"You will spoil us completely!"
Mario looked from one of them to the other. They seemed to have forgotten he was there.
His mother was saying, "Oh, there are flowers in our yard just now, carnations. I'll bring them inside for the table. Everything will be so festive, you'll see. José wants to give you a book, some essays he wrote."
"I would be honored," Anthony said.
Then she turned to Mario and took his face in her hands. She was happy. Her eyes were shining. "Well? Will you come? My darling one?"
He said, "I have nothing to bring as a wedding gift."
"There's nothing we need," Anthony Quintana said. "You. That's enough. Play your flute for us. I would like that very much. You will come, young man, or I will find you and thrash you." He took Mario in the crook of his arm and shook him. "You are not too old for this, are you?"
Mario laughed. "Stop. I'll be there!"
When Anthony left, Mario and his mother walked a little ways down the hall to see him out. The girl was waiting by the front door. She took her father's arm and they went onto the patio.
Mario knew what would come next.
She looked back at him over her shoulder.
There were benches in the park along Paseo de Martí. In the evening Mario would often find one that wasn't occupied, sit down, take out his flute, and play. People walking by would drop some money into his case, and when he had enough, he would buy dinner. He couldn't appear to be a beggar; the tourist police with their batons and gray uniforms were on every street corner in the old section. He always brought sheet music with him. He would politely say he was in the student orchestra at the University, and he was practicing. Sometimes the police told him to move on. Usually they left him alone.
Tonight he wasn't far from the Hotel Inglaterra. He had already collected four dollars and two pesos, not worthless moneda nacional but convertible pesos he could use as dollars. He was halfway through Lecuona's Siboney when he noticed that three women had stopped to listen. Tourists liked the old stuff. He wouldn't make as much playing his own compositions.
The women were whispering to each other. Mario picked out a word or two in French. One of them walked closer and smiled down at him.
He cut the tune short and lowered the flute to his lap. "Hey, mamita. You like Cuban music?" She put a dollar in his case. "The music, very good." "Thank you, beautiful," he said. Her friends giggled.
The woman stood over him. He knew what she wanted: Where are you from, pretty lady? D'où ètes vous, ma belle? You French? Want to see the city with me? Voulez-vous voir la ette avec moi? That was all he knew of the language. He would speak slowly to her in Spanish. She would understand. You want to have a party? We buy some rum, go dance? You pay for a taxi?
Her hair was very short, like blond fur. Skinny French woman in tight white pants with a food stain on the thigh. A black pullover that said ANTIGUA in fake diamonds.
Unfolding a ten-dollar bill, she sat beside him, and her hip touched his. "I like Cuban men." She slid the money down the neck of his T-shirt, and her fingernails scratched across his chest before she withdrew her hand.
He pulled the money out and looked at it. He tore it in half and let the pieces flutter to the ground. "Fuck off."
Her mouth opened, then a laugh came out. She cursed, shoved him hard in the shoulder, then got up to find the pieces of the note. She said something to her friends, and they fell on each other laughing.
As they walked away Mario picked up his flute and fingered the keys. One of them was getting loose. The metal surface of the flute was scratched and discolored. He had been tempted many times to throw it over the seawall. He thought that if he were standing on the Malecón this moment, he would do it. Pitch it into the darkness so far he wouldn't be able to see the splash.
Mario glanced around when someone sat on the other end of the bench. Tomás. He held a little cone of popcorn. He picked one out and tossed it into his mouth. The streetlamps outlined the wire frames of his glasses.
He chewed slowly. "You should have taken the money."
"It was only ten dollars, my friend. A woman like that, I want at least fifty." When Tomás stared at him, Mario smiled. "It's a joke, Tomasito."
"Was it?"
"Sure. Everyone gets screwed. The least I can do is set my own price."
Tomás shook some kernels into his palm. "Did you arrange things with the old man?"
"His daughter said no. She would rather pick him up herself. She doesn't want her family tainted by any connection to José Leiva."
"Ah. A problem," said Tomás.
