CHAPTER 18

They climbed out of the taxi in front of Serguey and Anabel’s building. A fetid silence, like smothering fumes, had accompanied them inside the car. Victor paid the driver, and the man drove away slowly. Serguey lingered on the sidewalk, observing the women, gauging whether the argument was over. Alida was approaching Anabel, extending her hand discreetly, seeking reprieve. The screeching wail of skidding tires, like the prelude to some thunderous and horrific accident, shook Serguey’s attention away from them. A bronze-colored Lada came to a halt where the taxi had been. A compact cloud of burnt rubber rose above the doors, through which two plainclothes men exited and flashed their credentials so briefly that Serguey wasn’t able to make them out. One of the men, the shorter one, grabbed Serguey’s sleeves and pushed him against the building. The other man, tall and portly, said to Victor, “You know the drill.” Victor shrugged and stood against the wall, arms up and legs spread.

“What’s going on?” Anabel said, turning back, Alida at her side. “Who are you?”

“State Security,” the shorter man said, searching Serguey. “Stay out of it or we’ll arrest you too.” He removed Serguey’s wallet and cell phone and dropped them in his shirt pocket.

The first thing that flashed through Serguey’s mind was the moment in which he had deleted the text he’d sent to Mario. The second was from moments earlier in the taxi, when he’d verified Mario had yet to respond. The third was the consolation that, if the authorities were to keep his phone, he could ask Kiko for the dramaturge’s number.

The man gruffly ran his hands up Serguey’s inner thigh and thrust them into his testicles. Serguey flinched, briefly losing his ability to breathe as his knees trembled and pleated. Right under the nape, the man bundled a fistful of Serguey’s shirt, and, as if clamped by the jaws of a bigger animal, Serguey was yanked back to an erect position.

“Getting soft on me?” the man whispered jeeringly just above Serguey’s earlobe.

“It’s all right,” Serguey said to Anabel, his heart pounding but his voice serene. “Take Alida into the apartment.”

“You can’t do this!” Anabel shouted.

Lights began to flicker on above them. The balconies, Serguey knew, were about to become theater seats.

“Is that one clean?” the short man asked the fat one while putting handcuffs on Serguey.

His buddy was doing the same with Victor. “Yeah, he’s clean.”

“All right, let’s go.”

“Where are you taking us?” Serguey asked loudly. “What’s your name?” The man lifted Serguey’s arms by the handcuffs. Serguey felt a straining pain in his shoulders and elbows. He started to resist, buying time. It worked. People were now standing on their balconies. Serguey could hear them mumbling. He looked up and said, “This is the country we live in! This is injustice! This is abuse!”

Anabel rushed toward the short man as he dragged Serguey to the car. “Comrade,” she said, entreating him this time, “they haven’t done anything.”

The man didn’t respond.

Serguey said, “Anabel, it’s all right. Stay with Alida.”

“This is nothing,” Victor said. He was being hauled around the rear of the car. “I’ll watch over him, Anabel. This is nothing.”

“What’s your name?” she asked the man. “Show me your badge again. I have a right to know who you are.”

Serguey was already inside the Lada, the door slammed shut. He could barely hear the voices outside. He saw the man raise his finger to Anabel’s face. He heard the word “arrest” again. The man also pointed at Alida, who was now sitting on the building steps, crying.

“I have a right to know,” Anabel was saying, her voice muffled and frantic. The man walked away.

Victor was shoved into Serguey until they were both uncomfortably jammed against the door. The fat man sat next to Victor. The short one took the passenger seat. A third man, small-headed and crumple-faced, was the driver.

“Go,” the short man said, securing his door.

As the car raced out of the neighborhood, Serguey said, “Officer, what’s your name? We have a right to know who’s arresting us.”

“The name’s Silvio. Memorize it because we’re going to become friends.”

“Rodriguez?” Victor said, sneering. “Like the communist singer?”

The driver chuckled, though his companion wasn’t amused.

Victor looked at the paunchy man next to him. “Who are you supposed to be? Pablito Milanes?”

“I’m a lawyer,” Serguey said, a despairing attempt at his own brand of intimidation.

“And I’m the law,” Silvio said. “Now be quiet, or I’ll send Pablito back to pick up your ladies.”

The brothers were transported to a police station in La Lisa, fifteen kilometers from the apartment. Serguey figured the officers wanted to make it difficult for their family to find them. They were led to a windowless room with three chairs and a table. The bare-bulb floor lamp in the corner reminded Serguey of nighttime construction. Their grandfather, Larido, had once spent an entire summer evening erecting a short wall for a friend of Estela’s. He and Victor had assisted him under an incandescent canopy of light bulbs, their bodies dowsed in brackish sweat, as their grandfather shoveled mortar from a bucket and smeared it on bricks, stacking them up with a level.

