Suspicion of Rage (20 page)

Danny leaned over to take another ham croquette off the plate on the coffee table. He had already eaten half a dozen croquettes, two glasses of orange soda, and several crackers. Dinner would be served when Mario arrived.

"What's this for?" Danny picked up the end of a yellow extension cord that came through a window and dangled against the wall near the desk.

Leiva explained that it was in case of an
apagón,
a blackout. The cord ran to the house behind them, which was on a different power grid. If the lights went out, you plug in a lamp.

Anthony finished his translation, then said, "Danny, Angela. I have never seen an
apagón
in the tourist sector, nor in Miramar in all the years that I have visited my sister's house. Why do you think that is?"

"Because Aunt Marta pays her electric bills?" Danny's flip answer was met by a cool look from his father.

In the adjacent chair, Angela made a soft laugh. "There is no electric company. The government owns everything."

"Whatever," said her brother.

Anthony said, "You don't remember anything I told you about Cuba, do you?"

"Yes, I do. You just never told me about blackouts."

"Why do you
think
the lights stay on in the tourist sector?"

Danny glanced uncomfortably at the others in the room. "Because ... they don't want the tourists to leave."

"Exactly. Start paying more attention. You might learn something.'' Anthony resumed taking things out of the bag. Danny stared at the floor. Gail almost felt sorry for him, being put on the spot that way. Anthony had been wrapped tight as a golf ball ever since coming back from his meeting with General Garcia.

What Gail had wanted was not to rush over here but to talk with Anthony for more than five minutes about whatever in God's name had gone on with Abdel Garcia. He'd come back to Marta's, turned on the hot water heater in the bathroom, and in the short time it took the water to heat up, he had told her that General Garcia expected him to become a spy for Cuba. Worse: The CIA wanted him to play along. Gail said no way, are you crazy? She followed him into the bathroom, but he told her to leave him alone. He hadn't decided what he was going to do.

Anthony looked into the zippered bag as if he had forgotten something and pulled out a small, pale blue box tied with a narrow white ribbon. He said in Spanish that it was for Yolanda from both himself and Gail. It was nothing, not expensive, but they thought she might like it. Yolanda came over and took the box, opened it, and exclaimed,
"¡Ay, qué preciosa!"

Gail had never seen it before: a hair clip with a floral design that looked very much like antique sterling silver. She knew the box: Tiffany. Yolanda thanked them both, then held the gift out to her husband. "José, look, isn't it pretty?"
 

"Póntela,"
he said.

She hesitated, then laughed and pulled the simple plastic clip off her gray ponytail. She swept her thick, wavy hair back with both hands, fastened the silver clip, and turned to show them. The flowers curved gracefully around the back of her head. Her hair wasn't gray anymore; it was black and silver.

"That's so elegant," Irene said.
"Muy elegante.
Gail, did you pick that out?"

Gail sent her mother a little smile, then looked at Anthony. He sat back down on the other end of the small sofa and said quietly over Karen's head, "I noticed it when I was getting my watch repaired. You don't mind, do you?"

She reached across and squeezed his hand. "Of course not. It's perfect for her." Gail smiled once more at Yolanda, aware at the same time of a nudge of jealousy, which was totally irrational. There was nothing between Anthony and this woman. They had known each other from childhood. She took care of his father. They were lifelong friends, like cousins, one could say. Anyway, Yolanda was married to a man she clearly loved and admired.

On her chair next to Leiva's, Irene set her wineglass on his lamp table and picked up the paperback that he had given to Anthony, the collection of his writings. She dropped it on her lap and flipped through her phrase book until Angela showed her the place. Irene said,
"Señor Leiva, usted es escritor. ¿Qué.
..." She bit her lower lip in concentration. "Wait, wait, I've got it.
¿Qué escrita?'"

Leiva's white brows rose quizzically before he nodded. "Ah. What I write."

Anthony translated: "José writes articles for the foreign press. The official newspapers in Cuba won't take them. An article of his was just published in
El Pais,
in Madrid. It will appear in
The Washington Post
next Sunday. He used to work in television. He made some videos about malnutrition in the eastern provinces and gave them to the BBC. He spent four years in prison for that."

