Suspicion of Rage

by Barbara Parker

  "You want to call Bobby," he guessed.

  "Please?"

  "All right. I'll ask Marta for you. Don't worry about the cost. I'll pay for it."

  "Thank you, papi." She put her head on his chest.

  He smoothed her silken hair. "Angelita, life is long, and there are many opportunities, many adventures ahead of you. The Miami City Ballet isn't the only company in the world—"

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "All right. Where is your brother?"

  "He's with Giovany playing Nintendo. It's not even a new game."

  "Danny comes to Havana to play Nintendo?" Anthony considered finding him, forcing him to come downstairs and behave as though he had a family.

  The front door banged open, and Marta came out lighting a cigarette, which bounced on her Tips as she said, "¿Ya se fue esa chusma?" Asking if the cheap slut was gone. Marta saw Angela and raised her hands to her brow. "Ay, perdóname. " She grabbed Angela and kissed her and apologized for not having noticed her before.

  "I'm sorry, oh my God, what language, how terrible." She dropped her lighter back into her purse. "I thought you were with Jani. Your papi and I, we'll be back soon. We're going to go get your grandfather." She put on her sunglasses.

  Angela made a tentative smile. "May I come with you?"

  Anthony took her hand. "You don't mind, do you, Marta?"

  "Sure, sure, honey, you come too. Let's go, apúrense. Anthony, close the gate behind us, eh?"

  Above them at the window in Gio's room, Danny watched the blue Lada back into the turnaround, kick up gravel, and head for the street. His father shut the gate, then got in the car, and they took off. He had a beer in his hand. He would never—not ever—do that at home.

  Where is your brother?

  Right up here, listening to every word you say.

  With Giovany playing Nintendo.

  Angela was such a suck-up.

  She got to go with them to pick up their grandfather, but observe this: Nobody had asked Danny if he wanted to go, did they? It would have been nice. He could have seen where his grandfather lived, a hero of the Revolution, Luis Quintana Rodríguez. The other old men would have looked up from their dominos and asked each other, Who is that young man?

  My friends, allow me to introduce my grandson from America, Luis Daniel Quintana. He was named after me.

  "Luis." He spoke his own name aloud, then said it again, pronouncing his name as his grandfather would, the accent on the last syllables. "Luis Daniel. Luis . . . Daniel." All his life he had Americanized it. Loo-is Daniel. It had been all right back in New Jersey, but here in Cuba, it sounded stupid.

  Resuming his seat on the windowsill, Danny flipped his cigarette butt to the porch roof. The car went down the street and around the corner. Earlier he had seen the van leaving to pick up General Vega. He had seen the black Mercedes come and go with the blond woman in it. The general's driver had laughed at her. What was the deal with them?

  Olga. Olguita.

  She'd been down there on the porch with his father. They'd been talking in Spanish, so Danny had missed most of it, but he knew one thing: His father had fucked Olguita. Maybe that's why he came to Cuba twice a year. Danny had watched her walk to her car. Her skirt was so short he saw her panties when she parted her legs to get in.

  Before coming here, Danny had researched Havana on the Internet and found some clubs he wanted to check out. Gio was going to take him around, tonight if they could get away. Danny wanted to see if it was true, what they said about the women, how hot they were. They liked Americans, and they would do anything if you bought them some shoes or a dress and took them dancing.

  Havana was amazing. The beer cost a dollar on the street, and the parties went on all night.

  6

  The late-afternoon sun threw an elongated image of the clay flowerpot onto the wall. Faded yellow wall, red flower, purple shadow. The bright colors had caught Mario's attention. An ant crawled along a crack in the pot, which was very old, green with moss.

  Mario was aware that his mother was still looking at him. The pressure of her gaze was so intense he could feel his cheeks growing warm. A few minutes ago, when he had walked up the steps of the retirement home, she had stared at him wide-eyed, as if blinking might cause him to vanish. Then she had carefully set her broom against one of the columns and embraced him.

  Mario asked her if he could speak to the old man, but she gave him no answer.

