Caribbean (131 page)

This was too much for Estéfano: “Surely no nation in its right senses would elect to align with Castro, considering the conditions on this island.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’ll tell you exactly what I mean. A dictatorship that provides very few amenities for its people. Nothing in the stores. No toilet paper. No toothpaste. No dresses for little girls. No decent automobiles. No paint for the houses. No new buildings to replace the crumbling ones on El Cerro. And no freedom for the young men to do anything but fly to Angola and die in the jungle.”

Plácida chose to respond, and she did so vigorously, drawing Estéfano’s attention to an article in
Granma:
“It tells here of the experiences of a Cubano in Miami, minor health problem. Asthma attack. Listen to what doctors like you, Estéfano, do to the people of your country.” And she read a horrendous account, fortified with photostats of the actual bills from doctors, consultants, nurses and diagnosticians totaling $7,800 for a two-night stay in a hospital for what was essentially a trivial matter. When hectored by the Cuban Calderóns, Estéfano as a doctor and Caterina as a nurse had to acknowledge the probable accuracy of the report.

“The man in the house at our corner,” Plácida continued, “had to have major heart surgery. Nineteen days in hospital, emergency care. Total cost? Not one peso. Dental treatment for his wife? Not one peso. World’s best health care for his three children. Not one peso.” Sternly she concluded: “We may not have the white paint you keep lamenting about, but we have the best health care in the world and the best schools for our children, both free. And that means something.”

All four Calderóns realized that their discussion had entered upon perilous ground, so Roberto, always the conciliator, diverted to a question which nagged him: “Take a refugee like our cousin Quiroz. No special skills as I remember him. How does he make a living in Miami?” and Estéfano explained: “You must understand one thing, Roberto. There’s an immense amount of Cuban money flowing about our city. Some of it real income, like what my bank handles, some of it cocaine money. But it’s there and it’s available.”

“But how does a worthless fellow like Quiroz get his share?”

“People who hate Castro, and that’s ninety-nine percent of us, they see to it that fellows like Máximo are kept alive. They feel he’s doing their work for them, keeping Castro off balance.”

“Would he lead another Bay of Pigs invasion?”

“Tomorrow, if the American government would allow it.”

This occasioned a long pause, after which Roberto said, surprisingly: “Estéfano, I do wish you’d break the careless habit of using the word
American
as if you had stolen it from the rest of us. Use
norteamericano
, because we Cubans and Mexicans and Uruguayans, we’re also Americans.”

Up till now—the beginning of their second week in Cuba—the visit had been what it was supposed to be, an amiable family reunion. But Estéfano had been nervous all along as to how he could approach Roberto about getting to see Castro. One night he said to Caterina: “I can’t ask Roberto outright: ‘Can I see your leader?’ but you might drop a suggestion to your sister, something like: ‘Any chance of seeing Castro? To confirm he really exists?’ ” but she replied: “I’d feel safer if we didn’t see him at all. No rumors flying back to Miami.”

But, finally, Estéfano did open the subject with Roberto, saying, rather casually: “While I’m here, I’d sure like to get to meet Castro,” and his cousin replied: “I’ll see what I can do to arrange it. He’s pretty open to visitors.” But then he went on to say that Castro had the habit of keeping people on the hook for days, then without warning sending for them at midnight for a talk that lasted till dawn. So night after night, Estéfano delayed going to bed early.

Then, on Tuesday night it happened. A senior official from Castro’s office dropped by the sugar mill to inform Roberto that if he cared to bring his cousin to the presidential quarters at eleven that night, Fidel would be pleased to chat with him about Cuban affairs
in Florida, and without betraying that he had been awaiting just such a summons, Estéfano said without undue eagerness: “I’d be honored to meet him.”

Not knowing whether the invitation at that odd hour would include dinner, Estéfano informed Caterina of the impending visit and then ate lightly: “To protect myself either way. If there’s to be a full dinner, I’ll be able to cram it in. If not, I won’t starve.”

At ten-fifteen a chauffeured car accompanied by a police escort arrived, and as they sped through a lovely moonlit September evening, Estéfano assured his cousin: “Don’t worry. I’ll tell him exactly what I told you. I oppose his politics, but I do look forward to the day when there will be free exchange between our countries.”

