Suspicion of Rage

by Barbara Parker

  She glanced at her watch. It was almost ten o'clock, and they hadn't finished packing. She hadn't finished. Anthony had done this so many times that he could pack in five minutes with his eyes closed. His suitcase waited by the door of their apartment. Hers and Karen's were still lying open on the living room rug surrounded by stacks of clothes. Not only clothes. Shampoo and soap, towels, hand lotion, sunscreen, a money belt, a first-aid kit, even a compass, every last thing that she'd heard you had to take to Cuba or do without. Anthony had stood over the pile shaking his head.

  They would be staying at his sister Maria's house in Havana. She was married to Ramiro Vega, a general in the army, and Anthony had said they lived very well by Cuban standards, whatever that meant. Next weekend the younger Vega daughter, Janelle, was having her quinceañera, her fifteenth birthday party. Gail had bought her a dress at a boutique in Coconut Grove, wanting to please Marta as much as the girl. Buying something for Janelle had been the last thing on Gail's list to be checked off.

  On only ten days' notice she had somehow managed to clear her schedule at her law office. Her secretary would forward messages via e-mail to Marta's house. An attorney friend in the same building would handle emergencies. As for Karen's father, Gail had expected a fight, but he hadn't objected. She guessed that he was happy to spend the extra time on his boat with his new girlfriend. But he had asked why. Why in God's name do you want to go to Cuba?

  Because Anthony's sister invited us. Because it would be educational for Karen. Because I don't like the U.S. government telling me what I can and can't do.

  None of these was the real reason. Gail wanted to see Cuba through Anthony's eyes. She wanted to know what he did there. Would he be different somehow in the place of his birth? And who were the people he called los Quintana, his other family, those who had not gone into exile? In addition to Anthony's sister, there was his father, who lived in a home for disabled veterans. Luis Quintana had been awarded a medal for heroism by Fidel Castro himself. Marta spoke four languages. She had a job in protocol at the Ministry of the Exterior. But their names were never mentioned here in this house. To Ernesto Pedrosa, who thought Castro a step below Satan, los Quintana didn't exist.

  But they did exist, and they wanted to meet the new wife. At first, when Anthony had mentioned this to Gail, she couldn't imagine actually going there. Cuba wasn't a real place, it was myth; it was farther than China. Anthony would bring his two children. They were teenagers and had never met their Havana cousins. And of course Karen couldn't be left out. When Gail had told her mother, Irene had jumped up and down like a girl. Oh, how exciting for you! And then the long, guilt-inducing sigh. What was she going to do here in Miami all alone for New Year's? Couldn't she be of some help to Gail, keeping an eye on Karen?

  So there would be six of them breaking the law. Six on the flight from Miami to Cancún, then Cancún to Havana. No begging the State Department for permission to take one of those miserable charter flights. Anthony had bought their tickets online through a travel agent in Canada. Gail found the subterfuge thrilling. It was theoretically possible they could be prosecuted. Gail wasn't worried. Anthony knew how to get in and out. They weren't going to set off alarms by smuggling boxes of cigars and a few too many bottles of Havana Club. They would say, if questioned, that they'd been lying on a beach in Mexico for ten days.

  Gail turned to open the door just as a group of people came through it on a wave of bubbling conversation. A clerk from Anthony's law firm, a client, their wives. There were kisses on the cheek, more congratulations. Sorry we have to leave so soon, a great party, buenas noches.

  One of the men leaned closer and whispered, "When you get to Havana? Here's some advice. Watch out for those potholes in the sidewalks. And take along some toilet paper, you'll need it." He winked. "Tell Tony we want a postcard."

  She waved as they crossed the yard. "Thank you for coming."

  Inside, she closed the heavy wooden door and leaned against it. No one was supposed to know about this trip. Anthony had said not to tell anyone until they got back. U.S. travel restrictions didn't bother him, but his grandfather did. If Ernesto found out, he'd have a seizure. If sufficiently pissed off, he might phone one of his friends in Washington and demand to have them stopped at the airport.