"I can still get inside," Mario said. "I believe that I can. Quintana's son is here from Miami with his family. They're staying at Vega's house. I've known the son for a long time. He's a friend of my parents. If I go to the house to meet him, he'll let me in."
On his knee Tomás folded the cone into a flat square. "You're sure?"
"If not, then his daughter. Her name is Angela. I have a feeling about her. Yes, I think she would let me in."
"You and women. A talent I do not possess."
"Did you bring something for me?" Mario asked.
Tomás slid a bag across the bench. The bullets rattled as Mario dropped the bag into his flute case. He lowered the lid and the latches clicked shut.
"Contact me tomorrow, will you?" Tomás stood up.
"Tomás ... I've been thinking. Maybe someone else should do it. I'm ready, don't worry about that, but I'm thinking what effect it would have, my doing it."
"Effect?"
"On José Leiva. On the movements that he's involved with. They would be suspected of helping me. It could be bad for them. Look, I'm not backing out, but we should consider these things."
Tomás looked along the avenue, and the trees shifted in the wind, sending shadows across the paving stones in the sidewalk. "The effect. I will tell you the effect. We show that we can cut the head off a snake. Listen. I hear things from Olga. The Ministry is talking about cracking down on the dissidents."
"Another rumor from Olga. Why do you trust her? She's not so smart, you know?"
"True, but she's useful, and I believe she's right about this. What I am telling you, my friend, is that they're going after the opposition whatever we do. Shall we cower like children for fear of what might happen? Think of Nico's brother, Carlos, who was our brother as well. They put our brother Carlos in prison for the crime of acting like a free man. The movement needs you, Mario. What you do will matter. The liberty of our people—"
"For the love of God, Tomás, will you shut up?"
Tomás blinked behind his glasses. "Raúl can't get close to him; you can. You're the only one who can."
Mario felt tired. Empty. "Yes. I'll do if."
"Good. I leave you to your flute, then. And don't be so quick to turn down the next tourist. Nobody said you had to starve."
7
Ramiro Vega sat on one side of the long dining table, knees apart, arms spread. He was a man who took up space, not because of his size, which was only average, but by the energy that surrounded him, radiating outward, throwing off sparks. His head was the shape of a melon, and his taut brown skin reflected the lights in the brass chandelier over the table. When he laughed, dimples appeared, and his cheeks would redden and push his eyes into two inverted smiles. His mustache was thick with gray wires, and his strong, square teeth flashed as brightly as a cloud hit by a bolt of sunlight.
He gulped his beer from the bottle, ate with both hands, and stood up to reach across the table for more. He speared fried plantains with his fork and poured beans directly from the bowl onto his rice. Unless one quickly said no, gracias, he might drop another chunk of roast pork on the plates of those who sat near him. He tucked a paper towel into the open collar of his short-sleeved plaid shirt, the same shirt that he had worn home from the Ministry. Gail had expected to see him in a uniform. She had expected to be half afraid of him.
The general was openly affectionate with his children. He ha
d hugged Giovany and Janelle and kissed them before they had gone upstairs half an hour ago. They wanted to hear the music that Karen had put on her iPod. Anthony's kids had gone with them.
The older Vega daughter, Paula, and her new boyfriend, whose name Gail had already forgotten, sat at the far end of the table. Neither of them spoke any English. Their attention was on Paula's baby, who was ripping bread into pieces on the tray of an old wooden high chair. The boy's grandmother got up to brush the crumbs into her hand and complain about the mess on the floor. Gail had the feeling that Marta liked complaining. It showed who was in charge.
At first Gail had tried to keep up with the conversations in this boisterous family, which were almost entirely in Spanish. She had asked Anthony to fill in what she couldn't understand, but by then the Vegas were on to something else.
Ramiro grabbed his beer bottle in his fist. "Gail! Irene! Listen, I got a joke. It's complicated. I don't know how to say in English. Tony, help me out, okay?"
