North of Havana

by Randy Wayne White

  “Have what?”

  “It’s voodoo bullshit. Magic. That kind of crap. Trouble is, Fidel’s gone so nuts he believes it, too.”

  Geis wouldn’t explain. Told me, “If you need to know, I’ll tell you. Standard procedure, right?”

  I thought back to Geis’s tour of Old Havana, the way he’d probed for a reaction, telling us things so he could read our faces, find out what we knew. I had a pretty good idea what it was they were looking for. But if he didn’t want to come right out and tell me, I’d go along with it. He was right. Standard procedure.

  I was having trouble reconciling my impression of the man I knew as Valdes with the man I was hearing about, Adolfo Santoya. Yes, I could see him arranging a meeting with Rita, trying to reunite with the estranged branch of his family. Could see him trying to rise above the reputation of his much-hated grandfather. He was that much of an idealist. Maybe could see him planning to assassinate Castro; whatever it took to save his country. But to intentionally mislead for profit? It seemed unlikely. Or I had misread him… not that I hadn’t misread people before.

  The last couple of years, it seemed, I’d been doing more and more of that.…

  But Geis had told me, “You may be right about Adolfo. He’s a straight arrow. When he disappeared a week or so ago, went underground, people figured he was dead or something. But neither one of us knows the girl, right? That family’s got a bad side; maybe she inherited the full dose.” When he chided, “Wasn’t it her father who pulled a gun on Fidel a few years back? At some baseball game?” I did not reply.

  And that’s the way he had left it.

  Now I put on my glasses and looked around. Big abandoned cafeteria, a couple of signs on the wall in Russian. Geis’s newspaper pallet was empty. I went outside, urinated. No sign of the man.

  Geis was gone.

  I walked down the beach looking out over the harbor: a trash line of plastic bottles and broken glass edging a breathing azimuth of dishwater gray. A few boats on moorings to the south, a few more across the harbor near the peninsula. The boats had a dilapidated look, like junked cargo trucks adrift. For a harbor this size to be idle illustrated Cuba’s alienation; it was a dead spot in the mall of international shopping.

  I decided to keep on heading south, see if No Más was among the anchored boats. If Geis didn’t appear, I’d just keep on walking. Go straight to the peninsula. Dangerous or not, I wanted to find Dewey. She was a tough woman, a powerful individualist in her way, but she was no more equipped to deal with the potentialities of a Third World country than I was equipped to deal with the social pressures of professional sports.

  And that fuzzy dream had left me uneasy, worried about her.

  I pictured Taino trying to bully her with one of his egocentric tirades; saw his expression when Dewey told him to go fuck himself—he spoke English; he’d understand. Or maybe Molinas. Molinas, with his broken nose, might try to use Dewey to get even with me. I pictured Dewey freezing him with those sled dog eyes of hers, telling him to get the hell away.

  Yeah, she could probably handle it. A primary characteristic of successful women is their ability to deal quickly with the lingering stupidities of men. The smart ones accomplish it so effortlessly that they can drive a pin through the heart without bruising an ego. Dewey had spent a lifetime perfecting that.

  Yet… there was a softness in her, particularly now. She had been attempting an emotional transition with an eagerness that approached panic—not uncommon for a wronged lover. More difficult for her, for anyone in her position, was the psychological transition she was attempting… inviting, really, for I was unconvinced that she was really driven to be anything other than the kind and decent person she was by nature. Her behavior of late was, at best, experimental and, at worst, a kind of controlled hysteria designed to distance her from the woman she had loved and who had badly hurt her.

  Dewey was not at her strongest. No doubt about that. That was the woman I worried about. Worse, I, her friend, had been complicitous through my weakness every damn step of the way.

  Ahead, at the narrowing base of the harbor, I could see mangroves hunched over a breach in an expanding mudflat: a river; the Rio Bongo on the chart I had once memorized. Could see several people, one man and some children, trotting along the bank of the river, animated; excited about something.

  I picked up my pace; pretty soon was jogging.

  What I was worried about was that Geis had found Adolfo Santoya, and that nice kid, Santiago.