In this room, Serguey felt the same heat, saw the same kind of shadows.

They waited for a half hour, handcuffed. Serguey told Victor to say nothing and keep the goofing to a minimum.

“For all we know, there’s a microphone somewhere in here,” he said.

“I really need to pee,” Victor said, as if the fact rendered him weaker, susceptible.

Serguey struggled not to think about the metal of the handcuffs, digging and cutting his wrist bones. His fingers were going numb, and he, too, needed to use the bathroom. The adrenaline rush had subsided; their pulses had dropped. It made him feel naked under the bareness of the light bulb, the stuffy silence of the room.

It was Montalvo who finally entered. He had on olive green military pants and a red polo shirt, the sleeves wrapped tightly around his chiseled biceps. With no flag or halo to speak of—no visual theatrics to distract them—Serguey feared on this occasion Montalvo really meant business.

“What happened to Silvio?” Victor said.

Serguey thought it smart, showing Montalvo that he had numbers on his side, that by himself, he wasn’t as menacing.

“He hasn’t gone far,” Montalvo said dismissingly. He stared at Serguey. “So, how was the lobster?”

“What lobster?”

“The one you ate tonight.”

“They didn’t have any,” Victor said.

“Don’t,” Serguey told his brother. One taunt had been enough.

Montalvo leaned on the table. “Let me see if I understand: your father’s in prison, and you two take your women to celebrate at a tourist restaurant?”

The brothers didn’t reply.

“I thought you’d be out at Calderas with signs, yelling at some TV camera, demanding his freedom, claiming his innocence. Or dragging those mercenary journalists to Section Twenty-One to get more information.”

Victor chortled, Serguey presumed at the word “mercenary.”

Montalvo didn’t acknowledge him. “But you haven’t,” he said. “Well, to be fair, when this one here,” he gestured at Victor, “showed up at the prison after your mutual visit, he left with his tail between his legs. So I wondered, have they seen the light? Are they disavowing their counterrevolutionary father?”

Serguey repelled the urge to scowl at his brother. Victor hadn’t disclosed his second visit to Calderas. Then again, he couldn’t reprimand him. Serguey himself had withheld the scrap with Parra at the National Council for the Performing Arts.

Montalvo stood and walked past the brothers to the end of the room. Serguey stared over his shoulder, not wanting to lose sight of him. Victor drooped his neck and squinted. Maybe the onset of a headache.

“So, what I’d like to know,” the ex-colonel said, “is what you’ve been up to.”

Again the brothers declined to speak.

“I haven’t seen any official documentation stating that you’ve distanced yourselves from Felipe Blanco, so I’m going to give you the opportunity.” The door opened and Silvio came in, a premeditated entrance. He had two folders pinned under his right arm. He placed them side-by-side on the table, revealing a typed and stamped statement in each one. Then he proceeded to remove the brother’s handcuffs.

Serguey felt relieved, capable. “What do you want?”

“Sign those.” Montalvo pointed at the gaping folders. “Proof that you’re cooperating and will tell us what we need to know. In exchange, we’ll show your father some leniency.”

Serguey took the statement and read it.

“What kind of leniency?” Victor said.

Serguey put out his hand and shook his head at his brother. “Don’t fall for it.” He turned to Montalvo. “You give me something in writing that says my father will be released, then we can talk.”

“You’re getting greedy. You sign those, then we can talk.”

“This is an indirect admission of my father’s guilt. You’re going to have to do better than that. I already told you people that I’m a lawyer.”

Montalvo ordered Silvio to take the folders and leave the room. He stood between the brothers and moored his hands on their shoulders. “Your father has been in contact with individuals who are members of international organizations. The mere act of letting them in his house is sufficient to convict him as an enemy of the state.”

“You have proof of this?” Serguey said. “Photographs, witnesses, a confession?”

Montalvo squeezed Serguey’s shoulder, his grip strong, controlled. It made Serguey shudder.

“You’re jumping in front of the wagon. Besides, proof will always be on the side of justice.”

Serguey didn’t care for vaguely crafted maxims. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means they don’t need proof.” Victor blended a smile and a sneer.