Gail and her mother waited while Ramiro took a swallow of beer and wiped the foam off his mustache. His black eyes sparkled, and dimples flickered in his round cheeks. "Un tipo va al infierno—"
Marta groaned. "Ramiro, please—"
"Un tipo va al infierno—"
Anthony translated: "A guy goes to hell, and he sees that every country has its own door. There is a hell for the Russians, a hell for the Chinese, a hell for the English, and so on. You have to pick a door. So first the guy goes to the American hell and asks what happens inside. The demon at the door says, 'Well, first they put you in an electric chair, then they put you on a bed of nails, and then they whip you with chains.' And the guy says, 'Oh, that's no good,' so he goes to the Japanese hell. He asks, 'What do they do to you in here?' "
Marta dumped the bread crumbs onto an empty plate. "My husband has the most stupid jokes."
Ramiro told her to be quiet. He resumed where he had left off Anthony said, "The Japanese demon says,'In here, they put you in an electric chair, then they put you on a bed of nails, and then they whip you with chains.' The guy thinks, 'That's exactly like the American hell.' So he goes to the other doors, and they're all the same. Then he sees a long line of people waiting to get into the Cuban hell, and he says to himself, 'Cono, that's the place to be,' so he asks somebody in line, 'What do they do to you in here?' The man says, "They put you in an electric chair, then they put you on a bed of nails, and then they whip you with chains.' 'But that's the same as every other hell. Why is everybody trying to get in?' 'Well, my friend, in the Cuban hell, the electricity is off, the nails have been stolen, and the guy with the whip comes to work, punches in, and then leaves.' "
"Haaaaahhhh!" Ramiro Vega slapped his hand on the table so hard the silverware bounced on the plates. He leaned back in his chair with his hand on his chest. "Oh, my God. I love it!"
Laughter echoed off the terrazzo floor of the dining room, and the boy in the high chair shrieked and pounded on the tray.
Gail had already heard the joke—it was a favorite among the exiles—but she laughed anyway, more from incredulity that a Cuban army general would tell it, much less tell it to Americans.
Her mother fanned her face. "That is hysterical!"
"Oh, sure," Marta said. "They're going to put him on a comedy show in Miami."
He wiped his eyes and let out a chuckle, then a sigh. "What's the matter, mamita?" As Marta walked by, Ramiro grabbed her around the waist and said something in Spanish.
Anthony translated. "He says Marta laughs at his jokes but not if there are guests in the house."
Marta told her husband to let her go, she wanted to clear the dishes. Ramiro gave her a one-armed hug and a slap on her backside. Gail started to get up with her own plate and Anthony's, but Marta told her to sit down.
At the other end of the table, Luis Quintana felt his way across the lace tablecloth until his fingers found the bottle of rum. He connected his glass with the mouth of the bottle and poured. He had barely spoken during dinner. Irene had tried with her phrase book to talk to him, but his Spanish was idiomatic beyond comprehension. Now and then he had asked Anthony to help him with his food, but otherwise he seemed content to lean on the stump of his left arm and become quietly drunk.
Gail noticed her mother hiding a yawn behind her napkin, the result of the wine or the hour. It was past ten o'clock.
Ramiro Vega leaned across the table. "Irene! What are the three most big success of the Revolution?"
Irene blinked and focused on Ramiro. "Me? I don't know."
He counted them off. "Education. Medical. And sports. What are the three ... how you say, Tony?"
"Failures." Anthony had heard this one.
"Yes, yes, what are the three biggest failures?" Ramiro looked around at everyone. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner!" He bellowed a laugh and clapped his hands together.
Marta stacked more plates. She said to Gail, "You see how we Cubans are. We laugh at our troubles. It's our national character. We're under siege, and we make jokes."
"Under siege?" Gail repeated.
"From the Americans," Marta said, as though three of them, including her brother, weren't sitting at her table. "Not you. I mean your government."
Gail was considering whether it would be rude to give her opinion, when Anthony said, "Marta, how about some coffee? And leave the politics in the kitchen, will you?"
Laughing at that, Ramiro went down the table to where his grandson sat in the high chair. He lifted the boy and tossed him in the air, babbling in nonsense verse and lifting his shirt to blow rude noises on his stomach.
Gail saw Anthony watching them. She could read his thoughts. How could Ramiro Vega possibly want to defect? To leave this house, this family? It was impossible. Anthony would return to Miami with bad news for Congressman Navarro and his mysterious friend from Washington.
