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Kempner—Swimming With Fidel (pages 241-270) 1

Reminder:

It’s Saturday, January 3rd, the third day of the revolution.

After Jacobo’s fight with Quinto—who shot himself and was whisked away to a hospital—which many neighbors witnessed, Isaac’s stay at Jacobo’s house is known. The thugs who’d been canvassing the area are likely to find out where Isaac is. Jacobo’s father asked him to find Paco, his trusted cab driver. Jacobo thinks he knows how but needs a ride to the docks. Ñato, the former Golden Gloves boxing champion, decided to hang with Jacobo, even tagging along when visiting Billy. Neither Billy (car shot-up) nor Ruben (scheming something in an art gallery) could provide Jacobo with the needed ride. Jacobo is in a bind; he must move Isaac before the thugs return.

43

“Psst.”

Matilda?

I twisted my head toward the Gallardo’s front door, though even as I did so, I knew the sound had

originated on the other side.

“Psst!”

Señora Meneses’ door was ajar, exposing nothing but darkness inside.

A bony, pale hand urged me closer.

Why would Señora Meneses want me? I took a tentative step toward her door.

“Señora Meneses?” I said.

An arm clad in black silk reached out, pulled me in, and closed the door.

The change from light to dark was abrupt.

“They were here,” Señora Meneses said. She’d all but vanished in the gloom.

A short candle atop a breakfront, a small oasis of light illuminating a tiny crèche, provided all the

light in the room.


I may not have known much about the birth of Christ—in truth, almost nothing—but I knew

about el dia de Los Reyes Magos, when the Magi left Cuban kids their Christmas presents under their

beds. Not me, of course, though as a kid, I woke-up hoping every seven of January.

“They were here,” Señora Meneses turned on a table lamp and led me by the hand to a sofa the

color of pea soup.

I hesitated before sitting down. Behind the sofa, shining as if made of gold, an oversized cross

bearing the figure of the crucified Christ dominated the room,

“I told them nothing, but I fear they’ll soon find out,” she said.

“What?”

“Where your uncle is!”

“He isn’t my uncle. Who was here?”

Señora Meneses described a tall, thin man with a pronounced Adam’s apple.

“He’s one of them, isn’t he?” She said.

She relayed their conversation, including her questions to the young man. Her memory for details

was remarkable before assuring me that he hadn’t learned anything from her and she doubted he

learned anything from the Gallardos either. “After all,” she added, “Matilda helped you carry you uncle

when you brought him here.”

Nothing escaped Señora Meneses’s inquisitive eye.

“Someone will talk, though. People like to talk. What do they want with him?” She said.

“Nothing good.”

She asked me some of the same questions she’d asked the young man with the pronounced

Adam’s apple. I assured her Isaac wasn’t a Batistiano, only a gambler with outstanding IOUs.

“What are you going to do?”

I couldn’t imagine a worse idea than confiding on the building’s busybody.


I did.

I told her that I’d planned to move him to a safer place but hadn’t been able to find a ride.

That’s when another life jacket was tossed almost within reach.

I couldn’t remember how many years had passed since her husband’s death, whether he’d owned

a car, whether she’d kept it and if so, whether she would lend it to me?

How I wished I knew how to drive. No matter. I could ask Billy to do the driving. He could help

me sneak Isaac out that night and next day I could proceed more or less as planned: find Paco, have

him drive me to Guines to lay a false trail.

I was so engrossed amending my original plan that her words didn’t register.

“Bring your uncle here,” she said.

“What?”

“I have an empty bedroom and,” she leaned forward and in a hushed voice with a tinge of

merriment said, “they will never imagine I was harboring him.”

Wow.

“I…ah…I don’t think that would work,” I said, eyeing the barely discernible statue of Saint

Lazarus, recognizable by the cane and the dogs.

“Why not?”

Because Isaac would freak out.

I explained that Isaac followed strict dietary rules. “He keeps Kosher.”

“I keep Kosher,” she said.

“You don’t understand.” Her eagerness to help was endearing, but very few Cubans had even

heard of keeping Kosher.

“Oh, but I do. I don’t eat pork, or shellfish. Nor did anyone in my family. I never knew why we

followed such a strange custom until your mother explained it to me.”


“My mother?”

“It was the candles. For as long as I remember we lit candles every Friday before sundown. That

has been the custom in my family, transmitted from mother to daughter for heaven knows how long. I

still do, religiously, every Friday. When I spoke to your mother it all fell in place. I’m Jewish.”

