“I will be looking for work,” Frankie said.
“What kind of work?” the woman asked.
“I studied English. I speak it well.”
“Ahh….” She turned to Luis. “And you?”
“I was studying to be a lawyer. But the university is closed. So…”
“I want him to continue his studies when the university reopens,” Frankie broke in. She took his arm. “So I will be the breadwinner for now.”
“I see.” The woman winked at her. “But not for long, I suspect.”
“Why do you say that?” Frankie asked.
The woman laughed. “The way you two cling to each other, I think you will have a family soon.”
Frankie beamed. Luis turned crimson.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“¡Mierda!” Ramon cursed when he realized they were gone. Now what? He slumped on the folding chair in the safe house, head in hands. He had been so close, and now everything was in jeopardy. He’d worked too hard, accomplished too much, to let this slip through his fingers. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to figure out how to salvage the situation. Clearly, he couldn’t produce Frankie. But Pacelli wouldn’t have to know that. Ramon would drop off a piece of her clothing, take the money, and disappear. Ten thousand dollars was a significant sum. The rebels could put it to good use.
Yes. That was a good idea. He rose, feeling more in control. He would go to El Encanto, buy something and pretend it belonged to the girl. It would be expensive, but he would reimburse himself after he got the money. He didn’t need anyone’s permission for that. Indeed, with Luis gone, Ramon might become the new head of the faction.
If Luis was really gone.
Ramon felt his eyes narrow. Of course he was. The question was why he’d chosen this moment to flee. Was it possible Luis had kidnapped the girl himself and was planning to demand a ransom? If so, Luis’s declaration of love had been a lie, and he was much more cunning than Ramon had thought. Maybe he was planning to keep the ransom for himself. No. Money wasn’t important to Luis. Principles were. But maybe the girl was in league with Luis. Maybe they were playing her father, so they’d have enough money to live together. If that was the case, his friend had obviously changed. Women did that to a man.
On the other hand, obsessing about Luis and the girl wouldn’t solve his immediate problem. He needed something to give to Pacelli. Perhaps he wouldn’t go to the department store. His mother might have something at home. A scarf, a glove, a comb for her hair. No. His house—and his mother—were under surveillance. He couldn’t go home.
So he stopped at a small store in Lawton and bought a brightly colored scarf. Pink and orange and flowery, it looked like something the girl would wear. He tore off the tag and hopped on the downtown bus. Instead of the stop nearest La Perla, he got off two stops before the hotel and found a phone booth. He called one of the bellhops at La Perla, who was also a group member. The bellhop agreed to meet him at the taxi stand around the corner from the hotel and take the package to the janitor’s room. Ramon would hurry to the Western Union office and wait for the money.
The mid-afternoon sun cast a wan, milky light, and clouds were massing at the horizon, but Ramon was covered in sweat as he reached the taxi stand. He tried to look inconspicuous as he waited. He watched two women, and then a tourist couple—Americans, of course—hail cabs.
Ten minutes passed. Where was the bellhop? He’d promised to come right away. Had he been pulled away? Mierda. Ramon couldn’t go back to La Perla; he shouldn’t even be this close. He turned around, irritated. He’d have to telephone the bellhop again. He hoped it wouldn’t delay the hand-off. He had important things to do. He was heading back to the phone booth when they grabbed him.
• • •
Water poured over his head. Ramon came to. His first instinct was one of relief. That he could think and feel at all meant he was alive. Then the hurt began. Wave after wave of excruciating pain washed over him. He tried to figure out where it was coming from, but it seemed to originate from every part of his body. A sharp ache stabbed his gut. His head felt like a mushy watermelon. He tried to open his eyes, but they were so swollen his eyelids wouldn’t crack. Something was dripping from his nose. Perhaps snot; perhaps blood. He wanted to touch his face, to make sure it was still intact, but his hands and feet were tied to a chair. He tried to shift his weight but whimpered at the effort.
A voice emerged from the fog of pain. “I trust our—exercise—has made you more cooperative.”
