Suspicion of Rage (7 page)

"You're full of questions." Anthony scooped up a stack of his clothes. "Cobo works for the family. He's been with them ... I don't know, ten years or more. Ramiro gets a car and he gets a driver. Cobo does whatever they need him to do. He has a room in the garage."

"Does he have a first name?" Gail unfolded her shorts and tops.

Anthony paused, then said, "I've never heard him called anything but 'Cobo.' "

"He's their house slave." Gail laughed. "Yes, he is, don't deny it."

"You think so? I'll tell you this." Anthony slid back the door on the closet, a wooden affair built out from the wall. His niece had pushed her clothes to one side to make room. "Cobo makes a good living, and if you ask him, he would say he's part of the family. So don't prejudge things you don't know about." Anthony shook out his shirts and trousers and hung them up.

Making a little face in his direction, Gail wandered to the window to look out. She turned the crank, and a breeze drifted through the glass louvers. The window gave a view of the front yard and the driveway. A hedge with small, glossy leaves had grown through the chain-link fence. Beyond the gate and the hedge, the street curved, then intersected with another one. She wanted to see a small blue car with five kids in it. The only traffic was a man on a bicycle with flowers in a plastic crate over the rear wheel. He called out the same phrase over and over. Gail thought he might be selling the flowers, but she didn't understand his words. His voice faded away.

"Does Giovany have a cell phone?"
 

"I don't know," Anthony replied.
 

She turned from the window. "Could we ask? I'd love to know where Karen is."
 

"Nothing will happen to Karen."
 

"Your kids are missing too."

"They aren't
missing.
When they come back, I'll speak to Gio. All right?"

Gail sat on the end of the bed and dug some Advil out of her purse. She had noticed the door that led directly to a bathroom. She went in and shut the door behind her.

The bathroom reminded her of her grandmother's house—yellow tile, yellow bathtub, yellow sink in a peeling Formica cabinet. She took the pills with water in her cupped hand. Her cloudy image looked back at her in the discolored mirror over the sink. She picked up a silver tube from the vanity and unscrewed the top. Toothpaste. She dabbed some on her ringer. It tasted of baking soda. She spit it out and rinsed her mouth.

A door on the opposite side led to another bedroom. Gail looked in. This was the room Karen and Angela would share with Janelle, an abundance of lace here as well. Stuffed animals covered the bed, odd for a girl of fifteen. A cot had been set up in the corner. Gail pulled the door closed.

She unzipped her pants, then stopped, staring down at the toilet. A cord came up through a hole in the lid, tied to a pencil so it wouldn't slip back in. Gail assumed this was how one flushed, by pulling the cord. And where was the toilet seat? A plastic bucket was placed by the toilet. Why? Before carefully positioning herself, she looked around for toilet paper and spotted a roll on the vanity. "Thank you, God."

At the sink she turned on the hot water faucet and waited, waited. She tried the other faucet. More cold water. She used that and some liquid soap, then dried her hands on the only thing available, a pink bath towel hanging on a rod by the tub.

Coming back to the bedroom she said, "There's no toilet seat."

Anthony turned around from the closet. "What?"
 

"They don't have a toilet seat."
 

"A lot of people don't in Cuba."
 

"Why not?"

A bottom drawer came open with a screech. "Because they can't find them in the stores. It's a luxury item in short supply. If you need a toilet seat, use Malta's bathroom."

"I'm not going to use her bathroom."

"Then don't." He put away his underwear in neat stacks.

Gail leaned on the closet to talk to him. "There's no hot water either. Okay, I can deal with the toilet, but how are we supposed to take a bath?"

Dropping his socks into the drawer, he said, "You have to turn on the gas first. There's a heater in the corner above the sink, didn't you see it? I'm sure you noticed everything else."

She crossed her arms. "At least they have toilet paper."

"Let me tell you something." He gave the drawer a hard shove with one knee to get it to shut. "This isn't Miami. It's not what you're used to. In Cuba, you have to accept things as they are."

"If you're going to tell me how to react, then maybe I shouldn't have come."

With a sigh he pulled her close. "Yes, you should. I'm glad you're here, Gail."

