Stalked: The Boy Who Said No

by Patti Sheehy

  “One other thing,” said Tomás. “I’ve been thinking about that position you talked about in the permanent reserves.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it too,” said Lazo. “I got the impression from the last time we spoke that you thought it was a good idea.”

  Tomás scrutinized Lazo as if he were seeing him for the first time. “I do.”

  “So, if you were me, you would take it?”

  “If I were as young and as smart as you, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

  “Really?”

  “Think about it, Lazo. The army is willing to teach you something for free, to invest in your future. These are precarious times. The more knowledge and money you have, the better.”

  Lazo had considered how he would use the money. He could help his parents. Save to get married. Establish an emergency fund. Ten extra dollars a month was nothing to sneeze at.

  “You’re right,” replied Lazo. “I’m in no position to turn down money.”

  Tomás nodded. “It would be a good move for you—it would help guarantee your future.”

  “I put a lot of stock in your opinion, sir.” Lazo hesitated while making his final decision. He was not about to let these opportunities slip through his fingers. “If you’ll have me, sir, I’d be honored to accept the position at the refinery.”

  A smile brightened Tomás’s face.

  “And on your recommendation, I’ll also join the permanent reserves.”

  “Good man,” said Tomás. “You’ve made two sound decisions today.”

  Lazo beamed at the compliment as Tomás took him by the elbow and walked him to the door.

  “I’d like you to start in a couple of weeks, if that’s good for you.”

  “That’s fine. I’m looking forward to working with you, sir.”

  Tomás shook Lazo’s hand and said, “Welcome aboard. I think we’re going to have a very interesting future together.”

  Lazo nodded, smiled, and began to hum a few bars of “We Can Work It Out,” his favorite Beatles song, as he exited the building.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Day after day, week after week, Pino made it his business to repress his need to take charge of situations that screamed to be fixed. He watched as food spoiled in the kitchen, as garbage clung to dinner plates, as machetes rusted in the rain. He bit his tongue. He didn’t say a word. Others might be left to rot in a place like this, but Pino knew what it would take to get out.

  Like a chronic disease, the cane fields caused Pino blinding headaches, lower back pain, and nasal congestion. He suffered from muscular fatigue, sun poisoning, and bouts of intestinal distress from poorly prepared or rotten food. His hands became calloused, his eyes bloodshot, and his arms blistered from the sun.

  Yet the former lieutenant endured it all without comment or complaint. He tried to tame his nightmares of Mederos slipping out of his hands like a greased pig, while sleeping next to men who snored and snorted all night. He even complimented his fellow laborers on their work.

  True to his word, Torres appeared every two weeks to speak to Castillo and to the other cane cutters regarding Pino’s attitude and behavior. He asked probing questions and took copious notes. Pino did everything possible to ensure a good report.

  Little by little, Torres and Pino began to bond. They spent hours engaged in long discussions, mostly because Torres wanted to explore Pino’s attitude toward the Party, but also because he found it a pleasant way to pass the time. Although Pino was humorless and pedantic, his mind was as sharp and quick as a switchblade.

  Lengthy discussions about socialism, communism, and Marxism ensued, convincing Torres that Pino, while pigheaded, arrogant, and impulsive, had a deep and impressive understanding of political philosophy and military history.

  After discussing the harvest, Torres would pepper Pino with questions, hoping to gain some insight into his thinking. One day, after they had been discussing Cuban-American relations, Torres sat back in his chair, drew a cigar from his pocket, and lit it. He took a long pull as he balanced his feet on the edge of the desk.

  Torres rotated his cigar in his mouth. He looked out the window and said casually, “Do you think the Yanks will invade again?”

  In a tone of smug self-assurance, Pino said, “It depends on how foolish they are.”

  “And if they do?”

  Pino looked at the ceiling, and said, “If they do, there’ll be hell to pay. Our men are well trained, and our weapons are state-of-the-art.”

  “But the Americans are well equipped.”

  “The Americans would be at a great disadvantage. They can fly in their troops, but their weapons and fuel must come by ship. Unless they commandeer our refineries, there’s no way to win.”

  Torres shook his head. “That could happen. You can’t underestimate the Americans.”

  “I’m not underestimating them. But the Cuban navy is strong, and the Soviet navy is even stronger. The Special Forces are adept at sinking ships—we’ve got top-notch ATGM operators who are more than up to the job.”

  “That may be so, but the Yanks could surprise us.”

  “Surprise is a powerful weapon in the hands of the aggressor. Look at Pearl Harbor. But our troops are in a constant state of readiness, and contrary to what the Americans think, Cuba’s intelligence operations are extensive and reliable. We beat the imperialists during the Bay of Pigs, and we’ll beat them again. We’ll be more than ready for them if they come.”

  “You sound eager to engage them.”

  “Damn right I am.” Pino grimaced and spat on the floor in an uncharacteristic gesture of disgust. Although Pino’s voice was dry and raspy from sugarcane dust, it was full of conviction. “Since their Congress passed the Platt Amendment, the Americans have come to regard Cuba as nothing more than their plaything, their little gold mine. They’ve ravaged Latin America for decades, stolen our resources, exploited our people, and lined their pockets on the backs of our peasants. Their greed knows no limit.”

