Suspicion of Rage (17 page)

The bed creaked as Janelle rolled over. Karen lay on the cot looking at the curtain slowly blowing in and out. She didn't think she could go back to sleep, so she got up and went to the bathroom, shivering in her T-shirt. It was her dad's, which he had bought at a Miami Hurricanes game. Janelle's brother liked it, and Karen thought she might give it to him, unless he'd lost her iPod.

She used the bathroom and cringed when she pulled the cord in the lid, it was so loud. She washed her hands, then turned the doorknob on the other side and looked in. They weren't home yet. Her mother's sandals were under one side of the bed, and Anthony's big sneakers were sitting neatly beside the closet. Their suitcases were pushed under the baby crib.

Back in Janelle's room Karen put on her jeans under the T-shirt. With her shoes in her hand, she went down the curving stairs into the empty living room, then through the dining room and into the kitchen with the old wood cabinets painted yellow.

Angela was standing at the counter making Cuban coffee. They said hello, and Angela asked if she was hungry. There were some eggs and some corn flakes and no bread except some left over from last night, but she could make toast with it. The only milk was in a box, was that okay?

"Sure. Is my grandmother up yet?" Karen asked.
 

"Nobody's up," Angela said.
 

"We are."

Angela smiled and said she wasn't sure if she was or not. She had bags under her eyes, and she looked so pale that Karen asked if she was sick. She said she was fine, and they were going on a tour today with her Aunt Marta, wouldn't
that
be fun. Karen knew what Angela wanted to do—find the house that her grandmother had lived in. Angela had asked her aunt about it last night, but her aunt wasn't interested.
Ay, Dios, that old house. I don't know where it is anymore.

It sounded very romantic, having a beautiful grandmother who ran away with someone at age sixteen to get married, but Karen had seen the man she ran away with, Anthony's father, and she wasn't impressed.

Karen sat in a chair at the table to put her socks and shoes on. "I had this weird dream last night, but I can't remember what it was. Don't you hate that?"

Opening the refrigerator, moving stuff around, Angela said that dreams always get away from you, don't they. She meant she didn't get into the ballet. Or maybe she meant her boyfriend, Bobby. He was cute, but he wasn't as smart as Angela. All he knew about was dancing. Karen didn't think Angela would have trouble finding somebody else.

Angela poured some orange juice and set the glass on the table. She asked if Karen wanted toast and scrambled eggs. Karen said yes, thank you.

Just then the back door closed quietly, and Danny and Gio put their heads around the corner to see who was there. Danny asked if his father was up yet, and Angela told him no, they'd gone to a hotel, so Danny had lucked out. "You shouldn't have left," she said. "Dad told you not to go anywhere."

"What are you, my mother?"

"Don't be a jerk. Grandpa wanted to say good night. It was so rude of you to just leave."

"Hey, the old guy was so drunk he probably didn't notice." Danny grabbed a piece of toast as Angela was buttering it.

Karen watched him. He had a streak of badness. She had noticed that some people were just like that, and there was nothing you could do but stay out of their way.

Gio was pouring orange juice and trying to figure out what they were saying. He had studied English, but not enough. Janelle had said last night that she and her brother went to the Lenin School, the best school in Havana, where all the kids go who have important parents or who get super-good grades. They were supposed to spend time doing farm work, but Janelle said most of the time they got out of it. They ate in a special dining room, not with the regular kids. Giovany was about to graduate. He said he wanted to visit the United States, but was it as dangerous as they say? He was totally ignorant, and Danny didn't help much, telling his cousin that there were drug dealers in the schools, and everybody had alarms on their SUVs, and Danny's father let him shoot his .44 pistol anytime he wanted.

Danny finished his juice and left the glass on the table for somebody else to wash.
"Buenas noches,
ladies."

Angela said, "Don't expect to stay in bed all day. Marta wants to show us Havana."

"I've seen Havana."

"Well, you have to go. And you have to come to dinner with us tonight, too, so don't make any plans to go out."

"Dinner with who?"

"The Leivas. Dad's friend, José Leiva. You know very well who."

"I'll have my people call his people." Danny kept walking out of the kitchen, and Gio smiled as if he understood a word of it.

