Finally seeing him, the first thing I thought was: Taino?
He didn't seem to have much Indian in him. A little bit of Arawak, perhaps, with his goshawk nose… and the way he stayed within himself, showing nothing, taking things in through black eyes… a guy who was above it all and without much patience. Otherwise, he was gray skinned but with a paunchy Castilian face. Probably thirty or so, but looked older, with his wild black hair curling around elongated ears and his black mustache and goatee. Pretty big guy, six two maybe, but looked soft beneath a white guayabera shirt and baggy white slacks. I noticed that he wore strings of beads around his neck and both wrists, and that beads were sewn into the collar of his shirt-red and white plastic beads. He came out of the shadows with two other men who had to walk fast to keep up, as if being hauled along in the guy's slipstream.
He gave me a peremptory glance and was done with me; didn't seem to see the boy at all. Went to the map table, where Tomlinson and Rita had already stepped aside to give him room. Told Valdes, "Get everything together. We're leaving right away," before he looked at Tomlinson and said in Spanish, "How have you been doing with the map? Did you get any messages, any feelings concerning where we should look?"
Talking to him as if he were some kind of psychic-the two of them simpatico, one prophet to another.
Tomlinson made a rocking motion with an open palm. "Nothing definite, man, but some very serious vibes. I just don't feel tuned in the way I need to be."
I expected Rita to translate-she'd been doing it all evening-but not this time.
No… apparently, Taino understood English. He was nodding, thumb and index finger to his lips, giving the problem serious thought. "You have the power; I know you have the power." He said that as if speaking to himself.
"Power? Oh-h-h-h, have no fear about that one. God wouldn't send me down here without enough juice to get the job done. Thing is… what it might be? Those peyote buttons had a very beneficial effect; added just the right kick. Maybe a couple more of those would put me in tiptop shape." Being coy about it, as if he were back at Harvard В¦ hustling drugs.
Taino was thinking about it. "Perhaps… perhaps. But there's also a ceremony that might help. A very special ceremony"-he checked his watch-"we might have time. It has to be done at midnight or noon
… it's meaningless, any other time. So we have only a few hours because, of course, tomorrow would be too late."
I wondered about that-it was now around midnight. Christmas Eve. What was so special about Christmas Day to a Santeria priest?
Taino had made up his mind. "Yes, that's what we'll do. A sacrifice to Chango. Are you familiar with Chango?"
Tomlinson said, "Like a god? I've met so many, man, they're starting to run together. You know from what solar system?"
Taino wasn't listening. "We will take this map and ask a blessing on it… I'll do the ceremony, and my apprentices"-he indicated the two men behind him; both very black, very attentive and dressed in pure white-"they'll see to finding several chickens. And a goat, too, perhaps? Mr. Tomlinson will, of course, participate."
I couldn't believe I was listening to this nonsense. I waited a little while longer, becoming impatient, getting madder, while they discussed the' details of this voodoo ceremony-"Orlando, we will pour the blood into bowls and you will carry them"-before I'd had enough. Who in the hell was this guy, Taino, to be controlling everyone in the room? While he was still talking, I walked to the table, put my hand on his shoulder. I wasn't at all surprised that he froze, as if, in touching him, I'd committed some blasphemy. He stood very still, looking straight ahead, as I said, "I hate to interrupt, mister, but you people were supposed to bring a friend of mine. Her name's Dewey. I think her well-being is a hell of a lot more important than standing around listening to you plan your party."
I said it in English. If he could understand Tomlinson, he could understand me.
Taino didn't reply. He kept looking straight ahead, everything quiet, then turned and stared at my hand on his shoulder. I gave it a little time then removed it. I expected him to turn and say something to me but, instead, he spoke to Tomlinson: "This is your friend? The one who brought the money?"
Everyone stood listening, very tense… except for Rita, who seemed to be enjoying it-what do I care?
Tomlinson said, "Did I forget my manners? You two haven't been formally introduced-" as Taino interrupted him, saying to Valdes: "Have you gotten the money from him yet?"
It seemed to be an awkward point with Valdes. "We never really got around to discussing that… issue."
