Escape from Castro's Cuba, page 20
“Until the end. Almost three years. I marched into Havana with the rest when Batista fled in the middle of the night.”
Eván shook her head, as if she couldn’t quite believe—coming face-to-face with a genuine revolutionary so many decades after the struggle had become history. Perhaps our host mistook my daughter’s response for skepticism for she briefly excused herself and returned with a paper bag, which she placed in the center of the table. Natalia reached inside and began pulling out medals and citations.
“This is for my efforts in the Battle of Santa Clara,” she said. “This one for a short siege of a military barracks.”
“And this place?” Eván asked. “You seem to have the whole floor?”
“You are as sharp as they whisper, my child,” Natalia replied. “Yes, better than any medal, don’t you think? They gave me the entire floor of this building for my work in the revolution.”
I glanced up at the Picasso painting of the horrors of war—the anguished faces on men and animals, the arms reaching to the sky for some kind of salvation.
Natalia followed my eyes.
“I shot my rifle many times,” she said in a lower voice. “But I never killed anyone.”
I didn’t believe her.
“So, what of Cuba now?” I asked. “With Fidel’s passing?”
She took another sip of her coffee and turned her gaze briefly to the Picasso print.
“It could change faster than any of us truly realize,” she said. “That’s why I’m happy that our prayers for Tyga have been answered. He will soon be out of prison and it’s time for him to go.”
“He will, with us,” I said.
“I fear this country will soon turn for the worse.”
“How soon?” I asked her.
Her eyes settled on me.
“Be swift, be bold, Señor Bryan,” Natalia said. “You know as well as anybody how quickly things can change in this land.”
39
Rows of soldiers were followed by lines of tanks and then waving groups of excited schoolchildren. The show of military might and muscle extended the length of the Revolutionary Plaza, easily a mile long, with everyone passing by the reviewing stand, where Raúl Castro stood. I had to hand it to Fidel’s little brother. He methodically saluted every new group that marched by below. His eyes would settle upon a particular group, even a specific person or two, and for a moment they would straighten their backs, stand a little taller, all eager to acknowledge him in return. The huge mural of Comrade Che towered behind us, making everyone involved with the Cuban Revolution appear as imposing and as regal as ever.
Eván and I hung back as far as we could. I knew she didn’t want to appear in any footage of this event—the unveiling of her mother’s statue in a corner of the square. Dressed in a flowing green dress, with a sky-blue scarf, which had been a gift from Kate Sinclair, my Cuban daughter nervously surveyed the proceedings.
“It will be over soon,” I whispered to her. Yet, of course, I had no way of really knowing.
For my part, I kept an eye on the far horizon, west of town. A new line of thunderheads was billowing up into the sky above the Florida Straits, that treacherous gap that forever separates the United States from Cuba. I had no idea what the statue would do if the heavens opened up and it really began to pour. The carefully carved piece of marble seemingly had a mind of its own. What we did know was that any rainwater would collect, at least a bit, in the microscopic indentations that Kate had made. But how much would gather below the eyes and would anybody notice? None of us knew.
After the parade, Raúl rose to say a few words. Unlike his brother, he only spoke for a few minutes, acknowledging that Malena Fonseca was a pivotal member of the revolution back in the early days. How she had advised him and so many others when they were students at the University of Havana and overthrowing the government was nothing more than a crazy dream. Perhaps Raúl Castro kept his remarks short because he recalled how vehemently Malena disagreed with his brother after the revolution took hold. How she maintained that the everyday people couldn’t be forgotten. How after they carried the day, the victory needed to belong to everyone, every Cuban. How the Russians could never be trusted. Her ability to foresee the future sometimes bordered upon the fantastic. For Malena knew that the old adage “absolute power will corrupt absolutely” was as true as anything in this world. That unbridled power can be as corrosive as anger or envy or greed, and that it would soon undermine the movement she so believed in. Even though Malena died before the revolution collapsed, and her homeland fell into such disrepair, she seemed to sense what was coming. That Che, with Fidel’s blessing, would line up thousands of her countrymen on charges of treason and kill them by firing squad in the early 1960s, while so many others fled the island for good. Somehow, she knew and tried to warn the rest of them. But nobody chose to listen.
When Raúl concluded his remarks, two soldiers came alongside and flanked him as he stepped down from the podium to face the statue itself. It was concealed under a white sheet and when he nodded the covering fell away to thunderous applause. By then, Eván and I were ready to leave.
When we turned away from the show, we found Escalante in our path.
“An unforgettable day,” he said.
I nodded. “And now it’s time for you to hold up your end of things.”
“And I have done so. Señor Tyga Garcia is waiting for you back at the Nacional,” Escalante said. “In fact, he is in your room as we speak.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“A car will be waiting for you at six tomorrow morning. It will take you to the airport, where my private plane will return you to Miami.”
“I thought we were going home tonight?” Eván said. “On the last flight to Fort Lauderdale?”
Escalante smiled at this. “Why not enjoy the evening? As you know, there is no place like Havana once the sun has set. Why not enjoy your time here? For who knows? It might be your last time to walk these streets, to breathe in the warm Caribbean air.”
