CHAPTER 13

Claudia requested that the brothers meet her at 8:30 a.m. in Coppelia Park. She would be wearing blue jeans and a gray T-shirt and carrying a backpack. The brothers hustled down La Rampa, the wind boosting them forward. Their gait was steady and synchronized. The air was already humid despite the early hour, but there was a temperance to the way the sun fell on the city, as if gently asking it to wake. At this time on a Saturday, Havana was predominantly asleep. Senior citizens traipsed about, tote bags at their shoulders. The occasional biker swished by, likely hoping to be the first in line at some vendor’s food stand, if he could find one.

A small group of people had gathered outside the sprawling ice cream parlor at Coppelia Park. Gimenez had taken Serguey and Anabel here once as part of his courting process. He paid in CUC, the Cuban convertible peso, and just like a tourist he was allowed to skip Coppelia’s infamous long lines. He was well acquainted with the workers, mainly because he tipped them well. He wanted to show Serguey that he was special, above the masses—and it worked. For years, long lines had been a flagrant testament of the communist state’s failure: a sign of inefficiency that invariably brought out the worst in people. Serguey and Anabel hadn’t been immune to them. At the bodegas, stores, post office, bus terminals—the lines were ubiquitous and mercilessly slow. Skipping them was as high a crime in Havana as anything else. People were berated and often beaten because of it. Possessing the means to skip a line without repercussions was a significant signifier of status, an indulgence enjoyed by few. To do it at Coppelia of all places, where the lines were—according to Gimenez—almost as tedious as the ones at the Eiffel Tower, was an impressive feat. Serguey and Anabel loved the experience, and they let Gimenez know as much.

Serguey’s memories of Coppelia prior to that moment were of waiting in line with Felipe and Victor. The payoff tasted sweeter after such protracted anticipation, however. As you got closer to the entrance, people sat at their tables all around you, the aroma of chocolate, strawberry, almond, or mango wafting from their dripping fingers. Felipe liked to sit outside, encircled by trees and fresh air, and not inside what was called ‘the tower,” a seemingly levitating, circular space deluged in natural light, with smaller, scrolling rooms partitioned by multi-colored glass panes, bedazzling to the brothers’ eyes. Despite having to do as their father wished, Serguey loved the ice cream, especially being able to savor multiple flavors at once. Victor waited for his to turn into a syrupy concoction before dipping his biscochos, letting them soak to the marrow. Then he drank the rest of the ice cream like soup. On one of their visits, Felipe told them that an important scene in Fresa y Chocolate had been filmed there.

“It’s the only Cuban movie to be nominated for an Oscar,” he said.

Serguey remembered watching his father eating strawberry ice cream. He recalled the Coppelia scene from the movie quite well too: an awkward exchange between a straight young man and a gregarious homosexual, portrayed by acclaimed actor Jorge Perugorria. Felipe taught them the name. He also made them learn the directors: Tomas Gutierrez Alea and Juan Carlos Tabio. Gutierrez Alea, nicknamed Titon, had directed some of Cuba’s best-known movies: Death of a Bureaucrat, Memories of Underdevelopment, The Survivors. Knowing names and titles, Felipe stressed, was a way to honor your country’s cultural history.

Despite the pleasantness of his recollections, the truth was their trips to Coppelia had been sporadic at best. Felipe took them more often to the Ward ice cream parlor on Santa Catalina Avenue in El Cerro, which was closer to their house. The options there, when available, were chocolate, vanilla, and, on a lucky day, mantecado, but the quality was consistently poor. It wasn’t rare to find chunks of insipid ice mixed in with the sugar-deficient flavor. Victor and Serguey beseeched their father, widening their eyes and tugging at his arms, to let them play baseball in the nearby Ciudad Deportiva, a public sports complex with more open fields than any child could hope for. It excited Serguey to hear the clink of an aluminum bat smacking a ball, the roar and gasps that followed. But Felipe disliked sports, especially baseball. He called it “the true opium of the masses.” So the brothers ate their ice cream as they straggled the Ciudad Deportiva’s massive outer fence, watching kids diving to catch a swerving ball in the outfield or cackling at a ridiculous strikeout swing.

The adult Serguey took inventory of the people outside Coppelia and noticed that there was no child among them. He looked at their faces, sifting for a woman his age, but didn’t see anyone who might be Claudia.

He and Victor kept on.