"Then discuss that issue. We need it. It's part of our agreement."
Agreement? I looked from Tomlinson to Rita, then back to Tomlinson. He gave me an expression-it's no big deal, man-as Rita said, "That's what I was trying to make you understand earlier. These people are trying to help us. You think my great uncle's people are after us because they want to turn what we find over to Castro? No way. They want it for themselves. It's them we're hiding from, not the military, not the government. This is personal-we're talking about an old man whom everybody in my family despised."
In a fractured, chaotic Cuba, it was certainly possible that even Angel Santoya-his top men, more likely-were acting independently. That the same might be true of other bureaucrats, other agencies, was a startling realization. Because Castro had chosen to ride Cuba's collapse to the ground, it was not unlikely that a kind of slow-motion anarchy now reigned. It was survival time; every agency, every department, every bureaucrat out for themselves.
It made me think of Rosario…
I said to Rita, "I give them the money, they provide protection. What else?"
To Valdes, Taino said, "Tell him that Ochoa will divide the Santoya fortune evenly with the woman, and we will see that all of you have safe passage out of Cuba."
Why did I have the feeling that everyone except for Tomlinson was lying to me?
In Spanish, I said, "Mister, if you want me involved in a discussion, speak to me directly. But I'll tell you something right now: You won't see the first cent until I know Dewey's safe and until Tomlinson's on his sailboat, headed for international waters. You do those two things, yeah, we'll sit down and talk."
Valdes said, "The boat's already been taken care of. It's waiting for you now. The papers, the clearance-whenever he's ready."
"Where?"
"That is something you'll learn later."
"That leaves Dewey. When she gets here, when we're all on Tomlinson's boat, then you'll get the money. Not until then."
To Tomlinson, Taino said, "He is a very irritating man, this friend of yours."
"Doc? Yeah, Doc rides on single rails… pisses me off all the time. With him, it's always like: Why be someone pleasant and interesting when you can be yourself?"
There, that sounded like the old Tomlinson-giving me one of his private digs.
"He didn't know about our agreement?"
I moved a little closer to Taino, breaching that delicate perimeter of personal space. "Unless the agreement's with me, you don't have an agreement. I don't think I'm being unreasonable. Produce my friend, we'll talk."
Taino whirled away, scattering his assistants, arms held aloft-I'm not going to listen to any more of this!-as he snapped, "We are leaving! Valdes, he will ride with you!"
Meaning me, I guessed. Not an ideal situation, allowing ourselves to be split like that: separate, isolate, and destroy. It is an old and effective technique.
But I had no choice.
Which was maybe why I was getting so much satisfaction out of irritating the guy. "Only if you're taking me to Dewey-"
"Yes!"
I had another thought. Looked at Santiago. Where was he more likely to get something to eat? Midnight, alone on the street, or tagging along with me? I called after Taino: "And the boy-he's going, too."
Valdes, still very nervous, started to say, "That's impossible, I'm afraid-" but stopped when Taino yelled, "Do you think I care about such details?"
We left by separate exits-me, Valdes, and the boy together, the others taking different corridors. Came out into an alley I'd never been into, streets I didn't recognize.
People still out milling in the shadows. I saw several children huddled beneath cardboard. A few cars; most of them turtling along in the dark, saving their batteries, saving their expensive headlights.
Valdes said, "It's so late, the police may stop us. Please, let me do the talking unless you're asked a direct question. Are you carrying your passport? They'll know you're an American."
I was carrying a passport. My real passport was at the Masaguan Embassy along with slightly more than $9,000 in cash. To retrieve either, I'd have to show up personally or someone would have to come with a note signed by me.
The note would have to include a telling code word- Pilar-or the funds would not be released.
Valdes knew where he was going, and pretty soon I realized that he was trying to fit a key into my rental car. It'd been moved, but it was the same little brown Nissan.
I found that reassuring. I'd left the keys in our room at the Havana Libre. If they had the keys, they probably had Dewey, too.
Valdes said, "I'm supposed to drive," as if apologizing; once again a reasonable man, comfortable with himself now that we were away from Taino. "It's not far. An hour, maybe."