“No you are not!”

“My ancestors were. In 1492, when Queen Isabella gave the Jews the choice between deportation

or Christianity, many converted in name only. Since I spoke to your mother, I read about the

“conversos,” Jews who remained in Spain and practiced their religion in secret. At some point they

stopped feigning, converted for real, but kept the old family traditions.”

“You…cannot mean you are Jewish,” my hand swept toward the assembly of statues, icons and

paintings.

“No, no, I'm a devout Catholic, I believe in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, our Lord

and Savior, and I know he won't return to earth until the Jews accept him and convert. But like Jesus, I

have Jewish blood, which makes me twice blessed. I won't feed your uncle anything he wouldn't eat.”

My knee-jerk reactions gravitate towards saying no, a flaw in my character, a lack of openness to

new experiences for which I often scold myself; of course, there are all the other times when I berate

myself for saying yes too easily and getting myself in all sort of troubles.

“It’s a very generous offer. Lemme see what Isaac says.”

Swimming toward the phantom life jacket, I'd found Terra Firma. This hideout would be perfect

for one night. Next morning I could find Paco, move Isaac to Tante Rivka's, and get on with my plan.

As a side benefit, I would get my bed back.

I was almost out the front door when Señora Meneses grabbed me by the arm—it was getting to

be a habit. She leaned in close and whispered in my ear: “Stay away from Matilda, she isn’t right for

you.”


~~

Father proposed we move him later, closer to midnight.

I said no. Now.

Isaac refused to be moved.

Too fucking bad.

My little sister kept watch while Father and I helped Isaac down the steps and into Señora

Meneses’ apartment. No one saw us. If they did, they only glimpsed what little was observable through

their peepholes because no doors sprung open as we struggled with the old man.

Señora Meneses was delighted that Isaac had accepted her invitation.

When I thanked and told her it would be for only one night, she said, “nonsense, he can stay as

long as needed.”

Father helped Isaac get settled. Mami served dinner as soon as he returned and took his place at

the head of the table.

Mami expressed her worries about our dwindling food supply. My little sister, who’d spent most

of the day watching TV or talking on the phone, related some of the latest news, where Fidel was, what

he’d said.

At first their words registered, but soon, they dissolved in air.

I wondered why Señora Meneses had volunteered. I didn't mean to question my good fortune, but

her arguments had been strange. Could it be the excitement? She'd been thrilled by her interaction with

a thug. Perhaps she wanted more adventure in her life. Or maybe she needed and audience, someone to

listen to all the things she knew about everyone.

I’d come back from Billy’s foreseeing imminent doom, concocting possible avenues to pursue,

with little hope that any of them would yield a positive result, and poof, thanks to Señora Meneses, all

my worries were gone.


I felt strange, buoyant, so light I might have floated away.

I had nothing to do.

It was Saturday night.

I always went out on Saturday nights

There was time to shower, get dressed—a long-sleeved guayabera would cover my

mercurochromed forearm—and crash the quinceañera to find out what Ernesto thought was so

“special” about the fifteen-year-old birthday girl.


44

Activation energy is the amount of energy required for a chemical reaction to proceed. My dancing

activation energy was two Scotch whiskys.

“To loosen my limbs,” was my standard disclaimer.

Not that anyone cared—other than Ernesto.

I did like to dance. Whoever invented slow, cheek to cheek dancing must have been awarded a

Nobel.

My problem was that first I needed the courage to ask a girl I didn't know whether she wanted to

dance. The prettier the girl, the more likely she was to say no, or worse, to turn her head away and

ignore the short, unattractive boy with acne and unruly hair who'd had the nerve to address her.

At the quinceañera, the bartender stock was limited to beer, Hatuey or Polar, and Bacardi rum,

white or añejo. He also had buckets filled with chilled bottles of Spanish Sidra, for a special toast no

doubt. Wild horses couldn't make me drink sparkling cider.

“Hatuey, por favor.” I wasn’t much of a beer drinker. I nursed one while two barbudos, long hair

combed, uniforms clean and pressed, monopolized the girls. They deserved the attention. I shouldn’t

have resented them.

They left after half an hour, amid applause, shoulder pats, and shouts of “viva la revolución.” I

shouldn't have been pleased by their departure, but my guayabera paled against their olive drab.

“Dos Cuba Libres, por favor,” I said to the bartender.