José Leiva smiled. "I told lies. Nobody in Cuba is hungry."

"He was in a cell with murderers and thieves. He says it wasn't all bad. He lost twenty pounds. Unfortunately, he has put it all back."

"They think I am
contrarrevolucionario.
Maybe a terrorist." Leiva made his hands into claws and growled at Karen. "A very bad man."

Karen laughed.

He leaned over to give her an affectionate pat on the knee. "The Cuban people are educated and intelligent.
Somos seres humanos—
human beings, and human beings have from God the desire to be free. Anthony,
por favor"

Anthony spoke Leiva's words: "Fidel Castro said that in Cuba there are no banned books, only the lack of money to buy them. The independent libraries started when people decided to take him at his word. They shared their books with anyone who wanted to read. When I was released from prison, Yolanda and I joined their movement. There is no censorship in this house."

Danny reached for another croquette. Anthony said, "Danny,
escucha"

"I am listening, Dad."

From his armchair, the focal point of the room, José Leiva told them about the recent visits of a United States senator; a reporter from Italy; a group from Human Rights Watch. Anthony translated. Gail watched Danny stifling a yawn. His jaw stiffened, and his nostrils flared.

Finally, and more with gestures than with words, José Leiva told Danny to get up, walk to the front windows, and look across the street. After a glance at his father, he gave a little shrug and did as Leiva had asked. He stood by the window and pulled back the curtain.

"Okay. What am I looking at?"

"The house over there, you see it?
Con dos pisos.
Two ... floor. Look at the tree. They cut it so they can see from the window on top of the house. The window that has no light. They watch us from there. They are looking at you right now. They are taking your
foto."

Danny stepped back.

"Don't be afraid. They want that, to make you afraid." He smiled and signaled to his wife.
"Es tarde, mi amor, se mueren de hambre."
The guests were getting hungry. She replied that Mario would be here soon, but yes, it was late, and they should eat.

"Let me help." Irene got up. Her earrings clicked and swung in her auburn curls. She had found the earrings in a souvenir shop in Old Havana, miniature tropical fruit in colors bright enough to compete with her green slacks and yellow pullover. Irene had said she wanted to look Cuban, but Gail hadn't seen any actual
cubanas
dress this way. Yolanda Cabrera wore flat shoes, black pants, and a sleeveless shirt of tiny black-and-white checks.

"I'll come too," Gail said.

In the kitchen, which was barely big enough for three women to turn around without bumping into one another, Yolanda rinsed a bowl in the sink. On the windowsill, placed where the afternoon sun would come in, plants in glass jars sprouted new leaves. Wooden shelves took the place of proper cabinets, holding dishes and spices and cloves of garlic and dried sausages on a string. Yolanda gave Irene the bowl for the rice and showed Gail where to find the oil and vinegar for the salad. She opened the oven door and took out a pan of six plump, crispy fish. She sprinkled fresh parsley over the fish and slid the
tostones,
the fried green plantains, into the oven to warm.

Her nails were unpolished, her hands roughened by work. She wasn't beautiful, Gail thought. She wore no makeup, except for a touch of red lipstick. When she smiled, wrinkles appeared around her eyes and mouth, and she was overweight. Immediately Gail felt guilty for noticing this, and revised her appraisal: Yolanda was voluptuous.

Irene left the kitchen with plates and knives and forks to set the table.

Gail sliced the cucumbers and tomatoes on a cutting board so old the center had been carved to a shallow bowl. "You speak English very well. Where did you learn it?"

"In school. I studied in the University, and I listen to the radio from Miami." Working at the stove, with her back to Gail, Yolanda tucked in a strand of hair that had escaped from the clip. The silver flowers gleamed in the light from the fluorescent tube in the ceiling, and the clip barely contained Yolanda's thick, wavy hair. Gail's own hair, blond and straight, was chopped level with her jawline. Anthony had said he liked it that way, but she wasn't sure he meant it.

"Does Anthony come often to visit you and José when he's in Havana? He doesn't talk much about Cuba. I really don't know what he does here."