  The foyer was softly illuminated by a chandelier. A young couple sat on the stairs embracing, oblivious to people walking through. Still no sight of Anthony. Gail could see into the formal dining room. The invitations had said no gifts, but the long mahogany table was stacked high with expensively wrapped boxes. She expected to take home a lot of crystal and porcelain, very upscale Cuban, not exactly her style.

  She spotted some curly auburn hair among the crowd in the living room and went closer to make sure it was her mother. "Mom! "

  Irene Connor detached herself from the man she'd been talking to. Her eyes were bright, and she held a mojito with mint leaves swirling among the ice cubes. "Well, there you are, darling." She was a petite woman, shorter by several inches than Gail, and sequins twinkled on her peacock-blue cocktail dress when she swung her hips. "Vamos a bailar. That means 'Let's dance.' See that man over there? He's been teaching me things to say at the clubs in Havana."

  "Oh, Mother, please, you haven't been talking about it."

  "He's cute, isn't he? And he's not married. No es casado."

  Gail pulled her mother into the hall. "Have you seen Anthony? I've lost him, and we've really got to start making an exit."

  "Already?"

  "You know how Cuban parties are. It's going to take an hour just to say good night to everyone. I haven't finished packing, and we have to be at die airport at eight in the morning."

  "Fine. We'll go." Her eyes went back to her friend.

  "Oh, you asked me about Anthony. He was here a

  minute ago wanting to know where you were." She

  pointed across the foyer. "He went down that hall, he

  and that little black man who works for Mr, Pedrosa—

  well, not really black. They say mulato, don't they? I've forgotten his name."

  "Hector Mesa."

  Irene went on,"Mulato. Negrito. My friend over there said they use those words all the time in Cuba, and nobody cares."

  Gail gazed along the empty corridor on the opposite side. It led to Ernesto Pedrosa's study. Anthony had been summoned there. For what? Not so the old man could slip him some traveling money. He would be demanding explanations and making threats. Anthony would stand there calmly, letting out a breath through his teeth. He would offer no apologies. He would slam the door on the way out and swear on his mother's grave not to enter this house again. That would last for as long as it lasted, or until everyone else was worn out and begged them to reconcile.

  "Mom, could you find Karen for me? I think she's playing pool in the game room. I'll be right back."

  The corridor ran past a vacant sitting room, then turned. Wall sconces lit her way, and her high heels tapped softly on the tiles. She shifted her weight to her toes. As she neared the door, she could see it was closed, no surprise. She tilted her head to listen. No one was yelling, which was odd. Male voices came from inside, but they were too muffled for her to make out the speakers, not that she doubted who was in there.

  She lifted her hand to knock.

  "Señora?"

  Startled, she turned to find a small, gray-haired man in a somber suit and black-framed glasses. He might have dropped silently down from the ceiling on a web, for all the notice he gave.

  "Hello, Hector. I'm looking for Anthony."

  "He is with el viejo."

  "Yes, I thought he might be. It's late and we need to go."

  Hector Mesa shrugged. "They have a meeting, and some friends of Señor Ernesto will be here in a minute. I'll tell Señor Anthony that you looked for him." Hector

  extended a hand toward the way she had come, an invitation to leave.

  "A meeting at this hour? With whom?"

  Another shrug. "I t
hink some people from out of town."

  There was a separate entrance around a turn in the hall, and if guests came and went, they could do so unnoticed. Gail said, "And you don't know who they could be, or where they're from. How long is this meeting supposed to last? Should Karen and I catch a ride home with my mother?"

  "If you wish, but I think it will be not so long." The creases in his forehead deepened as if it pained him to lie to her. Gail had learned things about Hector Mesa: He had worked in black ops for the CIA. He carried a folding knife in his belt and a .22 Beretta on his ankle; he had used them both. She doubted there was much that pained him. If Hector Mesa was posted outside the door, it meant something was going on. Or not. She could never quite be sure.

  "All right. When you see Anthony, could you please tell him we need to go home?"

  "Of course, señora." The little man made a slight bow, and the sconces in the corridor flashed their dim light on his glasses.