A staccato click of heels came down the stairs in the living room. Janelle Vega swung around the railing at the bottom. She ran into the dining room wearing her new dress from the boutique in Coconut Grove. The dress was sleeveless, with a flounce at the bottom and a narrow waist. Too narrow. Gail saw with dismay that the buttons gaped, and the fabric rode up on her hips. The girl told everyone to look; wasn't it pretty? Her sister laughed, and Janelle told her to shut up.
Just then Marta came back with the tray of coffee. She set it on the table so she could look at the dress. She felt the fabric and tugged at the front. Gail guessed she was telling Janelle they could move the buttons over and let out the seams, and that Paula was saying no, she would take the dress because Janelle was too fat. Janelle's mouth turned down, wobbled, and opened in a cry of angry self-pity. The girls' father yelled at Paula, and their mother shouted at him to stop.
Gail murmured, "Oh, no. Anthony, I thought you told me the right size."
"I screwed up. How much did you pay for that?"
"Don't ask." Gail went to put an arm around Janelle, who was crying into a napkin. "Oh, Janelle, I'm so sorry. We'll buy you something else. Well go shopping right here in Havana. Anthony, please tell her."
He did, and Marta said, "No, no, don't worry about it. You give this to Karen. She's small. Janelle has enough clothes."
Ramiro said, "Marta, it's her birthday. If Gail wants to buy a dress, okay."
The girl raised her reddened eyes to her mother. "Si, mami, por favor—"
Another argument broke out. Marta not wanting Janelle to be spoiled; Janelle pointing to Paula's good clothes; Paula saying what the hell was wrong with looking nice? Ramiro stalking off to the kitchen for another beer, coming back with two, tossing one to Paula's boyfriend. Luis saying a woman had a right to wear a pretty dress.
Gail and her mother exchanged a look. Irene mouthed the words, What is going on?
Anthony motioned for Gail to lean closer. He said, "Tell her you'll take her to La Maison."
"What's that?"
"It's a store. Tell her."
Gail did, and Marta said no, they could go t
o the Carlos the Third shopping mall. That brought another sob from Janelle. Such terrible clothes there, everything so cheap and ugly. She wanted to go to La Maison.
Ramiro started yelling. Anthony said, "He's telling Marta to butt out, let Janelle go where she wants. You see, Gail, my sister doesn't think rich Americans should come in here and drop money on her kids. No, don't worry about it. She'll give in."
Gail slid back into her chair and whispered, "In about ten seconds I'm going to scream."
He shrugged and drank his wine.
It was decided: Gail could take Janelle to La Maison. Janelle threw her arms around Gail's neck and kissed her before running back across the living room, the sound of her pumps pounding, then diminishing, up the stone steps.
Ramiro said to Gail, "Thank you. You're very nice. My wife don't want to spend money for Janelle, but she's making a big party. The biggest. I have to sell my teeth for this party."
Marta snatched empty serving bowls off the table. "He hired someone to do the party for us, and now he doesn't like it."
"No, no, it's a good party. My wife don't like who does it."
"Ramiro forgot this is a quinceañera. That woman will make it look like a show from the Tropicana if I let her. Qué desgracia"
They switched to Spanish, talking about each other to their guests, throwing accusations like spit wads. Gail glanced at Anthony for some explanation. He made a slight smile and said, "You'll get used to it."
"Oh, really?"
Ramiro told his wife to go get the coffee. He stood up with the wine bottle and reached over to top off Gail's glass yet again, then her mother's and Anthony's. He began to relate an off-color story about someone in the army who had served in Angola and came back with an African wife and found her sacrificing chickens in the bedroom.
Irene wasn't following the translation. Gail saw her eyes drift along the narrow, horizontal pieces of stone on the opposite wall, an architectural touch from the 1950s. Hanging on this wall was a beveled mirror in a gold metal frame. Under the mirror was a chrome beverage cart, and in a German beer stein on the cart someone had planted a lace umbrella with blue roses. From Paula's baby shower?
Suspicion of Rage Page 8