“I’m sure that’s what he would like to hear.”

“But on our terms, not his.”

“For the past quarter of a century your country has been trying to dictate to him and you’ve always failed, miserably. Maybe it’s time to try some other tactic,” and Estéfano laughed: “Maybe, but not on your terms, either,” and Roberto said as they approached the presidential palace: “Agreed.”

It was made clear as the cousins entered the waiting area, a large and handsome hall, that Roberto’s role would be limited to introducing his cousin and then withdrawing to await the end of the conference, and he was not surprised at the arrangement. Both men remained in the outer hall for about two hours, after which the door to Castro’s quarters broke open with a bang and a huge bearded man in rumpled army fatigues slammed his way forward to extend both hands, one to Estéfano, one to Roberto: “Welcome to the honorable children of our great patriot Baltazar Calderón y Quiroz.” With that, he took Estéfano warmly by the hand, leading him into his quarters and leaving Roberto in the outer hall.

With a wide swing of his big right foot, he slammed the door closed, indicated a chair for his American guest and fell easily into his own. He was full of restless energy, his agile mind leaping from one subject to another, his tireless hands waving a big unlit cigar as he talked.

“A temptation and an obligation,” he said, indicating the cigar. “Doctors told me: ‘Fidel, you’ll die ten years too soon if you continue smoking,’ so I quit. But then our cigar manufacturers reminded me: ‘Fidel, you and your cigar are the best advertisement for Cuban cigars, and that’s where our foreign exchange comes from. Please
keep smoking.’ So I obeyed both sets of advisers this way,” and he jammed the big, cold cigar into the corner of his mouth.

They talked for five hours, barely interrupting for a meal of soup, chicken sandwiches and a remarkable sweet: “Do you, as a doctor, warn your patients against too much sugar, the way ours do?”

To Estéfano’s surprise, he asked this and occasional other questions in English, and Estéfano answered in that language, but when he finished explaining that yes, when he was a practicing doctor he did warn his patients against sugar, Castro leaped from his chair, wagged an admonitory finger, and cried in Spanish: “Well, stop it! We Cubanos want you to eat as much sugar as possible, and buy it all from us.”

When the serious conversation started, Estéfano was astounded at the breadth of Castro’s knowledge of things American, but he was also aware that the dictator was hitting these topics to make himself seem an amiable fellow: The knowing baseball jargon “Why do the Red Sox always lose the big series?” The inside knowledge of American entertainment “How do they take it in Georgia, a Negro like Bill Cosby dominating television?” The awareness of intricate situations “How are the two Koreas handling the Olympics?” And a dozen little questions that quietly needled the Americans: “Did your government arrest any of those crazies who tried to tease our athletes into defecting at Indianapolis?”

Calderon, well aware that this pleasant chatter was preamble, waited for the politics to begin, and he was prepared when Castro shot out a barrage of questions regarding the attitude of Miami Cubanos on conditions in Haiti, Santo Domingo, Puerto Rico and Cuba itself. He was especially concerned with two problems on which he pressed Estéfano almost to the point of rudeness: “If Manley wins the forthcoming election in Jamaica, will that reawaken anti-Americanism on the island?” and “What do you hear in Miami about racial unrest in Trinidad, like what’s been happening in Fiji?”

He also wanted to know how the Miami Cubanos had reacted to the American invasion of Grenada, and was not surprised to hear: “Among our people I heard not one adverse comment and a thousand cheers.” But he was irritated to learn: “Most of us were convinced that communist Cubano infiltrators were about to take control of Grenada.”

“Rubbish!” he said, using a Cuban word that could be translated more vulgarly. Then he leaned back, twisting his cigar between
thumb and forefinger, summoned a waiter to bring more drinks, and asked: “Now, Dr. Calderón …” and Estéfano noticed that whenever he began the exploration of a new topic, he spoke formally, and invariably used the title
Doctor:
“Explain in careful terms, because I know you’re informed on these matters, what does the word
Hispanic
mean in various parts of the United States,” and Estéfano also noticed that when Castro rolled out those magnificent syllables
Los Estados Unidos
, he did so with a certain respect, as if honoring the size of his northerly neighbor if not its politics.

