"Should we do this? Are we going to get in trouble?"
"Not if we hurry." A strand of silver hair moved across Yolanda's cheek as she worked. She wore no makeup, and forty-four years had sketched lines on her forehead.
Gail took the copies and laid them on the stacks. Yolanda opened and closed the lid as the copier hummed and clanked, and the light moved slowly from one side of the glass to the other. "You should have a Kinko's in Havana," Gail said.
"What is that?"
"It's a place where, you do this about fifty times faster. What are you copying?"
"It's for the meeting at our house tonight, lists of all the independent journalists and libraries in Cuba and all the opposition groups."
"Oh, my God. Is this legal?"
Yolanda laughed. "Yes. What is not legal is to make copies on this machine."
Gail ran out of staples, and Yolanda went to the desk and found more in the top drawer. She got back in time to whisk out one sheet and put in another. "We used to have a copy machine, but they took it when José was arrested."
"They took your copier?"
"They took everything. Our computer. Our books. Letters from my parents. Photographs of the family. A certifícate from Mario's school when he won a prize for music. I will never know why they took that." Yolanda ran to help Gail lay the stacks on the desk to be stapled. "It's changing. Not much, but a little. We don't think they will arrest José again. There are too many of us now, too many groups." Yolanda turned off the machine.
Adrenaline was pumping through Gail's body, and her hands moved effortlessly. Collate, staple. Collate, staple. Yolanda found another stapler, and soon they were in a race, laughing and tossing the finished sets into a pile.
With the last one, Gail said, "Are we finished? Is that it?"
"Yes. The angels are watching us." Yolanda ran across the room for her purse and calculated aloud in Spanish as she took money out of her wallet. She grabbed an envelope and stuffed some bills and coins into it. Licking the envelope, she walked to the window again.
"She is coming." Yolanda put the envelope into the bottom drawer of the desk and closed it with her knee. "Hurry."
Gail scooped up the copies while Yolanda turned out the lights. They bolted across the office and out the door. Yolanda closed it and inserted a key in the lock. "Put the copies in your bag. Walk to the stairs. Wait there."
The supervisor came through the door a few seconds later, a woman with frizzy blond hair, a tight red sweater, and a black skirt too short for her stubby legs. She glanced at the two women standing at the bottom of the stairs, one with a shoulder bag out of sight behind her back, the other with nothing in her hands.
Yolanda said, "Buenas tardes, compañera."
The woman smiled pleasantly, took a key from her collection, and opened the door to the office. It closed behind her.
Gail's eyes met Yolanda's, and her lips tightened to hold in her laughter. Yolanda stared at her. When air erupted through Gail's lips, Yolanda's face reddened, and she pressed her hands to her mouth. They ran. Gail followed her, holding the heavy bag with both hands, running through the hall and out the back of the house, where they turned the corner and collapsed against the wall, laughing. Yolanda put a finger to her lips. "Shhh."
Gail wiped her eyes and whispered, "Oh, my God. I haven't done anything like that since we tee-peed the principal's car."
"What?"
"Tee-pee. T-P? Toilet paper. All over his car. Next time I come back, I'll bring a few rolls. We can tee-pee Fidel's car." She broke into giggles.
"Shhhh!" With a hand on Gail's elbow, Yolanda took her around the corner, where a wire fence had grown so thickly with vines that the next house could not be seen, except for its mildewed tile roof.
Rakes and a shovel leaned against the wall. Gail set her bag on the bottom of an overturned wheelbarrow and reached under the copies for the bottle of water. When Yolanda said she didn't need any, Gail finished it. Yolanda's face was still flushed. She took off her bandana and retied it behind her head. "Gail, can you take those with you and bring them to my house tonight?"
"Of course. If the police stop me, I don't even know you."
With a laugh, Yolanda said, "Don't worry. No one will stop you. I don't want her to find out. She saw me making copies a few weeks ago, and she said if I did it again, I would lose my job. The manager is with the CDR, and he doesn't care, but this woman—" Yolanda shook her head.