With a frown on her face, Angela went back to fixing the eggs. She lit a match and turned a knob, and blue flames popped out of the stove.

Karen said she would be back in a minute. She ran after the boys and caught up with them on the stairs. They were talking about going to Varadero Beach in the afternoon, how to get all the way out there, because Gio's mother wasn't going to let them use her car.

"Danny, what did you do with my iPod?"

Gio was telling Danny that he would call a friend.

"My iPod. Where is it?" She jerked on Danny's shirt, which was hanging out of his pants.

Danny looked over his shoulder and told her they were still using it, but she'd get it back when they were done.

"You'd better not erase any of my songs."

She followed them into the hall. They were whispering, trying not to wake anybody up, talking about some girl Gio knew, the same one who had dropped them off. Danny said he wouldn't mind seeing that chick again, then he had to say it over because Gio didn't understand the first time. They walked into Gio's room, and when Danny started to shut the door, Karen put her foot in it. He asked her what she wanted, and she told him to give her back her iPod or she would tell his father about it.

"Oh, you'll tell my dad," he mimicked. "I don't have your fuckin' iPod. It's hooked up to the computer, which crashed, so now we have to start over. As soon as we get the music downloaded, you may have it back. Okayyyy? And stay out of the general's study. It's off-limits."

The door closed in her face.

Karen clenched her fists a couple of times, wishing she knew karate. She went back to the kitchen.

Angela was sitting at the table with a cup of
café con leche
and her head in her hands, crying. She looked up and blew her nose on a paper towel. "Don't ever fall in love, Karen. It's just not worth it."

"Okay."

"But you will, of course. Everybody does, and then they suffer. I've never had any of my relationships work out. Is it my fault? Is there something wrong with me?"

"I don't think so," Karen said. "Maybe you pick the wrong guys."

"They're
all
shitheads."

Karen said, "I remember my dream now. Except it wasn't a dream. The window was open. I got up for some water, and I heard Mr. Vega's chauffeur crying. He was in the backyard. Didn't you hear him?"

"No. What was he crying about?"

"I don't know. He was drunk, I think. I heard him talking to himself, and then he would like roll over on the grass and start crying again. I don't know what it was about."

"A woman, probably. She broke up with him because he's a shithead."

"People in Cuba are so emotional," Karen said.

"I suppose." Angela put a plate on the table, only one, and Karen asked her if she was eating. Angela said she didn't feel hungry. She said she was going to walk around the corner for some fresh bread and more orange juice, since the boys drank it all. She checked to see she had some dollars in her jeans pocket.

"You want anything?"

"I guess not." Karen almost asked to come along, but Angela looked like she was in a hurry to leave. She rinsed her cup and went out the door.

Karen picked up her fork and ate the eggs. The refrigerator came on and started rattling. It was small with only one door and rust around the handle. Last night one of the shelves had fallen and spilled the food, and Mrs. Vega was yelling about that too.

She tried to think of anybody who got along with their boyfriend. Her parents had gotten a divorce, and Karen thought that her mother and Anthony would split up too someday. Karen didn't want to get married, except maybe to have a child, preferably a girl, and you could do that without getting married, so what was the point?

She finished and took her dishes to the sink. There was a bottle of something orange called CRISOL, and Karen squirted some out. Detergent. She turned on the water, which was cold because Angela hadn't turned on the heater. Karen noticed Danny's and Gio's glasses and washed them too, and then the pan from the eggs.

The house was quiet. She dried her hands, hung up the towel, and turned off the light. She started to go back upstairs, but instead went through the living room to Mr. Vega's study. Her iPod was lying next to the computer, which was some model she had never heard of. A USB cable ran from her iPod to the back of the computer. She didn't see the earphones anywhere. She disconnected the iPod and went upstairs and down the hall, stopping at the door to Gio's room. He would probably tell her where the earphones were, but did she want to wake up his parents by banging on the door?

She went to her mother and Anthony's room. She took off her shoes and got in bed on her mother's side. She buried her head in the pillow. It held the faint scent of her mother's perfume.