“So, we cannot leave tonight?” Eván said, a look of concern stealing across her face.
“No, in the morning,” Escalante said. “Now let me see if we can get an official car for you.”
“We’d rather walk,” I told him.
“All the way back to the Hotel Nacional?”
“As you said, why not take advantage of the sights while we can?”
Escalante shrugged at this and turned away. “As you wish, Billy Bryan,” he said.
Eván waited until he was gone before whispering, “Papa, I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Neither do I.”
I looked back at the crowd of photographers taking shots of Raúl posing alongside our statue and stole another glance at the dark clouds on the western horizon.
“Stay here,” I told her. “I’ll be right back.”
I waded back into the crowd, the whir of the cameras growing louder until I found the guy I was looking for.
“I need a favor, Darr.”
Darr Prescott was down on one knee, framing a vertical shot of the Malena statue, with the setting sun in the background.
He glanced at me and replied tersely, “Bit busy right now, Billy. Can’t it wait?”
“Nope,” I said and slipped a business card into the front pocket of his sweat-stained, button-down shirt. “You have a direct phone line back to the U.S.?”
“Of course,” he said, rattling off a few more shots. “But it’s expensive.”
“Do me a favor. Call the number there and ask for Skipper Charles.”
“Skipper Charles,” he repeated.
“Tell him it’s Rascal Time. That Chuck was right. That’s all you have to do.”
“Rascal Time and Chuck’s right?” Prescott said, standing up. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “Just do it. Please.”
Prescott nodded. “Sure thing, Billy. You opened up Cuba for me, so it’s the least I can do. Now how about you let me get back to my work? I’ll make the call as soon as I’m finished here.”
“Thanks,” I said, and stepped back into the crowd.
A few blocks away, Eván and I found a typical Cuban taxi. Some kind of Chevy held together by sweat, prayer, and duct tape. The cabbie himself perked up when I told him to take us to the Nacional. He was already counting on a big tip. Not a minute too soon, we were speeding through Havana’s narrow streets, heading away from the plaza of people that still gathered under the watchful gaze of Che.
“Is it a beautiful statue?” the cabbie asked.
“Absolutely,” I replied.
“I couldn’t get close enough to see it today,” he explained. “But I will do so in the next day or so.”
“You should,” I told him. “And ask your friends to do so, too. It is something.”
Eván reached over clasped my hand. She was right. I was saying too much. But I was suddenly nervous about Escalante’s parting comments and all I wanted to do was talk, babble on to a perfect stranger.
“What makes it so special, my friend?” the cabbie asked. “After all we have many statues in this city. More statues than rice and beans for the people to eat.”
“There’s something about the face of this new statue,” I said. “It’s so sad, so knowing.”
“Sounds so Cuban,” the cabbie said.
“That it is.”
He accelerated up Calle San Lazaro, past the famous white-marble steps and stately columns that mark the main entrance to the University of Havana, where the revolution took root decades ago.
“Maybe I’ll take my mother there tomorrow,” he said.
“If she has friends who remember the revolution, bring them along, too,” I told him. “I’m sure they will enjoy it.”
As we approached the Nacional, which sits regally atop a small hill above the Malecón seawall, I asked the driver his name. He was Orlando Chavez, but everyone called him Jaime. He had been driving a cab in Havana for more years than he could remember.
“Could you come back for us later tonight?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” he told us. “I’ll take you anywhere you’d like.”
“Shouldn’t we stay in, Papa?” Eván said. “Escalante said we could be on an early flight in the morning.”
“I was thinking that maybe Escalante is right. We should see the town,” I told her. “Who knows when we’ll be back in Havana again?”
“Always a good idea,” Jaime said, clearly excited about the possibility of more money changing hands.
“Can you come by in a few hours?” I asked. “After dark?”
“No problem. Any time you want.”
“But don’t pull up to the main doors—not here,” I cautioned as we passed the row of modern yellow cabs and turned into the long drive, heading toward the Nacional’s main entrance. A uniformed doorman appeared to help Eván out of the old cab. “We’ll find you a block or so away, down near the old Riviera Hotel.”
I slipped Jaime an American fifty-dollar bill and his eyes grew wide.
“Plenty more to be had,” I told him. “But one must stay quiet about such things.”
“I understand,” he said.
“We’ll look for you in a few hours. In front of the Riviera.”
“I’ll be there.”
As we got out of the cab, I glanced up at the sky. It was dusk, with the setting sun hidden behind a bank of angry clouds, and I began to fear that time was fast running out on us.
* * *
Upstairs, we found that Escalante had been true to his word. Tyga sat in a chair in front of the television, watching CNN News. He arose when we entered, all bones in ragged clothes.
“My savior and his beautiful daughter,” he said, and flung a thin arm around both of us, pulling us close.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I am now,” he replied.
I nodded, wishing it was true.
Eván began to fuss over him, ringing up room service and ordering various dishes—chicken over rice, breaded fish and mango, beers—a feast enough for all of us.