"What he does? He comes to be with his family, you know, his sister Marta and the children. He has many friends here. He visits us, too."

"And when José was in prison?"

"Yes, Anthony was here, and he took me to see José. They put him in a prison in Ciego de Ávila, far away. That's what they do. They make it hard for the families to see the prisoners. Anthony tried to help. He talked to his sister's husband, but General Vega didn't want to do anything. Maybe he couldn't, I don't know."

Yolanda's warm brown eyes lifted to Gail's, and her lips parted in a smile. Her front teeth were slightly crooked, but this was hardly a flaw. "Two years ago, maybe more, Anthony told me about you, a beautiful American lawyer. He said he would marry you."

Laughing, Gail said, ''Oh, well, then you knew before I did."

"I hope you come back many times, and that Mario will be a friend of Daniel and Angela. And your daughter, Karen. How funny she is. And your mother is so nice. I like her very much. This is your house. Okay?"

"That's very kind of you," Gail said. She could imagine how Anthony would want to return again and again to this house and these people, to walk through this tiny kitchen with its row of plants in bright jars in the window, to sit in the backyard with his friend José while Yolanda tended her garden. A thousand miles from the pretensions of Miami.

Yolanda lifted the lid off a battered pot and stirred what was inside, a mixture of red beans and ham and chunks of a yellow root vegetable that Gail didn't recognize. A cloud of savory steam drifted upward.

"How did you meet José?"

"He came to Camagüey City to work in the TV station, and he stayed in the building where I lived with Mario. We have been married for eleven years. My first husband was a soldier, and he died in the war in Angola. Mario never knew him. For Mario, José is his father."

A curious fact came into Gail's mind. Yolanda and Mario had the same last name. Cabrera. Why didn't the son have the name of his father? Yolanda had called him her first husband, but perhaps they had never married. How did one ask that question?

Irene came back in, and Yolanda gave her a bowl to fill with red beans. Irene said she would love it if Yolanda and José could come to Miami. They could stay at her house if they wanted. She had plenty of room. "Have you ever been to the United States?"

"No. I want very much to see it. I have a brother in Tampa, but I have not seen him since 1980. He went from Mariel in the boat lift. He wants us to come visit him, but they won't give us permission to leave." "Who, your government?"

"Oh, yes! We are criminals." She laughed. "Not just José. Me too. In 1994 there was a
manifestación
... what do you call it? A demonstration, at the statue of Antonio Maceo on the Malecón. I was arrested with the others, and they put us in jail for a week. So when José and I ask permission to leave the country, they stamp our papers,
'no autorizado a viajar.'
'Not authorized to travel.' "

"Well, I don't understand it," Irene said. "You'd think they'd be
happy
if you left, being dissidents and all."

"It's crazy, I know." Yolanda bent to check on the
tostones
in the oven. "Gail, do you like onions in the salad? I have some in ...
el frigidaire.
I don't know how to say that in English."

"Refrigerator." Gail found the onion.

"Ref— Retri—" Yolanda laughed and gave up with a wave of her hand.

The lid clanged when Irene dropped it back on the pot. "Yolanda? I've got to do something to help you and José. I don't know what it is yet. When I get home, I could write some letters. Maybe you need donations. I know loads of people."

Setting the pan of
tostones
on the stove, Yolanda turned to look at Irene. "You can help us in Havana, if you want to."

"Fine. Just tell me what to do."

Gail's knife stopped halfway through the onion.

Yolanda said, "We have the new computer from Anthony. Now we can do e-mail, but we need Internet cards. We can't buy them, but you can. You're a tourist."

"What do you mean, you can't buy them?"

"They're for tourists or if you have permission from the government."

Irene's blue eyes widened. "You need permission to go on the Internet?"

"Yes, but if we have a card, we can do it. There is a code, and we use our telephone line."
 

"I'll buy your cards for you."
 

"Mother—"

"I'm going to help them," Irene said. "Yolanda, how do we do this?"

"It's very easy. We go to the commercial center, and you show your passport, and they give you the cards. They cost fifteen dollars. I want four, so I'll give you sixty dollars, and you buy the cards. They never ask questions."