"Are you?"

He made an X over his heart. "Yes. And forgive my bad mood. I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Neither did I," she said. "And you've got Ramiro on your mind. When are you going to have your talk?"

"I don't know. Before we leave. There's no hurry." He patted her rear end. "Come on, let's finish this. They're expecting us downstairs." He sat on the end of the bed with his carry-on bag and pulled out his novel, their passports, an empty water bottle. A pair of high-heeled sandals.

"Sorry," Gail said, "I didn't have room in mine." She took the shoes from him. "Anthony, I wasn't prying, really, but I happened to see the envelopes, you know, the ones you showed me, and there was one to somebody named Mario. I was wondering. Who is that?"

Anthony lifted his eyes to hers. "Mario Cabrera. I've mentioned him, no?"

"I don't think so."

"I must have. He's Yolanda and José's son."

"The dissidents, right?" Gail said. "I'm sure you didn't tell me about Mario."

Anthony's eyes had not moved from her face. "Did you read the letter?"

"No."

He took the envelope out of his bag.
 

"You don't have to do that."

"Why not? There should be no secrets between us." He unfolded the letter, which she saw was written in Spanish. "I tell him hello, it's been a long time since we've seen each other—"

"Anthony—"

"And I hope that he is doing well. 'Your mother says you don't see her enough. You are an honorable young man, I hope you will think of her, she is a tremendous person, your father also. Here is some money, which you can put to good use. I hope that you will contact me when you can.' "

Gail sat beside him. "I didn't read your letter, but... yes, I saw the money. That's a generous thing for you to do."

He returned the letter to the envelope. "It's not that much. Two hundred dollars." "You're fond of him."

"Well, I'm fond of his parents, whom I have known for a long time. Mario is nineteen... or twenty. A musician. He has a band, or had one. I don't know what he's doing now. He was getting his degree in music at the University of Havana, but he was invited to leave. Politically unreliable, that's the reason they gave. He moved out of the house, and where he's living now, who knows? Yolanda says the last time she saw him, he was starving. That is probably not true, but he can use the money. I haven't seen him since he was Danny's age. He's a handsome boy, very intelligent, very affectionate with his parents, but they rarely see him anymore. It could be that Mario thinks his connection to José puts him at a disadvantage, so he's staying away."

"That's cowardly of him," Gail said, then regretted her words. "Maybe it isn't. What do I know?"

"You're right. Cowardly ... if it's true. But he's young, and maybe he thinks he has to do this to survive. I would like to talk to him face-to-face, but chances are, we won't see him. José and Yolanda want to have dinner for us tomorrow. You'll like them. They're extraordinary people."

"I don't know. It looks like Marta has tomorrow completely mapped out for us."

"It doesn't matter to Marta. Let her play tour guide to your mother."

"I'm surprised that you're helping José Leiva."

"Why are you surprised?"

"Because he's against the regime. You keep away from anything remotely political."

"It isn't politics. They're my friends. Listen." Anthony took her hand. "I must ask you a favor,
mi cielo.
Don't mention their names to Marta or Ramiro. You understand how it is."

"Of course. You don't want anyone to know you're a friend of the dissidents."

Anthony made a slight smile. "They know, but it's something we don't talk about. Like my grandfather. I don't talk about Marta and Ramiro with my grandfather, but he knows. Everyone knows everything. Marta sees Yolanda quite often. Yolanda works at the retirement home where our father lives. The job pays her the equivalent of about ten dollars a month, so I send her money for taking care of him."

"You never told me that," Gail said.

"No? Well, her family lived near mine in Camaguey, and Papi has known her all his life. To him, Yolanda's politics don't matter. If Marta had her way, the wife of José Leiva wouldn't be taking care of our father. She thinks it's bad for Ramiro's career. So. We don't bring it up."

"I'll add that to my list of things not to bring up," Gail said.

The staccato
beep-beep-beep
of a car horn sounded from outside. "That must be Karen." She hurried to the window and looked out. It was not a small blue car, but an aging black Mercedes that had stopped at the gate. Smoke drifted from the exhaust pipe, and Gail could just make out the face of a woman at the wheel. The horn sounded again, a long, impatient honk.