"I shouldn't have started laughing," Gail said. "It isn't funny, what you have to go through. I'm sorry."
Yolanda's smile lit her eyes. "Don't say that. I'm too serious. I need to laugh a little more. We are a good team, no?" Then her smile faded, and she took a breath before saying, "I was thinking to talk to you at my house tonight, but here you are. God brought you to me. My friend. I wanted to see you because... Anthony says he will ask Mario to come to Miami. I don't know if he means that Mario would live at your house. Maybe until he can get a job and his own apartment, or go to a university. Anthony didn't tell me that. I want to be sure, very sure, that you approve. You are Anthony's wife. Sometimes men can forget that a decision is not only for them."
Without hesitation, Gail said, "I approve completely, if that's what Mario wants. Anthony and I talked to him this morning. I'm not sure Mario would leave, but if he does, I have no objection." She added, "I will help in whatever way I can. I mean that, Yolanda."
"Do you think Angela and Danny will accept him? I think Angela yes, but maybe Danny wants his father to himself."
"He should be very proud of Anthony for helping you. Anyway, he lives in New Jersey. Don't worry about Danny."
"Thank you." Yolanda put an arm around Gail's waist. "I don't want Mario to leave. I know we wouldn't see him for a long time, but it's better. I'm worried about him, Gail. One of his friends in the band is dead. The police found his body yesterday at Lenin Park. He was gone for three days, then they found him. His name is Camilo. They called him Chachi."
"That was Mario's friend?" Gail said, "Mario dropped off the kids yesterday, and they said they'd been at the park, and the police were investigating. I'm so sorry. Do they know how he died?"
"He was beaten. It was very bad. A friend of their family told me last night. Olga Saavedra also is dead. Killed like Chachi. They beat her. Do you know about this?"
Gail said she knew but stopped herself from revealing anything else.
Yolanda said, "Someone called us, because José used to work with Olga. News like that travels very fast in Havana." Moving closer, Yolanda spoke in a whisper. "Chachi's mother is afraid that he was doing things very dangerous ... against the state. You know about the bombs in the tourist district? No one was injured, but the police are looking for who put them. They say it's a counterrevolutionary group, el movimiento veintiocho de enero, twenty-eighth of January. The birth of José Martí. I don't believe that Mario would be in such a group, because always, always José and I have told him the only way for change is nonviolence. José made him read about Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., Lech Walesa. He knows, but... I'm afraid for him. He should leave. I'm going to tell him, 'Mario, you go with Anthony. He will take care of you.' "
Yolanda pulled away to look at Gail fully, and her eyes shifted on Gail's as if trying to see into her heart. "You'll be good to my son. I know it. Anthony is very lucky to find you, Gail. You are perfect for him."
"Not perfect at all," Gail said. "I'm not easy to get along with. I'm not as good as you are. You're the kindest women I've ever met. You are. I'll bet you've never done anything bad in your entire life."
"You are being funny again." With a smile, Yolanda shook her head. "I am not so good. When I was a girl, no one could control me. It's true. I was selfish. I would do anything I wanted. When you are that way, and you hurt the people in your life, you pay for it. But God does not turn his back. He never abandons his children. You can have a great sin, but God gives you something good with it, too. It's always there if you look."
"Anthony is his father."
Yolanda's eyes widened. She blinked slowly, then nodded. "How did you know? "
"I saw the resemblance."
"Yes. It is there."
"You never told Anthony?"
"I couldn't. He was married."
"That's true. He was," Gail said. "Even so, you should have told him. Why didn't you?"
"Many reasons. For myself. Because it was easier. When could I tell Anthony that Mario was his? When Anthony was with his wife and their two children? I was afraid that Anthony would take Mario away, like his grandfather took him away. I would have to go too, and I couldn't do that. My work was here. I am needed here. Could I tell Anthony when José was in prison? Could I do that to my husband?"
"But at the beginning, when you were pregnant—"
"Yes, it was wrong. I know. I can't change that."
"You have to tell him now," Gail said.