I felt better after the first sip.

No other cocktail could have been more appropriate for such a joyful occasion in such a happy,


well deserved, and long overdue time for our island. That one sip informed me of the bartender's

patriotic bent: these Cuba Libres were heavy on Cuban rum and light on American Coca-Cola.

Ernesto chuckled when he saw me approach, a drink in each hand. Unlike me, he knew the steps

to every dance and excelled at them all. No girl who saw him dance would dare turn him away; if that

wasn't enough, he could always flash his million watts smile.

Ernesto referred to my indispensable two drinks as a crutch. He knew me better than anyone else,

or did he? He didn’t drink, smoke or frequent whorehouses, which led me to question how we got to be

such good friends.

After I’d overcome my activation energy barrier and sashayed over to a girl, in time to the music,

all went well. Almost. I got one “no thank you,” which was more than enough to reinforce my fear of

rejection.

I danced and drank and laughed and told jokes and changed partners until I'd held in my arms

half the girls at the party.

I'd recognized the birthday girl. She'd been one of the three girls outside La Vibora high school

on January first. I saw the trio before boarding Antonio's Jeep and noticed her because she was taller

than her friends, and very white, with cascading black hair partly covered by a red head scarf. It had

been no more than a fleeting glance. Had I been asked if she was pretty, I would have said I hadn't seen

her close enough; she had something, though. I stared at her as the Jeep drove away, trying to figure out

what that something was.

The quinceañera’s lips were painted a light shade of pink, and her lustrous black hair flowed

down to bare shoulders so pale, they may have never seen the sun.

She looked older than fifteen in her strapless gown the color of the sea before a storm.

Nope. She wasn’t my type.

I liked honey blondes, tanned girls with American smiles, shapely legs, and curves.


Of the quinceañera's legs, all I could see were graceful ankles girded by the sexy, thin straps

topping her high heel shoes.

She was dancing, flirting, gossiping, laughing, flitting from room to room, not to be sociable, not

to speak to her aunts and uncles and cousins and whichever other grown-ups sought a word, a glance, a

touch, but because the music moved her, dancing with one boy, then another, ever drifting toward the

rear, were only kids filled the open air, enclosed patio shaded from the moon by large trees and barely

illuminated by hanging strings of colored lights.

I followed her, unseen, stopping when she stopped, dancing when she danced, near, but invisible.

There was something about her; I couldn't tell what.

In the patio, a girl grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor. We'd danced before. She'd

been another of the three girls outside La Vibora high. I only knew because she told me. I didn't

remember her. She claimed to remember me, then she giggled as if she knew something I didn't.

We danced cha-chas, mambos, paso-dobles, sambas. I grew oblivious to the new steps, happy to

let the music course through me, happy for the pretext to remain near, yet anonymous. I excused myself

when they started doing Ruedas.

These were choreographed steps performed by the men on the dance floor, a gimmick invented at

El Casino Deportivo, from where it had spread, like a disease.

Each small clique of boys invented their own step sequence, which they practiced and perfected.

My dance partner didn't release my hand. Trapped, I stumbled through the Rueda, feigning

amusement at my mistakes, an interloper among the annoyed boys. It went on and on; the longest

Rueda on record. When we returned to our partners, I found the birthday girl in my arms.

She exhibited no trace of surprise, no horror at being in the arms of a party crasher.

I mumbled an excuse when the song ended and tried to slink away, but even as she spun away to

address whoever was loading a fresh stack of 45s into the record player, she held on.


She may not have been aware she’d changed partners.

Fess up. Apologize.

I would compliment her on her big day and on her party and promise to leave right away.

I hope she doesn’t make a scene.

I turned to face her, looked up—in her heels she was an inch taller than me—and prepared to

deliver my little speech as the notes of a bolero filled the air.

She too turned. We’d never been so close, or face to face before.

I fell into her eyes.

~~

We swayed to the music, not quite dancing, my left arm extended, my hand cradling hers, my other arm

at my side. She was looking right at me, and I stared at her, trying to remember what I'd planned to say,

trying to decipher the color of her eyes.

They reminded me of caramel, of the delicious burned sugar layer on flan, though not as sweet,

not with the impishness lurking at the edge of those eyes.

Café con leche. Yes. That was it. Her eyes were the same shade as a café con leche with the

exact, right balance of café, milk, and sugar. There was kindness and playfulness and satisfaction and

so much more in those wide apart, calm eyes.