Montalvo made an umbrella of his fingers, pressing them against his chest. “I didn’t say that.” He sat on the table and commanded the brothers to tell him about their own involvement. “I know that you know your father’s friends. I also know that you’ve been talking to independent journalists, those fucking rats. They make shit up online so that people will send them money. It’s really just another form of prostitution. Gineteras intelectuales.”

“We haven’t spoken with anybody,” Serguey said.

“And you haven’t recorded a video either, right?”

The air coagulated in Serguey’s lungs. Was it possible that Claudia had already posted the video? Should he cop to it? Had Montalvo actually seen it himself or simply heard about it? He was tired of the ex-colonel’s posturing. “We’ve done nothing that we regret.”

Montalvo stepped toward him and clipped a pen into the single-breast pocket of his shirt. “If you want a normal future in Cuba, you’ll use that pen. On my mother’s grave, I swear,” he raised his right hand, “no harassment, no black stain record. I don’t want you to work for us. Just sign the documents, and we can all move on.”

“Take your pen,” Serguey said groggily. “We’re not signing.”

“There’s no gray area here. You’re with us, and we help you. You’re against us, and we fuck you, literally.”

Victor began to fall asleep (or was he pretending?). Montalvo slapped him, the flat, whipping sound bouncing off the peeling walls. He jabbed his fingers into Victor’s jaw and said, “You like prison, don’t you?”

Victor snorted forcefully, like a horse after a long sprint.

Montalvo released him. “We have enough to throw you in any prison we want and let you rot there before you even see a judge.”

The slap had triggered Serguey’s heartbeat into overdrive. The bare light bulb was now a source of excruciating heat. “You can’t do that,” he managed to say. “It’s unconstitutional. I’ll get someone to publish a list of your violations. I’ll make sure your name’s front and center.”

Montalvo touched Serguey’s forehead with his own. “Who?” He began to apply pressure—a furious ram establishing dominance. “Who’s going to publish it?”

The ex-colonel’s breath, husky and bitter, made Serguey want to hurl. He averted his eyes and blinked repeatedly.

Montalvo’s voice turned rancorous, filled with aggravation. “We’re going to expedite your father’s trial. Then we’re sending him to Cienfuegos. You’ll see him every three months. He’ll probably die of dysentery. Have you heard how dissident prisoners are doing? We granted one medical leave after the Church begged for clemency. The guy was spitting blood and shitting his pants. Felipe won’t last as long.”

“He has the right to see a lawyer,” Serguey said.

“What I’ll let him see is a priest, to give him his last rites.”

Did Montalvo know about the Church’s involvement too? Serguey laughed unintentionally, out of fatigue. “I have nothing more to say. If you’re not charging us, you’ll have to release us in forty-eight hours.”

Montalvo’s neck and armpits were soggy with sweat. He went to the door and banged on it. Silvio and Pablito entered, another prepared appearance.

“Season them up a little bit,” he told them. “Don’t touch the face, no lasting marks. If they fight back, call a couple of more officers. Tie them down if you have to. Then throw them in the cell with the two guys who stabbed that drunk at the party. Tell them there’s a pack of cigarettes for them if they give these idiots here a sleepless night.” Montalvo looked at the brothers. “See you tomorrow.”

Serguey and Victor were thrown to the corner of the room. Silvio and Pablito shouted for them to drop to the floor, then kicked them, again and again, in the ribs and stomach. Serguey wilted under the blows. Tired of the beating, Victor made as if to stand, but Serguey pulled his brother’s forearm, pleading that he not fight back. Victor protested as he lay down and shielded his lower torso with his elbows. After a few seconds, dark spots began to appear in Serguey’s blurry vision; it hurt to suck in air. They took hit after hit bunched together, their shoulders touching, without saying a word. Along with the kicks, Silvio and Pablito would yell “Son of a bitch!” or “You dissident queers!” They were looking to bait them, to get them to retaliate.

The brothers never did.

Eventually the officers hauled them by their collars into a cell. The men Montalvo had mentioned were standing by the entrance. The brothers sat on the floor, leaning their heads back against the wall. They were grunting and sighing, hoping to remove some of the pain with each exhalation.

“I think I have a broken rib,” Serguey whispered.

“Where?”

Gingerly, Serguey lifted his shirt. Victor massaged his brother’s ribcage, and he winced.

“It’s not broken,” Victor said. “It’s just sore. And get ready, ‘cause tomorrow it’s going to hurt more. That’s why they did this. We’re lucky they didn’t use batons. Those suckers leave nasty welts.”