  “So you think we’d win?”

  “Without a doubt. Cuba is leading the Southern Hemisphere in the fight against aggression. We’re the only Latin American country with the guts and the resources to stand up to the Americans.”

  “Do you think the Special Forces would bond together to fight the Marines?”

  “Yes!”

  “Do you think they would die to fight the Marines?”

  “Of course.”

  “You think their loyalty to the State is that strong? Stronger than their loyalty to each other?”

  “I do!”

  “If that’s true, why did Mederos defect? And why did fellow members of the force help him escape?”

  When Pino did not respond, Torres continued, “Since Mederos’s escape, changes have been made regarding the recruitment of Special Forces.”

  Pino’s eyebrows lifted. “What kind of changes?”

  “The brass at Managua has decided that from now on all new recruits must be members of the Communist Party. Cuba spends a lot of time and money training these men. We must ensure that we are not creating super soldiers that can later turn on their country.”

  “Like Mederos.”

  “Just like Mederos.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  “If it doesn’t work, the Special Forces will be abolished.”

  Pino thought for a moment. “I think Mederos was an aberration. He was a worm. He doesn’t represent the force.”

  “You feel strongly about this.”

  “I do.”

  “And you’re sure we can beat the Americans?”

  “Cuba is a peaceful nation. But if the Americans push us, they will find us to be far more powerful than they think.” The former lieutenant raised a fist in a gesture of defiance and his voice climbed half an octave. “We will not only win. We will crush the imperialists!”

  Torres’s lips creased into a satisfied smile as he fingered the ash from the end of his cigarette into an aluminum ashtray. It ti
pped slightly and rattled against the desk.

  “Would you like to play a role in defending Cuba should that time come?”

  Pino looked at Torres incredulously. Have I not demonstrated the depth of my love of my homeland during these long months of discussions? Have I not made it clear to this man the depth of my patriotism?

  “Of course,” said Pino in an annoyed voice. “Given the opportunity, I would die for my homeland. I thought you might know me well enough by now not to doubt my devotion to my country.”

  Pino studied Torres for a moment, wondering about the purpose of his questions.

  Torres stood, smiled, and left the room without a rejoinder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  To Lazo’s delight, his friend Matia had invited him to his house for his daughter’s birthday party. Matia had told him that their boss at the refinery, Tomás, would be there, and it might be a good opportunity for the two of them to bond outside of work. Lazo arrived at Matia’s house around four o’clock, bearing a gift.

  After talking with the family for a while, he wedged himself next to Tomás on the couch, balanced his plate of food on his knees, and set his beer on the floor. He gobbled a plate of rice and beans, and forked some ripe mangoes into his mouth. Wiping his face with a paper napkin, he turned to Tomás and said, “Great food.”

  Tomás nodded, rubbed his stomach, and stood. “It’s a little stuffy in here. I need to get some air. Want to join me?”

  “Sure.”

  Lazo motioned to Matia that they were leaving, closed the door, and began walking. Heads down, hands buried in their pockets, they strolled three blocks before Lazo broke the silence. “How well do you know Matia?”

  Tomás looked up at the sky, thinking. “We met several years ago. He’s one of my best employees—smart, dedicated, and loyal. I’m very fond of him.”

  “He’s a great guy.”

  They passed a barbershop and a stray dog joined them, wagging his tail and sniffing Lazo’s leg, his breath hot on his ankles. Lazo bent down, massaged the dog’s ears, and scratched him lightly under his chin. The dog rewarded him with an affectionate nuzzle and a high-pitched murmur.

  “Do you like dogs?” asked Tomás.

  “Yes. Our family would love to have one, but it’s not a good time. Rationing hardly provides the family with enough food to feed the kids, let alone a dog.”

  It was a quick response and the wrong thing to say. Lazo covered his mouth with his hand, afraid the comment could be construed as counterrevolutionary. He looked for his boss’s reaction, but he seemed unconcerned.

  “I know what you mean,” said Tomás. “It’s the same everywhere.”

  Lazo exhaled.

  “What about hobbies? Is there anything in particular you like to do?” asked Tomás.

  “I like to read and hang out with my family. I play baseball and basketball when I get a chance. What about you?”

  “The same. But Matia and I do some things outside of work—it’s pretty interesting stuff.” He tilted his head sideways. “In fact, I thought it might be something for you to consider.”

  Maybe they play basketball together and will invite me to shoot some balls. But that hardly qualifies as “interesting.”

  “Interesting? Like what?”

  “Things—” Tomás lowered his voice and scoured the area with his eyes. “Things that are good for Cuba, things that will help you earn some extra money and will make a difference.”

  “Sorry, I’m not following you.”

  A woman walked by carrying a large package wrapped in brown paper. Her oily hair was streaked with gray, her shoes were worn, and the hem of her dress was uneven. Tomás waited for her to pass before he continued. “To tell you the truth, Lazo, we’re both very concerned about what’s going on in this country.”

  “I see.”

