CHAPTER 14

Following the ice cream breakfast, the brothers lingered by the curb outside Coppelia. The day was in a full bout of sultry heat. The tourists had left, but the cop was dutifully on the corner, the flecks of sweat on his shirt an archipelago of stains. Victor coordinated a ride home with a friend who was in the area. A quick phone call was all it took. While drinking his melted ice cream, he had boasted about using his sociable personality to strategically develop friendships all over Havana. This was consistent with his general philosophy: if you’re going to need a lot of meat, become pals with the butcher. In a city filled with needs, Victor’s little network—as he called it—was an enviable asset.

Serguey wanted to ask about the man on the motorcycle from the night of the play, about what had been in the bag. It’d been pestering him, making him concerned that his brother was dealing more dangerous merchandise: counterfeit money, drugs. But Serguey worried that he might come across as judgmental, as leery or fatherly—to which Victor had never responded well—so he left before Victor’s ride showed up, since there was nothing else for them to deliberate. His brother had already told him that he was going to discuss filming the video with Kiko. Serguey replied that he needed a few days to draft a statement. He had to research what other political prisoners and their families had said, and for that, he would have to find a place other than his office to access the internet. All of this, however, was an elaborate excuse. He simply wanted the opportunity to meditate on what he should say, on the consequences of making such a statement. If Felipe had been charged as a mercenary for accepting foreign money, he and Victor could find themselves prosecuted under Law No. 88, the Gag Law that had been used to indict the Black Spring writers and journalists. Claudia’s request to remain nameless, Serguey presumed, was directly related to those circumstances. If he recalled correctly, the law targeted those who intended to destabilize the country and subvert the Socialist State. Propagating information that criticized and undermined the government—especially in a video recording—certainly applied under the articles of the Gag Law.

What purpose would it serve if he and Victor got arrested? It would put the onus to save all of them on Anabel, and he couldn’t do that to her.

She was on the phone when he arrived at the apartment. He presented a half-pint of vanilla ice cream, the paper cylinder container starting to cave in, and she waved it away. He placed it in the freezer, his eyes fogged by the lack of sunlight in the kitchen. He let the icy ventilation freshen his face, vanquishing the sweat from his pores with a tickling chill, before he returned to the living room and waited for Anabel to finish.

“Yes, we can do it tomorrow,” he heard her say.

“Do what?” he mouthed to her.

“Tell him ‘thank you,’” she said into the receiver and hung up. She looked up at him. “Father Linares will see us tomorrow.”

He joined her on the couch. “Good.”

“How was the meeting?”

He shared what Claudia had told them: about Felipe’s possible associations, his friends abroad, the video. “I’m going to start writing something today, but ideally I want to do some research.”

“We’ll ask the priest,” she said. “He might have some experience.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Hopefully we can trust him.”

“My parents have known him for a decade.”

“That’s fair. I’ve only met Claudia once, and I think I trust her.”

“Great.” She lowered her gaze and twiddled her fingers. “Did you talk to your brother?”

“Not yet. It wasn’t the right moment.” He hooked his arm around his wife’s neck and drew closer. “I was wrong yesterday, reproaching you and Victor. This whole thing’s fucked, but it doesn’t mean we need to suffer or be angry every second of the day. There’ll be enough stress if things get worse.”

She moved her hand along his jawline. It was cool, as refreshing as the freezer air. “You’ve always needed a few hits before getting off your stubborn streak.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She ignored him, changing the subject. “So, you brought me ice cream?”

“Vanilla.”

“I don’t like vanilla.”

“Exactly.”

She punched his arm. “You don’t like to lose, do you?”

“Anabel, if this couch were made of vanilla, there’d be none of it left. You’ve got like three different vanilla-scented creams in the dresser.”

“One of them was a gift from Gimenez.”

Serguey snorted. “Like my mother used to say: don’t speak of the devil or he’ll come knocking.”

