by Cuba (lit)
left the room.
The bank was quiet. Footsteps were lost on the
vast wood and stone floors. Humans seemed to be
the intruders here, temporary visitors who came
and went while the bank endured the storms of the
centuries, a monument to the power of capital.
Five pleasant minutes passed, then five more.
Maximo was in no hurry. He was prepared to wait
quite a while for $53 million, even if it took
all day. Or several days. After all,
he had waited a lifetime so far. But he wouldn't have
to wait long. The clerk would be back momentarily.
And he was.
He came in, looked at Maximo with an odd
expression, handed him back the transfer card with just
the slightest hint of a bow.
"I am sorry, sefior, but the balance of this account
is so low that the transfer is impossible to honor."
Maximo gaped uncomprehendingly. He
swallowed, then said, "What did you say?"
"I am sorry, sefior, but there has been some
mistake."
"Not on my partea"...Maximo replied heatedly.
The clerk gave a tight little professional smile.
"The bank's records are perfectly clear."...He
held out the transfer card. "This account contains just a
few dollars over one thousand."
Maximo couldn't believe his ears. "Where did the
money go?"
"Obviously, due to the bank secrecy laws I
have limited discretion about what I can say."
Maximo Sedano leaped across the table at the man,
grabbed him by his lapels.
"Where did-the money go, fool"..."...he roared.
"Someone with the proper authorization ordered the money
transferred, senor. That much is obvious. I can
say no more."
And the clerk wriggled from his grasp.
The story was the same at the next two banks
Maximo Sedano visited. Each account contained just
a few dollars above the minimum amount necessary
to maintain the account.
The horror of his position hit Maximo tike
a hammer. Not only was there no money here for him,
Alejo Vargas would kill him when he got back
to Cuba.
He told the bank officer at the last bank he
visited that he wanted to make a telephone call,
and he wanted the bank officer there to talk to the
person at the other end.
He called Vargas at home, caught him before
he went to his office.
After he had explained about the accounts, he asked
the bank officer to verify what he had said. The
officer refused to touch the telephone. "The bank
secrecy laws are very strictea"...he said
self-righteously. Maximo wanted to strangle him.
Vargas had of course listened to this little exchange.
"There is no moneyea"...Maximo told the
secret-police chief. "Someone has stolen it."
"You assea"...Vargas hissed.
"You
have stolen the money.
You
are the finance minister."
"Call the other banks, Alejoea"...he urged.
"They are here in Zurich. I will give you their names
and the account numbers. Listen to what the bank officers
have to say."
"You are a capital ass, Sedano. The Swiss
bankers will not talk to me. The money was deposited
in Switzerland precisely
because
those bastards will talk to no one."
"I will call you from their office and have them speak to you."
"Have you lost your mind? What are you playing at?"
This was a scene from a nightmare.
"If I had the money I would not set foot in
Cuba again, Vargas. We both know that. Use your
head! I don't have the money: I'm coming home."
He tried to slam the instrument into its cradle and
missed, sent it skittering off the table. Fumbling,
he picked it up by the cord, hung the thing properly
on the cradle.
The account officer looked at him with professional
solicitude, much like an undertaker smiling at die
next of kin.
Perhaps the banks have stolen Fidel's money,
Maximo thought.
These Swiss bastards pocketed the Jews' money;
maybe they are keeping Fidel's.
He opened his mouth to say that very thing to the account officer
sitting across the table, then thought better of it He
picked up his attache"...case with the pistol in it and
walked slowly out of the bank.
The van took Hector Sedano to La Cabana
fortress hi Havana. It stopped hi a dark
courtyard where other men were waiting. They took him
into the prison, down long corridors, through iron
doors that opened before him and closed after him, until
finally they stood before an empty cell hi the
isolation area of the prison. Here they demanded his
clothes, his shoes, his watch, die things in his
pockets. When he stood naked someone gave him a
one-piece jumpsuit. Wearing only that, he was
thrust into die cell and the door was locked behind him.
The journey from (he everyday world of people and
voices and cares and concerns to the stark,
vile reality of a prison cell is one of the most
violent transitions in this life. The present and the
future had been ripped from Hector Sedano,
leaving only his memories of the past.
Hector was well aware of the fact that he could be
physically abused, beaten, even executed, at the
whim of whoever had ordered him jailed. People disappeared
in Cuban prisons, never to be heard from again.