  "Do you know that your father and I haven't seen you for nearly six months? Six months." "Well... don't I call you? I have called many times." She shook her head. "Mario. What are you doing with yourself? Look how thin you are."

  "No, no, you're always saving that. I'm eating. I'm doing okay."

  His mother smelled of violets. There was always a bottle of cologne on her dresser. He had bought her some the last time he'd been home. She wasn't old, but her hair had been gray for a long time. Today it was tied back under a blue bandana. Over her shirt and slacks she wore an ugly smock with her first name on a plastic tag. She could have been a doctor, but she worked as a nurse in this place, changing diapers and sweeping the floors. Mario wanted to take the broom and ram it through every window in the building.

  Behind her a row of old men sat in their rocking chairs watching the world, which consisted of a view of B Street and the houses on the other side. Under a tree by the sidewalk, four of them played cards at a folding table. They had put on their sweaters. By sunset it would be cool again.

  Mario said, "I've been out of town a lot, playing with the band. We played at a club in Matanzas. I bought some new clothes. You see?" The word bought was close enough. A German girl had bought him the jeans and T-shirt at the Benetton in Varadero Beach after they had spent the day swimming.

  "I see," his mother said. "And now you're back. Where are you staying? Not on the street again. Mario, I couldn't bear it."

  "No, mami." He laughed. "I'm staying with a friend of mine on Oquendo."

  "You could come home. We have room for you, my dear heart. Always."

  "I know, but I like to have my own place. Do you know what? They have roof access. They raise chickens up there. We traded one last week for some gasoline and drove to the beach. But now my friend is gone for awhile, and he won't need his car, so...." Mario shifted his weight and slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. "May I talk to Luis Quintana?"

  "I'm not in such a hurry to give you up." Smiling, his mother put her arm through his and led him to the railing. They sat on it with the sun on their backs. "Guess who arrived today from Miami. Luis's son, Anthony. You remember him, don’t you? He always asks about you. 'How is Mario?' 'What is he doing lately?' I have had so little to tell him these past months, but here you are. Today! God must have been listening to me, don't you think so? Anthony brought his family with him. He's married now—to an American. They're coming to our house for dinner tomorrow. They want to meet you. Mario, please come."

  "We're practicing every night this week, but... I'll try to come."

  She looked at him closely, shifting her eyes on his. She had beautiful eyes, brown touched with flecks of green. He saw with dismay the shadows on her cheeks. Had she looked so exhausted six months ago?

  "Mario, tell me the truth. Have José and I done something to offend you?"

  "What? No, mami. Don't say that."

  "Are you afraid to come to our house? Is that it? José asks me every day where you are. What can I tell him? He's sure you're staying away because of him."

  "That's not true. Not at all. Tell José that I send my respects. Tell him I'm sorry, I've been busy. I promise I'll come when I can." Mario took his mother's hand. "Please, may I speak to Señor Quintana?"

  Her eyes lingered on his. Then she stood up and straightened her smock. "I'll take you to him."

  One of the heavy entrance doors was open for the breeze. The house, which was of considerable size, had been owned by a single family before the Revolution. Now i
t was occupied by fifty veterans and used by the government as an example: how we care for our elders. Photographs had been taken, articles written. Inside, the tile floor shone from a recent mopping. Sofas and chairs were placed in groups around low tables. A double staircase with an ornamental railing led to the rooms upstairs—but only one side was usable. The other side had been roped off for repairs as long as Mario could remember. His mother had said they received enough food and basic supplies, but for anything else, they had to rely on the families. Clothing, bath soap and toiletries, aspirin and cough syrup, a TV for the game room. Relatives on the outside sent money.