The next day, they went to his in-laws’ house. Anabel’s parents resided in Mantilla, on the southern edge of Havana. Serguey and Anabel had lived with them at the beginning of their marriage, back when the plan had been to find a place nearby with his father-in-law’s help. Antonio had worked in construction for twenty-five years until an accident broke his leg in three places, leaving him with metal pins in his tibia and a permanent limp. He’d helped build the home in which he and his wife lived. The only thing he was more proud of than his house was his family—his daughters. He said this in a way that underscored both his love for them and how important his job had been to him. Like Claudia, he seemed remarkably proud of the way he’d made a living. He had belonged to a micro-brigade, a group of government-funded workers (many of them without prior experience and some with criminal records) who built apartment complexes and modest houses six days a week for low pay and the promise of a decent living space. Antonio put in twelve exemplary years—volunteer work on Sundays, no tardiness or missed workdays, immaculate attendance record at the Communist Party’s labor meetings—before he secured his two-bedroom house.

Anabel’s mother, Julia, received them at the door. She hugged Serguey and told him how sad she was that Felipe had been imprisoned. People like him, she said, shouldn’t be treated that way.

Julia was a retired cafeteria attendant who sold homemade sweets like panatela borracha and boniatillo to the neighbors when she and Antonio were strapped for cash. Her culinary escapades, as she called them, were more to keep herself busy than to make a substantial income. Serguey had always seen his in-laws as simple, hardworking people. The venerable outcome of the Revolution: men and women who sacrificed to see their children go to school and become more worldly and ambitious. Family was their main priority. When Serguey and Anabel moved into Gimenez’s apartment, Serguey recommended to Antonio that he rent Anabel’s room. Alida was already rooming at her ballet school.

“Get a little something under the table,” he told his in-law. “After all you’ve done for the country, there’s no harm in it.”

Antonio was nearly offended, not because he didn’t want to betray the government, but because he wanted to have the space available for his oldest daughter. To rent the room was to disown her, to deprive her of her birthright.

“God wants us to be selfless,” Antonio said, “especially with family.”

His in-laws had turned to religion after Antonio’s accident.

Serguey had joshed to Anabel, “The painkillers didn’t take, so he looked to Jesucristo.”

Anabel had explained that her maternal grandmother had been a devout Catholic all her life, fervently so after Fidel began to exile priests and persecute the Church. Julia’s transition had been easy, since her own mother was such a steadfast believer. Antonio’s path was more difficult. He sank into depression following the accident, feeling crippled despite being able to walk. He wanted some relief, maybe an explanation, something to make sense of his misfortune. Sunday Mass at the San Cristobal Cathedral in Old Havana became the solution. The dedication he and Julia had previously shown to their daughters and their jobs they now gave to the Church. They were Father Linares’s favorite parishioners.

“He doesn’t fault us for having been Revolutionaries,” Julia had divulged to Anabel. “He thinks our dedication is a sign of moral integrity and servitude, which God rewards.”

Serguey displayed a pensive face whenever his in-laws spoke of religion, but he dared not open his mouth. He was afraid a Felipe-ism might escape him. Unsurprisingly, his father had raised him and Victor atheists.

“God’s a great character,” Felipe liked to say, “but to think he’s real is to miss the whole point of the Bible. It’s to miss the whole point of storytelling.”

Growing up shaded by these views, Serguey naturally adopted them. Though he liked and cherished his in-laws, he saw them as creatures living in a world separate from his, from his own upbringing. Victor had occasionally fostered spiritual beliefs, but Serguey had been privy to his brother’s cynicism, his pragmatism and atheistic lifestyle. Antonio and Julia were committed believers, their moral compass and view of life regulated by their religiousness, something Serguey wasn’t accustomed to seeing. His in-laws’ conversion, however—from secular revolutionaries to open Catholics—he respected and, to some extent, admired. It must take an exorbitant amount of faith, he’d always thought, to renounce the system in exchange for probable discrimination. Maybe this was why Anabel and Alida hadn’t become religious themselves: in a communist state, piety got in the way of personal ambition.

