by Steve Cash
Ray looked him in the eye. “I don’t believe we ever met, Judge.”
“Perhaps not, but I have seen you before, son. Cincinnati it was, I am certain.” He paused and leaned over slightly, so that only Ray could hear him clearly. “That was over thirty years ago, which is impossible.”
Ray waited a heartbeat, then winked at him. “Damn, Judge,” Ray said, “you got a hellava memory.”
The others began urging the commissioner forward. “I want to know who you are, son. Do you hear me?” But he never had a chance to find out. The press and photographers were shouting to him and the other men pulled him on, then Kenesaw Mountain Landis disappeared into the crowd.
Ray turned to me. “It’s about time we got lost, Z.”
The encounters with the older couple and the commissioner were unlikely, rare, and probably harmless, but I agreed with Ray, it was time to get lost for a while.
Ray and Nova left for New Orleans a week later. Ray said he wanted to see his “old stompin’ grounds.” Nova was all for the adventure and they both looked forward to spending more time with each other. Opari and I couldn’t decide where to go. Our decision was made in an instant on the afternoon of Carolina’s annual Thanksgiving Day feast, which she calls only a “fancy lunch.” As the garlic and rosemary mashed potatoes were being passed around the table, a telegram arrived from Ciela in Cuba. In it she said Biscuit Bookbinder had been selected to start as shortstop for the Cuban All-Star game in November. Before we finished the meal, arrangements had been made and within three days, Opari and I were on our way to Havana, accompanied by Owen Bramley and Carolina, who couldn’t wait to teach us how to “snorkel.”
The train ride to Florida allowed Carolina and Owen a chance to speak with Opari and me in a different manner than they would at home. With Caine, Jack, and Star, they maintained a more maternal and paternal attitude, even though it wasn’t necessary. I think it was unconscious and instinctual on their part and they couldn’t help themselves. But alone with Opari and me and away from St. Louis, they both became candid and reflective in their remarks. Their own mortality, or a reference to it, crept in at the edge of many conversations. It was lighthearted and casual, but it was still there.
“I’m falling apart piece by piece, Z,” Carolina said somewhere in Alabama.
“I don’t think so, Carolina,” I said and meant it. “You look as healthy as ever.”
“Illusions, illusions,” she said, laughing.
Carolina truly did look in top health, but Owen Bramley seemed a little less energetic and long-winded than he’d always been. He was a few pounds thinner and his reddish hair had turned light gold and silver. Red and brown blotches were now mixed among the freckles on his skin. He removed his glasses, wiping them clean on his shirtsleeve and talking about the state of the economy with weary eyes. The world was headed for a deep depression and Owen Bramley saw it approaching. He stared out at the passing soybean fields and spoke without his usual optimism.
“We won’t be able to feed them, Z, there will be so many unemployed. The whole damn thing is going to collapse.”
“What about you?” I asked, then followed the thought. “What about Carolina, what about us? Will we be all right?”
“We’re the fortunate ones, Z. Solomon made sure we had enough money and I made sure all our investments were diverse and secure. Everything we own is paid for and we’ve got plenty of cash reserves. We’re set, but that will not stop the collapse, Z. One big collapse—worldwide.” He wiped his glasses one more time and shook his head back and forth slowly. “It’s a damn shame.”
By the time we reached central Florida, the skies had cleared and the temperature had climbed twenty degrees. At the first stop, Opari and I opened our window and breathed in the overpowering smell of countless ripe oranges. Miles of orange groves lined both sides of the train tracks. St. Louis and the coming winter suddenly became a distant memory. All my thoughts turned to Cuba.