  The old men here were lucky. Mario had seen others who weren't. He and Nico had borrowed a car to drive south to San Antonio de los Baños to visit Nico's grandparents a couple of weeks ago, coincidentally the day of the pilgrimage to the church of San Lázaro. They had been stuck in the river of cars, horse carts, and people. Crippled men on homemade crutches, old women with their hands out for coins, blind children. Nico, whom Mario had always thought a cynic, had pulled into the parking lot and bought some candles for his brother. They fought their way through the crowds to get into the church. In an alcove to the Virgin, Nico lit his candles. He started crying, then saying to the people around him, My brother is dead. He died in prison. For nothing. He said "Down with Fidel" in a parade, and they gave him ten years. Ten years! Mario dragged Nico away. Crazy, he had told the people staring at them. He's crazy. Mental problems.

  Mario followed his mother to a large room in the back where a man dozed in a chair at the window. He had probably placed it there to catch the afternoon sun, but the light had shifted. A soft breeze came through. He was bald on top. His chest was like a barrel, and his muscular right arm, with its curly gray hair, lay on the armrest. The other was a stump hidden under the sleeve of his blue cotton shirt. He had lost the arm fighting counterrevolutionaries sent by the CIA. Mario had heard the story many times.

  Mario's mother bent over and spoke softly to him. "Luis? Wake up, love. My son is here. Look. It's Mario."

  The old man's eyes came open. One was clouded, the other fully dilated, a pool of black. Through the clouds he could see shapes and color. He smacked his lips and dragged a hand across his mouth. "Mario. Where?"

  "Right here, sir." He took Lois Quintana's arm and helped him sit up straight.

  "Where the hell have you been, boy?"

  "Out of town, playing with the band." Mario found a chair and sat facing him. "How is your health? My mother takes good care of you, does she?"

  "She's a good girl. If she wasn't hooked up already, I'd marry her." He patted her hip.

  "Señor Quintana, I have a favor to ask of you."

  "What is it? I don't have any money."

  "No, no, I want to be your chauffeur, to take you to your daughter's house and to bring you home. Your family could pay me a little if they want to. I would do it for the experience. If I get some customers, I can apply for a license. You see, I'd like to get into the tourist sector."

  "Jesus, don't they all? What about your band? Not many jobs for long-hairs, eh?"

  "Not so many."

  "But enough to afford gasoline. Where'd you get a car?"

  "It belongs to a friend, but he's on a three-month visa to visit his family in the U.S."

  "Ahhh, going to La Yuma. He'll come back fat and lazy, you watch."

  "What do you think of my suggestion, sir? May I be your driver?"

  "It's all right with me. My daughter drives me now, but she talks too much. Ya-ya-ya-ya. Makes me crazy. Don't marry a woman who talks too much. If she doesn't come, then she sends the man who works for them. Cobo. He never says anything, which is just as bad. Yoli, honey, go get us some coffee."

  She hesitated. "I'll try to sneak it past the cook. You know we're a little short of coffee."

  The old man waved her on. She walked toward the hall but stopped so suddenly that Mario thought she had tripped. She backed up to let three people come in. Mario recognized the woman in front: Señora de Vega, the wife of the general. His skin tightened, raising the hair on his arms. He stood and moved out of the way.

  The man in the group smiled at Mario's mother and kissed her cheek, then looked across the room. It had been a long time since Mario had seen him. Anthony Quintana looked no different, except for a little gray in his hair. He was tall and slender, dressed in ordinary brown pants and a knit shirt. His leather belt with the polished buckle gave him away. You could always tell the exiles from the real Cubans.

  There was a girl with him who might have been fourteen. His daughter, who else? She was wearing a short skirt, and he could see the muscles in her legs. He remembered Luis Quintana telling him his granddaughter was a ballerina. Yes. There was a picture of this girl in a tutu in his room.

  They came over to the old man. Mario watched Señora de Vega. If she was in a good mood, she might grant his request. He smiled at her but she walked past him and opened her arms to her father.

  "Papi! Look who I've brought you!"

  The family embraced each other. He heard the girl's name. Angela. The old man pulled her closer, exploring her face. His thick, callused fingers couldn't see what Mario saw: her straight teeth, the gold barrettes holding back her hair, the small crucifix on a narrow chain. The sleeves of her pink sweater were pushed to her elbows. Such slender white arms. This girl was not from here, anyone could see that.

  Anthony Quintana said, "Mario! Don't you remember me?"

