They were all there from America.
All waiting to load with refugees and relatives.
No wonder Castro was making a half million or more a day.
I pulled downtide of one of the shrimp boats, the Debra Jane, and stuck both engines in idle when we were close enough to carry on a conversation.
I scanned the shrimp boat’s decks for someone who looked as if he might speak English. There were six or seven people topside, all Cuban-Americans.
I turned to the woman. “Ask them why they’re laying off. Ask them if we shouldn’t go on into the harbor.”
Androsa cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled at them in a firm Spanish alto. Immediately, everyone on deck of the Debra Jane was answering her one question in a barrage of rolling dialogue, everyone talking at once.
When they had finished, she said, “We’re supposed to wait here for the authorities.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t think I don’t recognize that look on your face, Mr. MacMorgan. You think it funny that ‘Cubans’ love to talk. And you think it’s stupid that the people on that boat should take so long to give me a simple answer to a simple question.”
“Something like that.”
“Oh, so you admit it!” She really was surprised, and the anger left her face momentarily.
“I try to make it a point not to lie to myself. That means I only lie to myself about half the time. But as you said: you asked them a simple question. I just don’t understand why Spanish people all feel obliged to talk at the same time.”
“It offends you?”
“It confuses me—and I guess that’s the same thing.”
“It’s called ‘different cultures,’ Mr. MacMorgan. Our society is built upon the family, and our families are built upon warmth and loyalty—and interaction. Everyone feels free to talk because we are all members of the same family.” She snorted lightly, her perfect nose flaring. “Truthfully, I don’t even know why I feel obligated to explain it to you. I’ve seen the look in your eyes from a thousand different gringos. When you grow up as an outsider in America, you come to know the look of a racist.”
“So now I’m a racist?”
“Aren’t you?”
“If not liking a bunch of people to talk all at the same time is being a racist, then I’m a—”
I didn’t get a chance to finish, and the woman didn’t get a chance to get any madder. The gunboat that had been trailing us came up close on Sniper’s stern, and an authoritative voice said something over a loudspeaker.
“What did he say?”
She looked smug. “Something that will appeal to the verbal economy your race seems to cherish.”
“Christ, Androsa, you know how to run a thing into the ground. I understood what he said about anchoring. But I didn’t get the rest of it.”
The gunboat was a storm-gray cruiser, made of wood—smaller than the old PT boats. What appeared to be the captain stood beside the bow-mounted high-caliber machine gun. He wore a baggy light-blue uniform that looked like a chef’s suit. His hat was light-blue, peaked and narrow, similar to the hats Japanese soldiers used to wear. He looked at me menacingly.
Androsa said, “He told you to back off and anchor immediately.”
“That’s all?”
“He also said we should prepare to be boarded. . . .”
We were boarded not by one captain, but two.
There was the naval officer, master of the gunboat. His name was Zapata. Captain Zapata was in his early thirties, all five feet eight inches and 145 pounds of him. He had bad teeth and a fixed expression of contempt, and he chain-smoked Partagas cigarettes. His flunkies stayed behind on the gunboat, their uniforms looking even baggier. But in their arms they cradled a weapon that I knew well: the scythe-clipped Russian AK-47 assault rifle.
And they looked as if they knew how to use them.
With Zapata was an army officer. His uniform seemed well-tailored in comparison. It was more green than khaki, and the jacket was belted with leather, shoulder and waist. He wore a sidearm and medals. I wondered if they had been one of Castro’s token offerings after the revolution—or maybe he had won them in Africa.
A lot of Cuban soldiers were in Africa.
The Russians use them like German shepherds.
So they both came aboard, Zapata first, the army officer—with the unlikely name of Captain Lobo—second. Lobo was a stocky guy, something under six feet, 240 pounds maybe. Some muscle. A lot of fat. Black shadow of beard, and black eyes that betrayed the malevolence behind the cordial smile.
Some pair, Zapata and Lobo. Zapata swaggered his air of contempt up onto the aft deck of Sniper, and Lobo grinned his way up behind.
First impressions can fool you. I stood there loose-limbed, taking them all in, trying to smile and look harmless myself. It seemed certain that Zapata would be the one in charge.
But no, it was the grinning one.
It was Lobo. Zapata looked me up and down, his bad teeth slightly bared, and started to say something—but Lobo cut him off.
There was no doubt then who was running the show.
Lobo widened his smile, took a step closer to me, gave me the standard Spanish greeting, then asked, “De donde es usted, Capitán?”
He wanted to know where I was from. I looked at him blankly, shrugged my shoulders, and gestured with palm upward and turned to the woman.
“I never could understand that stuff,” I said stupidly.
Her eyes showed that she wasn’t fooled. “What a shame, Mr. MacMorgan. It must be dreary down there in your little crevice of existence.” And without waiting for a reply—as if I had one for that—she took control of our end, talking with the two Cubans.
They wanted to see my papers. And her papers. And wouldn’t we be more comfortable in the cabin with something cool to drink?
So we filed through the salon and took a seat at the little booth made of the old hatch cover, sanded silk-smooth and covered with epoxy.