The parallels between his situation and that of Christ
while awaiting his crucifixion immediately leaped
to Hector's Jesuit mind. Not far behind was the
realization that Fidel Castro had also been
imprisoned before the revolution.
Perhaps prison is a natural stage in the Me
of a revolutionary. Imprisonment by the old regime
for one's beliefs was de facto recognition that the
beliefs were dangerous and the person who held them a
worthy enemy. The person imprisoned was
automatically elevated in stature and respect
These thoughts swirled through Hector's mind as he
sat on a hard wooden bunk without blankets and
gave in to his emotions. He found himself shaking with
anger. He paced, he pounded on the walls with his
fists until they were raw.
Finally he threw himself on the bunk and
lay staring into the gloom.
Angel del Mar
pitched and rolled viciously as she wallowed
helplessly in the swells. In every direction nothing
could be seen but sea and cloudy sky. The sky was
completely covered now with cloud, the wind was picking
up, and the swells were getting bigger, with a shorter
period between them. Aboard the boat, many people lay on
their stomach and hugged the heaving deck.
Everyone on board suffered from the lack of water,
some to a greater degree than others. Ocho Sedano,
who had had only a few mouthfuls since the boat
left Cuba and had pushed himself relentlessly, without
mercy, was desperate.
His eyes felt like burning coals, his skin
seemed on fire, his tongue a thick, lifeless
lump of dead flesh in a cracked, dry mouth.
He wasn't perspiring much now. Of all his
symptoms, that one worried him the most. As an
athlete he knew the importance of regulating
body temperature.
Dora lay in the shade cast by the wheelhouse and said
nothing. She had been sick a time or two, vomit
stained her dress. She seemed to be resting easier
now.
Beside her lay her father, Diego Coca. He was
conscious, his eyes fierce and bright, his jaw swollen
and misshapen. He hadn't moved in hours,
unwilling to let anyone else have his spot in the
shade.
Ocho sat heavily near Dora, scanned the sea
slowly and carefully.
My
God, there must be a ship! A ship or boatsomething
to give us food and water...
In all this sea there must be hundreds of fishing
boats and yachts, dozens of freighters,
smugglers, American Coast Guard cutters
hunting smugglers, warships... Where the hell are
they? Where are all these goddamn boats and ships?
From time to time he heard jets flying over, occasionally
saw one below the clouds, but they stayed high,
disappeared into the sea haze.
Under the mast an old woman sat weeping. She was
the one who grieved for the. captain, for some of the people who
were washed overboard that first night She wept
silently, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in
gasps.
He wanted to hug her, to comfort her, but mere was nothing
he could say. His brother Hector would have
known what to say, but Ocho did not.
He looked longingly at Dora, Dora who was
once beautiful, and he could think of nothing to say
to her. Nothing.
All the promise that life held, and they had thrown
it away on a wild, stupid, doomed chance.
Diego had led
them, prodded them, demanded they go, and still he could think
of nothing to say to Diego.
He was so tired, so lethargic. He had pumped
for hours, just keeping up with the water. If the water
came in any faster... well, he didn't want
to mink about it. They would all die then. They would have
little chance swimming in the open sea.
Ocho slumped over onto the moving deck. He
was so tired, if he could just sleep, sleep....
The old fisherman shook him awake. The sun was
setting, the boat still rolling her guts out in the
swell.
"A fish..."...He held it up, about eighteen or
twenty inches long. "No way to cook it, have to eat
it raw. Keep up your strength."
With two quick swipes of his knife, the fisherman
produced two bleeding fillets. He offered one
to Ocho, who closed his eyes and bit into the
raw fish. He chewed.
Someone was clawing at him, tearing at the fish.
He opened his eyes. Diego Coca was stuffing a
piece of the fish in his swollen mouth.
The old man kicked Diego in the stomach,
doubled him over, then pried his jaws apart and
extracted the unchewed fish.
"He's manning the pump that keeps you afloat,
you son of a bitch. He has to eat or every one of us
will die."
Diego got a grip on the fisherman's knife
and lunged for him.
He grabbed for the slippery flesh, swung
wildly with the knife.
This time the old man kicked him hi the arm. The
knife bounced once on the deck, then landed at an
angle with the blade sticking into the wood, quivering.
The fisherman waited for the boat to roll, then
kicked Diego in the head. He went over
backward and bis head made a hollow thunk as it
hit the wooden deck. He went limp and lay
unmoving.