Julia took them to the dining room. It shared its space with the kitchen, which consisted of a grease-crusted gas stove and a refrigerator with corroded blotches, like the bottom of an old car. At Julia’s insistence, Antonio had promised to give the refrigerator a nice coating of paint. But getting hold of the adequate oil-based paint, he’d grumbled to Serguey, proved impossible, even with the construction connections he had left. Without telling Antonio, Serguey asked around at the Ministry. Unfortunately, the references he got led to dead ends. He was deeply disappointed, not just for being fettered by the shackling mark of a poor country—to have the means and not be able to get the goods—but because he believed the paint would’ve been a wonderful gift to give his in-laws.

The table had been set nicely with a floral print tablecloth, two trays of croquetas, and a set of handcrafted glasses.

“I have a pitcher of mamey shake in the fridge,” Julia said excitedly. “The Father loves mamey.”

“Who doesn’t?” Serguey said.

Julia smiled. “I thought we could soften him up a little. Always worked on my uncle, and he was the sternest man you ever saw.”

His in-laws had gone to surprising lengths, spending money on what was usually invested in important celebrations. Julia was wearing a dress that, in Serguey’s mind, matched the tablecloth too well, but her pearl-imitation earrings were elegant, and the perfume she’d sprayed on, which he’d smelled when he kissed her hello, had a light but memorable touch. Antonio emerged from their bedroom donning a plaid suit jacket. As always, he wore the stoic, subjugated countenance of a man whose days had been painfully similar to each other. He struggled to slide his left arm into the jacket’s sleeve, untucking his shirt in the process.

Anabel came to his rescue.

“What women put you through,” he said, trying to shake Serguey’s hand while his daughter stood between them, fussing with his attire. “I’m sorry about Felipe,” he managed to add.

“We’re not doing this for ourselves,” Julia reminded her husband. “Do you still have to complain about your clothes?”

Before Antonio could respond, there was a knock at the door.

“He’s early,” Julia said. “Everyone, stay in the dining room. No need to crowd him all at once. We don’t want to seem desperate.”

“Mom’s right,” Anabel said.

“And leave that chair for him. I want him facing out to the yard, not the kitchen.”

With the panes agape, the taped-over crack on the coarse glass of the dining room window wasn’t as noticeable. Through the flat steel bars, which overlapped like an ambulance cross, large portions of green and blue could be seen hanging behind a power line. The black cable traversed the air above the fence, dividing Julia’s home from a dusty alley. One’s eyes could still reach the horizon, reducing the odds of the priest feeling cornered, as could happen if he were staring at the boxed-in shadows in the kitchen.

Serguey was expecting a tall, imposing figure. That’s how he imagined all priests to be. Or perhaps it’d been the way Anabel had spoken about him, the reverence Antonio and Julia showed toward the man. Father Linares was, in fact, a short, chubby creature. His head was round at the sides and concave at the top, verging on complete baldness. His cheek was ruddy, which reminded Serguey of a set of Matryoshka dolls he’d seen as a child—a gift from Raidel to Irene. His skin was pale, his silver-rimmed glasses expensive. He seemed to be from another country. If there was a universal dictum in Cuba, it was that no one escaped the sun. It showed on your scalp, your toasted forearms, the crackling pores under your eyes. The Father might as well have been fresh off a plane from Europe or Canada.

Linares coddled Julia’s hands as if they were delicate things, which Serguey also pictured all priests doing. He murmured some unintelligible words and proceeded to wave at everyone in the dining room. Serguey started to raise his hand, but he hesitated and brought it back down.

“Look at him,” the Father said in a low, frothy voice. “Poor thing’s rigid as a pole.” He walked toward Serguey and patted him on the shoulder. “I’m not always this ceremonial. I figured you’d be nervous and wanted to break the ice.”

Serguey was confused. “Thank you.”

Julia said, “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll serve the food and drinks?”