Ramon ran his tongue around his mouth. His lips felt like balloons, and a couple of teeth were loose. He tried to clear his throat, but there was so much spittle—or was it blood—that he started to cough, which made the pain worse.
“You didn’t really think your loco plan would work, did you? It was full of holes.”
Ramon didn’t answer.
“Well…” the voice said calmly. “Are you ready?”
Still hacking, Ramon nodded.
“Where is she?”
With a huge effort Ramon tried to speak. It came out as a wheeze. “Don’ know…”
“Oh, but I think you do.” The voice paused. “Maybe we should ‘refresh your memory.’”
They were going to hit him again. Ramon felt his stomach pitch. He vomited.
“Christ!” a second voice yelled. “He puked all over my shoes!”
The first voice cut in. “You can clean up later.” A pause. “Well, Ramon? Where is she?”
Ramon forced his eyes open. Everything swam. He blinked, squeezed them shut, then opened them again. Slowly the spinning stopped. He could see he was in a small, dark room. A desk lamp threw elongated shadows against the wall. Probably the basement of La Perla, in a room that had been designated for this kind of “exercise.” Three forms wavered in front of him. He squinted, and the forms turned into men. He couldn’t see clearly, but he didn’t have to. He knew who was orchestrating the scene.
“Ahh… Good of you to join us, so to speak.” Tony Pacelli’s body language was relaxed and his voice was casual, as if he and Ramon were about to share a coffee, rather than an interrogation. “I trust you are ready to talk?”
“It—it’s the truth,” Ramon croaked. “I don’t know where she is. They ran away. Luis and your daughter. I—I can prove it.”
“How?”
Ramon told him about the safe house. Pacelli promptly sent two men to Lawton. He told Ramon he would be back and turned off the light. Ramon dozed upright, still bound to the chair. When they returned, a man shook him by the shoulder. “This is your lucky day, Suarez.”
Ramon blinked himself awake. He could smell his own body odor and piss. He breathed through his mouth.
“You’re going to live. For a while. But during that time you’re going to help me find my daughter.”
“But I don’t know where they are. If they’re still in Havana.”
Pacelli’s smile was ice cold. “You will find out. In fact, from now on, that will be your job. Your only job. To find my daughter and tell me where she is. Comprende?”
Ramon hung his head. In one way, he wished he’d been caught by Batista’s men instead of Pacelli’s. The police would have killed him right away. Tortured him, yes, but killed him afterwards. This was worse. Now his life depended on the whim of a gangster. If Ramon didn’t produce, he would die, but he would never know when or where. He would wake up every morning wondering whether this would be his last, whether this would be the day Pacelli would extract payback. Why had he thought he could blackmail one of the most ruthless men in Havana? He was a fool.
“Now listen to me,” Pacelli said quietly. “Here is what we are going to do.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Frankie couldn’t believe her good fortune. The Orisha gods were working their magic. It was as if she and Luis were destined to come to Santa Clara. The rooms they rented were perfect, complete with a tiny kitchen. She promptly went shopping for new towels, sheets, and kitchen tools, and discove
red she didn’t have to spend a fortune. She was able to snag good bargains at the flea market.
Two days after they moved in, she went to a hair salon recommended by her landlady. The “Pixie” hairdo was all the rage in the States, and she asked the hairdresser to cut her hair short. The hairdresser balked at cutting Frankie’s long, thick curls, but Frankie insisted. Afterwards the ladies in the shop said she looked like Audrey Hepburn. Frankie smiled; it must be a good disguise. Then she went shopping and bought a few inexpensive dresses, skirts, and blouses. The styles and materials were very different from her wardrobe in Havana, and as she pirouetted before the mirror in the dressing room, she was sure no one could recognize her. Luis had changed his appearance too; she’d helped him cut and dye his hair, and he now wore a pair of fake glasses.
