Suspicion of Rage (25 page)

She brought her attention back to what Anthony was saying. A deal with Everett Bookhouser. Anthony would give Garcia whatever story the CIA invented, and Bookhouser would arrange U.S. visas for José Leiva and his family. At that point, Anthony's involvement in this mess would be officially over.

"They aren't allowed to travel," Gail remembered.

"I could get them out," Anthony said. "A boat. That's easy. The problem—and I shouldn't characterize it as a problem—is that José Leiva believes too much in his causes. The regime is getting fed up with the dissidents, but José refuses to see it, and Yolanda won't argue with him. José will continue giving interviews to the foreign press, and she will continue typing his essays and writing his letters, and the informants across the street will continue watching. Maybe the changes we've seen lately will take hold. I pray they do. If José goes back to prison, he will probably die there. I shouldn't be telling them to leave. I should be standing with them."

"But you are, in your way."

"How? I give them money. I bring them office supplies."

"Do you want to go to prison for them? You have a law practice. A family. Me?"

"Yes. So I do." He stroked her cheek.
"Mi rubia linda."

"I love you," she said.

"Te quiero mucho."
He kissed her, then continued his thoughts where they had left off: "My grandfather taught me a word when I was very young.
Hombría.
It means you have fear, but you conquer it. I will tell you what Yolanda said to me. It was many years ago, but I remember her words: 'You lose your fear when you enter the struggle for freedom. They can come for me at any time, but they can never imprison my spirit.' "

"That's ... very brave," Gail said.

"Yes, she's an amazing woman." Anthony said, "The first time I came back to Cuba, I had just graduated from college. I wanted Yolanda to leave. I said I could get her out, but she wanted to go to medical school. It didn't happen. Too many negative reports in her file, so instead—"

"They kept a file on her?"

"On everyone. They keep records starting in elementary school. Are you with the Revolution or against it? Here's an example. We were ten or eleven years old. Some neighbors had their visas approved to go to the U.S. Everyone ganged up on their son at school the next day. Pushing, shoving, calling names. Yolanda told the teacher it wasn't right. They wrote it in her record. I was ashamed because I had taken part. Yoli got another black mark for wearing her crucifix to school."

"She wears a crucifix now," Gail observed.

"They don't care about that anymore," Anthony said, "but years ago, it was a sign of disobedience. In high school she didn't attend the meetings of the Communist Youth, and they said she was unreliable. In college she asked why, if Marxism was so perfect, the Japanese prospered. She read the wrong books. She refused to march in the demonstrations. They wrote in her file, 'Yolanda is
una persona contraria al sistema.'
Against the system. The file followed her, and when she applied to medical school, even with grades at the top her class, the answer was no."

"And so she became a nurse," Gail finished.

"It wasn't easy, because by then she had a child. They sent her to the smallest towns, but somehow she found other people in the movement, and she spoke out. The police would pick her up and drive her twenty or thirty miles into the country and tell her to find her own way home. Mario had a hard time of it. Kids calling his mother
puta, gusana, escoria.
Whore. Worm. Scum. He was beaten up regularly." Laughing, Anthony said, "I remember I wanted to teach him how to go for the other guy's nose, and Yoli said don't teach him that, we're nonviolent. I took Mario for ice cream and showed him on the way back home. She never pushed him to join the movement. She said he was free to make up his own mind. He respects his mother and José, but he doesn't take part in their work. Even so, he was kicked out of the university because of his connection to the opposition movement. One good thing came of it: The army didn't want him. He didn't have to do his two years."

Gail threaded her fingers through his. "Why did Yolanda marry José?"

"Why? He's a good man. Maybe she didn't want to be alone, raising a son by herself. They were friends already. But you know, he didn't care about the movement. Not at first. Then gradually, a little time with her, and he became more of an activist than she ever was."

Anthony lifted their joined hands and put his lips to Gail's knuckles, kissing each one, leaving a little spot of moisture that quickly cooled. He didn't speak for a while, and when he did, it was as though he was thinking aloud.