“Look at these maricones,” one of the detainees said. He was short and sinewy, wearing a white tank top and jean shorts. As he smiled, he revealed a missing tooth on the left side of his mouth. His companion was taller and thicker, not as muscular, and by the look of his droopy eyes and protruding lower lip, possibly slow-witted. He was also wearing a tank top, reddish stretch marks radiating from his armpits. When he’d heard about prisoners, Serguey had hoped for plants, State Security disguised as criminals. These men were the real thing. As he looked at them, he became acutely aware of a festering stench, like vomit—a mix of beer and rotten meat—that seemed to have infused every centimeter of the cell.

“Where are they taking you?” Victor asked the men. “Eastern Combine? Villa Marista? Whatever you were doing out in the streets, you can forget it. You’re going to be selling your asses for cigarettes now.”

“Watch your mouth,” the toothless one said.

“I don’t know what they told you,” Victor said, “but if you fuck with me or my brother, I know some people inside who will slice your dick off. Ever heard of Melao?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of Melao.”

Victor bent his knees with a grunt. “He’s my second cousin.”

The man chortled. “Just don’t fall asleep.”

“What are you in for?” Serguey asked. “I’m a lawyer.”

“We shanked a guy,” the bigger one said, miming a stabbing motion.

“Allegedly,” said the other.

“Weren’t you at a party?” Victor said.

The toothless one was taken aback by Victor’s detail. “So what?”

Victor scoffed. “By the look of you two, probably half the crowd saw you do it.”

The bigger one treaded slothfully toward the brothers.

Serguey stood. “Take it easy.” He took off his shirt and offered it.

Victor sprung up and snatched the shirt. He pressed it against Serguey’s chest. “Don’t give them anything.”

“Tell me what happened,” Serguey said. “Maybe I can help.”

The toothless one smacked his large companion on the shoulder twice and shook his head. They leaned against the wall opposite the brothers.

“Just don’t fall asleep,” he repeated.

Throughout the night, whenever Serguey or Victor dozed off, the toothless man would yell “Hey!” and clap. Serguey found it exasperating, but the discomfort and ache in his stomach, chest, and ribs was growing with each hour, and he was in no mood for another beating. Victor didn’t seem to be either. He remained immobile for the most part, holding the men’s gazes.

Deep into the night, he decided to ask them, “Don’t you sleep?”

“They gave us a little something before you were brought in here.”

Serguey figured they meant drugs.

At one point, Victor asked Serguey to watch his back as he relieved himself in the corner of the cell. Sitting down again, he said, “Lighting here’s pretty bad, but I don’t think I had blood in my piss. That’s always good news.”

Serguey was alarmed. “You’ve had blood in your piss before?”

“I was at this party, and Special Brigades showed up. They came rushing out of a van. I think it was some kind of raid. I tumbled over a cement block trying to get away, and one of the officers hit me with a club. I don’t react well to those things, so when I tried to get up to fight him, he kicked me with those huge boots they wear. Got me right in the kidney.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve filed a complaint.”

“What for? I didn’t have any witnesses. Besides, you fuck with those Special Brigades guys, they’ll come after you worse than these State Security pricks.”

“Was it a red beret?” the toothless man asked.

“Yeah,” Victor said.

“I took down a black beret once. Broke his nose.”

“Good for you.”

The man said nothing else. He and his companion continued keeping watch, hour after hour, ensuring that Serguey and Victor didn’t fall asleep.

Early in the morning, as sunrays percolated through a window opposite the cell, a uniformed police officer came for them. He led them back to the interrogation room. As he walked, Serguey felt that every part of his body except the bottom of his feet contained some measure of pain. He had spent the past few hours fretting about Anabel, about the terrible fantasies that might be tormenting her. If only he could call her, tell her in his clearest voice that he was fine.

Montalvo was already inside, wearing the same outfit from the previous night. The brothers took their respective seats without being told, their quiet acceptance a form of resistance. Without the support of a wall, Serguey’s head felt cumbersome, as if on the verge of unhinging itself from his neck. His mouth was desiccated, his mind drowsy. The lack of sleep, the repetition in the location and Montalvo’s clothes, made the entire time at the station seem like a bad dream.

Victor stretched his legs and said, “So what is it, Serguey, twenty-four hours more to go?” He yawned determinedly, pretending to welcome his exhaustion.

“You boys sore?” Montalvo asked.

“I’m taking this to court,” Serguey said, his voice garbled like a drunk’s.

Montalvo reached behind him and produced one of the folders. He was giving it another shot. He leafed through it aimlessly. “You go fill out your paperwork, make your phone calls, quote the penal code. In fifty years, people like you have never won.” He closed the file and smacked it against his leg like a drummer counting off a slow, heavy rock song. “That’s why it’s just a matter of time before you see it from our point of view. Now, let’s get you some coffee.” He looked at the door and called for Silvio.