  But no…

  No sign of Geis. The attraction was a West Indian manatee with calf, the two of them trying to fight their way upriver against a boiling tidal current. The man and the children were following along pointing, occasionally stopping to tug at something.

  Even from a distance, I could see the whiskered nose of the female breach the water’s surface, followed by the cetacean curve of her arched back—unscarred, rubber gray, tapered like a small boat—then out of the water she lifted the huge fluke tail… hesitated a moment, then soundlessly found purchase in the water-mass, the thrust of tail creating a circular slick as she submerged; a slick in which surfaced the calf, nostrils flaring to breathe. Her baby was the size of a very large stuffed toy. Couldn’t have weighed more than forty pounds. The mother probably weighed close to nine hundred.

  As I got closer, I saw that the man was holding a frayed length of blue nylon rope that was attached to a Styrofoam float. The working section of the rope extended into the river, bellied with the tide, then disappeared underwater in the direction of the manatee. My first impression was that the animal had gotten tangled in a lobster trap line. It is a common occurrence in Florida. Over the years, I have helped free several. They swim around dragging the float which, ultimately, gets tangled with something else—another trap or a mangrove limb—and the animal dies.

  I stopped on the mud flat and watched the people watching the manatee. A father with his children, I decided. A tiny man with splayed feet and a four-day growth of beard. He had a cigarette rolled from a corn husk sticking from the corner of his mouth. His kids ranged from seven to maybe twelve years old. Two little boys and an older girl, all of them wearing nothing but ragged shorts; each with the toothpick legs and distended bellies that I have come to associate with malnutrition. He probably lived in the thatched roof palm shack I could see through the mangroves. Beachcomber junk lying around the yard, a camp-fire smoldering out front. Take a photograph from the right angle, use the photograph in some coffee table book with appropriate inspirational quotes, the shack could become someone’s fantasy ideal of a simple life.

  But simple lives are seldom ideal.

  I watched the manatee surface again; watched the man dig his heels in the mud and give a tremendous pull. The line still didn’t come free. Didn’t he realize that he had to first give the rope slack? Allow it to untangle gradually?

  The children were the first to notice me approaching. I startled the boys so badly they both sprinted for the trees. The little girl stood her ground, though; went shyly to her father and clung to his leg, which is when he glanced over his shoulder and saw me. For a moment, I thought he was going to run, too. He had a look on his face: nervous, frightened; a guy who’d taken some beatings. But he reconsidered, calling, “Sir, if you could spare a few minutes, is it possible that you could help me?” Very formal: a peasant speaking to his superior.

  I took the rope from him; immediately allowed it to go slack as I began to explain that I might have to get into the water—the entire time, he was nodding eagerly—and that if he handled the rope more gently, it was a better way and that we would have more luck because he would not frighten the animal so much… and then I stopped talking.

  The manatee was on the surface again, the calf nosing close beside her, and I saw for the first time the homemade harpoon in the mother’s side, black blood blooming out into the gray water. A bamboo harpoon with a brazed steel head;
the shaft of the harpoon fluttering in the tidal rip like certain elongated barnacles that cling to the backs of whales. I watched the animal list sideways, its mouth open wide; heard a gasping, grunting noise that I’d never heard a manatee make before, and it registered in my memory as the sound that this species makes when desperate and in great pain; my knowledge of biology expanded.

  I stood there idiotically holding the rope, as the man said, “Yes, if you get into the water, perhaps you will frighten her to the shore. I cannot swim or I would offer… and lately, I have not been well. It seems as if I have lost my strength. But if I can get close enough, I will use my machete. I am still fairly good with a machete.”

  For the animal, he used the word manatí, a name handed down from the original Spanish. He seemed very pleased that I was so willing to take charge.

  “You eat these things?” I wanted to drop the rope and escape; get the hell away from this place, this world that kept trying to suck me back into its own dark vortex.

