Am finding the Latin temperament trying, but much is at stake.
—JOURNAL, JAN. 6, 1991
On the first morning of the new year the President told me he was going to normalize relations with Fidel Castro.
I welcomed this bold initiative, but our plurality in the election had been marginal, and I worried how the Republicans would react. As usual, the President had anticipated me.
“It can’t be one of those Nixon-in-China deals,” he said. “If I say anything nice about Castro, the Right’ll have my ass for breakfast.”
An infelicitous metaphor, to be sure, but he was right. The thing had to be handled carefully. The President wanted “no rhumbas, no kissy-kissy,” just a “straightforward signing of bilateral agreements and exchange of ambassadors.”
To my surprise, he asked me to accompany Marvin on his exploratory mission to Havana. “You’ll be my eyes and ears,” he said.
I broke the news to Joan that night over a dinner of her delicious meatloaf. I knew she would take the news hard.
“Dear,” she said, “you know that kind of food doesn’t agree with you.” True enough. On a business trip to Guadalajara years earlier I had been severely stricken. It had been an unpleasant and protracted ordeal, and my personal physician had advised me that another such episode could leave my intestines gravely weakened.
“But, dear,” I said, “I can’t tell the President of the United States I can’t go on a historic mission for him because Latin food doesn’t agree with me.”
“Yes,” she said, fighting back the tears, “but I just can’t bear to think of you hunched over the toilet like that, making those awful noises.”
Nevertheless, my duty was clear and, though my decision broke her heart, Joan was a brave girl and she was deeply committed to the goals of Thomas N. Tucker. Three days later I left Washington for Havana. In one of my bags was a three-day supply of food and copious amounts of Pepto-Bismol. Joan was not about to send me off unprepared.
To satisfy Marvin’s bizarre predilection for secrecy, we flew to Havana via Bangor, Maine. He had arranged to give a speech there—to an unlikely foreign-policy forum, the Bangor Chamber of Commerce. He gave interviews afterward to the local press saying how much he was looking forward to spending the next two days fishing in Penobscot Bay. The locals were quite perplexed. “In January, Mr. Edelstein?” asked the reporter from the Bangor Daily News. Caught off guard, Marvin replied that he found the winter weather “invigorating.” I was grateful when he finally boarded the unmarked Air Force jet after a ridiculous charade through the streets of Bangor, changing cars twice to make sure we weren’t being followed.
We arrived at José Martí Airport at four in the morning, I haggard and badly in need of bed. Instead we were whisked off for breakfast with Foreign Minister Galvan. “Breakfast” consisted of coffee the texture of loose sand, pineapple slices, and eggs which would have hatched the next day.
Foreign Minister Galvan was a decent enough fellow who shared with most Latins a native garrulousness. He spoke uninterrupted for two hours and six minutes. It was clear he regarded the “initiativo” as Comandante Castro’s idea. As a matter of fact, it had been President Tucker’s initiativo, and after a while I found it necessary to point this out.
Marvin gave me a smart kick under the table, nearly breaking the skin on my shin.
Foreign Minister Galvan seemed not to hear my protests, but went on merrily, saying that the visits of Castro to Washington and Tucker to Havana would be “instantly hailed around the world as examples of the wisdom of America’s new leadership.” Marvin was saying nothing, only nodding. This was getting out of hand.
Clearing my throat, I begged the Foreign Minister to understand that President Tucker was eager for substance, not mere spectacle, and that we felt an exchange of ambassadors, not Presidents, would be an appropriate start.
Foreign Minister Galvan blinked a few times, relit his cigar, and said how tired we must be.
Once back in our hotel room, Marvin berated me for “interfering.” I drew myself up to full height and informed him that the President had sent me down here to make sure he, Marvin, didn’t paint him into a corner. Marvin huffed off to compose his cable. I went off to crawl under the covers, which were damp from humidity and gave off a mildewy odor.
That night we were taken to see El Comandante. Castro was in a gregarious mood, and not hesitant to talk about his “achievements.” Dinner dragged as I politely declined to partake of one dish after another. At one point the Comandante himself stopped all conversation to ask, through his interpreter, why I was not eating. I told him that my stomach was unsettled. He frowned and in stentorian fashion summoned a doctor. I insisted that I would be fine as long as I trod a delicate gastronomic routine.