I asked Carolina about the home she and Ciela had started. I was told it was not really a home at all, but an old resort and tobacco farm called “Finca Maria.” And it was nowhere near Havana as I assumed, but in the hills north of the small town of Vinales. All of the girls living there came from the streets, brothels, and bars of Havana. Ciela found them and gave them a chance for a new life in a completely different environment. Some rejected it and returned to the life they had always known within weeks, unable to adapt or accept the change. Most welcomed the chance and willingly began to transform themselves under Ciela’s guidance and endless generosity. Carolina said even the girls who left respected Ciela and her work. The pimps and bar owners despised her, which made her work clandestine and dangerous. Carolina remarked that Havana was probably the most corrupt and wide-open city she had ever seen. Owen Bramley agreed, but added that Ciela was not being foolish, only fearless. He admired her a great deal and made certain she had anything she needed. He also hired a few men he could trust to silently watch over Finca Maria as a kind of discreet security force. “You just never know about those characters in Havana,” Owen said.
We boarded a small passenger boat in Miami on a balmy Sunday morning and sailed south for the Straits of Florida and the old Havana harbor.
On the crossing, I told Opari a few true tales from my time as a smuggler with Captain Woodget. On several occasions the captain found quick and safe refuge in the port and harbor of Havana. I also told her about the countless number of slave ships that passed in and out of the same port.
Ciela and Biscuit were waiting for us. Owen slipped us easily through customs. Opari and I held new passports that Owen had procured. They weren’t forgeries, either. They were genuine United States passports and I have no idea how he got them. When I thanked him, he waved it off, saying it was nothing, he only had to know one man—the right one.
Ciela had gained weight and her hair was streaked with silver, but she looked healthy and she was overjoyed to see us. Her skin had turned a dark brown from the Cuban sun and her wide smile was exactly the same. She gave everyone a great hug and a shower of greetings in rapid Spanish. Biscuit waited patiently, then wrapped his arms around Carolina, embracing her without a word. His arms had become the arms of a young man in his early twenties. He stood slightly shorter than Owen and wore a thin mustache on his upper lip.
Carolina looked him over carefully and frowned in mock disapproval. “Biscuit,” she said, “I believe I will have to call you Oliver now instead of Biscuit. You are much too handsome for a name like Biscuit.”
He owed his life to Carolina and he knew it. “You can call me anything you want, Carolina, for any reason.”
“Does that go for me, as well, Oliver?” I asked.
“No chance, Z. You’ll have to call me Biscuit.”
“What was your batting average last year, All Star?”
“.336.”
“Not bad. How many errors?”
“One.”
“What happened?” I asked, knowing full well only one error in a whole season for a shortstop was phenomenal.
“It was a bad hop, Z,” he said with a tiny smile, then turned to Owen Bramley. “Jorge Fuentes is waiting for you in Cojimar. I’ll take you there.”
We squeezed into a maroon and black DeSoto sedan Owen had purchased for Ciela to use. The heat and humidity were stifling. We kept the windows open and drove east. Cojimar was only six miles down the coast. We stopped alongside a promenade that nearly ran the length of the small fishing village. It was late in the day, but there were still a few hours of light remaining. White clouds swelled and spilled over the horizon to the west. Carolina and Opari took their shoes off and walked barefoot.
Biscuit led us to a lazy, open-air restaurant called La Terraza. We found a table where two Cuban men were engaged in quiet conversation. They were each about thirty years old and both men rose to their feet as we approached. Jorge Fuentes greeted Owen in English and shook his hand warmly, then introduced his cousin, Gregorio Fuentes. After ex
changing pleasantries, Gregorio excused himself and left. There were only four or five other fishermen sitting on the open terrace. Owen put his arm around Jorge and said to the rest of us, “Jorge is the best damn fishing guide on the island.”
“No, please, señor,” Jorge replied. “This is a grand exaggeration.”
“Well, say what you like,” Owen said, giving Carolina a wink. “It’s the truth, is it not, Carolina?”
“It is the gospel truth,” Carolina answered. “And diving guide, I might add.”
“Indeed,” Owen said.
“You are too kind, señor.”
While Owen and Jorge made arrangements to rendezvous in La Coloma in one week, Opari and I walked to the other side of the terrace and let the light ocean breeze blow across our faces. The water and sky were both deep blue, with high cirrus clouds in feathered rows stretching west until they merged with the clouds on the horizon. Half a dozen fishing boats and a small yacht were moored nearby. Nothing seemed to move, and if it did, it moved slowly. The only sounds except the sea were the voices of Owen, Carolina, and Jorge. Opari took my hand in hers and whispered, “This destination is jator, my love, the very best choice.”