"Ramiro told me that what they do is a provocation. If they're arrested, it's their fault. Ramiro is wrong, but I didn't argue with him. Why not? Whenever I get to Cuba, I put tape over my mouth. Even in Miami I don't speak out. If I did, Ramiro Vega would be ordered not to have me in his house."

"It isn't your fight," Gail said. "Not really."

"They're my friends. That makes it my fight."

"If they won't leave, what can you do?"

"Nothing.
Carajo.
They are both crazy. But what about their son? There's no opportunity in Cuba for a young man like Mario. I'm going to have a talk with him. He could go to college. I would pay for it myself. Yes, why not? If Mario will come to the U.S., Yoli might persuade José to reconsider leaving."

"Anthony—"

"José is playing with fire. What if he's arrested again? What would Yolanda do on her own? Does he think of that?"

"Anthony, please."

"What,
querida?"

Gail had to take a slow breath to ease the tightness in her throat. "I'm sorry for your friends. Help them if you can. They deserve it. I wish I could be as brave as Yolanda. I wish I could fix everything for you. But I don't want to talk anymore."

"You're right. It's late. I'm sorry, sweetheart. You want to go to sleep."

"No. I want you to make love to me." With a ferocity born more of fear than desire, she clung to him and buried her face in his neck.

 

There was another word:
añoranza.
It wasn't nostalgia; it was more than that. It was the memory of the past, of childhood friends, of innocence and hope, of all that a man had loved and left behind but still dreamed of.

First seeing Yolanda Cabrera, Gail had not thought, "She is beautiful." She had not thought, "A woman like this—middle-aged, overweight, gray-haired—might be my rival." No, it was worse than that. Yolanda wasn't a woman, she was the earth and sky, the fields of his childhood, the rivers, the blue sky and fragrant blossoms. Yolanda was the balm that would cure the ache in his soul.

He loved her. He loved her and didn't know it. Gail thought that if they could just leave, go home, it would be all right. He would forget her. Until the next time he came back, looking for the other half of his heart.

Gail held him and stroked her hands down his back. If he left her, how could she stand it? She loved him beyond words, and she had none good enough. She was mute and stupid. There was more eloquence in the simple gesture of fastening a hair clip.

But I am his wife,
she thought.
That has to count for something.

 

 

 

 

21

 

 

Danny drank his
café con leche
alone in the kitchen. No one spoke to him. He was invisible. The girls had taken their toast and juice to the dining room. Mrs. Connor, Gail's mother, had come down for coffee a minute ago and left again. She looked ridiculous. Red pants, yellow Hawaiian shirt, and a fanny pack. All ready to go buy some more souvenirs.

This was the last of his two days on house arrest. He'd been grounded for not going to the
cañonazo
on Sunday night with his sister.

He left his dishes in the sink and walked into the dining room. Angela and Karen and Janelle were sitting at one end of the table eating their breakfast and talking about the dress that Janelle was going to get from La Maison today. What color it should be. If it should have sleeves. The table was full of centerpieces for the party—fake flowers and candles and yellow and white ribbons. It made him want to gag.

Hearing footsteps, Danny turned and saw the general coming down the stairs. He wore his olive-green uniform with the red stripes on the epaulets. He said hello to the girls, then gripped Danny's shoulder as he passed by.
"¿Qué tal, Daniel?"
He pronounced his name right:
Daniel.
They were the same height, and the general looked directly into Danny's eyes.
 

"Bien, y usted, señor?"

The general nodded as he walked toward the kitchen. His back was square and straight, and his heels tapped on the tile floor.

Danny had decided that he wouldn't mind coming back to Cuba—on his own. He could share Gio's room. Aunt Marta had told him he was welcome to stay with them anytime he wanted. He wondered if he could graduate from high school in Havana. As a nephew of Ramiro Vega, he would probably go to the Lenin Vocational School, like Giovany

Someone knocked on the front door. Danny could see through the windows. A rusted-out green car was parked in the driveway.

"Oh, my God, he's early," Angela said. She brushed toast crumbs off her T-shirt and ran across the living room.