  Tomás cleared his throat and looked around again as if surveying the area. They walked a half block before Tomás turned to Lazo, and said, “You know, we’re very fortunate to be working at the refinery. Times are tough.”

  “Of course. Most of my friends are out of work. They’d die to have my job.”

  “My point exactly—unemployment is high.”

  “Even my father is looking for a job,” Lazo added. “He used to bartend at one of the casinos, but since so many hotels have been nationalized—”

  Tomás cut him off in mid-sentence. “It has me worried.”

  “Me too.”

  “The situation is more serious than it appears.”

  “How so?”

  “Between the bad economy and the American embargo, the Russians are subsidizing Cuba to the tune of billions of dollars a year. They’ve been buying our sugar at inflated prices and selling us oil at deflated prices. But sooner or later, they’ll want their money back. When they do, Cuba will belong to the Soviets.”

  Tomás waited a minute for Lazo to absorb what he said and then asked, “What do you think?”

  Lazo was startled at this turn in the conversation. This was not the kind of thing people discussed, not if you valued your life. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

  Tomás shot him a sympathetic look. “Believe me, it’s an issue,” he continued. “Unfortunately, it’s not the only issue.”

  Lazo worried a piece of mango from between his teeth with his tongue. The conversation was getting dangerous. He wondered whether to make some excuse to go back to the party. He didn’t want to end up in jail for a slip of the tongue.

  Reaching the corner, the men turned and started walking back in the direction of the house. Lazo pulled out a pack of Populares, extracted a cigarette, and tapped it lightly against the package.

  “Do you have a light?”

  Tomás drew a book of matches from his breast pocket, opened it, and passed a red match head against the strike pad. It made a rasping sound before the cardboard stem crumpled. He mumbled something and threw the match to the sidewalk in disgust. He steadied his hand and tried again, successfully.

  Lazo pulled the smoke deep into his lungs and allowed a minute to elapse before gesturing toward the house. He wanted to anchor the conversation in safer waters.

  “Nice party.”

  “Yeah,” said Tomás. “It’s good some people can still afford to throw a shindig like this.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But parties don’t make up for being unable to travel like we used to.”

  Lazo wondered why Tomás kept making provocative statements. It was as if he were trying to bait him. He felt confused. He searched his mind for a safe response.

  “Where did you travel?”

  “I used to take my wife to Spain once a year to visit her family. They are great people. She misses them. So do I.”

  “It must be difficult.”

  Tomás kicked an empty can. It rattled like it was full of pebbles. He looked around and whispered, “It’s not right that you can’t leave the country. Hell, you can’t even go out of town without informing the CDRs.”

  “True. But there’s not much we can do about it.”

  A strange look crossed Tomás’s eyes. “Well, we’re doing something—”

  Just then Matia yelled, “Come everyone, it’s time for dessert.”

  Tomás patted Lazo on the back. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

  “All right.”

  Lazo walked back to the party, thinking. Why is Tomás talking to me like this? Is this some kind of trick, a trap to get me to say things against the regime?

  When they got back to the house, Lazo cornered Matia. “What’s up with Tomás?”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “We went for a walk, and he was talking politics.”

  “And?”

  “He was saying things he shouldn’t. I’ve never seen him like this before. Do I need to watch my ass around this guy?”

  Matia waved away Lazo’s concern. “It’s not a problem.”

  “Not a problem for you. But Tomás is my boss
. I don’t want to alienate him. On the other hand—”

  Matia raised his palm for Lazo to stop. “We can’t talk about it now—I’ve got to help my wife with the party.” He winked. “Otherwise she might kill me.”

  Lazo looked at Alina who was busy pouring coffee and plating slices of birthday cake. It was pound cake, no frosting. Still, it was a special treat.

  “I understand. But you’ve got to help me. I was walking on eggshells out there.”

  Matia nodded, took his place beside his wife, and handed a plate to a guest. Someone put “Born Free” on the record player, and people started to sway in rhythm to the music. A few people began singing the lyrics under their breath: Born free, as free as the wind blows—

  Lazo wandered around making small talk, while trying to banish the conversation with Tomás from his mind. When the party got too noisy, he walked outside and sat on a bench beneath a coconut tree. He brushed away some tree droppings and placed his coffee cup next to him.

  The sun was bright, the air crisp. He closed his eyes for a minute, enjoying the music. Someone put on “Barbara Ann.” Ah, ba ba ba ba Barbara Ann, Ba, ba, ba, ba Barbara Ann. It was his favorite song. The beat was so compelling he felt like dancing. While tapping his foot to the rhythm of the music, he looked up to see his boss heading his way. He inched himself over so Tomás could join him on the bench.

  “Sorry our little talk got interrupted,” said Tomás.

  “It’s okay,” Lazo said with a hitch at the end of the word. Tomás looked around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “Look, Lazo, do you mind if I continue our conversation where I left off, or should I stop? I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. It’s your call.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do.”

  Lazo and Tomás stared at each other in silence before Tomás looked down at the grass. He rested his elbows on his knees, lost in thought. After a minute, he straightened his body and turned toward Lazo.

  “Do you remember your job interview?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you recall that I told you I value trust—that it’s very important to me?”

  “I remember it clearly.”