Biscuit still had several road games to play before the All-Star game itself and was unable to go on to Finca Maria. We decided to spend the night in Havana with Biscuit, then Owen drove the hundred or so miles to Vinales. The roads were rough but the scenery was beautiful and changing constantly. After turning north in Pinar del Rio, we entered the Sierra de los Organos and the Vinales Valley where huge masses or buttes of limestone called mogotes rise out of the green tobacco fields like silent guardians. Opari said they reminded her of the odd limestone hills of Quilin in southern China.
Winding up into the sierra, we reached the small tobacco town of Vinales. A few miles higher up, the buildings and fields of Finca Maria spread out from the narrow road. All the buildings were painted in pastels—pinks, yellows, pale blues, and greens. All had red tile roofs and open beam ceilings. The surrounding fields and gardens were lush and well manicured, and even though Owen had hired workmen to renovate everything when Carolina and Ciela bought the property, the whole place still had the feel of the Spanish Colonial era.
Six girls approximately between the ages of thirteen and eighteen came running out to meet us. They each wore simple cotton dresses and some were barefoot. They all were smiling. None of them looked like they’d ever heard of Havana, let alone lived there as virtual slaves in the bars and brothels of the poorest neighborhoods. It was clear that whatever Ciela was doing was working. They had been given their lives back.
Opari and I were given our own room in a large rambling ranch house that had served as a resort near the turn of the century. One by one, Ciela’s girls fell in love with Opari, each wanting to adopt her as a little sister. Opari spoke fluent Spanish with them and they all were impressed by her facility with languages. Ciela’s first condition on living at Finca Maria was that every girl must learn to read, write, and speak English. She also taught them basic skills in cooking, cleaning, manners, hygiene, and personal grooming. Her intention was to assure each girl a chance at living and working anywhere she wished, including America. Owen had already assisted in the emigration of two girls to Miami, where they both found good-paying jobs in the front office of a Miami hotel.
In the short week that followed, we took three long bicycle rides and hikes through the Vinales Valley and among the mogotes. Our guide was “the best damn guide in the valley” according to Owen Bramley. His nickname was “Indio” and he led us to several limestone caves and underground rivers inside the mogotes themselves. The entire Vinales Valley was spectacular and time went quickly. On a clear Sunday morning, Owen, Carolina, Opari, and I said good-bye to Ciela and the girls, then left to meet Jorge in La Coloma. It was Indio who drove us south in the big DeSoto. He had a younger brother living in La Coloma, and when he mentioned that his brother had been born mute, Carolina thought of Georgia and insisted Indio accompany us.
On the trip, Owen and Indio discussed the current political and social situation in Cuba. “This dictator Machado,” Indio said, looking out at the poverty in each passing village, “he must exit, he must be removed. The end is near. There will come revolution, señor.” Owen nodded and agreed with Indio, but quietly and without passion, which was unlike Owen, and he was sweating profusely. Opari noticed the same thing. Carolina never mentioned it and kept her conversation limited to where we were going and what we might see while we were snorkeling. Then she heard Indio say Machado had closed all the schools indefinitely and her attention shifted. She could not believe he would deny the children of Cuba an education. To Carolina, it was an intolerable and criminal act of involuntary starvation. Owen said he would “have a chat with a fellow in Washington” and see what could be done about it.
But I never got to find out who the fellow was and we never went snorkeling. Just as we arrived in the small coastal town of La Coloma, Owen turned white and his breathing became rapid and shallow. Indio asked if he was all right and Owen couldn’t answer. Indio sped to the home of his brother, Luis, and we rushed Owen up the steps and through the door. Inside, there was a couch piled high with rubber fins, rubber goggles with glass lenses, nautical maps, nets, and two spear guns. Indio and Luis cleared the couch with one motion and we laid Owen Bramley down.