I placed my hand on the small of her back. Her dress was moist with perspiration.

“You have been following me around all night,” she said.

“No…Well…”

“I don’t like being stalked.”

“No, no…I mean…”

Her eyes half closed, she drifted closer, her eyelashes tickled my face, her face radiated heat, and

when our cheeks touched, a thrill surged through me, raising goosebumps, temperature, and everything


else.

I pulled back at the waist. I meant no offense by my involuntary response.

She acted as if she hadn’t noticed, swaying weightless to the slow beat, molding herself into me,

her rhythmic breathing caressing my ear, her body’s scent a fiery mixture of sweat and flowers.

My will ebbed away.

I sensed the chop, the arm descending, cleaving the space between us before the punch on the

chest shoved me back.

I opened my eyes—unaware they'd been closed—to the glare of the strings of lights overhead, to

a short, frowning, middle-aged woman in too-tight a dress.

“Mariposa, mija, por Dios, por favor…” the woman said.

“Tia Julia,” the girl said, moving farther away.

The music stopped, replaced by voices, noise. The patio walls closed in, the crowd pulsed and

swayed around us, before parting like the Red sea.

A couple carrying glasses and bottles emerged. Her parents, I assumed.

The father offered the girl a wide mouth champagne glass which she held while he filled it with

bubbling Sidra.

The father kissed her on the forehead, slung an arm around her shoulders and raised his glass to

everyone's cheers. The mother's smile displayed perfect, white teeth that echoed the string of pearls

around her neck. The smile was broad but didn't extend as far as her eyes, which were fixed on me.

Toast followed toast. I had no glass, so I raised my empty hand until a full glass was thrust within

my grasp, and I joined the myriad other voices drifting up to the sky in the garden under the shady trees

on the back of the house, murky but for the crisscrossing strings of dim, multicolored bulbs.

I tried to move away from the limelight; the crowd wouldn't allow it.

Her father added a sentimental little speech about her little girl before we raised our glasses of


Sidra once again. More flashbulbs went off. My glass was replenished. We drank to her, to the

revolution, to some award she'd received at Las Ursulinas, which I hoped referred to her Catholic

school and not a convent she was about to join.

The girl’s mother didn’t offer a toast. She kept the smile on her face. Every so often she turned

her head and stared vitriol at me.

Disembodied voices in the crowd offered toasts, so many that I lost track, as well as the number

of glasses of sparkling cider I’d downed. So many that I heard myself proposing a toast.

The birthday girl and I ended up on opposite corners of the patio. Other boys danced with her

until, as the party was ending, we danced again, keeping a respectable distance between our bodies,

while people interrupted to kiss, hug, say goodbye, “what fun we had,” and “Viva Cuba!”

The line of departing well-wishers swept her away, and I lost sight of her café con leche eyes.

I’d almost made it out when the girl I’d danced with before, the girl who’d been outside La

Vibora and who’d claimed to remember me, whispered a phone number in my ear.

Ernesto was waiting outside.

As usual, we started to walk, with no destination in mind.

“Didn’t I tell you it would be a special party?” He said.

I told him about the other girl, the one who gave me her phone number.

“You sure it’s hers?”

“Who else?”

“How about the birthday girl?”

“You think? I don’t even know her name.”

“You are such an ass,” he said, a big smile on his face. “Of course it's the birthday's girl number.

The other girl is her friend, the go-between, the one who told me to bring you to the party. How can

you not know her name? You danced with her. You proposed a toast.”


“To mariposa, a butterfly, her nickname.”

His laughter was infectious, never failing to make me laugh along, or at least smile.

“Didn’t you talk? You do more talking than dancing.”

“I was afraid.”

“Well, she does have scary eyes,” Ernesto said.

“You don't like her eyes? I think they are…they are the most…I couldn't stop staring at them. I

was scared because she would know I crashed the party.”

“For someone so…you can be so dense,” Ernesto said. “Of course she knew, and her name is

Mariposa, you idiot.”


January 4, 1959

Sunday

Day four of the Cuban revolution.


45

The outside air was still and free of sounds; no sirens, firefights, or loud voices, a welcomed change

from the party.

It was past midnight and there was a curfew of sorts: Fidel had requested that everyone stay

home at night.

