[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  His son looked away.

  Something was off. Luis leaned forward, hands on his thighs. “You are here because of her, no?”

  Michael put his coffee down, stood, and started to pace the small room.

  “She didn’t send me,” he finally said.

  “Her father, then? What does Tony Pacelli want from me after so long?”

  Miguel didn’t reply.

  “Not your grandfather, either?”

  When Miguel still didn’t answer, Luis straightened. “There is only one other person in the world that knows who you are. But he died in Angola….” As comprehension dawned, Luis broke off. “Perhaps he didn’t.”

  Miguel wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He started toward the door. “I must go.”

  Luis stood. “Why?”

  Miguel didn’t reply.

  “When will you come back? We have much to discuss.”

  But his son bolted through the door and sprinted away from the house. He didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The morning sun burnished the city with a shiny, bright glitter the next morning, but Michael kept his head down. The streets were full of potholes filled with dirt, not concrete. That would never be tolerated in the States, he thought absently. At the same time he knew his analysis of Havana’s road conditions was just a way to avoid the storm of confusion washing over him.

  His instinct told him to get in touch with Walters back in the States, but he was shrewd enough not to trust it. He needed actionable intel before he proceeded. And the truth was he had nothing. He didn’t really know Walters; his grandfather had made the connection. All he knew was that the man had been CIA and was now private. Working for a concern that wanted the map for commercial reasons. Walters wouldn’t be concerned with Michael’s personal issues. He might not know about them.

  But the man who’d put Walters and his grandfather together might. Was that the man Perez believed died in Angola? The only other person in the world who, according to Perez, knew he was Michael’s father? Who was that man? How had he managed to connect them? Was it a benign or sinister motivation? The man had to know he and Perez would figure out their connection. Was he counting on that? Was he hoping to double-cross Walters and Tony Pacelli? Whoever this man was, he had to know Michael wouldn’t kill his own father, especially when he’d just discovered him. Wouldn’t he?

  Michael ran a hand through his hair. Too many questions, too few answers. The bottom line was that Michael didn’t know who to trust. He sensed Perez wasn’t lying. There was no reason for him to. But if his father—he had a hard time thinking of Perez that way—was telling the truth, it meant his mother and the man he’d called father for thirty years had lied to him. His grandfather, too. They had all kept secrets from him. For decades. And that, Michael wasn’t sure he could ever forgive.

  • • •

  A watery breeze, carrying away the day’s heat, brushed their faces as he and Carla took a walk that evening. But Michael was still weighted down by his thoughts, and he ignored the gathering crowd of musicians, prostitutes, and people with their hands out.

  “You are quiet,” Carla said.

  Michael looked over. How could he tell her his world had imploded? “How was your day?” he asked instead.

  “Like all the others.”

  They continued to walk. Dusk threw a soft mantle of purple over the bay. Waves smacked against the rocks. Two or three lights, fishing boats probably, blinked through the darkening water. Suddenly Carla stopped. Before Michael could react, she grabbed his hand and pulled him down over the seawall. She crouched down on the rocks, forcing him to do the same.

  “What is it?” Michael asked. His pulse was pounding.

  Carla put a finger on her lips and pointed. Above them a group of men in blue shirts, dark pants, and what looked like berets with tassels approached from the opposite direction. Police. As they marched past, Michael could see they were not in formation, and their voices were boisterous. They were laughing, clowning around, leering at the whores. Feeling no pain.

  Michael waited until the thud of their footsteps was gone. “What was that all about?”

  Carla planted her palm on her chest, as if to slow her racing heart. “One never knows with La Policía. I panicked. I am sorry.”

  “What’s going on?”

  She went to a spot where they could climb back over the seawall to the Malecón. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

  Despite the heat, an icicle of fear prickled his skin.

  She hesitated then blurted it out. “Juliana—you remember. My upstairs neighbor…”

  He cut her off. “The one—who’s—who is sick?”

  She nodded impatiently. “She told me the CDR knows you’re American.”

  “Who is the CDR official?”

  “An old woman. She lives next door. It’s her job to know everybody’s business.”

  “How did she find out?”

  “How does anyone know anything in Cuba?”

  Michael nodded as if he’d expected it. “It was bound to happen. You and I—we haven’t been making a secret of my presence. Juliana is a prostitute, desperate for money. She probably told the old woman. She—”

  Carla cut him off. “Maybe yes, maybe no. But that does not matter. If they find you… I do not want to think what will happen. To us both.”

  Michael glanced at the seawall, then back at Carla. “How long before they send the security police?”

  “Maybe one or two days. They will arrest me for harboring an enemy of the state.” She paused. “What they will do to you, I have no idea. They will assume you are—what do you call your intelligence service?”

  “CIA.” Michael extended his hand and pulled her up over the wall. Together they climbed up the rocks back to the pavement. “I will go. I should never—”

  Again she pre-empted him. “I invited you, remember?”

  He looked at her. “But… what are you going to do?”

  “I have been thinking. I will go to Santiago de Cuba. To my family.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise? Won’t they come after you there?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I cannot stay home. And I cannot go back to the clinic.”