Carolina removed Owen’s wire-rimmed glasses and wiped his face and neck with her handkerchief. Indio found a wet towel and Opari laid it across his forehead. His eyes were closed and he was barely conscious. Luis set a small electric fan on an end table and positioned it to blow on Owen’s face. Then he asked Indio a question by signing with his right hand. Indio answered, “Sí, sí, rapido!” Luis turned and ran. I assumed he left to find a doctor.
A few minutes passed. Owen’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then opened suddenly. “My God,” he whispered and focused on me with great difficulty. “I am going out like Solomon, Z.”
“You are not going anywhere just yet, Owen Bramley. Do you hear me?” It was Carolina. She took one of his freckled hands in hers and kissed it. “You’ll be fine. We’ll rest here and then I’ll take you back to Finca Maria when you can travel. You only need a little rest, Owen. Just a little rest.”
I glanced at Opari. She was staring at me, shaking her head back and forth. That was when I knew Owen was right, he was dying like Solomon. Opari had seen it a thousand times in a hundred different countries. She would not be wrong.
Luis had to travel to Las Canas to find the doctor. By the time they returned the sun had set and Owen Bramley had died in Carolina’s arms. He slipped into unconsciousness shortly after speaking to me and woke once, just as he was about to take his last breath. He opened his eyes and mumbled, “Kites…kites.”
Carolina cried silently but openly. All of us did. Luis’s front door was standing ajar and Carolina sat motionless, staring out across the asphalt road toward the sea a half mile away. She said nothing. She let her tears swell and roll down her cheeks without wiping them away. I thought back to that unknown crossroads somewhere in the depths of China. A train was under repair and on the other side of the train in a wide field full of laughing children, I saw kites rising into the air, one by one. Owen Bramley was making them. Maybe that’s where he was now.
Carolina closed his eyes and kissed his eyelids. “Good-bye, Owen, good-bye,” she whispered.
Beside me, in a low, mournful drone, Opari chanted, “Lo egin bake, lo egin bake.”
Solomon used to say Owen was “one of those damn Scottish men; he will pay you no mind and get the job done and done right.” That was true and much more. In all the years I knew him, Owen had never once asked who or what the Meq were, yet he devoted most of his life to helping us. He was “remarkable,” as Owen himself might say. I reached for his wire-rimmed glasses on the end table and carefully fit them over his ears and nose. He looked as he always had to me. I would miss him for many reasons and many years.
&
nbsp; In the time that passed before Luis arrived with the doctor, Carolina talked about Owen Bramley. Carolina talked and Opari and I listened. We walked out of the house and across the road to a narrow strip of beach between two outcroppings of rock. The sea broke hard against the jutting rocks, then lapped up gently onto the beach. We took off our shoes and let the water come up to our knees. Carolina said Owen had always loved her for the very best of reasons, never the easy ones. Opari smiled and said, “Carolina, you are a wise woman.”
When Luis and the doctor returned, the doctor conducted an examination of Owen and confirmed he had died of a heart attack. He then asked Carolina what she wished to do with the body. Indio interrupted, saying he would be honored and pleased to take care of the arrangements, whatever she wished to do. He added that it was the least he could do for Señor Bramley, a fine man. Carolina did not hesitate. She said Owen had been as happy here in Cuba as he ever had, and she would bury him at Finca Maria.
Before Indio and the doctor took him to the mortician, Carolina washed Owen’s face and smoothed his hair. For burial dress, she told Indio where to find clean clothes in the DeSoto. Indio mentioned that Jorge Fuentes was anchored in La Coloma awaiting word from Señor Bramley. He said he would give Jorge the sad news instead. The doctor and Luis carried Owen out to the car, laying him down carefully across the backseat. Indio started the engine. The doctor climbed in and the big sedan pulled out onto the road and sped away. The three of us were left standing on the steps with Luis. No one said a word until the DeSoto was completely out of sight.
Carolina turned slowly and asked Luis a question, not with words, but by signing with her hands. She and Georgia had never needed the skill, but Carolina had since learned to do it on her own.