Well then, he said, I must have some of the “excellent” Cuban beer.
When I told him I did not consume alcoholic beverages, he made it plain that I had just insulted all of Cuba. Marvin leaned over and hissed, “Will you just take a sip, for Chrissake?”
Well, when in Rome, as they say. I took a swallow of the stuff. Castro indicated his pleasure, and the conversation resumed.
My memory of what followed is indistinct. I remember that my glass was being constantly refilled, even as I held up my hand to decline. There was also much toasting, I dimly recall; and at one point I found myself being embraced by the Cuban leader. His beard smelled of cigar, and prickled. After repeated toasts to normalization, we were loaded onto a procession of jeeps and taken to a newly completed hydroelectric facility. It was during the Comandante’s speech regarding the Czechoslovakian turbines that I became physically indisposed. After that, I remember very little indeed.
We were flown—mercifully—back to Washington the next day, Marvin in a royal huff and barely saying a word to me. I was grateful, as I had never before experienced what is euphemistically called a hangover. To me it seemed more like a combination of the flu, migraine, and bilharziasis. When he demanded that I put on my disguise before landing at Andrews Air Force Base, I told him that under no circumstances would I put on that disgusting beard. To this day beards summon up the most unpleasant associations.
As I walked through the West Wing, people greeted me like a diseased person, lowering their voices, hurrying out of my vicinity. Even through the fog of my distress I thought this unusual. Here I was, returning from a presidential mission, and plainly the worse for wear. Somehow I managed to reach my office. Immediately Barbara said, “He’s waiting for you.”
Holding my throbbing temples between my hands, I groped my way to the Oval.
The President was in one of his quiet tempers. “Welcome back,” he said curtly. “Mind explaining this?”
Dimly I attempted to focus on the cable he’d handed me. It was a description of our negotiations with the Cubans, signed by Marvin. It made him sound like Benjamin Franklin. I, on the other hand, was made to sound like something out of Animal House. Alas, due to my circumstances, I lacked the wit to defend myself.
“Codswallop,” I muttered.
The President said, “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
“A tissue of untruths. He would have given them Florida if they’d asked.”
“So you threw up on their new dam. On Castro’s pant leg. Dammit, Herb.”
I explained to the best of my impaired ability, but it was clear that the President was disappointed in me. For the next few days I made myself scarce, hoping that his displeasure was temporary.
Normalization fever swept through the administration. About a week after my inglorious return we had a meeting in the Oval. The President seemed bemused by all the excitement. “Holt called this morning from State,” he said. “Wanted to know when ‘we’re’ going to Havana. Petrossian’s in a lather because he thinks there goes Florida. Reigeluth’s delighted. He thinks one of the anti-Castro group is going to blow me away. Remind me, Bam,” he said to Lleland, “why did we pick Reigeluth?”
“The Northeast.”
“Oh, yes. Right.”
It was at this meeting that he told us he had decided against going to Havana or inviting Castro to the U.S. Marvin shifted in his seat and tried to persuade him that reciprocal visits were the thing.
“No,” he said, “I won’t do that. Castro’s a dictator. Dictators like parades—makes them feel legitimate. He doesn’t want to be recognized by the U.S., he wants to be respected by the U.S. I’ll give him the first, not the second.”
The President then told me he wanted me to return to Havana to work out arrangements for The Meeting. I was stunned. In front of the others I asked him why he wanted me to go, considering the mess I’d made of things the first time.
He said that Clay Clanahan of CIA thought my “embarrassment” had been arranged. He grinned. “Marvin here was hot for reciprocal visits. You weren’t. Clay thinks this was their little way of making a point. Well,” he chuckled, “I too can make a point.”
Wadlough, I said to myself, we’re out of the doghouse. Marvin looked positively miserable.
The President reached behind him, took a desk atlas, and opened it to the Caribbean. He took a ruler and drew a straight line from Key West to Havana.
“There,” he said, making a small X. “Longitude eighty-two west. Latitude twenty-three degrees, fifty minutes north … hell, make it an even twenty-four degrees. Halfway. Tell El Comandante I will meet him there.” He held the point of the pencil in place. Then he added with a slightly devious smile, “Take Leslie Dach along with you.”
Feeley, Marvin, Lleland, and I all looked at each other. I said, “Are you sure that’s wise?” But the President only smiled.