Everyone indulged her. Anabel showed Linares to his seat. The Father’s manners, Serguey immediately noticed, felt organic and spontaneous. He drank the batido de mamey with gusto, spilling some on the tablecloth. He ate the croquetas using his fingers, as one is meant to eat them, joyfully beholding the remaining piece in his hand after every bite. Only when Julia offered him a wet hand towel did he clean himself. He spoke briefly with Antonio about needing his advice for the restoration of the ceiling above the sacristy. He repeatedly complimented Julia’s culinary skills. He paid most of his attention to Anabel, asking about life in El Vedado, about her future plans, about Alida’s burgeoning passion for theater.

Here, Father Linares found the perfect segue: he proclaimed his admiration for Felipe’s work. He’d seen Felipe’s production of A Death in the Kremlin, a satirical mystery set in communist Russia. He’d been in awe of the actors’ energy and amazed by the sharpness of the language.

Serguey said, “My father likes his work to connect with a contemporary audience.” Whether this was true, he didn’t know. He was just trying to ingratiate himself with Linares.

“It shows,” the Father said. “How was he when you saw him?”

“At the prison?”

The priest nodded.

“A bit roughed up but not too bad.”

“I don’t mean to upset anyone, but I need to ask these questions.”

Julia began to collect the trays and smalls plates she had given them. “I’ll clear the table. We can mosey out to the living room and leave you and Serguey alone.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” the Father said.

“It really isn’t,” Serguey said. “We’re all in confidence.”

“Nonsense.” Julia carted the plates and tray to the kitchen counter. “You’ll feel more comfortable in private. Come on, Antonio.”

Antonio flung his hands up in surrender. “She’s the boss.”

“I’d like for Anabel to stay,” Serguey said.

She smiled in appreciation.

Father Linares waited for the family to settle in their respective places. He was a tactful man, experienced with people, unfazed by the nuances of a tense situation. Serguey stared at him. The ease and pleasantry he had demonstrated earlier had vanished, replaced by an expression of concern.

“Do you know why they went after Felipe?” Linares asked, his tone deeper, more heartfelt.

“I’m still trying to figure it out, if you can believe it.”

“I can. These people play everything close to the vest.”

Serguey sensed that the Father had done this before, or, at the very least, he had knowledge as to how the process worked. “I don’t mean to be imprudent or insinuate anything,” Serguey said.

Linares interrupted him: “Ask away.”

Serguey parted his lips and sucked in air.

“I’d be curious and cautious too,” Linares said. “Ask away.”

“Have you done this before?” Serguey found it difficult to hold the man’s serene gaze. “Helping a political prisoner, I mean,” he nearly stuttered.

“Not personally, but I’ve assisted bishops who have. And it’s not because I haven’t wanted to, but this is the first time someone has come directly to me.”

Serguey was emboldened by Linares’s sincerity. “Why do it? Won’t you get in trouble?”

The Father placed his arms Sphinx-like on the table, his puffed chest protruding over his belly. “The Church in Cuba has been in trouble since the Revolution. Forgive my haughtiness, but if anyone has endured the wrath and derision of communism, it’s us. I’m sure they don’t teach this at school, but the majority of priests, even protestant ministers, were forced to leave the country after the Revolution’s triumph.” Those who didn’t, Linares went on to say, were persecuted, some accused of collaborating with the CIA and storing arms for a counter-revolutionary attack. The atheist ideas incorporated into the Cuban constitution established a secular population. Citizens who believed were afraid to baptize their children or congregate in protestant celebrations, so they hid their saints, as the saying went, in grandma’s room. “From what Julia tells me,” here he looked at Anabel for a moment, “your grandmother was one of the few who refused to do that and flaunted her beliefs. She must have been a brave woman.”

Anabel smiled, humbly shaking her head in appreciation.

“I’m aware of what you’re saying,” Serguey said politely. The state’s persecution of the Church wasn’t news to him, but it seemed right to let the Father finish his speech. In a way, it felt like relief for them to say these things aloud, to find harbor in speaking without fear. It also meant Linares trusted him.