My old friend Billy Mack had made it for me. But now that seemed like a long time ago.
Androsa and I sat on one side; Zapata sat scrunched between the cabin wall and the bulk of Lobo. Lobo seemed pleased to be dealing with the woman. And no wonder why. The essence of her filled the cabin. Even Zapata felt obligated to take off his little Jap hat in her presence. While Lobo talked, his black eyes leering, Zapata sat and smoked and looked at Androsa.
She didn’t seem to notice.
Typically, it was a long conversation—was I her husband (a stern “no” to that), and how was our trip over, and how many relatives did she seek. At one point, Androsa turned to me, the old aloofness in her eyes.
“Our guests would like something to drink,” she said.
“I don’t think the wine has properly chilled yet.”
She glared at me. “This is neither the time nor the place for your perverse sense of humor, MacMorgan.”
Angry, her E’s and A’s became Spanish once more.
“It’s just that you’re so pretty when you’re mad.”
She turned away as if I had said nothing. Only the slightest blush gave her away.
In the galley, I got two Hatuey beers from the icebox, cracked them, and poured them heady into three glasses. And then I took a bottle for myself back to the booth. While Lobo gulped his beer down and Zapata sipped suspiciously at his, I took out my tin of snuff, opened it, sniffed it, and took a pinch with some ceremony. All the while, thinking:
That’s right, MacMorgan. Play the jerk. Go ahead and make these guys mad so they’ll send you back to home sweet Key West. Screw up this woman’s chances of doing whatever it is she’s supposed to do because . . . because why?
I didn’t know. After all, it was her life. And if she wanted to stake herself out like a lamb on a lion hunt, it was no concern of mine. She wasn’t exactly what you would call a sympathetic character; not the kind of woman I wanted to share my boat with, or my meals with—or my bed with.
Who are you trying to kid, MacMorgan? You’re supposed to like the strong ones, the independent ones. And who in the hell have you met lately stronger or more self-reliant than her?
Zapata jerked me out of my little daydream.
He was making a face, acting as if the beer were laced with Tabasco.
“What’s his problem?”
Androsa answered without looking away. “He says this American beer is terrible. He says it’s swill that isn’t fit for the pigs.”
Silently, I got up and returned to the table with the empty bottle of Hatuey and placed it in front of him. His eyes widened, his face turned red. The beer he had said that wasn’t fit for pigs was brewed only twentyseven miles away in Havana. If I had slapped him across the face I couldn’t have gotten a better reaction.
“MacMorgan, do you realize—”
I bumped her beneath the table with my knee. “Tell him that it’s my fault. Tell him I was a fool and left it out in the sun. And tell him that everyone knows that Hatuey is one of the world’s great beers.”
When she got out that bit of dialogue, Zapata almost smiled, bobbing his head up and down—as if he had known all along.
“He says he’d like to try some American cigarettes—just to get the taste of bad beer out of his mouth.”
The skinny little Cuban officer in the baggy blue uniform looked at me expectantly.
“I don’t smoke. Do you?”
She shook her head. I still had the tin of Copenhagen in my hand. In awkward sign language, I offered him a dip of the snuff instead. He looked at Lobo, and when Lobo nodded his head, Zapata stuck a glob between his lip and bad teeth. He clicked his tongue experimentally, then eyed the ceiling, tasting the snuff.
For the new snuff dipper, there’s a little matter of needing to expectorate.
A lot.
But Zapata didn’t ask for a spit cup and I didn’t offer. After all, they were running the show.
It was all of five minutes before the Copenhagen finally got to him. Lobo had asked Androsa for a list (in triplicate) of the relatives she wanted to take back to America. The list had to include their Cuban address and proof that they were related to Androsa.
I slid out of the booth so that she could get her papers from her bunk. And when I did, I got a good look at poor Captain Zapata. His face was red, and there was sweat on his forehead. He had sagged down into his seat, and he kept closing and opening his eyes. His Adam’s apple was undulating strangely. To verify my own high regard for snuff—but more to demonstrate my innocence in the upcoming upheaval—I took out the tin of Copenhagen again and, with more ceremony, took an even larger pinch, smacking my lips.
“Next thing to mother’s milk,” I said loudly, offering the can to Captain Lobo. He shook his head absently. He was watching his companion closely. Zapata’s head lolled back, and he closed his eyes tight as if the boat was spinning. And then, abruptly, he jumped to his feet and, knocking the considerable bulk of Lobo to one side, ran up the steps to the fighting deck as if he had important business.
“Ah . . . muy mareado. Vomito!”
And vomito he did.
When Androsa came back into the cabin, the sound of retching up topside was unmistakable.
“Where’s Captain Zapata?” she said, glaring at me, knowing full well what had happened.
“The little guy?”
“You know damn well who I mean.”
“I think he’s got the vapors or something. Left without a fare-thee-well.”
With a final glare, she whirled toward Captain Lobo, who was standing now, and poured out a rattling dialogue of apology.
She finished, “El gringo capitán es sumamente estúpido!”
Lobo didn’t seem to disagree. He looked at me meanly, smiling all the while.