"Listen. When Anthony left Cuba the first time, I cried for a week because he was so much a part of my life then. I loved him as girls do, you know, when you are twelve or thirteen years old. He was the first boy who ever kissed me." She laughed a little, then said, "One day he told me he was going to Miami to see his mother and he would be back. It was a trick. They never let him come back. I didn't see him for more than ten years. I was living in Camagüey City and studying at the nurses' school. I walked from my class, and he was waiting for me. He was visiting his father and wanted to see me too. We were very young, and I didn't care about his wife in the United States. He was here for almost two weeks. I said to him, Anthony, stay. Don't leave me again. What do you want to go back there for? You are Cuban, you will always be Cuban. He said he would talk to his wife, he should not have married her, it was a big mistake, but... well, he left and I didn't hear from him. He was young, so now I don't blame him, but then! My anger made me very cold. When I knew I was pregnant, I said to myself, this child is mine, and someday, when the boy is grown up, I will show him to Anthony, and I will say, look at him. This is your son. You abandoned me, and now we are equal. No, I was not a good person.
"My mother saw my stomach, and she knew. She hit me and called me a whore. My mother hated everyone. She was not like your mother, Gail. I was so mad I told her the father was a soldier with a wife already, and I met him at a bar. She told me she wouldn't speak to me until I had an abortion. We didn't see each other again until my father told me she was very sick. She died when Mario was four years old.
"Anthony heard about my mother's death, and he wrote to me. I told him I had a child, and I told him the story about the soldier, because I had said it so many times I believed it. When Anthony started coming back again to see his family, I was taking care of his father. Anthony and I became friends. He was very good with Mario. We never spoke of the past. Our lives went on. I joined the movement, and I met José, and we got married. And Anthony found you."
Yolanda took Gail's hand. "Each time he is with us, I say, well, maybe the next time, I will tell him. But I don't. And now it isn't for me to decide. I will give Mario the choice because he's not a boy anymore. I will let him go with you and Anthony, and you'll take care of him. He will learn what life is on the outside. When my son comes back to Cuba for the first time, in one year or two years, I will tell him, and he will make the choice, not me. And not you.
"Please, Gail. Let Mario decide. I think I know Anthony. He would want to be Mario's father completely. Whoever Anthony loves, he loves completely, and he wouldn't give Mario the freedom to find himself. Do you understand?"
"I do," Gail admitted. "You know him very well."
"Mario is my son, the only child I will ever have, and José is my husband. I will talk to José when the time is ready, but not now." Yolanda took Gail's hand and pressed it to her cheek. "Please. I ask you for a little time. For my son."
Gail put her arms around Yolanda. "I won't tell anyone. I promise."
32
Three pairs of shoes, one pair of rubber thongs. Black jacket, two sweaters. Shirts, pants, jeans. Five pairs of sunglasses. Socks, underwear, condoms. Razors, hair brush, toothbrush. Soap from a Marriott Hotel, unopened. Beach towel. A box of beads and woven cords. Nail clippers. Blue-and-white cap from the Chelsea Football Club. Four bottles of cologne. Earrings, a watch, bracelets, neck chains, rings. Biography of Che Guevara, guidebook to the Prado Museum, poetry of Marti. Three stamps and one envelope. Postcard from Oslo. Address book. Wallet and identity card. One hundred twelve dollars, six Euros, eighteen pesos. A portable CD player and radio. Twenty-seven CDs. A folder of sheet music. Notes from music composition class. One flute case. One flute. One pistol, thirty-six bullets.
When Mario had finished putting everything on his cot, he began making three piles. One for clothing and jewelry to be put into plastic bags and left on the street tonight. One for things to be thrown out. And the last for what he would wear or take with him to General Vega's house. If by remote chance the police did come to this apartment, they would find nothing of his, not so much as a hair.
From his wallet Mario took a hundred dollars and put it into the box of detergent. The woman would find it. She had no relatives out of the country. Her husband was dead, and she took care of her grandson. The boy's mother worked nights at the train station. They let Mario sleep in the laundry room for ten dollars a week. His door, was a sheet pinned to a wire. He washed his clothes in the concrete laundry tub. A window and a short drop gave access to the neighboring roof, and Mario could sit there at night and look at the city.
