Luis and Frankie exchanged glances.
Ramon went on. “But there is another, more pressing problem. Pacelli put a dragnet out for me.”
“Why?”
Ramon gestured at Frankie. “She used me to contact you. At La Perla they are saying I am the one she ran away with.”
“I’m sorry, Ramon,” Frankie said. “It’s my parents. Not me.”
He ignored her. “l haven’t been home in days. My mother is going crazy. I was hoping to stay here, but now…” He let his voice trail off.
“Of course you will stay here,” Luis said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Ramon, we must stay together. Events are beginning to accelerate.”
“But this is not what we planned.” Ramon gestured toward Frankie.
“We will get our money. But not through kidnapping. That’s what I want to discuss tonight.”
Ramon lifted his chin toward Frankie. “You are going to tell them about her?”
Luis shifted. “In time. But tonight I must ask you not to tell anyone she is here. When the time is right, I will tell them.”
“I don’t like this, Luis.”
“If I thought her abduction would help our cause, I wouldn’t have called it off. But they will never fork over the ransom. They will set a trap instead. So I have a new strategy to discuss. Believe me, Ramon, nothing has changed. We are brothers in the revolution. And we stay that way.”
Ramon wasn’t convinced.
• • •
The meeting didn’t break up until dawn. Luis thought Frankie was asleep when he came to bed, and he tried not to disturb her when he crawled in. But she stirred and with a warm, sleepy sigh twined her legs around his. He breathed in the scent of her, felt her heat. The bed was small, but they didn’t need much room. Afterwards, they lay sweaty and hot, the sheet tangled between their legs.
“Francesca, I have a question.”
Frankie drew abstract designs on his chest with her finger. She loved the feel of his chest hair, she claimed. “Of course.”
“I—I know you are not a virgin, but—”
“I’ve only been with one other man, Luis, and he was—”
“I don’t care that you have been with another man. But,” he paused. “Tell me. Were you in love with him?”
Frankie bit her lip. She didn’t want to think about Nicky. In fact, she’d been forcing herself not to. She loved Nicky, but not the same way as Luis. Still, Nicky had been a big part of her life, and she hadn’t told him about Luis. She stopped fingering his chest. “I have never loved anyone the way I love you. You are my oxygen. My sun. I can not live one day without you.”
Luis gazed at her. Then he nodded.
“What about you, querido?”
He caught a lock of her hair between his fingers, felt its soft, velvety curl. “There has never been anyone except you.”
She smiled contentedly, and snuggled in closer. “How did the meeting go?”
“Ramon did not say anything. I give him credit for that. With everyone searching for him, the pressure must be enormous.”
She brushed her hand across his forehead. “Do you trust him?”
“We have known each other since we were children.”
“That is not an answer, mi amor,” she said. “You are no longer children.”
• • •
A few hours later Tony Pacelli’s private business phone rang.
“I have the information you’ve been looking for,” a male voice said in Spanish.
“Who is this and how did you get this number?”
“Do you want to know where your daughter is?”
“Is she all right?” Tony asked.
“She is safe.”
“Where is she?”
“In a house. Not far from here.”
“You kidnapped her.”
The caller was silent. The fact that he didn’t contradict Tony spoke volumes.
“How much do you want?”
“Twenty thousand dollars. Half now. Half on delivery.”
It was Tony’s turn to be silent. Finally, he said, “I need to meet with you.”
“No. I will give you a drop for the first payment. Then you will receive further instructions.”
Tony clenched his teeth. People saw too many gangster movies in Cuba. Too many movies, period. Batista probably figured the films, which seduced Cubans with their tales of heroism, fantasy, and romance, kept the people docile. Tony might have a piece of a movie theater, he thought. He couldn’t remember.
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth? Other people know she’s gone. You could be a two-bit con man trying to shake me down. I need proof you have her.”
“I will leave a piece of her clothing at the drop.”
Tony was quick with a reply. “Not good enough. Her mother and I do not know what she was wearing when she left. You could buy a trinket at El Encanto, try to convince us it was hers.”
More silence on the other end. Tony wasn’t sure if he was winning or losing. The caller clearly had the power. Then again, Tony was a good negotiator. He should be able to regain the advantage. He was trying to think two steps ahead when he realized this wasn’t a negotiation to be won or lost. This was his daughter. He had to accept reality. At least for now.
“Where will you leave this ‘proof’?”
“Go to the janitor’s storeroom at La Perla at three PM this afternoon. You will have your proof. But only if the money has been paid in advance.” Ramon gave him the address of a Western Union near La Perla and told him to make sure the money was there by two. Addressed to Señor Diego Juarez.
But Tony Pacelli surprised himself. “No. No money until I am convinced you have my daughter and she is unharmed.”
The response was a click, then a dial tone. Tony made a call.
• • •
Ramon debated long and hard before he called Tony Pacelli. On the one hand, Luis was his oldest friend. They’d been inseparable. Ramon’s father worked with Luis’s father on a sugar plantation in Oriente until he dropped dead. When the boys were eighteen they moved to Havana to attend university together. They scrounged jobs, working as busboys, messengers, and movie ushers to make ends meet. When things were really bad, Ramon dove for pesos off the rocks at Regla. Then La Perla opened and advertised for workers, claiming they’d pay higher wages than any other resort. Ramon, who had never been a good student, dropped out of university and went to work.
