday outside the popular Coppelia ice cream parlor. There would be enough people around for them to blend in, as well as enough of a buffer zone for a private talk.

“Be there on time,” Kiko warned. “She’s a stickler for punctuality.”

According to him, Claudia was eager to help. She had already heard of Felipe’s arrest and had been gathering information. As for Mario’s number, his friend at ETECSA admitted that it might take a while longer to track it, if it was possible at all.

“But don’t worry,” Kiko said, the conviction in his pitch encouraging to Serguey. “We’ll find that hijo de puta.”