Not far ahead, Victor discreetly pointed her out. She was on a bench, shaded by a thick-branched tree, reading a book: The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz. Her edition was identical to the one Felipe owned.

“Hablar es pensar,” Serguey said as a form of introduction.

Claudia closed her book. “I didn’t know lawyers liked poetry.”

“I wasn’t quoting one of his poems.”

“That’s true.” She buried the poetry collection in her backpack and made room for the brothers to sit.

Serguey took the spot nearest to her. A scent of roses with a hint of violet emanated from her hair, a smell he associated with mothers-in-law and grandmothers, not a woman in her twenties. She wasn’t wearing makeup, not on her brown eyelids or lips. Her billowy T-shirt, which draped awkwardly over her skinny arms and torso, had The Ramones printed on it. Her hair, dyed red, was cut short, accentuating her winsomely rounded head. She had thin, child-like eyebrows, and freckles on her cheek just a tinge darker than her mulata complexion. Her vocal tone was deep and confident, as was her stare. A perpetual smile seemed to hover at the corners of her mouth. Everything about her felt like an odd mix. The book, the T-shirt, the flowery scent. Serguey figured it must be deliberate. A person in her position, antagonizing the government—or at the very least, doing her work in spite of it—had to remain elusive, hard to read.

“I’m a big fan of your father’s work,” she said. “I was at the last showing of Electra Garrigó.”

Serguey chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“We were there too,” Victor said. He was keeping watch.

“Then it’s fate,” Claudia said.

“I don’t believe in fate,” Serguey said. “But Kiko did say you could help us?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“If you want to be helped.”

“We do,” Victor said.

“I have to be able to trust you,” Claudia said, “and you have to trust me. Kiko vouches for you, so I agreed to meet you in person. I made an exception this time.”

“We appreciate it,” Serguey said.

Victor cleared his throat. A couple passed by, holding hands. The man, clad in brand new jeans and a pink polo shirt, was talking about buying a pair of Adidas shoes. The woman wasn’t listening; she was screwing the back of her earring, smirking thoughtfully.

Once the couple was far enough away, Victor asked, “You sure this is the best place to do this?”

“Best way to know if someone’s following you.” Claudia looked beyond the brothers, perusing her view with poise, unsurprised by what she saw. “You can blend in. I come here often and know the regulars.”

Victor gave an understated tip of his head. He seemed satisfied.

“I looked into your father’s situation.” Claudia’s voice was tepid, unemotional. “He’s not in trouble because of his work.”

Serguey said, “What is it then?” The fact that he’d been anticipating precisely this didn’t reduce his sense of dread. He waited for her reply, telling himself not to budge or swallow no matter what she had to say.

Her near-smile dissolved, her lips curling into a sympathetic frown. “He’s been dealing with an international organization.”

“Which one?”

“I still have to confirm that. I don’t give names unless I’m one hundred percent sure.” She paused, gauging how to proceed. “I . . . I think it’s anti-government.”

“You think?” Serguey sneered at her uncertainty. “What was he doing with them?”

Claudia dispatched her disapproval at the sneer by raising her shoulders. “Don’t know yet,” she said. “I’ve heard something about money, but again, I don’t want to speculate. When I have something specific, I’ll share it with you.” She displaced her hair from the front of her face to behind her ear. “I do know that they’ve labeled him a mercenary, so the money rumor makes sense.”

“A mercenary?” Victor said, baffled. He stopped keeping watch, engrossed by Claudia.

She puffed out her chest. “Technically, I’m a mercenary.”

Serguey found the idea ludicrous, but he was aware that according to the Penal Code, if his father had been given money by an international organization which the government deemed an enemy of the state, he was automatically considered a mercenary. “Do they have proof that he accepted funds?”

“Again, I—”

“I get it.” He wanted to appear civil and considerate, but to his own ears, he sounded curt. “You don’t know yet.”

“How are you a mercenary?” Victor asked Claudia, still perplexed.

She blinked at Serguey, seemingly ashamed of her limited information. Then she looked at Victor, who had sufficient judgment to inspect their surroundings once more.

“Have you read the article in Granma about independent journalists?” she said, her voice tamed, unrushed.

Victor hadn’t. Serguey, though he believed he had, echoed his brother. It was best to let her explain.

“They accused independent bloggers and writers of accepting funds from US and European institutions that oppose the Cuban government.” She twisted her lips mockingly. “Supposedly we’re part of a new cyber offensive against our little island. That’s what they called us: cyber-mercenaries and cyber-terrorists. The act of taking money automatically means you’re being paid to undermine and attack State Security. We’re inciting riots, as you can see.” She swept her hand inconspicuously from left to right, covering the length of the block.