As Santiago scooched himself into the tiny backseat, he asked, "Are they really going to kill some chickens?"
Valdes waited until he had pulled out into the street before he answered. "They probably will. It's what they do." His tone saying that he wasn't a part of that, didn't approve of it, didn't understand it. Then watched him in the dash lights, smiling, when Santiago said, "After they do that. Kill those chickens, I mean. You think they would mind if I cooked one and ate it?"
With the sea off to our right, we took the Malecon to Ve-dado, then turned onto Fifth Avenue with its broad pavement, iron gates, and wedges of dilapidated mansions showing through branches of laurel trees, the night sea occasionally breaking free of high-rises to flood the northern horizon.
Lots of stars suspended in that Gulf Stream void… Florida somewhere out there beneath a Caribbean macrodome… then Sanibel Island, tiny on a slick of black ocean, its old white lighthouse strobing… a darkened stilthouse, too, with an unattended fish tank; no one around to check salinity or pH or oxygen content…
I thought: Damn you, Tomlinson.
Passing through Miramar and Embassy Row-some of the estates converted into tenements now-Valdes drove with both hands tight on the wheel; clutch-bucked the car when pulling away from stop signs.
Automotive skills, I already knew, were among the first casualties of a Third World economy.
At one point, I said to him, "Think you'll like driving once you get the hang of it?"
Valdes, a little sheepish, said, "Before the petroleum crisis, I had a… there was another person who always drove me to work. That was before everyone starting using a bicycle."
Now we were on the Coastal Highway and the boy was curled up, asleep, in the back. I decided to try to make some conversation, maybe learn something, as we twisted up the steep hills of Sierra del Rosario toward Mariel Harbor. I started out by telling Valdes about myself, how I knew Tomlinson, what I did for a living, how out of place I felt in these strange circumstances-"I keep pinching myself to see if I'm really doing this shit"-saying all the things that we were once taught to say to make our captors see us as humans, to create a bond.
It was the opposite dynamic to making war: dehumanize the enemy.
Now, his turn, I said, "So what do you do when you're not planning to overthrow the government?"
That got a slight smile. He drove for a while, hunched over the steering wheel, before he said, "It's something I shouldn't talk about. It's… the way we keep it. No one really knows what anyone else does, who anyone else is." Drove for a while longer before he said, "It's… a party technique. A way of protecting information. Are you familiar with the word 'cell,' what it means?"
As in a revolutionary cell and, yeah, I knew exactly what it meant. But said, "Nope, and I don't want to know if you can't tell me. You have any family?"
I listened to him tell me about the wife who'd left him for a man who had an important position in the government, a party official who was really nothing more than a party informant, and who took their two daughters out of his life-"She said I was just too idealistic…"
I listened to him tell me about the family from which he came-"They were half devil, half angel…"-before I said, "I hope this doesn't offend you, but you seem way too educated to believe in this Santeria bullshit. You went to college, right? The way you handle yourself, you could be a college professor. Or maybe in charge of some important government department."
I was thinking: Like something to do with shipping?
Silence…
We drove a mile, then another mile. I had pretty much decided Valdes wasn't going to answer when he said, "It doesn't matter whether I believe in Santeria or not, because… well, look at it this way. Thirty, thirty-five years ago, the African religions played no part in the politics of Cuba. Today, they are the politics of Cuba. Santeria is perfect for Cubans because it mixes Catholicism with the old African religions. The Santeros can go to church and pray to… well, say Our Lady the Virgin and it's the same as praying to Oshun. Because the slaves used to have to disguise their gods, understand?"
In a way, I did. Catholic churches were similarly used by the Maya in Central America.
Valdes said, "Fidel's policies key off the predications of the Santeria priests. He relies on them to control the masses, yet they also rely on Fidel. It's because the Santeria people have always looked upon him as an elegido, a leader chosen by God. Are you aware of all the coincidences, all the strange things that tie Fidel to Santeria?"