Now the two Cubans settled down to another hourlong discussion, with Estéfano reviewing various experiences he’d had with the Spanish-speaking peoples of America: “I’ve had to travel a lot as a Hispanic banking leader and chairman for the election and reelection of President Reagan.” Here he broke into a quiet laugh: “The Anglo politicians running the campaign apparently said: ‘Look, Calderon speaks Spanish. And he has a good blue suit. Let’s use him widely to get the others lined up.’ So they shipped me off to New York, California and Texas.”

Castro leaned forward, eyes gleaming above his dark beard: “A disaster?”

“Worse. In New York it’s all Puerto Ricans, and they have their own agenda, which is unique. I could hardly speak to them, and they certainly did not look to me for guidance. They were quite capable of providing their own.”

“California?”

“I don’t want to insult you, Señor Presidente, but out there those red-hot Mexicans hardly know that you’re in command in Cuba. Couldn’t care less, because they have their own problems with Mexico. My ideas of politics and theirs are as different as night and day. It was a total flop.”

“Texas?”

“On the surface the same as California, but fundamentally a much different set of Mexicans. Especially in Los Angeles they’re more sophisticated, have more political power. In Texas they’re more the peasant type. About two generations behind the Californians, I’d say.”

They spent a long time exploring the differences among the four basic Hispanic groups as Estéfano defined them: the Cubanos of Miami, the Puerto Ricans of New York, the sophisticated Mexicans of California and the sturdy peasants of Texas, and at the end
Estéfano hammered home one basic point: “Anyone who thinks he can lump them all together and form a cohesive Hispanic minority that he can shift this way or that is out of his mind.” Here he stared hard at Castro and said: “Don’t even try to go down that road. It won’t work.”

“All strongly Catholic?”

“Yes.”

“All Republican?”

“I’m not sure about the Californians and Texans, but probably even them.” Then he added a salient point: “Bear in mind one thing, Señor Presidente. The Cubanos you sent to Miami in that first batch were all educated, well-to-do, middle-of-the-road people. They’ve adjusted easily to American life. None were illiterate peasants.” He hesitated, then added: “Sometimes in California and Texas, I found it difficult to believe that these people were Hispanics at all. They weren’t like anyone I’ve ever known either here as a young man or in Florida later on.”

It was now well past three in the morning, and Estéfano kept reminding himself that he must resist the blandishments of this extraordinary man: He’s the man who stole my country, who murdered many of my friends, who kept others in hideous jails, and who has done everything possible to embarrass the United States and support her enemy, the Soviet Union. He had no love for Castro, nor even much respect, but he could feel the immense power of his charisma, and at one point when the dictator was being especially persuasive about never having had animosity toward the States, Calderon thought: Now I know how a bird feels when the cobra weaves its spell. This son-of-a-bitch is mesmerizing.

Then, at the end of a long oration about how the United States should conduct itself in Central America, Castro leaned forward, studied his guest, and asked in the most amiable voice possible: “Dr. Calderón, why did you feel that you, the son of patriots, had to leave Cuba?” and after a frank discussion of mixed signals and lost opportunities, Castro asked, at a quarter of four: “Under what terms would you come back?” and now Estéfano felt both free and obligated to make several points: “With a great-grandfather like old Baltazar Calderón, I will always love and cherish Cuba. It’s in my blood. The fact that I fled proves I wasn’t enthusiastic about your takeover, but as you probably know from the reports of your consuls, I’ve never been a rabid anti-Castroite. And I’m convinced that because
your island is so close to the States, some kind of reconciliation must be reestablished, probably before the end of this century.”

“Does anyone else in your country think so?”

“Some of my more sensible friends in Washington … the ones I worked with on Reagan’s campaigns.”

Castro, realizing from this one sentence the reason Calderon had been sent south, looked up at the ceiling and started waving his cigar. Then he said as if he hadn’t heard what Estéfano had just revealed: “The doctors told me: ‘If you stop smoking these things, you could live to see the end of the century.’ ”

“When were you born?”

“Nineteen twenty-seven.”

“You’re only five years older than I am, and I certainly expect to see it.”