We came across a couple of barbudos leaning against a wall, their rifles held loosely. They

straightened out when they saw us, made their weapons ready but didn't point them at us. I offered

them cigarettes and a light. My hand was shaking, and I wobbled a bit. They suggested I may be a bit

drunk and we laughed at the notion. Ernesto explained that I'd been smitten, that I'd just fallen in love.

It made everyone laugh harder.

It was wonderful. We stood on the corner, smoking in silence—not Ernesto, of course, he didn’t

smoke. Before leaving the rebel soldiers, I offered them another cigarette. They each took one and put

it away for later. That had been silly: it was my last pack.

So many changes, and it had only been three days. Under Batista, we would have run away from

his policemen, his soldiers, his chivatos, from anyone with even a whiff of Batistiano.

“Think I should see the girl again?” I said.

“She liked you.”

“You think so?”

Ernesto exploded in laughter. “I watched you two dance. I kept waiting for her to start munching

on your ear.”

We walked through deserted streets.


“You think she knows I’m Jewish?”

“Her girlfriend asked me about you.”

“What did you say?”

“That you were my friend.”

“That’s it? You think she’d mind?”

“Being my friend?”

“Yeah, that for sure. My being a Jew. She goes to a Christian school.”

“She’ll find out soon enough, when she sees your pecker.”

“No, no, it’s not like that.”

“You don’t want to make love to her?”

“No, I don’t. I mean, yeah, sure, one day. Right now, all I want is to be with her.”

“You feel all right?” He reached as if to touch my forehead. “You are the one always trying to get

laid. How about your “shiksa?” Did you fuck her yet?”

“Shikse, not shiksa.”

Ernesto loved using Yiddish words, words he’d heard Mami use. Like meshuggeneh, his favorite

word to describe me.

“Matilda? That’s different. Mariposa is special.”

We parted at a point equidistant between our homes, on the Vista Alegre street corner where

barbudos in a Jeep were guarding the house of Batista's former DA. I waved to the barbudos. No one

waved back. They could be asleep. It was a good night for that. Crisp and hushed, my footsteps the

only sound to intrude on the silence.

I’d run down that same hill to confront Quinto only a few hours earlier. It seemed a lot longer

than that.

This time I was gliding down the street, thinking back to the party, the dancing, her cheek against


mine, the promise of seeing her again. Mariposa. What a perfect name. I felt…happy. How weird. I

checked my watch though it was too dark to make out the time.

Would it be too soon to call her, that afternoon, that very day?

The thought filled me with delicious anticipation. I would speak with her again. It was feasible.

Everything was. Cuba was a haven of possibilities, and for the past three days, the best place on the

planet, the place where I could be happy.

A sprinkling of parked cars slumbered on both sides of my block. The park across the street

loomed impenetrably black, as always. My front steps were deserted, much too late for Matilda’s last

cigarette of the day; just as well. I was in no mood for her. Light shone through the building’s upstairs

windows.

The sound of voices, and crying, reached me as I made my way up. Light poured out of our

apartment through the wide open door. I rushed in.

My sister was crying, and being consoled by a priest. Some neighbors were there as well, but not

my parents. What the hell—?

My sister jumped into my arms to cry in earnest. A couple of neighbors left, husband and wife,

“now that you are home,” they said. They were followed out by another, who patted me on the

shoulder, mumbling incomprehensible stuff, while I kept asking my little sister what was going on, and

she kept on crying, her tears spawning a warm, wet patch on my guayabera, until I stopped asking and

just held her.

The priest was last to leave. He too patted me on the shoulder, told me to lock the doors and that

he would see me in the morning, after Sunday Mass. His voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it,

I couldn’t place anything, I couldn’t even tell whether any of this was real.

When we were alone, I resumed my questioning. The more I asked, the more she cried.

She wanted to tell me but couldn’t. I waited for her to compose herself.


“Where were you?” She said.

“At a party, with Ernesto.”

“I have to wash my face,” she said.

I followed her into the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, looked at herself in the mirror

and started to cry again.

I put my arm around her shoulders, dabbed at her face with a towel and walked her to her

bedroom. We sat on her bed, my arm around her shoulders.

“We were watching TV, the news, that's all there is on TV. An interview with Che Guevara,” my

sister said. “There was a knock on the door. Mami went to answer. I remember her saying it must be

Jacobo; he must have forgotten his keys.”