  “Only when we are very lucky,” the man said. “My wife and my children, it has been so long since we’ve had meat. This will be a wonderful—” He hesitated, realizing that he didn’t know who I was. He stared at me with large brown eyes that were flecked with splotches of milky blue. Was I a tourist? Or was I some holdover Russian? “It will be a wonderful night,” he finished lamely, but I knew he had intended to say wonderful Christmas.

  17

  Geis said, “You’re not going to like what I’m going to tell you.”

  I knew it was about Dewey and I didn’t want to hear it. I said, “Why should anything change now?”

  I’d walked back to the abandoned special forces base; had been in the cafeteria for twenty minutes or so when Geis came in. I’d decided that he was right; he was my ticket out; that I had no hope of collecting Dewey and Tomlinson and getting back to the States without him.

  I had paused on the way back long enough to confirm that No Más was not among the boats moored in this part of the harbor. Had that been Tomlinson I saw sailing out under cover of darkness? Or maybe Adolfo Santoya with the boy? They could have heard the shots, assumed I’d been killed, and chosen an unlikely means of escape. Santoya had arranged to have the boat cleared. He would have known where it was.

  Or No Más could be on the other side of the harbor, gathering barnacles, anchored with other confiscated boats near Angosta Peninsula.

  Geis was looking at me, then looked away. Something in the corner had caught his attention. He bent down and picked up a wad of newspapers. Held it between two fingers as if he were handling a soiled diaper. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “you cut yourself shaving?”

  “It’s not my blood.” Nor was it human blood. I’d used the newspapers to finish cleaning my hands after I’d left the happy little man and his children on the riverbank. When reduced to the context of survival, my view of nature is pragmatic, not romantic. Even so, I didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to think about it, certainly wasn’t going to tell Geis. I said, “You were about to give me bad news.”

  “I decided to make an early-morning reconnaissance on the Santería compound. You know, see if they had any guards posted—sometimes they use some of those Abakua, freaks, the ones I told you about. Don’t want them drinking any blood from our skulls. Right? Just wanted to get a feel for the place before we made any moves.”

  I thought: Yeah, and shoot Adolfo and Rita if he got the chance.

  Geis said, “But guess what? The place is deserted. Nobody home but this old woman who said she was a cook. Oh, that reminds me—” He reached into his field satchel and tossed me a soggy banana leaf that was tied like a bandanna. Inside was cold rice mixed with black beans and fried plantains. I began to eat even though I didn’t feel like eating. Listened to Geis say, “The cook, she didn’t want to talk. Had to use all my charm, but she finally told me that Taino and his people pulled out late last night. Looks like they didn’t care if you and your buddy Adolfo showed up or not.”

  “Was Dewey with them?”

  “Yep. A blonde that tall, these people don’t forget.”

  He was right; not good news, though I had expected worse. But we had the names of a couple of towns—Candelaria and La Esperanza—and we could track them down. I started to ask a question, but Geis interrupted. “Wait. I’m not so sure that’s all the bad news.”

  Said, “What do you mean?”

  He reached into the satchel again and tossed something to me… something small and silken. I caught it and held it up as he said, “They seem a little fancy for a Cubana to own. You recognize them?”

  A pair of bikini underwear, nearly new but both sides had been ripped away from the elastic band so that now it was a single piece of cloth. The underwear was jade green. Dewey had told me about buying it in Madrid.

  I took a deep breath, then another, trying to stem the rage I was feeling… then wasn’t so sure I wanted the rage to disappear. “Where did you find these?”

  “One of the rooms. The cook told me the blond woman, as they were leaving, seemed pretty upset, but that the Miami-Cuban—she meant Rita—was taking care of her. So at least they haven’t killed her yet.”

  “Yet?”

  Geis said, “They’re hers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well… assuming what we’re both thinking happened actually happened, I doubt if Taino’s dumb enough to let an American girl go back to the States and tell the kind of story she might tell. Fidel wouldn’t like it. It’s better she just disappears.”

  I began to pace; had to move. “Why in the hell would they do… that to Dewey?”