“It wasn’t until the end of the Cold War,” the priest continued, “that they removed the constitutional guidelines against the Church—which I’m sure you know well, as a lawyer. Finally,” Linares made the word vibrate, looking sardonically at the ceiling, palms up as if in the presence of a Supreme Being, “we were allowed to join the Communist Party.” He brought his hands and gaze back down. “But by then, our beliefs were, you know, tagged as retrograde and superstitious. Or they defamed us as scheming with the enemy. I must admit, things have changed over the past few years. Religious practices are easier to notice throughout the country. Any priest will tell you that.” Linares stretched his lips into a perceptive smile. “I can visit my parishioners, as you can see.”

Serguey monitored his tone to sound respectful. “I get all you’ve said.” He made an effort to look directly into Linares’s eyes. “But again, why help political prisoners? Why help my father?”

Linares seemed to appreciate Serguey’s insistence. “Because we have the resources. Because we’ve already shouldered this, let’s call it mission, when few others did. Because it’s inhumane how these prisoners are treated. Because we’re certain God would want us to help.” The Father looked over his shoulder to where the kitchen transitioned into the living room, then leaned over the table and waited for Serguey and Anabel to do the same. “But most of all,” his voice was little more than a breath, “because we’ve figured out that the boys in charge are willing to play ball.”

When Serguey told Linares that he was satisfied with his reasons, the man proposed that they use Felipe’s status to their advantage. The government would never admit his arrest as politically or ideologically motivated. They would paint Felipe’s involvements, whatever they were, as a more tangible threat. “We need to put them on the defensive without being abrasive.”

Serguey grew more confident that he could count on the Father. His use of “we” was telling. It seemed that he did, in fact, have resources at his disposal, maybe even from other members of the Church. Nonetheless, Serguey reminded himself, as he got ready to respond, that whatever Linares inquired, he shouldn’t give up Claudia’s name. “I can’t confirm it, but I think they’ve pegged him a mercenary.”

The Father’s eyes coasted to the window, his voice reaching out to the blue strip of sky. “Mercenary, counterrevolutionary, terrorist, a threat to the safety and fabric of our socialist society, I’ve heard it all. I’ve seen them beat innocent women on the street. But I digress . . .”

Linares was referring to Las Damas de Blanco, the wives or female relatives of political prisoners. Every Sunday they marched silently toward mass, wearing white as a symbol of peace. They were often verbally and physically attacked by authorities dressed as civilians, inciting others to do the same.

“So how can we help Felipe?” Anabel asked.

“Our job,” Linares carried on, “is not to fight the government or State Security head-on. We’re not here to show them they’re wrong. We don’t have the authority. But we can do what we’ve done in the past.”

“What’s that?” Serguey said.

“Make an official plea.”

“Ask for benevolence, for clemency,” Anabel said.

“Exactly. Allow them to appear merciful.” Linares prefaced his next declaration with a shrug. Rather than dismissive, it felt questioning, optimistic. “I hear the new boy in charge wants to make his own dent.”

The “boy,” Serguey thought, was Raul, the Party lapdog turned leader. For years it was presumed that his alcoholism and excessive fondness for young soldiers would keep him from permanently succeeding his older, more menacing and intelligent brother.

“Now,” the priest said preemptively, his palms hovering over the tablecloth, “keep in mind there are no promises here. I’ll discuss the situation with the Cardinal. If he deems it prudent, he’ll be in touch with members of the Church in Spain and a few other organizations. With their support, he’ll have the government’s ear. From a political standpoint, and I’m just being bluntly honest here, Felipe is the ideal person to help, so you have that going for you. He’s a public figure, a commemorated artist. In many people’s eyes that makes him a representative of individual freedom. The Cardinal has been working tirelessly for the release of the Black Spring detainees, but few of them have the reputation Felipe has.” Linares’s hale expression transmuted into a candid confession: “Maybe your dad’s the key to this whole thing.”

“I hope he is,” Serguey said, offering a confession of his own. He hadn’t expected the Church to involve itself out of the goodness of its heart. His principal desire was to liberate his father from the government’s volatile grip, whatever the method. If the Church was after a political victory or good press, so be it. Let Felipe be their banner.