Through everything they had been loyal to each other, sharing their adventures and confidences. When Ramon first slept with a girl, he described it to Luis, who, still a virgin, went wide-eyed at his friend’s machismo. When Luis started to get involved with the rebel movement, Ramon found himself drawn in.
When they formed the group, Luis was in charge. Ramon didn’t mind. He had a lot to learn, and Luis was clever. In fact, Luis reminded Ramon of Che, a doctor and an intellectual. But people change, and claiming to be in love in the middle of the revolution was unacceptable. Everyone knew women were good for three things only: cooking, sex, and babies. Everything else was witchcraft.
What had come over Luis was a sickness, a fever. He was under this woman’s spell. If the other cell members knew, they would strip him of his command. And so Ramon convinced himself he was actually doing Luis a favor. Saving him from himself. When this was over, Luis would be grateful.
He took the bus back to the safe house. He could fabricate a pretext for returning: a nonexistent conversation he wanted to share with Luis, perhaps about a potential recruit. He hummed as he got off. By the end of the afternoon, they would have ten thousand dollars, and he would be a hero. He walked the three blocks from the bus stop, taking care to make detours in case of a tail. He couldn’t afford to have Pacelli’s men or the police following him.
He climbed a fence, trotted down an alley. Satisfied no one was following him, he approached the house. The ceiba tree cast dappled shadows on the walk. Most of the other ap
artments had their doors open. In this heat, you needed air, even if it was hot and tropical. But the door to the safe house was closed. He knocked. There was no response. He knocked again. Nothing. He turned the knob. It twisted. He went in.
He called out. “Luis? Señorita Pacelli?”
No answer.
Maybe they had gone to eat or buy groceries. Or do laundry. Isn’t that what women did? He called out again, to be sure. When no one answered, a rush of energy came over him. He couldn’t believe his luck. He could go into the bedroom and take an article of her clothing without having to sneak it out.
As he approached the bedroom, though, Ramon hesitated. He was crossing a boundary. Luis would see it as a betrayal. But it really wasn’t. It was necessary. If he’d been in his right mind, Luis would have agreed. The revolution came first. Ramon was doing the right thing. He opened the door, anticipating what he would take. Nothing too personal. A shoe, perhaps. Or a piece of jewelry.
The room was empty. Nothing but the bed, a mattress, and a folding chair.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The train ride was only supposed to be four hours, but with the roadblocks and inevitable breakdowns, it took nearly seven hours before they reached Santa Clara. Frankie could tell Luis was nervous. What if her father had men watching the bus and train stations and airports? Frankie tied her hair in a ponytail, bought a cheap dress, and wore dark glasses. The disguise seemed to work; neither she nor Luis sensed anyone looking or following as they boarded the train. Once they were settled in Santa Clara, though, Luis said she’d have to change her appearance more dramatically.
While Luis kept fidgeting and wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes, Frankie stared out the window. A team of oxen pulled a plow across a field, farmers in straw hats picked tomatoes, boys dove into rivers. She hadn’t been out of Havana much, especially in the past year. And anywhere she went—in or out of Havana—she had always been Tony Pacelli’s daughter. Treated with deference and respect. Now, though, she felt like she’d put on a cloak of freedom. The anonymity of being simply another person, no one special, was euphoric.
Still, she felt a twinge of guilt. She knew she was the reason Luis was troubled. Love had destroyed the familiar and ushered in the unknown. The upheaval had to be particularly cruel, given his revolutionary zeal. Her heart ached for him, but she couldn’t interfere in the political part of his life. Instead she resolved to manage every other part. She would do whatever it took to build a happy and safe life for them both. A perfect life. He would never regret the decision to be together.
The sun winked off the tops of nearby rail cars as the train slowed. “Why did we come to Santa Clara?” Frankie asked Luis in Spanish. The city, which sprawled along the Central Highway in the province of Las Villas, was supposed to be beautiful, but with only 250,000 people it was a sleepy, more rural version of Havana.
Luis looked around before answering. There was no one in the seat in front of them, and the woman behind was busy trying to manage two children.
“Three reasons,” he replied quietly, also in Spanish. He ticked them off his fingers. “One, it was time to get out of Havana—”
“Because of me.”
“Not entirely. The streets are dangerous. The cells are conducting more operations, and Batista’s men are out in large numbers. If I was caught, they would certainly torture or kill me.”
She winced. “And the second?”
“Santa Clara is a university town. We will blend in.”
“I thought the university was closed. Like Havana’s.”
“Yes, but many students are still here living, working, waiting.”
“And the third reason?”
“I can be useful.” Luis explained that Fidel and the rebels were moving out of the Sierra Maestra mountains. At the end of August, Camilo Cienfuegos set out with a column of men, their mission to march across the island and to Pinar del Rio on the western edge. Along the way Cienfuegos was to organize more rebel units.
“But we’re going in the opposite direction.”
“That’s because the other column of rebels, led by Che Guevara, is heading toward Santa Clara.”