Retrieving his knife, the fisherman ate his chunk
of raw
fish in silence. Ocho chewed ravenously,
letting the moisture bathe his mouth and throat. He
held each piece in his mouth for several seconds,
sucking at the juices, then reluctantly
swallowing it down.
Dora watched him with feverish eyes. He passed
her a chunk of the fish and she rammed it into her mouth,
all of it at once, chewed greedily while eyeing
the old man, almost as if she were afraid he would
take it from her.
After she swallowed it, she tried to grin.
Ocho averted his eyes.
"Your turn on the pumpea"...the old man said.
Diego lay right where he had fallen.
Ocho got up, went into the wheelhouse and down into the
engine room. The water in the bilge was sloshing around
over his shoes as he began working the pump handle, up
and down, up and down, endlessly.
Hours later someone came to relieve him, one of the
men in the captain's family. Ocho staggered up the
stairs, so exhausted he had trouble making his hands do
what he wanted.
The people on deck had more fish. Ocho sat heavily
by the wheelhouse. In the dim light from the stars and
moon, he could see people ripping fish apart with their bare
hands, stuffing flesh into their mouths, wrestling
to get to fish that jumped over the rail when the boat
rolled.
He collapsed into a dreamless sleep.
One of the butlers unlocked the bedroom door and
took Mercedes to see Colonel Santana, who
was standing behind Fidel's desk sorting papers. He
didn't look up when she first came in. She found
a chair and sat.
"The government has not yet decided when or how
to announce the death of
el presidente.
No doubt it will happen hi a few days, but until
it does you are to remain here, in the residence, and
talk to no one. Security Department people are on the
switchboards and will monitor all telephone
calls. The telephone lines that do not go through the
switchboard have been disconnected."
He eyed her askance, then went back to sorting
papers. "After the official version of Fidel's
death is written and announced, you will be free to go.
I remind you now that disputing the official version of
events is a crime."
"Everyone swears to your history before you write
it"..."...she snapped.
Santana looked at her and smiled.
"I was searching for the proper words to explain the nub of
it and they just came to y"...he snapped his fingers"...l that.
It is a gift, I think. When you say it so
precisely, I know you understand. Ignorance will not be
a defense if there is ever a problem."
Mercedes got up from the chair and left the room.
She wandered the hallways and reception rooms, the
private areas, the offices, all now deserted. Every
square foot was fuUs of memories. She could see
him talkin
g to people, bending down slightly to hear, for he
had been a'talj man. She could not remember when
he had not been the presi-
dent of Cuba. When she was a girl, he was there.
As a young woman, he was there. When she married, was
widowed, when he took her to be his woman ...
always, all her life there was Fidel.
Such a man he had been! She was a Latin
woman, and Fidel had been the epitome of the
Latin man, a brilliant, athletic man, a
commanding speaker, a perfect patriot, a man who
defined machismo. The facets of Fidel's
personality that the non-Latin world found most
irritating were those Cubans accepted as hallmarks
of a man. He was selfrighteous, proud, sure of his
own importance and place in history, never
admitted error, and refused to yield when
humiliated by the outside world. He had struggled,
endured, won much and lost even more, and in a way that
non-Latins would never understand, had become the
personification of Cuba.
And she had loved him.
In the room where he died the television cameras and
lights were still in place, the wires still strung.
Only Fidel's body was missing.
She stood looking at the scene, remembering it,
seeing him again as he was when she had known him best.
Still magnificent.
Now the tears came, a clouding of the eyes that she was
powerless to stop. She found a chair and wept
silently.
Her mind wandered off on a journey of its own,
recalling scenes of her life, moments with her mother,
her first husband, Fidel....
The tears had been dry for quite a while when she
realized with a start that she was still sitting in this room.
The cameras were there in front of her, mounted on
heavy, wheeled tripods.
These cameras must have some kind of film in them,
videotape. She went to the nearest camera and
examined it. Tentatively she pushed and
tugged at buttons, levers, knobs. Finally a
plate popped open and mere was the videocassette.
She removed it from the camera and closed the plate.
There was also a cassette in the second camera.
With both cassettes concealed in the folds of her
dress, Mercedes strode from the room.
A wave breaking over the deck doused Ocho
Sedano with lukewarm water and woke him from a
troubled, exhausted steep.
Angel del Mar
was riding very low in the water. Even as he realized that
the bilges must be full, another wave washed over