Though she was attempting to underplay her profession, Serguey thought it transparent that she was proud, daring in her delivery.

“What if the money my dad took was for his work?” Victor asked. “If he’s not using it to—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Serguey said. “They won’t make that distinction. If they believe he’s colluding, that’s what they’ll argue, and they’ll win.”

“So the law’s there to fuck people over.”

“Welcome to my world.” Serguey thought briefly of the countless occasions in which he’d gotten his brother out of trouble, how, if not for him, Victor could still be in prison.

“In my world,” Claudia whispered, “I’m only granted press rights ‘in accordance with the goals of a socialist society.’”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Victor whispered.

There was a pause, a moment’s reflection for all of them. A middle-aged woman in a spaghetti strap blouse cast a sideways glance at them. She trudged along, her shorts unattractively wedged between her thighs, a splotch of sweat at the small of her back. A stagnant humidity had usurped the early morning breeze.

Claudia said, “Do you know any of your father’s connections abroad?”

“No.”

Victor attested the same.

“He seems to have a lot of friends. I’ve been contacting some people in Miami and Spain, and they replied almost immediately. They’re already working to spread the word about his situation. I’d like to stay in touch with them, with your permission.”

Like a doctor, she had saved the encouraging news for last.

“You have it,” Serguey said.

She lifted the backpack to her knees. “It’d be useful if you and your brother can record a video or give me a signed statement I can share, something that can be circulated among TV and radio stations. That way it isn’t just my word. Kiko can give you a hand with the video if you want.”

“What should we say?”

“That’s up to you.”

Serguey pondered the idea. “We’ll discuss it with Kiko.”

“I’ll post an entry on my blog about Felipe. It’ll get reshared on Facebook and Twitter.”

Her demeanor was inspiriting enough for him to believe her.

“I do want to request,” she said, “that you please don’t share my name with anyone. Everything between us has to be confidential. If somebody shows up at my door or they pick me off the street, I won’t be able to do my job.”

Serguey agreed.

“We’ll be in touch through Kiko,” she added. “Hopefully we can make a difference. It seems the wheels are already turning.”

“Have you heard anything about Mario Rabasa?” Serguey said.

She creased her forehead. “Who’s he?”

“My father’s dramaturge. We think he’s involved.”

Claudia puckered her face and bit her bottom lip. “I’ll find out about him, and I’ll get you more details about the organization your dad’s involved with.”

“There’s a cop,” Victor said, shivering his legs. He nudged his chin toward the end of the street. Serguey saw how sweat had drenched his brother’s collar, forming a small wet triangle down his chest.

“He’s here to protect the tourists,” Claudia said. “Don’t worry about him.”

“Thank you for everything,” Serguey said.

“Don’t thank me yet. Pleasure to meet you both.”

Serguey offered his hand, but she didn’t see it. As she walked away, he saw that she was tall, much taller than he expected from how she appeared sitting down. She moved with a certain languor in her step, unhurried. He and Victor waited a while, the air getting muggier by the minute.

“What did you think?” Victor said. “Can we trust her?”

“Do you trust Kiko?”

“Fair enough.”

Serguey observed the police officer, gaunt in his baggy uniform. “We have to talk to Kiko about making the video.”

“That’s not going to go over well with those State Security assholes.”

Serguey spurned the notion. “Want to grab some ice cream?”

They stood and began to walk in the direction from which they had come. Victor flapped his shirt.

“They won’t open for another hour,” he said, “and the line’s already long.”

“Do you have somewhere to be?” How many moments together might be left for him and Victor, Serguey wasn’t sure. He was looking for pockets of normalcy, moments to unwind in between the grave task of helping their father. “Besides, I know how to skip the line.”

“I have more of a craving for a pan con croqueta, but all right.”

They ambled past the policeman on the corner. He was eyeing a blonde woman and her teenage daughter, who had a British flag printed on the back of her blouse. The officer wasn’t staring at the flag, exactly. Victor elbowed Serguey and scratched his own head.

Distancing themselves from the man, he said, “That cop’s spoiled. So much foreign ass to ogle at.”

Serguey didn’t answer his brother’s comment. He had been paying attention to the deriding stares of those in line as he and Victor sauntered past them into the shade of the flying saucer-shaped Coppelia building.