The Father smiled reflectively. “In the meantime, I can write letters on Felipe’s behalf, make public statements if necessary, all within the confines of what’s allowed to us. If I can add a pebble to the scale in your favor, it might make a difference.”

Serguey was brimming with renewed optimism. “We’re immensely grateful.”

Linares said, “You should be aware that if they release your dad, it’ll probably be to another country. They won’t allow him to remain here and return to work.”

Serguey was suddenly silenced. He felt stunned and stupid, as if he should have known this. Exiling the opposition was common practice for the Cuban government, though it was always painted as a matter of choice for the accused.

Felipe had travelled, but Serguey couldn’t remember an instance in which he had expressed interest in defecting.

“This is what they do,” Linares said, perhaps intuiting Serguey’s distress. “The best way to avoid bad press and not have to worry about their prisoners is to force them abroad. Unless . . .”

“Unless he agrees to work for them,” Serguey said. Felipe wouldn’t do it, he was sure.

“Something along those lines.”

“Anywhere but prison,” Anabel said.

“His career’s pretty much over,” Serguey said somberly.

The Father’s eyes were grief-stricken. He hushed his voice to ensure that Antonio and Julia couldn’t hear: “Great independent minds seldom survive in Cuba. We’ve lost so many to emigration and exile, it breaks one’s heart.”

Linares bid his goodbye as regally as he had his arrival. He thanked Julia emphatically for her food and drink. He called her generous and solicitous. He told Antonio to stop by the church on Friday.

“Father Brito will receive you,” he said. “He’s our renovation extraordinaire. He’ll explain more about the ceiling.”

To Anabel, he again dedicated the most time. He hugged her, blessed her, and assured her that she had the Lord’s protection. He invited her to mass and teased that they had plenty of saints to choose from. He then shook Serguey’s hand and blessed him too.

“I encourage you to have faith,” the priest said. “Even if you don’t believe in God.”

Serguey guessed that his in-laws had blabbered about his atheism to Linares. “Is it that obvious?”

“God is an amorphous thing.” Linares stacked his hands piously and delimited his voice so that it evoked a dignified, ritualistic timbre. “He takes many faces and shapes. All good men believe in something. It’s just easier for people to give that something a name. In your case, you have no need to, and this takes the burden of faith away from your expression. It gives you a certain air of freedom.”

Serguey wondered if he’d just been paid a snide compliment.

Linares seemed to recognize his confusion. “I don’t judge. I listen, I accept, and I advise. My advice to you is to keep fighting for your dad. God will be pleased.”

Serguey nodded.

“Have a safe drive,” Julia said

“Sweltering sun out there.” The Father put on his glasses. “But I have a sickly relative in El Cotorro.”

Julia grimaced. “I’m sorry to hear.”

“Nothing serious, but family’s always first.” He waited for Julia’s polite smile, then sauntered toward his car.

She waited in turn until he drove off before she shut her door.

Serguey’s in-laws failed to hide their interest in what the priest had said. They crowded him, Julia softly prodding him to take a seat. An air of anticipation was plastered on their faces.

He told them Linares had offered his full support, along with the Church’s.

Antonio was discernibly content. “I better do a good job with that ceiling.”

Julia clamped her hands together, less ceremoniously than Linares, and whispered a swift prayer. She invited Serguey and Anabel to stay for dinner. Serguey didn’t wait for Anabel to give some sort of sign as to her inclination. He stood up and said yes.

“We’ll walk around Mantilla tonight,” Julia said, clutching her daughter’s elbow. “Antonio definitely needs it.”

Antonio removed his jacket and tossed it onto the backrest of a chair. “What are you saying, that I lie around here all day?” He smirked, reinforcing what everyone already knew: he was teasing.

Julia rolled her eyes. “I just don’t want the bad leg to go stiff.”

Antonio rotated his muscular shoulders, embracing his regained freedom of movement. “She really hits you where it hurts.”