I said, "Not a clue" and sat there looking through the windshield, seeing the countryside-driving through cane-fields now, a black wall of stalks on both sides-as Valdes listed the reasons. Fidel's revolution triumphed on January first, the holiest of Santeria days; the day the Babalaos meet and predict the coming year's events. The red and black in the flag chosen by Fidel were the colors of Ellegua, the Santeria god of destiny. Many of Castro's men wore red and black beads, as did many Santeria believers. But the most powerful and important connection occurred January 8, 1959. Castro was in the middle of a speech when two doves circled him, then one landed on his shoulder. Just sat there, according to Valdes, while the great man continued to speak.
"It was one of the most important events in Cuban history, that ridiculous little bird choosing Fidel's shoulder to land on. To Santeria believers, doves are a messenger of Obatala, the Son of God-the equivalent of Jesus. He's the creator of human hopes and dreams. Imagine the reaction of an audience of Christians if Jesus descended and touched the shoulder of your president. That is not an exaggeration. Since that afternoon forty years ago, Fidel has been embraced by Santeria as the holy man in power. The economy, health care, food shortages-nothing else matters. And he'll remain in power as long as the priests allow him… or until Fidel finds a way to demonstrate to the Santeria people that he is also a Babalao, a more powerful priest."
More powerful? That was no offhand comment. Valdes had thought this all through.
He gave it another long pause before he said, "You are right, I'm very well educated. I'm too well educated to ignore the power of Santeria."
I said, "Yes, but if the Santeria colors are red and black, why does your guy, Taino, wear red and white beads? He had them everywhere."
"Because Taino follows a different god. He's a follower of Chango-remember listening to him? When he was talking about performing the ceremony. Chango's the god of fire and war; a very powerful god, they believe." He hesitated a moment before he added, "The way you asked the question is not quite correct. Taino's not my guy."
"So you don't believe?" What I wanted to establish was that Valdes and I had something in common. If things really went bad, I might need him.
He said, "With my mind… no. But there are things I've seen, things that have happened… like when your friend Tomlinson was tested by Taino-it's a kind of ceremony.
I sat through it expecting the same kinds of… dumb conviction? Yes, dumb conviction. But then I saw this man… this gringo, under Taino's spell, touch a map and tell Taino things that a gringo could not possibly know. Cuba's four Santeria power places. I didn't know where they are. Only the Babalaos know. But I watched this man Tomlinson touch them on the map, one by one."
I was tempted to point out that if Valdes didn't know where these places were, how could he be certain Taino wasn't just putting on a show?
I remained quiet, as he said, "Then Taino asked him to touch the place where Taino was born. This was a test, you understand. And Tomlinson did that."
I said, "You already knew where?"
"Yes, in an eastern province called Oriente, a village called Mayari in the Sierra Maestra. I watched him touch that place on the map. And then your friend said something strange but very convincing. Tomlinson began to smile and he said to Taino, 'Ruz, your father's name is Ruz, and… you two have…' " Valdes had to think about it for a moment. "No, he said, 'You and Ruz are duplicate spirits.' Then your friend told Taino, 'But your powers are greater.' "
Typical Tomlinson gibberish… still, something about the combination of places and names nagged at me: Ruz… Mayari… Sierra Maestra…
Why?
I thought about it while I asked Valdes, "How did Taino react to that?"
Valdes said, "Taino became very excited. First, he sees the symbol of Ochoa burned into Tomlinson's temple, then he speaks the name of Taino's father; tells him his powers are greater. A Babalao like Taino, what's he going to think? He is convinced that Tomlinson was sent by Chango."
I was thinking: Good…
Tomlinson clearly had some leverage with Taino-no small consideration when dealing with a pompous, egocen-trie crank. And Valdes was a rational man. I could reason with Valdes.
One way or the other, we should be able to work out a deal. I pay them X-amount of U.S. dollars, Tomlinson spends a few more hours-no more than that-pointing at places on a map, in exchange for which they use their contacts to free Tomlinson's boat. Had already cleared it, Valdes said. By tomorrow evening, the next day at the latest, Dewey and I would be aboard No Mas, sailing the twelve miles toward international waters and freedom. And if I had to drag Tomlinson aboard kicking and screaming, I'd do it.