The next day, wearing her new hairstyle and clothes, Frankie interviewed at a bank that needed an English-speaking clerk. She made up a story about her parents sending her to live with relatives in Chicago while they tried to better themselves in Cuba. After seven years, they had scrounged enough money to fly her back for a visit. Which is why her Spanish wasn’t quite fluent, but her English was. The man interviewing her asked why she hadn’t gone back to the States. She was planning to, she told him, but then she met Julio. Blushing prettily, she added, “And you know how that goes, Señor.” The man nodded. He understood the arrow of love. She got the job.
Her new life settled into a routine. In the morning Luisa Lopez went to the bank, while Julio saw to his activities. She was home by evening to cook dinner. Growing up, she’d spent hours glued to her nanny’s apron strings, and the nanny was their cook. She always begged to help add ingredients or stir the pot, and her nanny obliged, explaining what she was doing and why. Frankie had clearly absorbed more than she thought, because she developed a flair for cooking. Luis especially liked her pulpeta, a Cuban version of meat loaf, and her ajiaco, a hearty vegetable soup.
His approval delighted her. For eighteen years she’d led the life of a princess, but it had left her unfulfilled. Now she was simply an ordinary woman, but she had a purpose, and that made all the difference. She would share her life with Luis and fill it with the things they loved, from food to a new home, a family, long, passionate nights in each other’s arms. It was odd—ironic, really—that she should feel so blessed while a revolution seethed, but she was practical enough to take her happiness where she found it. Revolution or not, she had no regrets.
It took a few weeks for Luis to forge connections with the rebels, but by the middle of October he was running interference between Che Guevara, whose column had reached the Escambray Mountains south of Santa Clara, and the local rebel leaders in Las Villas province. Unity between the revolutionary factions was not a given, and Enrique Oltusky, the underground leader in Las Villas, had different ideas than Che. The two disagreed about agrarian reform, as well as the future role of the U.S. At one point, Che wanted to carry out a series of bank robberies to augment rebel funds, but Oltusky opposed the idea. He argued that robbing a bank was contrary to the Cuban spirit. Not even Fidel would condone it. As a courier and supplier, Luis was a friend to both camps and became a de facto peace-maker, spending hours trying to ease tensions.
In mid-October Fidel redeployed Camilo Cienfuegos. He was no longer tasked with marching his men to Pinar del Rio. Instead, Fidel ordered him to the northern part of Las Villas to support Che. Luis met Cienfuegos for the first time near the end of the month. Cienfuegos was recruiting workers from the sugar mills, and Luis was asked to help. Luis came home with stories that made Frankie think Cienfuegos, who, like Luis, came from the working class, was the real hero of the revolution. As much, perhaps more than Fidel.
• • •
By November Luis was either with Che in the mountains or with Cienfuegos somewhere in Las Villas, sometimes for days at a stretch. Frankie wished he would confide in her more; she knew she would understand the tactics the revolutionaries were using. But she also knew that it would be dangerous for her to know too much. Like her father’s people, the revolutionaries had their own omerta.
So she passed the time when Luis was gone either working—she was beginning to enjoy the job and the respect that went with it—or with her new friends from the bank. On evenings and weekends they headed to the Parque Vidal in the center of town. The custom was to walk around the park several times, the women strolling along an inner circle, the men an outer one. It was an excellent way for young women to check out men and vice versa, and the girls whispered and giggled when they spotted appealing prospects.
Frankie felt like an old married woman compared to the girls, but she joined in; there wasn’t much else to do. Her favorite time was Sunday afternoon, when local musicians, in fancy guayabera shirts and polished shoes, played guitars in impromptu concerts.
It was on one of those Sundays that Maria, one of the girls from the bank, gazed at Frankie as they strolled. Maria’s expression grew solemn.
Frankie felt her stomach clench. Had Maria figured out she wasn’t Luisa Lopez? Was she going to confront her?
“What’s wrong, Maria? You look so serious,” she said hesitantly.
Maria didn’t reply for a moment. Then she cocked her head. “I’ve been watching you, Luisa.” She pointed. “I think perhaps you are becoming a little thick around the middle.”