  Michael gazed at this fiery woman whose spirit hadn’t been crushed by the hardship, the poverty, and the sickness she confronted every day. He remembered how, when they met, she’d faked a sprained ankle to get him out of trouble. To “resolver” was second-nature for her. He admired her resilience, her ingenuity, her fatalism in the midst of danger. A danger that he had caused. It occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever felt this way about a woman. He took her hand, and they resumed their stroll.

  “So…” he said, “it would seem we both have reasons to leave Havana.”

  “Have you completed your mission—whatever it is?” she added acidly.

  “The reason I haven’t told you about it is precisely because of this. I did not want to put you in a compromising position.”

  “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

  “I agree. It’s time I told you my story.” As they walked he told her everything: why he’d come to Cuba, what his mission was. It was dark now, but someone had lit candles on the rocks, and Carla’s expression was wide-eyed and at the same time knowing. When he told her his target had turned out to be his father, her hand flew to her mouth. A salsa beat thumped close by. It ended as Michael finished his story.

  “So, when my contact discovers I walked out on my mission—”

  “You have made that decision?”

  “How can I kill my father?” He hesitated. “It’s strange, you know? The man I thought was my father, Carmine DeLuca… he hated me. I never understood why. What I had done to provoke it.” He tightened his lips. “Now I understand.”

  She inclined her head. “But Miguel, if you do not complete your mission, what are you going to do?”

  “I want to get to kno
w my father. But I need to tread carefully. Part of me thinks this is a fairy tale. The other part of me suspects it could be a set-up.”

  “I do not believe in fairy tales,” Carla said.

  He looked over. “Nor do I.”

  She was quiet for a moment. Then, “Miguel, it is clear you’re involved in things I know nothing about. And I do not want to. But family—that I do understand. And family must always come first.”

  He felt his jaw clench. “You think so? My mother kept the truth about my family a secret over thirty years. She has been living a lie. And forced me to do the same. I don’t call that putting family first.”

  “She was trying to protect you.”

  “She was selfish,” he snapped. “Trying to paper over the past, pretend it never happened.”

  Carla stopped, turned, faced Michael. “You have much to learn about women. If I had a child, I would do anything to keep it safe. Anything.”

  “Yes, well, she failed.” He spread his hands. “I am about to be hunted by the security forces of two countries.”

  Carla picked up her pace. “Terco como una mula,” she muttered.

  Michael caught up to her. “Stubborn? Who is the stubborn one? You only have a day or two left of the life you’ve always known, and yet here you are, sauntering down the Malecón like you don’t have a care in the world.”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “We are where we are supposed to be. We do what we are supposed to.”

  Was this more of her Santería nonsense? Or wisdom? The breeze picked up, and Carla turned into it, letting it ruffle her hair. Despite their bickering, he was surprised at how natural it felt to stroll down the Malecón holding her hand. Like he belonged.

  And with that came another insight that seemed to explain everything. Michael had spent his life as an outsider, eavesdropping on other peoples’ lives, literally and figuratively. Picking up crumbs of happiness when he could. He’d never been content. Now, though, despite the circumstances, or maybe because of them, he felt as if he was home. As if the pieces of an enormous puzzle were finally clicking into place. Was this destitute island the place he was supposed to be?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Michael didn’t go back to the States for Christmas. Or New Year’s. He sent a telegram to Walters saying the mission had been delayed and hoped no prying eyes saw it. Then he and Carla discussed their options. They couldn’t stay at her apartment, and she couldn’t go back to the clinic. They needed a safe house. And time.

  “What about your father?” Carla asked.

  “You read my mind,” Michael said. “They’ll have no reason to look for us there. At least for a while.”

  An hour later their bags were packed, and they fled the Vedado apartment. At dawn they showed up at Luis’s home in Lawton. He seemed surprised but pleased and welcomed them in. Fortunately, he had an extra room. It was scarcely bigger than a closet, but they moved in a mattress that afternoon, and the room became theirs.

  The more time Michael spent with his father, the more surprised he was at his feelings. Luis Perez was intelligent and thoughtful; soft-spoken but articulate. Michael began to admire him, something that had never been the case with Carmine DeLuca. In fact, it was a feeling so new and tender that Michael wasn’t sure whether to trust it. Was this the way families who actually liked each other behaved?

  At the same time, Michael sensed an underlying sadness in his father, a sorrow Michael suspected had been caused by his mother’s departure. He recalled a similar regret in his mother at times. And while he understood how and why his grandfather tore them apart, he also realized his grandfather’s actions thirty years ago were the reason he came to Cuba in the first place.

  New Year’s Eve was a bawdy celebration marked by an excess of rum and firecrackers and music. At one point Luis, Michael, and Carla trudged to the top of Lawton’s highest hill, where the neighborhood gathered to watch the fireworks.

  But the tentacles of the state’s CDR stretched into Lawton, and the neighbors’ curious glances practically guaranteed that the CDR would follow-up on Luis’s “guests.” So the next morning Luis announced it was a good time for a trip: Michael should see his native land—despite where he was born, Luis considered his son a Cuban—as well as the places where Luis and his mother had been together.