  A faded Cuban flag, with its blue-and-white bars and red triangle, had been hung like an Old Master behind the desk. The brass picture light picked up spatters of mud and several bullet holes in the fabric. In June 1960, a Cuban army squadron had kicked in the door of an apartment near the Capitol in Havana, finding several anti-castristas and a supply of bomb-making equipment. Leonardo Pedrosa had grabbed the flag and dived out a window screaming "¡Abajo, Fidel!" He staggered through thunderstorms for two miles with a bullet in his back to a safe house in Vedado. He died just as dawn broke, but not before obtaining his brother's promise to fly the flag one day over a free Cuba.

  This according to Ernesto Pedrosa.

  Anthony sat across the desk from his grandfather, waiting for him to finish lighting his cigar. An excellent cigar, but not Cuban. Ernesto would not support the dictatorship by smoking Cuban tobacco. He laboriously clipped off the end of his puro with large, veined hands weakened by a stroke three years ago. He was eighty-five years old and refused to admit it. His folded wheelchair was pushed out of sight. It formed a slight bulge behind brocade curtains framing the windows on the east side of his study. The windows themselves were covered by wooden louvers, exactly as in Havana. Except that here, the louvers were not falling out of their frames.

  A ceiling fan revolved slowly overhead. The air smelled of leather and smoke. A signed first edition of the poems of José Martí was enshrined in a glass case. A landscape of thatched-roof bohíos and royal palm trees filled the space behind the sofa. There were black-and-white photographs of deceased relatives, of Havana street scenes from the early 1900s, of anti-Castro commando groups, of Ernesto Pedrosa with every Republican president since 1964. He had removed the Democrats, including John E Kennedy, who had betrayed them at the Bay of Pigs, and Bill Clinton, under whose administration the raft boy, Elián González, had been sent back to Fidel.

  Ernesto held his silver desk lighter to the end of the cigar and studied Anthony over the flame, his time-faded blue eyes magnified by thick lenses.

  He had found out. It would have been impossible to keep him in the dark; Anthony could see that now. Everyone knew. His relatives had pulled him aside to beg for this or that small favor. Would you give this cash to cousin Rosario? Would you see if my house on Avenida 98 is still there, and if it doesn't look too bad, could you take a picture? Could you bring me some Agua de Violetas! A rock from the Colón Cemetery? Some of that asthma spray I can't find in the pharmacies here?

  The old man knew, but he didn't seem to care. Anthony was puzzled by this. Shoving the lighter aside, Ernesto sank back into his wide leather chair and began to rock slowly. "I'll tell you what bothers me," he said. "You lied. You hid it from me."

  His Spanish was slow and perfectly pronounced. He had been a banker in a family at the top of society, and he maintained the image: custom-made suits, a neatly trimmed white mustache, a splash of cologne.

  "I did not lie to you," Anthony said.

  "You used your silence as a lie."

  "Why would I want to give you another heart attack? Every time we talk about Cuba, you go crazy."

  "I saved you from hell, yet you go back. You have hurt me deeply."

  "Do we have to discuss this? I've been there several times, as you are well aware."

  "Not 'several' times. Many times. Many. And tomorrow you will go once again and take your wife with you. I think it's wrong, but she is your wife, and a woman of strong will, and if that's what you and she want to do, there is nothing I can say about it. Your children will also travel with you. That is definitely wrong, but I leave Daniel and Angela to see the wreck that Cuba has become and decide for themselves."

  "Grandfather, it's late. Gail and I have to get up very early."

  The old man tapped the cigar over a crystal ashtray. Gold cuff links twinkled against spotless white cuffs. "You tell me, 'I want them to meet my father,' or 'I want to attend my niece's birthday party.' As for myself, I believe this. Others might not."

  "Forgive me, but what are you getting at?"

  "You have ties with Cuba. There are some who say you're agent of Castro."

  Anthony had learned not to laugh out loud at this sort of thing.

  Ernesto continued, "I tell them no. My grandson has wrong ideas, but he is not working for the tyrant. Now. I have a question, and I want the truth."

  "All right. Ask. What do you want to know?"

  "Has Marta talked to you about leaving Cuba?"

  "What do you mean, leaving?"

  "Does she want to leave Cuba?" His grandfather's voice rose. "To get her family out. Are you going there to arrange it?"