  Mario looked around. "Yes! It's good to see you again, sir." He held out his hand.

  "Come here." They embraced quickly, and Mario felt several firm pats on his back. He smelled the cleanliness of Anthony Quintana's clothing, the cologne on his skin. "What is this?" The beads at the ends of Mario's braids clicked through his fingers. He laughed. "No, I like it. It suits you. How old are you now, Mario? Forgive me. Tune passes so quickly."

  "I was twenty last month, sir."

  "Imagine that. Please, call me Anthony, not 'sir.' We should greet each other as men. Let me introduce my daughter, Angela. Sweetheart, come over here."

  Her hand was cool and delicate, but it closed around his fingers with surprising strength. "I am very pleased to meet you." She had an American accent. Mario was aware that her father was talking about other people. Danny. Gail. People he would meet soon. The girl's eyes were the color of milk chocolate. They moved over his face. "My father says you're a musician?"

  "A flautist."

  She didn't understand. He held his hands to one side and moved his fingers. "Flute."

  "Oh." She smiled. "Flute." He revised upward his estimate of her age. Eighteen?

  Just in time Mario heard the general's wife say, "Papi, get up. Come on. Are those pants clean? Why didn't you wear the new ones I bought you?"

  He growled, "How the hell am I supposed to know the difference?"

  "Let's go. Everybody's waiting for us at the house."

  "Excuse me," Mario murmured. He went over to greet the general's wife. "Good afternoon, Señora de Vega. May I speak with you?"

  She crossed her arms over her stomach. Her mouth was colorless and tight. "Be quick. We're in a hurry."

  Everyone was watching. Mario's words tumbled out. "I have a request, in honor of your father, Luis Quintana Rodríguez, whom I respect and admire and have come to know in friendship. I would like to become his driver, to do him—and your family—the honor of taking him to and from your house. You're a very busy woman, and ... I believe this would help you. I have talked with your father about it, and he said yes. He wants me to ask your approval as a courtesy. I could start today. Or tomorrow, if you wish."

  The general's wife looked at her father. "His driver? He doesn't need a driver."

  "Yes, but we have talked, Señor Quintana and I, and he said it would be agreeable to him."

  She said, "Thank you, but no. We can manage."

  "You don't have to pay me much—or anything. I would do it for the experience. Out of respect for
your father... who is a hero of our nation."

  She raised a brow.

  Anthony Quintana said, "Why not, Marta? It would save you the trouble."

  But she was already pulling on her father's arm. "It's no trouble. I like coming here. Papi, love, put on your sweater."

  He jerked away from her. "I can do it."

  Mario's mother handed him his cane. "We'll see you tomorrow, Luis."

  "Thanks, beautiful." He straightened with dignity. "All right. Where's that pretty granddaughter of mine? Angela!"

  Anthony Quintana sent Mario a slight smile and a shrug. He let his family go out the door first. "My sister likes to take care of our father herself. She has nothing against you."

  That was a lie. They all knew it.

  Mario hid his frustration behind a smile. "It's all right."

  "So... you are well, Mario?"

  "I am, thank you, sir."

  "We must see each other again" Anthony said. "I have something for you, but not knowing you would be here, I didn't bring it with me."

  His mother put her arm around him. "Mario is coming to dinner tomorrow. I told him about your marriage. He wants to meet your wife. Don't you, Mario?"

  "You will like her," said Anthony. "I am sure you will. She is very American, but curious about everything Cuban."

  "José and I will love her as we love you. We'll make a party to celebrate."

  "You needn't do that, Yoli."

  "But we want to. It's a special occasion."

  "All right, but allow us to bring some food. Steak. Would you like that?"

  "No, no, no, Anthony, my dear, really, there's enough. We have some fish. Does your wife like pargo?"

  "I'm sure she does, but ... let us bring something. Some bread. Wine. Tell me."

  "If you want to." Mario's mother smiled and lifted a shoulder. "A bottle of wine."

  "Red or white? No, I'll bring both. And some Scotch for José."