Frankie, who was still at the age where she could eat anything without gaining weight, objected. “Impossible. I can eat anything. It never shows.”
Maria shot Frankie a meaningful glance. “I didn’t say it was from eating. And your skin—it has a glow I haven’t noticed before.”
Frankie stopped. When did she last get her period? It had been a while. Before they came to Santa Clara. In fact, now that she was thinking about it, her breasts seemed more sensitive these days. She’d thought it had to do with her new clothes. Tighter fitting. But then there was Luis. When he was home, they were having glorious sex. Often two or three times a night. She turned around and gave Maria a hug.
• • •
It wasn’t until the middle of December that Ramon got a lead on Luis and Frankie. By that time Havana was simmering with rumors, secrets, and conspiracies. Propaganda from both sides churned, the newspapers bragging about the number of rebels captured, while the broadcasts from Radio Rebelde boasted that the rebels were making progress. The truth was somewhere in between. The rebels were advancing, but many thought that timing and luck—as opposed to skill—were the reasons. Batista’s army was demoralized. More soldiers deserted, and the rebels made it a point to treat them well, so their ranks had swelled. Meanwhile, those who remained in the army refused to mount vigorous attacks. The rebels managed to block highways and blow up telephone and electrical installations, which made travel and communication between Havana and the rest of the island uncertain.
Without Luis at the helm, Ramon’s group fell apart—that could happen—which, perversely, made Ramon’s job easier. He didn’t have to lie to his former compatriots about his assignment. He prowled Havana streets, penetrating as many other cells as he could to ferret out information about Luis. He carefully constructed his approach. He couldn’t appear desperate. Just concerned. He and Luis had been best friends since childhood, and he was worried. Had Luis been picked up? Had some misfortune befallen with the girl? He needed to know. Luis’s family was going crazy.
But it was dangerous to divulge too much information these days, and if his colleagues had news, they weren’t sharing. After weeks of hearing nothing, Ramon’s nerves were shot. Tony Pacelli demanded he report in every day and asked detailed questions, including who he was talking to, and where he’d tracked down the contact.
Indeed, Pacelli’s insistence on knowing every detail made Ramon wonder if Pacelli was planning to take matters into his own hands, which, of course, would mean the end of Ramon. He lost his appetite, and he couldn’t sleep. His house was still being watched, and the few pesos Pacelli doled out to him barely paid for food for hi
mself and his mother. She never complained, but she was looking frail and drawn. If not for her, Ramon himself would have fled. Instead he was trapped like a mouse in a cage. This was how you died, he decided. Not in a fiery ball of violence, but bit by bit. First you lost your power, then your freedom, then your will.
He trudged down the Prado one evening, trying to ignore the glut of Christmas decorations that had sprung up seemingly overnight. Havana was awash in tinsel, lights, Santa Clauses, reindeer, and trees imported from the States. Tinny recordings of American Christmas carols blared out from shops, and store windows were filled with giant packages brightly wrapped with thick red ribbons. Judging by the hoopla, you wouldn’t know there was a war going on. Ramon was bitter he wasn’t working at La Perla anymore—the holidays were the best time for tips.
He slipped behind a building into an alley. A tall, skinny kid who couldn’t be older than eighteen was nervously smoking a cigarette. The kid’s hair was slicked back in a D.A. and though it was almost eighty degrees, he wore a black leather jacket. Fake, of course. Still, he looked like one of the characters from West Side Story. Marco, the dance director at La Perla, had created a dance number in honor of the Broadway play—what were the gangs’ names? The Sharks and the Jets. That was it. Ramon shook it off. How could he be thinking of a New York play when his life was at risk?
He approached the informant and drew out his own cigarette. The kid worked at the Riviera and was part of that hotel’s rebel group. Ramon had spent the better part of a day tailing him before he decided to meet, and while he didn’t trust anyone, he’d determined the kid was harmless. “Got a light?”
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