The man walked in with a plastic thermos and two cups. Their timing, Serguey had to admit, was impeccable.

“Have some,” Montalvo said to the brothers, pouring the steaming coffee into the cups. “Just for kicks, I’m going to ask you again: what do you know about you father’s political involvements?”

Serguey shook his head, rejecting the coffee. It was a dodgy move: how much fuel he had left in the tank without a shot of caffeine was hard to say.

Montalvo placed Serguey’s cup at his side. Wraiths of steam danced upward, escaping beautifully, mournfully from the mouth of the open thermos.

Victor accepted his coffee and drank half of it. “Tastes like shit,” he said to Silvio. He drank the rest insolently and squinted at the bottom of the cup. “I bet the wife has to make it for you at home.”

Montalvo laughed. “His coffee does taste like shit. I make my own.”

“We know nothing,” Serguey said curtly, addressing the ex-colonel’s question about Felipe’s involvements.

“All right.” Montalvo set the folder back on the table. “But you should know that you’re running out of friends. Your former boss, Roberto Gimenez—a nice guy, by the way—has been really cooperative.”

Gimenez had no substantial information. But Montalvo’s bait was too tempting. What exactly had he shared? “Gimenez is human garbage,” Serguey said, refusing to ask outright. It was too early to believe that his mentor had sold him out (there was still a possibility that his wanting to meet this very morning had been to warn his protégé), but Serguey wasn’t exactly in a forgiving mood.

“That’s open to interpretation,” Montalvo said. “He claims you’ve been acting suspiciously around work. He recommended that we go through your computer, maybe have a word or two with your wife. You two are inseparable, he says.”

“The computer’s clean.” Serguey swallowed laboriously, though he wasn’t lying.

“We’ll see about that.”

“I’ll volunteer it. It belongs to the Ministry, so you can have at it with a hammer.”

“No need. Our guys are already looking.”

They’d been inside the apartment, Serguey surmised. Had they been waiting for Anabel and Alida? Were the women being held in another room?

Victor said, “If you touch Anabel or Alida,” he presented his coffee cup like a tiny baseball, “I’m going to smash your face.”

Montalvo grabbed the thermos and took a couple of steps forward. “The fun never ends with you.” He clinched Victor’s wrist with his free hand and commanded him to let go the empty cup. Victor stared daringly at him before obeying. The cup bounced on the floor but didn’t break. Looking into Victor’s eyes, the ex-colonel poured coffee on his knee. Victor shouted in pain and vaulted backwards, tripping briefly over his toppling chair.

Serguey jumped up and said, “He’s trying to trap you, Victor. Don’t hit him.”

“Was it really that hot?” Montalvo said.

Victor refused to touch his own knee. His tightened fists shook with rippling ire.

The ex-colonel dropped the thermos, part of the rim shattering off upon impact. The sound, like Montalvo’s slap the previous night, ricocheted across the sealed room. He seized the files from the table. “Relax, Victor. I’m a gentleman with the ladies. Gimenez already warned me that Anabel’s feisty, so I’ll go out of my way to take it easy on her.”

Victor looked imploringly at Serguey. He was asking for permission to assail the ex-colonel. His groans were beginning to end in weary whimpers. A persistent tremor had overtaken his limbs.

Serguey’s eyes were so dry they couldn’t conjure up tears. “Gimenez is a desperate old man.”

Montalvo paced toward Serguey and tapped the folders on his head. Again his ammoniac exhales curdled Serguey’s stomach.

“Our favorite kind of witness.”

“Where’s Anabel?” Serguey asked angrily. “Did you bring her here?”

Montalvo ambled to the door. “If she hasn’t left you, she should be at the apartment.”

Serguey targeted his attention at the files, which swayed precariously between the tips of Montalvo’s fingers. “What about my father?”

“The pen I put in your pocket,” the colonel said, “keep it as a souvenir. Silvio will drive you home. I can’t wait to get my hands on that video I keep hearing about. If it’s as good as I expect, I might just ship you both to Oriente. Anabel’s going to have to get a new husband. As for your daddy . . .” Montalvo dislodged the papers from the folders and tore them with ease. The pieces fell like floating leaves by his boots. “Look at your calendar. When it’s been a month since your last visit, go see him at Calderas, that’s if you’re still free and he’s still there. You turn up before then, I’m locking you up for public disturbance. You can read all about it in the penal code.”