 

 

 

 

13

 

 

In the tree-shaded park on Águila Street, concrete benches faced the sidewalks. Anthony Quintana sat on one of them. He had worn a cheap shirt and dark slacks to avoid being marked as a tourist. So far the hustlers selling cigars or sex had left him alone, but he assumed he was being watched, State Security checking him over before the general showed up.

On Sundays fewer cars jammed the streets of central Havana, but people were out shopping, and tourists were plentiful—sunburned blonds with cameras and leather sandals; a man in a souvenir Che Guevara T-shirt. Revolutionary chic. They would take their photos of the crumbling buildings and call them picturesque. Some attempt had been made at restoration in this district. Over the roofs soared the white dome of
El Capitolio.
A fading recollection from childhood: swinging from his parents' hands down the steps of the Capitol, the wide thoroughfare and parks along El Prado at their feet. His mother, Caridad, laughing, the sun on her hair. The wind teasing the skirt of her polka-dot dress.

He checked his watch. 3:10 P.M. He looked toward the corner, where a long line had formed at the bus stop. A young man with a paper bag slowed as he passed Anthony's bench. He made quick eye contact and murmured
dulces, caramelos
as though he were selling drugs. Anthony shook his head. Farther along the sidewalk a mother opened her change purse, and the man supped some candy into her boy's outstretched palm.

When Anthony turned back, a thin, gray-haired figure in brown pants and a plain white shirt stood at the other end of his bench. Sunglasses hid his eyes. Abdel Garcia had not materialized out of smoke; he must have approached from behind, walking across the park.

The general said, "I'm sorry to be late. Thank you for waiting." He inclined his angular head toward the next street north. "I have an apartment a few blocks from here. Come. We can talk without interruption." He smiled, and his jaw slid to one side.

They walked out of the park and took a left on Dragones, plunging into a stream of tourists and neighborhood residents. Garcia moved among them like a fish through sea grass. They had entered Chinatown. Restaurants lined the narrow street. A painted dragon stretched across a red canvas awning, and paper lanterns hung from the eaves. Anthony hadn't walked into this area in a long time. The government had splashed some paint around and opened souvenir shops. The blood of the Chinese who had come to Havana to work on the railroad more than a century ago had been diluted by intermarriage, but traces still showed in the tilted eyes of a waitress in a red silk tunic, and in the high cheekbones of an old man in a sleeveless undershirt looking down from his balcony.

Anthony followed Garcia into an alley, around a corner, and under wooden scaffolding that kept walls from collapsing onto each other. They passed a CDR office with the sign taped to a barred window. At the next door, Garcia led him into a small foyer whose mosaic-patterned tile walls were barely visible in the light of a bulb screwed into an ancient porcelain socket. Garcia removed his sunglasses. He apologized that his rooms were on the fourth floor. Extending an arm, he let Anthony go first.

A skylight at the top lit the steps. Anthony heard children's laughter, and the sound seemed to float in the stairwell without source or direction. The soft, scuffling footsteps behind him mirrored his own heavier tread. Ramiro had assured him that nothing would happen. Even so, his senses were alert, and the skin on his neck tingled. The stairs turned, and he glanced around, catching his companion blotting his crooked mouth with a handkerchief.

The general slid it back into his pocket. "My mother's grandparents lived in this building. Their name was Chu. They owned a shop below. I remember coming here as a very young child. He restored furniture, and she made the upholstery. I still have some of the pieces. The workmanship is exquisite. They are buried in the Chinese cemetery. Do you know it?"

Anthony said that he had visited the cemetery. It was in Vedado, he thought, on Twenty-sixth Street.

"Exactly." The general smiled. "The former tenant of this apartment moved out, and I took it over. I am too sentimental."

At dawn this morning, standing on a balcony at the Habana Libre, Anthony had told his wife about General Garcia. He had not told her everything. Hector Mesa had spoken to a woman whose husband had been a political prisoner in Combinado del Este in 1968. Then a young sergeant, Garcia wanted names, and when the man wouldn't cooperate, Garcia ordered him strapped to a table. He beat the soles of his feet, covered his mouth and nose with wet towels, and put electrical wires on his genitals. Unable to endure it, the man broke down. His friends were arrested and executed. The prisoner spent ten years in solitary, was released, escaped to Miami, and two years later hanged himself in his garage.