Mario Cabrera. He looked different. His hair. He'd cut his hair. Angela laughed and ran her fingers through the black curls before she pulled him inside. His flute case hung on a strap over his shoulder.

The general came out of the kitchen sipping his coffee.

"Buenos días,
General Vega," Mario said, and held out his hand.

The general just looked at him and nodded once. Mario's hand dropped, but he kept smiling. Janelle came over and hung on her father's arm and stared at Mario Cabrera like he was a rock star. She asked him where his braids went. He said he was going for a new look. He held up his instrument case, opened it, and showed Janelle what was inside. His flute. He said he always carried it with him.

Janelle giggled and asked if he was going to play for her birthday. He said he would if she wanted him to. The general's eyes were on Mario. He finished his coffee, put on his hat, and told everyone to have a good day. A car from the army was waiting by the curb. A soldier got out, saluted, and opened the back door for him.

Mario was watching this, staring through the window until the general's car was gone. When Mario turned around, Danny was behind him. Mario smiled and said, "Hello."

Angela gave Mario some coffee and said she hoped he didn't mind, but Danny was coming too—their father's idea. Mario said yes, he would be happy
to have Danny with them.

Liar. Suck-up.
Danny wondered what he was doing here. General Vega didn't like him; that was obvious, and Mario was pretending it didn't matter.

Angela said she had to change her clothes; she'd be right back.

Drinking his coffee, Mario walked around the living room looking at the photographs on the walls. There were some family photos, but he didn't look at those, only the ones of the general with his staff. He stopped in front of the photo of the general with Fidel Castro.

Danny said,
"Mi tío es uno de los generales más importantes de las Fuerzas Armadas."
Telling him that his uncle was one of the most important generals in the army.

Mario nodded.

"Mira."
Danny pointed to the photograph.
"Ahí está con Fidel Castro."

 
"I see it," Mario said.

Danny turned when he heard his father saying good morning to Mario. He'd come downstairs. He walked over and shook Mario's hand and looked at his hair and said he liked it. They talked for a minute about how much Angela wanted to find the old house, her heart's desire, bringing back some photographs. In Spanish he said, "I remember it as a child, but I grew up in Camagüey, where my father was born. I am afraid Angela will be disappointed. The last time I saw the house, several years ago, it was in very bad condition."

They walked to the windows, and Mario put his cup on the windowsill. Facing the wall, Danny watched their reflections in the glass of a framed black-and-white photograph. His father asked Mario if there was a time they could get together. He wanted to know what Mario was doing these days, wanted to make sure he was all right. Then he told Mario he'd rented a cell phone at the tourist center. He gave him a piece of paper with the number on it.

Mario said yes, he would call. He thanked him again for the money. He would use it carefully.

“No
es tanto. Cualquier cosa que necesites, me lo dejas saber."
It isn't much. Whatever you need, let me know.

"Gracias, señor."
Thank you, sir.

What an ass-kisser.

Mario took his coffee into the dining room to wait for Angela.

Danny's father came over and said, "Son, I'm going to be busy today, and I want you to stay with your sister. Do you understand? Unless you're with me, you will either be in this house or with Angela. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, Dad. I understand. I sincerely apologize for leaving them before. It's just that I was so excited to be in Cuba, and Giovany expected me to come to the club with him—"

"Listen. Gio is older than you, and he has his own friends. He doesn't want you tagging along all the time. Give him some space."

"Sure, Dad. So where are you going? Do you want me to come with you?"

"Not this time. I'm going to see some old friends. People you don't know. We'll do something together before we leave Cuba."

"Okay. I'd really like that."

"I'm glad to see that your mood has improved." His father gave him a quick hug and told him to take care of his sister. Danny stood in the open front door as his father got into the Toyota he'd rented. He backed out from under the portico, turned in the yard, and drove away.

"Oye, joven. ¿Tienes un cigarrillo?"

Cobo lay on one of the lounge chairs at the other end of the porch. He hadn't taken the general to work because he was supposed to take the women shopping. He looked like shit. He was probably hungover from last night, Danny thought. He and Gio had sneaked out to the garage to find some rum, and Cobo was already halfway through a bottle of Havana Club.