He turned to get a plastic bag from a hook on a wire shelf Raúl was in the way. There was no chair, so Raúl moved some shirts aside and sat on the cot, straightening his bad leg. The room was so narrow his foot reached the doorway.
Raul was telling him what his cousin had found out, the cousin who worked in the records department of the PNR. She had looked up Chachi Menéndez's name and couldn't find it.
"So she asked some questions, being very nonchalant about it. 'Do you remember that kid they brought in here the other night for writing graffiti? Where'd he go?' Like that. They told her the army took him. Would you like to guess on whose orders this was done? Come on, Mario. Guess!" Raul's eyes darkened.
"Vega."
Raúl lifted his hands and spread his arms wide.
Mario said, "That means he knows about us."
"It means he suspects, at least. But he doesn't know who" Raúl said. "If he had that information, we'd all be where Chachi is right now." Raul's fist came down on the cot so hard the toiletries bounced on the thin mattress. "Sons of syphilitic whores."
Snapping open the plastic bag, Mario started throwing his underwear inside it. "If Chachi didn't talk, who did? Olga?"
"Probably. That bitch. My cousin says the police were investigating Olga's murder, but the army took over. Why? It's obvious, no? They're covering up for Vega. I think he killed her. She wouldn't let him touch her again, and he killed hen Beat her face in. That's what I heard. What a monster. Mario, these people are worse than you could believe. I know. I was in the military, and they made us do things that would make you sick to your stomach. You have to pass an exam in sadomasochism to get promoted. It wouldn't surprise me if Ramiro Vega buggered our little friend before he killed him and dumped his body in Lenin Park."
Mario tied the bag at the top, set it under the mattress out of the way, and reached for another. He had already imagined Chachi's death. The images had numbed him, slicing through his nerve endings. The knowledge that Vega was responsible brought no sensation at all.
With a shudder, Raúl sat up and looked around. "Is there anything to drink? Some rum, whisky? A beer?"
"They don't drink."
"That's pathetic. Mario, we have to know w
hen you're going to do it. I asked you, and you never answered me."
"I told Tomás I would let everyone know twenty-four hours in advance."
"That doesn't give us enough time."
"All you have to do is pick me up when it's over."
"Listen to me, my friend," Raúl said. "It isn't as simple as you think, an operation like this. You aren't the only one involved. You can't leave us standing around with our thumbs in our asses."
Mario was careful not to wrinkle his shirts getting them into the bag. They were good shirts. Someone could use them. He shoved the bag under the cot. "The less notice you have, the less time there is for someone to screw up."
"Listen, you arrogant shit. I do not screw up. If it weren't for my leg, I would be doing it. You're not getting nervous, are you? We're counting on you."
"I'm fine."
"How about Sunday? Do you remember? Olga told us he's always home on Sunday night."
Mario glanced over at Raúl, whose weight threatened to collapse the narrow folding legs of the cot. "I'll do it tomorrow."
Raúl laughed. "My God, are you joking? Good. Tomorrow. We can be ready. What time?" "Probably as soon as it gets dark." "When? Seven o'clock?"
"I haven't decided," Mario said. "Tomás and I will meet later today to talk about the communique. By then I'll have the final details. He can pass them on to you."
Raúl sat up so fast the cot nearly went over. He grabbed Mario's arm and brought him close. Mario could feel a fleck of spittle on his cheek. "You forget yourself, Mario. This is a military unit, and I am in charge of the logistics of this operation, not you."
Mario looked into Raul's eyes and without fear said, "Do you want to kill him yourself?" When the fingers released, he said, "I will give Tomás the exact time. I will shoot Vega and go over the fence at the rear of the property. What you must do for me, Raúl, if you please, is to be on the street behind the Vega house ready to pick me up. I will signal with a pocket flashlight, as you told me to. The signal is one ... two ... and a longer three. Then again. If I don't appear within sixty seconds of the time we establish, you can assume that I didn't make it out. You leave without me."
Suspicion of Rage Page 29