Once the food arrived, we gathered around the small table in the room and ate like kings. When CNN ran a short report about today’s unveiling, we watched it dutifully, thankful that we couldn’t be seen from this camera angle, and then Eván switched off the television. As we finished eating, the hubbub from the street, another night in Havana, drifted up from a half-dozen stories below.
“We could stay in for the night,” Eván said. “I don’t know what you were talking about with the cabbie, about going out on the town.”
“Maybe so,” I said. But then I shook my head and motioned for Eván to join me over closer to the window.
As she drew near, I cracked open the long window, letting the noise from below engulf us.
“Papa, you really think—?” she asked, but I raised a finger to my lips, urging her to be quiet.
From our perch well above the street, we could see Havana coming alive for another night.
“We can’t risk it,” I whispered to her.
“Risk what, Papa?”
“Staying here. Playing by their rules. One slip and it all goes sideways.”
“You mean the statue?”
“We can’t trust any of it anymore,” I told her. “That Raúl and everyone else are going to let bygones be bygones—allow us to just fly away from here. I don’t trust any of them. That’s why I’ve made other arrangements.”
“You never told me,” Eván said, growing angry.
“Hush, darling,” I replied. “I wasn’t sure until today. But what Escalante told us? To stick around and enjoy the night air? That’s when I got really worried.”
I told her my plan. How we would make it appear that we were about to hunker down for the night. Even ask housekeeping to turn down the beds, perhaps order up more room service for Tyga. I had a windbreaker with me that would fit him. He would wear it when we slipped away, on the pretense of an evening walk of the sights, if anyone asked. One last look around town.
That’s how the three of us came to be walking along the Malecón a few hours later. Walking toward the old hotels, like the Riviera, that used to glow in the night sky when I was a ballplayer here. We were pretending it was the old days, when Jaime pulled up.
“You know the beaches out past the Pan Am Stadium, not far from the Hemingway place?” I asked him. I was riding shotgun in the front seat, with Eván and Tyga in the back.
“But none of that is open now.”
“It doesn’t matter. There’s a small beach there, the last in the string. Get us there and this is yours,” I told him and held up several one-hundred-dollar bills.
Jaime nodded and began to ease into the thick traffic along the Malecón. Once we went through the tunnel by Morro Castle, he picked up speed and soon we were one of the few cars on the road, heading east away from the city of my past.
“I just drop you?”
“That’s right,” I told him. “No questions asked.”
I looked back, confident that we hadn’t been followed, and soon enough we were passing the stadium where American pitcher Jim Abbott had become a legend in these parts, and then, farther up the highway, the turn for Hemingway’s home. Here was where the writer had spent the happiest years of his life, heading out regularly to the Gulf Stream, where he could fish for the monster marlins, the beasts of the deep. If we could reach those waters in the next few hours, everything would be right with our world, too.
Jaime pulled over to the side of the road. Below us lay the beach in the darkness.
“Flash your headlights twice,” I ordered and he reluctantly did so.
All of us looked out at the dark waters. Nothing.
“Do it again,” I said. “Pull the car around to face the sea.”
Jaime repeated the action and this time, out in the darkness, well offshore, came the return signal. Two long flashes and I nodded for Eván to get out and bring Tyga with her.
“You’ve done well,” I said, and I placed the wad of American currency on the seat between us. “Now be a good fellow and keep quiet. At least for a little while, okay?”
I shut the door and hurried to catch up with Eván and Tyga, who were moving across the beach toward the water.
“Skipper?” Eván asked, as I came alongside.
I nodded. “We had to play another ace, hon. We couldn’t trust our luck with Escalante any longer.”
The three of us waded out into the warm waters. Behind us we heard the cab turn around and make a beeline back for Havana. The clock was ticking now. Who knew how long we had until Jaime told somebody, who would tell somebody else, and the word would spread like lightning, as it always does in a country like Cuba?
We kept going until the water was up to our waists and that’s when Skipper’s boat reached us. His men pulled us aboard and we turned toward the open sea, the Straits of Florida, and America, ninety miles away.
“You’re late,” Skipper said. “Chuck said you’d be here right after sunset.”
“It couldn’t be helped.”
“We have to make up time. If dawn catches us in open water, it ain’t going to be pretty.”
40
Too soon the sky began to lighten and we saw dots on the horizon far behind us.
“They’re Cuban patrol boats,” Skipper said, and directed Phil Pote, who was at the wheel, to angle the cigarette boat farther away from the Cuban shore.
“We must be in international waters by now,” I said. Both of us were shouting to be heard above the roar of the engine, and we braced ourselves as we soared into the air off the back side of another ocean swell.
“It doesn’t matter, Billy. If they’re the first to find us they’ll take us in. Boundaries on a map don’t matter much out here.”
For a time, we were able to keep enough open water between us and the pursing Cuban patrol boats. Yet as the sun continued to rise higher into the sky, our pursuers were better able to locate us on the horizon. As they did so, the distance began to shorten between us and them.