Frankie gulped air. “Why?”
“Fidel’s plan is to cut the island in half at Santa Clara. So it will be impossible for Batista to prevail.”
“Will it succeed?”
Luis nodded. “Eastern Cuba is already under the rebels’ control. And Batista is a terrible military leader. The soldiers realize they’re fighting a general’s war, not their own. The struggle reflects that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Batista has played his generals against each other for so long they are interested more in enriching themselves than fighting. Soldiers are deserting in droves. And the rebels treat them well. That’s why our ranks are growing. It is merely a matter of time.”
The train lurched to a stop. Frankie stood and reached for her bag, but Luis got to it before she could. “After two years,” he went on, “and so many false starts and stops, I want to be involved in the final act.”
“How?”
“Che’s column will need scouts, once they arrive. Food and equipment, too. Maybe explosives and weapons. I will help.”
Frankie sat down again.
“You’re not surprised, are you?”
“I guess not.”
“You know how many people have withdrawn their support for the government?”
“Yes, but I don’t know whether it’s because they love Fidel or hate Batista.”
“Does it matter? Attitudes are changing. Money and manpower are coming into the movement. Everything is on our side.”
Frankie thought it over. After the revolution, who knew? Maybe, because of Luis’s dedication and heroism, he would be given an important position. For now, though, she had to adjust to a new way of thinking. A thought occurred to her. “What about us? How do we make sure we stay safe? Until it’s over?”
Luis didn’t reply as they walked down the aisle toward the exit. Only after they had descended to the station platform did he say, “We must adopt new names. New identities, too.”
She tilted her head.
“People cannot know who we are, where we are from, or what I am doing. It helps that you look Spanish and you speak like a native. If we’re careful, we should not have a problem.”
Frankie thought about it, then grinned.
“What is funny?”
“Does that mean we can tell people we’re married?”
Luis’s face lightened too, and he smiled for the first time that day. “If you want.”
“So… what should our name be?”
“What do you think?”
She thought of Señor Wences and his act on the Ed Sullivan show and giggled. “How about Señor and Señora Wences?”
“Too obvious.” He paused. “How about Lopez?”
“All right. Luis Lopez.”
“No. I will be—Julio. Julio Lopez. You must call me that.”
“But I love your name, Luis.”
“Then you will be Luisa. Luisa Lopez.”
“Perfect.”
“We are not from Havana,” he went on.
“Oriente?”
“I think to be safe, we should be from Camaguey. Santa Lucia, perhaps.”
“It has a beautiful beach.”
“Good.” They reached the exit, and Luis jumped down to the station platform. He set down the bags and held his hand out. She descended the steep steps carefully. “Francesca… I mean Luisa… one thing you must remember. This is not a game we are playing. It is deadly serious. Our lives depend on it.”
Frankie nodded. She knew they were in the middle of a revolution; but they were also in the first blush of love. And love was supposed to be joyful. She couldn’t dwell on the possibility that Luis might be captured and tortured, or that she would be found; focusing on the danger would turn her into an anxious, nervous creature, much like—well—her mother. She would not allow that to hap
pen.
“Comprendo,amorcito.” She ran her hand across his cheek. “But today… today we are newlyweds.”
He cocked his head as if he was wondering “are all women this crazy?” Then he gathered his suitcase and her Pan Am bag. “And we must think of a job for you, Señora Lopez.”
She nodded. The three hundred dollars she’d brought with them wouldn’t last forever. “I will find work in a store. Or a hotel. A place where I can use my English.”
Luis grinned as if he was proud of her. “We will decide later. Now we eat.”
• • •
After a hearty lunch in a café near the station, they stopped in Vidal Park, where the profusion of greenery and flowers contrasted sharply with the gazebo’s white columns and surrounding buildings. As they walked, Frankie studied the statue of Marta Abreu, one of the most famous women in Cuban history. Originally from Santa Clara, Marta was a civic hero who donated her entire fortune to the poor and was honored like a patron saint. Frankie learned that the University of Santa Clara was named in her honor. Maybe one day she—no, Luis—would be remembered with that kind of reverence.
They hiked over four miles to the northeast side of city where the university was located. The air had a slightly dusty taste, not the briny tang she was used to in Havana. It was now the middle of the afternoon, but without the bay breezes she was used to, the heat blasted with such force that Frankie felt light-headed. More than once she wondered if she had arrived at the gates of Hell.
When they finally found shade, Luis struck up a conversation with two young people. Frankie fanned herself and listened. Eventually, the subject turned to housing, and the two young people recommended a rooming house a few blocks away. As Frankie and Luis followed the directions they were given, Frankie marveled that finding a place to live could be so simple. As a Pacelli it was never simple. Houses had to be staked out, inspected, cleaned, and renovations made for security.
But once they’d chatted with the woman who owned the rooming house, making sure to tell her they were newlyweds who’d just arrived from Santa Lucia, the woman told them her sister had a suite of rooms in her home she was looking to rent. Luisa and Julio replied that it sounded like a place they’d be interested in, and politely asked the rent. The woman said it couldn’t be much. Did they have jobs?
[2012] Havana Lost Page 8