I smiled back.
“Well, I’m going up there to make sure he’s all right!”
With a toss of her hair, the woman climbed the steps outside. It left Lobo and me alone in the cabin.
I lifted his empty glass and, in innocent sign language, asked him if he wanted another beer.
Nothing. He grinned and watched me, his wide face and mustache immobile.
“Sorry about your friend,” I said, letting my tone communicate what I meant.
But my tone was wasted.
“I sincerely doubt that, Capitán MacMorgan.”
It surprised me. It really did. Lobo had given me no hint that he could understand what I had been saying to Santarun. He had a heavy accent, but his words were confidently formed, well-spoken.
I held the snuff out to him. “Sure you don’t want some, too?”
He chuckled, looked away. Big as he was, he was quick. He slapped the can out of my hand before I had a chance to move. The lid went twirling one way and the snuff flew across the indoor-outdoor carpeting like coffee grounds.
“Is that a no?”
For the first time, the grin disappeared from his face. He stepped closer to me, hands on hips, and growled, “You think you’re quite funny, don’t you, Capitán MacMorgan? Well, let me remind you that this is not the United States. I assume the woman, Miss Santarun, paid you a great deal of money to bring her here. If you want to live to spend that money, then I suggest you conduct yourself in this harbor with fitting respect. I am not your smiling neighbor, gringo. I am your superior—the moment you entered our waters, it became so.” He sneered the last words. “We are no longer island slaves born to shuffle at the feet of Americanos. You are in Cuba now, Capitán MacMorgan. And don’t forget it.”
I still smiled. It was a necessary ploy. I wanted to see how far Castro’s people could be pushed before they would allow themselves to stray into the danger zone of what might be an “international incident.”
It might prove useful later to know.
And it didn’t take me long to find out.
In years past, it wouldn’t have happened. No official of another country would have even considered striking an American citizen—even if that citizen had acted as churlishly as I had. But now we had a President who thought an act of courage consisted of hitting a drowning rabbit with a boat paddle. Or abdicating his control over the safety of American diplomats everywhere to anyone hell-bent on holding our country hostage.
“Do you want to know when I was sure this was Cuba?” I said, still smiling.
“Not especially, Capitán.”
“Well, I’ll tell you anyway, Captain Lobo. When we pulled past that power plant over there, that’s when I knew for sure. All the civilian workers were skinny. And all the soldiers guarding the beach were fat.”
He slapped me so quickly, so unexpectedly, that I didn’t think my next move through clearly. I felt my right hand join into a fist and swing overhand down toward Lobo’s face.
I stopped it just in time, a fraction of an inch from his nose.
Lobo hadn’t even flinched. “Go ahead, Capitán MacMorgan. Hit me. And after you have hit me I will have my guards escort you into Havana. Before they put you in prison you will have a very fair trial. I assure you that.”
Slowly, I lowered my fist. He held all the cards. No doubt about it.
This time, anyway.
“I’m very sorry, Captain Lobo. Please accept my apology for the way I have acted.” I tried to look ashamed. “I was very stupid.”
The malicious grin returned to his big face. “Of course! Apology accepted! But please don’t forget what I have said, Capitán MacMorgan. You might say that your life depends on remembering. . . .”
9
Mariel Harbor was a big inland lake of a port umbilicated to the sea by a natural deepwater channel. The east side of the harbor was cliffed, and industrialized with cement and power plants. But the industry gave way to higher cliffs. Bamboo and royal palms grew on the cliffs, all tapering toward the highest peak where the Cuban Naval Academy stood. It was built of native stone, four stories high, with gables and pillars, and broad stone steps that led down to the narrow road which snaked its way through
the hills. North on the sheer cliff, beside the academy, were barracks of wood with tile roofs. Beyond the fortress was tropical wilderness, curving around the base of the harbor to the south end, where there were open fields and, on a distant lift of hillside, a small village.
Androsa Santarun didn’t say much to me as I motored Sniper down the channel way to the harbor. Boats were everywhere—mostly American boats. There were hundreds of sweeping white shrimp boats with names in broad print on their sterns: Lucky Cracker, Georgia; Lee Wayne, Fort Myers; Pirate’s Chest, Key Largo—some of them anchored alone; others rafted in floating communities. There were schooners and skiffs and broad white yachts, all with their bows anchored into the tide—the only hint of order in the chaos of waiting vessels.
The harbor was a jumbled, polluted mess, and only the merchant seamen on the big Russian tanker tethered to the quay near the power plant seemed to move with any intensity of purpose.
“I guess I acted like a jerk back there, huh?”
She stood beside me at the cabin controls.
“There’s not much doubt about that.”
“Like some immature spoiled brat, wouldn’t you say?”
She eyed me for a moment, studying my face. “I would say at least that.”
“What did Lobo say to you when he left?”
“I really see no point in discussing what has already—”
There was a rickety houseboat ahead piloted by someone who obviously had no idea what in the hell he was doing. I swerved Sniper neatly to keep his blunt bow out of my beam. “I was just trying to make conversation, Miss Santarun.”
Cuban Death-Lift Page 8