  They would start at the beach in Varadero and end in Santiago de Cuba so Carla could visit her parents. Luis would show Michael where he grew up in Oriente. By the time they returned, Luis said, perhaps the CDR would have moved on.

  The next day, on a sparkling, seductive morning, they set out in a borrowed ‘58 Buick. The car sputtered and whined and coughed, and Michael was sure it would conk out before they drove twenty miles, but that failed to dampen their spirits. Michael felt like a kid who’d discovered a new world full of wonder, and Carla’s grin said she shared his enthusiasm. Even Luis looked energized.

  Luis drove. Once they were out of Havana, the scenery changed. Gone were the revolutionary murals and buildings with images of Che and Fidel; the tangle of telephone wires; the maze of trolley tracks. They were in the countryside, but if Michael expected to see acres of sugar cane and tobacco, he was disappointed. The landscape was mostly abandoned fields and grasslands.

  “The remains of the sugar cane crop are south and east of here,” Luis explained.

  “But I thought—”

  Luis cut him off. “Fidel told us we were going to harvest our way out of the Special Period. Unfortunately he neglected to tell us that we need fertilizer, herbicides, and fuel. All of which, of course, we do not have. The sugar crop is down ninety per cent.”

  Gradually the grasslands turned into woods, then marshland, and an hour later they crossed a tall bridge high above a twisty river the color of emeralds. Though Luis pronounced the bridge stable, Michael swore it swayed as they drove across. Relief washed over him when they reached the other side. He’d never told anyone he had a fear of heights.

  Soon a huge sign welcomed them to Varadero, and twenty minutes later they were gazing at a perfect beach: turquoise water, white sand, and a golden sun. Children supervised by watchful parents frolicked in the water; lovers snuggled on blankets and towels; older adults relaxed under thatched umbrellas. The beauty was so absolute, so flawless, that Michael’s throat went tight.

  Luis was watching him. “I brought your mother here,” he said softly.

  Michael spun around. “Where?”

  Luis pointed. “There is a secluded area down by the nature preserve.”

  Michael shaded his eyes with his hand. “I want to see it.” He started off toward the nature preserve, but Carla stayed him with her arm. She smiled and shook her head. Did she sense it was a private memory? Not to be shared?

  Michael dropped his hand. “Never mind.”

  Luis seemed relieved. “When I was young, I used to spend the night on the beach in Oriente. The stars were so close I was sure I could reach up, grab a few, and put them in my pocket. Along with my marbles and lizards.” He paused. “A boy and his dreams.” He smiled and touched Michael’s shoulder. “Tell me about your dreams, son. I want to know.”

  No one, man or woman, had ever asked Michael about his dreams. This must be how a real father behaved. A father who loved his son.

  • • •

  The car did break down on the way to Santa Clara, and Luis abandoned it outside Matanzas. They hitchhiked back to the train station and bought tickets instead. The train was three hours late, which was considered on time these days, and when it pulled into the station, it was teeming with people. They had to stand in the aisles for most of the journey, peering out at the road that paralleled the tracks. Occasionally a truck packed with hitchhikers passed them, but more often they saw wagons and carts pulled by oxen or horses. The signs on the road were painted on slabs of wood or rock, all of which was a grim reminder that progress in Cuba was moving in the wrong direction.

  When they arrived in Santa Clara, Luis took the same r
oute he and Michael’s mother had walked when they first came to the city. He showed them the university, and the house where he and Francesca had lived. Carla had brought a camera, and they took pictures in front of the house: Luis with Michael, Michael with Carla, the three of them together.

  In Santiago de Cuba they met Carla’s parents. And her aunt and uncle. And their children. Carla’s mother, an energetic fiftyish woman, was beside herself with joy, but whether that was because she was seeing her daughter, or the fact that Carla had brought along a boyfriend, and her boyfriend’s father, wasn’t clear. Carla’s father, sick and frail, was less fervent, but shared his stash of Cohibas with Luis. A teenage nephew bounced a basketball the whole time they were there. When he learned Michael was from Chicago, he wanted to know if he knew Michael Jordan. He was crestfallen when Michael admitted he did not.

  Carla stayed with her parents a few extra days. No one said anything, but they all knew this was the last time Carla would see her father. Meanwhile, Luis took Michael to Alto Cedro, the village in Holguin province where he’d been raised. He also took Michael to Biran, a neighboring village, where Fidel had grown up. They had known each other as youngsters, Luis told him. They played baseball together. Fidel’s father was a self-made man, a farmer who became wealthy, so Fidel’s upbringing had been relatively affluent. Michael seemed surprised.

  It was on the train back to Havana a few days later, the train having been four hours late, that Luis looked over at Carla. She was dozing.

  “I want to tell you why I came to Cuba,” Michael said softly.

  When Michael told him his mission had been to kill him, Luis flinched. “After I gave you the map?”

  Michael nodded.

  “And how were you to convince me to give it to you?”

  “I was to tell you Suarez was alive in Miami, and wanted to re-establish ties.”

  “How did he know I’d kept it all these years?”