  Anthony wondered if the old man's mind was stumbling again. "No, Grandfather. I'm going for a visit. That's all."

  "This is the truth?"

  "Of course it is. Marta wouldn't leave Cuba. What gave you that idea? You haven't spoken to her in more than twenty years, and now you ask if she wants to come to Miami."

  "She's my granddaughter."

  "The last time I mentioned my sister, you called her a piece of communist trash."

  His grandfather's expression darkened. "She is a communist, but she is also my blood. They brainwash people in the dictatorship, you can't deny it. Her children are my blood, and they belong here."

  "I assure you, if Marta wanted to get out, I would know. We don't talk about politics, otherwise we would strangle each other, but she's happy—happy enough. Her children are there, her. husband. She doesn't want to leave." Anthony spread his hands. "She doesn't. Grandfather, I'm sorry, but it's ten o'clock, and Gail will be looking for me."

  "Let her wait." He batted away some smoke. "We have guests coming. A friend of mine, Bill Navarro. He wants to talk to you."

  This change of topic stopped Anthony halfway out of his chair.

  Guillermo "Bill" Navarro had been elected to the U.S. House of Representatives five years ago, thanks to money pumped into his campaign from big donors in the exile community. Navarro had been sent to Washington because he had the right attitude: Starve Cuba into economic collapse. He and his compatriots in Congress had forced successive administrations to go along with them or risk the loss of the Cuban-American vote, pivotal to winning Florida.

  "Why does he want to talk to me?"

  "He will explain it."

  "You may be a friend of this man, but I am not. He's a pompous fake who has done nothing but make us look like a bunch of raving lunatics to the rest of the world." A thought ran through Anthony's mind. "What is this about? My sister?"

  "Yes, and her husband. We have information that Ramiro Vega wants to defect."

  This was stunning. That Ramiro would defect to the United States was beyond the bounds of imagination. Anthony asked, "Where did Bill Navarro get this information?"

  "Bill can tell you."

  "Ramiro has never said anything of the sort to me, not the least hint of it."

  "How can he? Everyone is watched. He is afraid." Ernesto jabbed the air with his cigar. "Listen to me. I want you to talk to Marta. Tell her ... say she
is forgiven. This is her family. We will help her, whatever she needs for herself or the children. It has always been that way. But you must persuade her to leave. If she doesn't come, Vega might stay there, and that would be bad. She must escape. They must all escape."

  His lips trembled. Ernesto Pedrosa hid his eyes and cleared his throat. "Our family. You understand."

  Anthony softly replied, "Yes. Of course, if I can help her... if she asks for help, I will do it. Grandfather, what did Navarro say to you? When did he—"

  He was stopped by a knock at the door.

  "One moment!" Ernesto laid his cigar in the ashtray. "Bill is bringing someone with him, an aide on his staff, I believe. They will tell you they want Ramiro Vega. The man is a filthy communist son of a black whore, but if he is the price of getting the children out, so be it." Ernesto positioned his cane and stood up. "Come in!"

  The door swung open. Hector Mesa stood aside to admit two men. Navarro entered first, a man in his late thirties with incipient jowls, a broad smile, and eyes that darted about in search of the person who might want to put a knife in his ribs. He had not been born in Cuba; he compensated with a severe, almost religious patriotism. There were two pins in the lapel of his navy blue sport coat: the flag of the United States and the insignia of a Cuban-American lobbying group that had bullied Congress for decades.

  Anthony didn't recognize the other man. He was in his mid-forties, with a medium build, short graying hair, and an angular face one could easily miss in a crowd. His eyes went quickly around the room before he acknowledged Anthony's presence with a slight nod.

  The congressman went over to the desk to embrace Ernesto, to thank him for seeing them on such short notice. He swung around and extended a hand to Anthony, who had risen from his chair. "Mi amigo, ¿qué tal? Good to see you again." He switched to English for the benefit of the American in the room. "Congratulations on your marriage. I apologize for interrupting the party, but we have a matter of highest importance to discuss with you. This is Everett Bookhouser. Everett is a policy advisor on my committee."