  “I liked the girl, but she had a pretty smart mouth on her. Taino—remember me telling you about these people?—Taino, one of his followers gets out of line, they might wake up with blood and chicken feathers on them or they might wake up with their legs on fire. It happens. I’ve seen the bodies. The priests don’t tolerate disobedience from men, how you think Taino’s going to react if a woman gives him a hard time?”

  “That’s no reason. With Tomlinson there?”

  “Maybe he realized the Santoyas were feeding him a line of bullshit and gave up on Tomlinson. Or maybe the guy came through, finally pointed to a place on the map, so they figured they didn’t need to keep him or anybody else happy anymore. They pulled out without you or Adolfo for a reason. They were in a hurry to get someplace.”

  I was making myself think it through; to be anything but clinical was to think about Dewey, what had happened to her, what was going to happen. Said, “Last night, when you were waiting for us on the hill, did you see their vehicles leave? No cars passed us, either direction.”

  Geis said, “I was sort of wondering about that myself.” Meaning that he hadn’t.

  “Those two villages, Candelaria and La Esperanza, is one of them on the water?”

  “Yeah, well, there’re a couple of Esperanzas. But one of them, it’s west, down the coast about eighty kilometers. It’s on the water. Like a fishing village with some islands off it.”

  “Can you drive to those islands?”

  “Shit, the roads in that section are so bad you can barely drive to Esperanza.”

  Which explained why Taino and company hadn’t left by car; they’d gone by sea.

  I threw open the door so hard that its window shattered. “We need to find a boat. Can you get us a boat?”

  The expression on Geis’s face illustrated a hard-edged amusement—you’re giving orders? “A boat? Sure, I can get a boat—but not officially. Between you and me, Fidel didn’t exactly sign off on this little project of mine. He doesn’t want me screwing with one of his favorite Babalaos.”

  Something else he had refused to tell me about. But he would tell me. I would make him tell me everything.

  I said, “Then I’ll find a boat for us unofficially.”

  I found what I was looking for aboard a scarred-up Grand Banks,
a forty-six-footer, that hadn’t been in Mariel Harbor long enough to be thoroughly scavenged. On the stern, the port of registry read Grand Cayman, so the owners had probably made the same mistake Tomlinson had—strayed too close—or maybe got nailed by the Cubans for carrying drugs.

  That would have been a double windfall for Cuban authorities. They had a boat to keep and sell, same with the drugs.

  It had taken awhile to find what I wanted. I had stripped to my underwear and swum out to the little pod of confiscated boats while Geis sat in among trees, smoking a cigar. First, I climbed aboard a shrimp boat out of Brownsville, Texas. The thing had been completely stripped. Nothing usable, nothing of value left aboard. Checked the fuel tanks. Empty.

  Tried a beat-up wooden sailboat next, about a thirty-two-footer. It still had its canvas, but everything else was gone. The sailboat could be useful, but I wasn’t going to attempt to sail it along fifty miles of Cuban coastline. There wasn’t time.

  Before I slipped over the transom of the sailboat and headed for the Grand Banks, I took another look toward shore. Couldn’t see Geis but knew he would still be there. It was the reasonable thing for him to do.

  At first it had bothered me that he had agreed so quickly to my plan… but then I realized that I provided the perfect cover or an ideal alibi for him. He had said himself that Castro didn’t believe there was a plot to assassinate him. But there had to be more to it than that. It had to have something to do with Taino, or maybe all Santería priests. It was possible that Castro had forbidden Geis to take any kind of action whatsoever against a Babalao, but Geis, being Geis, was finding a way to circumvent those orders. Whatever happened next, from stealing a boat to murder, he could place the blame squarely on me. Could say he’d been on my trail the whole time but got to me just a little late.

  That was fine. He could use me; I would be using him.

  The galley and staterooms of the Grand Banks were a mess. The authorities had torn the vessel apart looking for something—yeah, it was probably drugs—but hadn’t yet come back to finish stripping out the valuables. Which is the only reason that a sixteen-foot Avon inflatable, with a hard-shell deck, still hung from davits, ready to be swung off the stern and lowered. It had two six-gallon gas tanks in it, both nearly empty.