In fact, I'd kind of enjoy it, after what that emaciated little freak had put me through.
As to Rita Santoya…? She could come with us or she could stay in Cuba and play her tough-guy role. Let her decide.
I was feeling pretty good… even when we topped a ridge and I looked down into what I knew to be Mariel Harbor. A big lake of a harbor shaped a little like an upside-down dragon's head. The eastern rim, where we now were, was forested highlands. Along the two-and-a-half-mile shoreline was an abandoned naval academy, near which was a sheer bluff said to be a favorite of Fidel's firing squads.
Snake the dissidents away in darkness, line them up on the bluff, shoot them, let them tumble-down rock and cactus two hundred feet into the water, and there wouldn't be much evidence left when the fish and sharks were done.
"In prison," authorities would say. "Still in prison for their crimes."
All it took was Fidel, who was an insomniac, and a telephone beside his bed.
Also along the eastern shore were several industrial-size loading quays, Piers One through Four, a cement factory that once cast a continual gray smog over the area, and a Special Forces training base run by the Russians, called Point Lenin. That, too, had probably been abandoned when the Soviets pulled out.
Across the harbor, across water that was gray beneath starlight, the shoreline was lower but less uniform. There was mangrove and marshland. An arm of peninsula-I couldn't remember the name of it-was an extended darkness, like an unfinished bridge. Two or three distant lights showing on the peninsula where there had once been a line of wooden barracks… looked like campfires, maybe, star-points bright as spider eyes.
I wondered if there was still a small airfield there; wondered if, down by the water, there was still a ragged baseball diamond with its chicken-wire backstop. I was remembering it from 1980, the twelve days I'd spent in Mariel Harbor during the boat lift. A thousand American boats anchored in their own effluvium, tens of thousands of Cuban refugees crowded into holding fields near Pier Three, everyone waiting in the heat and the stink and the boredom, VHF radios and bullhorns blaring, searchlights scanning the harbor at night and the occasional clatter of automatic-weapons fire.
Ten of those twelve days spent watching a forty-two-foot sailboat named Peregrine… the bright spot of each day being at lunch or late in the afternoon when the airstrip personnel carried their gear to the diamond and played baseball. Cubans, they loved the game…
"That's strange." Valdes said it more to himself, looking in the rearview mirror.
"What's strange?"
"To have traffic on the road at this hour. But… maybe it's Taino. He drives so fast, though, he usually arrives long before I do."
I turned to look. Didn't see any headlights. Kept watching until I saw a glimmer of windshield or bumper a mile or so back. Not so uncommon to drive in darkness in a country where a headlight cost a month's salary. Still… I didn't like it.
"You mind telling me where we're headed? Or is it some kind of revolutionary secret?"
A brief smile from Valdes-Americans, what jokers they were. ' The Santeria have a retreat on the other side of the harbor; the government people won't come near it. There are buildings where we can sleep. And Taino keeps a cook there. Pretty good food when they can get it. Angosta Airfield, that's what it used to be called."
Angosta Peninsula-that was the name.
I was still looking back at the distant vehicle. Was it getting closer?
"Why is it off-limits to government people?"
"It's not off-limits, they just wouldn't go there. It would displease the Santeria gods, bring them bad luck because it's been sanctified. Like a holy place, but one that's guarded by… something, I can't think of the name. Like evil spirits. One of Taino's jokes is that Fidel couldn't find a Cuban brave enough to follow us into Angosta. Unless he was first invited."
"Is there any other road to Angosta?"
"No. This is the only one."
"You're certain of that?"
"Of course I am."
I was liking it less and less. I was turning around to tell him to speed up, get to Angosta when, up ahead, I saw a brief strobe of brake lights… a vehicle turning. To block the narrow road? It was possible. I couldn't tell.
"Stop the car."
The tone of the voice startled Valdes. "What?"
I put my hand on his arm and squeezed. "Stop the car now."
He was downshifting, pumping the brake. "But why?"
I was already opening my door. I said, "I'm driving."