A second later Cobo appeared and swung back the chain-link gate. The car drove through and parked in a gravel area alongside the driveway. The door opened. Gail saw high heels, long legs, and a tight black skirt. The woman's eyes were hidden by big sunglasses. Blond bangs covered her forehead, and the rest of her hair was tied back in a long ponytail. She carried a portfolio under her arm. Something about her body—the heavy hips, perhaps, or the softness of her upper arms—revealed that the woman might be nearer to forty than she would have liked to admit. But sexy. Extremely.

Gail glanced at Anthony, who had come over to see what she was looking at. "Is that one of your cousins?"

"God, no. Her name is Olga Saavedra."

Gail prompted, "And?"

"I would guess that she's taking care of Janelle's party. That's what she does, parties. Olga Saavedra used to be a personality on television, very well known. Now she works for the Ministry of Culture. She plans dinners, entertainments, and so forth. There's always a party at this house. Fidel himself has been here many times. Marta likes to entertain, but she has no talent for the details."

Olga Saavedra walked toward the house, but Cobo was in her way. She moved left, then right; so did he. She flung out an arm and pushed past him. Cobo laughed, then watched her go. Heels clicking on the stone walkway, Olga Saavedra passed out of sight under the trees that shaded the front porch. Cobo went to the gate and closed it. He took some cigarettes from the pocket of his windbreaker and lit one. Then he too disappeared.

"What was that all about?" Gail asked.

"She used to date him before she started working in television. She's ambitious, so it didn't last long. She hosted a talk show for several years."

"He's still obsessed with her," Gail said. "This is great. A soap opera right outside our window."

Anthony made one of his expansive shrugs, palms out, shoulders rising. "Love."

"Love Cuban style."

He laughed. "No, no. Love anywhere,
querida.
Come on, let's go downstairs."

"In a minute, I just want to ask you one thing. It's about Olga. Who is she, exactly? If you don't mind my asking."

Amusement played around Anthony's eyes. "More questions. All right, I'll tell you." He came closer and spoke in a low voice. "Olga knows everybody—artists, musicians. The guys who run things in Cuba like to throw parties, and Olga is the party girl. She has friends—I will call them friends—in the Ministry of the Interior, which is like our FBI and police department rolled into one. So. On one of my visits—before I met you, sweetheart—Olga invited me to go out with her. We went to a nightclub. She wanted to find out who I was, in addition to being Maria's brother."

"What do you mean, who you were?"

"Whose side I was on. Was I working for anybody? Could I be of some use to the regime? I wasn't on anybody's side, so I let her questions slide, and she stopped asking."

Gail laughed softly. "You're telling me that Olga Saavedra is a spy?"

"Not at all. She works for people who want to know things, and they probably asked her to find out. I am not immune from suspicion."

"Who wanted her to talk to you?"

"I have no idea. It doesn't matter."

"Are you sure Señorita Saavedra is here for Janelle's party?"

"Not for me,
querida.
She knows I'm not interested."

"Really. Did you do more than get drunk with her? Not that I
care,
I was just curious—"

With a small exhalation of surprise, Anthony said, "No. With a woman like that? You know what I like— skinny
americanas."

Gail didn't smile at the joke. She held onto his arm when he turned toward the door. "Wait. Something's been bothering me. Bill Navarro and that other man came to your grandfather's house all the way from Washington, on the very eve of our departure for Cuba, arid they want you to . . . how did you put it?
Invite
Ramiro to defect? Anthony, you never get involved in Ernesto's business—not
this
kind of business. Who was that guy, some kind of... undercover agent?"

"His name is Everett Bookhouser, and he's a congressional aide. Come on, Marta's waiting."

"An aide. Why do I not believe that?"

Anthony stared at the door a second, then looked back at Gail. "He said he's an advisor to the House Intelligence Committee. Is he more than that? Maybe he is."

"He's in the CIA! Oh, please, it's so obvious. What did he tell you?"

"Gail, I don't want to discuss it."

"Is this room bugged or something?"

"Of course it isn't. Gail, I told you before we left Miami, please stay out of this. I shouldn't have said anything to you."