They began their stroll at 8:00 p.m., their stomachs stuffed with Julia’s chickpea and pumpkin dish. A neighbor across the street, who was sitting on a rocking chair next to her husband on their porch, yelled that she could smell the chickpeas and was jealous. Julia told her she’d bring leftovers. The lady, whose name was Leonor, graciously declined.

“She has terrible rheumatoid arthritis,” Julia intimated to Serguey as they walked on. “Her husband does most of the cooking, and let’s just say practice hasn’t made perfect.”

“What about her daughter?” Anabel asked. “Yadira moved out?”

Julia was excited to share her fresh piece of gossip. “I thought I’d told you. She’s been in Venezuela for three months. One of those medical missions to help Chavez.”

They ambled down the street, Julia and Anabel chitchatting about other neighbors and distant relatives. Antonio droned on about Industriales’ chances in the playoffs, about their pitching not being up to par. It allowed Serguey to decompress, to refocus. The sky in Mantilla was proud of its stars, displaying them with vitality. The wind cruised discontinuously, like greetings from friendly passersby. The smell of sofrito and congrí exuded from someone’s open door. Serguey looked inside at what was a very small living room. A group of people, including two young men on the floor, had plates and clear glasses in their hands.

Julia caught him snooping.

“They used to sell food in those small birthday paper boxes,” she said. “Rice, beans, fried plantains, masitas de puerco. When they got some corn, their tamales were to die for, but they only included a slice in each box. Sometimes when Antonio had a rough week at work, we’d treat ourselves.”

“They don’t sell anymore?” Serguey said.

Anabel was the one to respond: “The house was raided by the police once. The CDR people gave them up. The two young men you saw on the floor spent a month in jail for stealing ingredients from a warehouse.”

“Now they just cook for themselves,” Julia said.

Serguey thought for a moment about his next-door neighbor, Carmina, how she might be culpable of a niggling act of betrayal toward a fellow neighbor. People like her spoke with envy and suspicion fastened to their tongues. She was probably capable of going after Las Damas de Blanco if handed a baton.

Not wanting to spoil his night with theories, Serguey pushed these thoughts from his mind.

“I miss those little boxes,” Antonio said.

Julia backslapped his arm. “Maybe you should get Leonor’s husband to cook for you.”

In the space of four blocks, the houses began to look increasingly more run down. Chain-link fences rose, as if germinating from the original concrete front yard walls, turning the homes into cages. The sidewalk gave way to overgrown weeds and littered soil, so they moved onto the street, skirting the curb. Not far ahead, a feisty mutt was sinking its teeth into a dusty bone, the crunch audible as they passed him. Serguey lagged behind the women, next to a limping Antonio. This was a true family, friendly and pleased to be together, in the most humdrum of walks. He had no complaints, except that for an instant, he wanted his brother to be with him. For a decade, they’d ducked each other’s presence; they’d made a habit out of it. Now he missed Victor. He missed his family. He missed something that he wasn’t sure had ever existed between them: the unalloyed enjoyment—the inherent need—of each other’s company. He fondled the cell phone in his pocket, but he thought it rude to call Victor while surrounded by the others. He waited until his in-laws decided to go back to the house, where, in Anabel’s old bedroom, he could have a minute to himself.

Victor had wasted no time in speaking with Kiko. That’s the first thing he said, still looking to prove his worth to his older brother. Serguey realized a heart-to-heart conversation was not on the books, so he let him carry on. He had arranged for the two of them to stop by Kiko’s apartment on Wednesday morning. The computer would be set up for the video. Serguey and Victor were to rehearse their statement, making it sound as natural as possible.

Serguey told him that it was a good idea, and that he would be spending Tuesday night at Felipe’s house so they could prepare.

“Make it Tuesday afternoon,” Victor said. “I need a lot of practice. I’m not good at reading stuff out loud.”

“I’ll prep you as if you were my witness at a trial.” He hadn’t escaped the desire to impress his brother.

Victor’s response might have, at another time, piqued Serguey. Now it vitalized him: “Then we better win the fucking case.”