“The animals pushed the door open, three of them, they grabbed Mami, put a choke hold around

the neck. Papi jumped up, but the one wearing dark glasses shoved him back. They threw Mami on the

sofa. She was coughing. One animal stayed with us while the other two searched the apartment. Papi

tried to get up again and the animal punched him in the chest. The guys who searched came back

shaking their head. ‘Where is he?’ one said and pulled out a gun.”

“That one got on Papi’s face, put the gun on his forehead and asked him what we did with Isaac.

Papi wouldn’t answer. He wouldn’t even speak. Mami was coughing and crying. The one with the dark

glasses—he speaks with a weird accent—was the boss. He hadn’t said anything and now tried to act

nice and friendly. He told us his name was Wilson, that nothing bad would happen to us, or Isaac, but

he had to find the old man. He needed Isaac to answer a few questions, nothing more.

Papi’s face was red, almost purple with anger. Then this Wilson guy shoved the other guy away,

pointed his gun at Papi and said no more Mr. nice guy, that he would shoot him, if he had to, and you

could see Papi had smoke coming out of his ears and then Wilson said, “okay, fine, as you wish, I'll

shoot your kid,” and he turned toward me and Papi swore at him in Polish and jumped up, grabbed at


him, and Wilson hit him with the gun and Papi dropped.”

“That's when I screamed. Wilson pointed the gun at me and came over and grabbed me by the

hair and told me to shut up, but I couldn't stop, the more he told me, the more I cried.”

“They must have heard me across the hallway because the twins pushed their way into the

apartment. One of them is now a priest,” she said. “Then there were a lot more people pouring in, the

neighbors, and more shoving and the bad guys were gone.”

“Where are they? Mami and Papi?”

“One of the neighbors drove Papi to the hospital. Mami went along after the twins said they

would look after me.”

A familiar ache took root on my left temple.

My sister agreed to go to bed on the condition that I stay with her.

She asked me to keep the light on. We spoke in dribs, she adding to the story, bringing up new

details. She asked if I'd known one of the twins was now a priest. I hadn't. She sobbed every time she

started to retell the story. I asked her not to tell me anything more, to think of other things.

She turned on her side, away from me, and fell asleep, one hand reaching over her side to hold

my hand. I waited until I heard her rhythmic breathing before walking into my parents' bedroom,

retrieving my gun and loading the three bullets.

I fashioned a sort of gun holder out of one of Mami’s flannel, conical cafe filters. I cut extra slits

into it, slid my belt through them, holstered my gun, took aspirins to combat the growing ache in my

head; the onset of a hangover or the build-up of anger.

I sat on the easy chair in the living room to wait for morning.

I crossed and uncrossed my legs, my arms. No position was comfortable. I clenched and

unclenched my jaw. My breathing was ragged. I concentrated on ways to calm myself.

Fear had crept up my throat and seized my jaws. Much like the time at the swim club when I


stood on the edge of the ten-meter diving platform, staring at the dark-blue club's emblem at the bottom

of the pool, another five meters down, knowing that I was five stories above it, knowing that I would

die if I jumped, and knowing that I would, that there was no other choice but to jump.

I couldn’t sit. I stood up and paced, into the dining room, around the table and back to the living

room, around the coffee table and back, like a caged beast, again and again until I plopped down on the

easy chair.

I tapped the gun in the coffee filter holster hanging from my belt.

Come morning my cage would open and I would devour my enemies.


46

My parents return woke me up. The emergency room doctor gave them a ride home at the end of his

shift. It had been on his way home; nonetheless, that had been nice of him.

The right side of Father’s forehead displayed a large, thick piece of gauze held in place by

adhesive tape. Three sutures had closed the gash. Blood running down his face had etched faint, red

streaks, on his cheek and neck, before staining his shirt collar.

The hospital diagnosis was a concussion. They told him not to lay down. “Stay awake,” he was

told.

“For how long?” I said.

“As long as he can.”

Mami went into my sister’s bedroom. She was still asleep. Mami asked me how she’d fared. I

told her that I’d sat with her until she fell asleep.

Dawn’s early rays were filtering in through the closed plantation shutters.

Mami went into the kitchen to make breakfast. I went into the kitchen with her, but she wouldn't

talk. She scrambled eggs and brewed café. I asked her about her neck. She said it was fine.

We were out of bread, so I ate the eggs with crackers, the type that came in big, square cans, the

kind Billy's housekeeper used for her galleticas preparadas. Father didn't eat. He always ate well, often

bragging that, as a young man in Warsaw, he'd eat a whole loaf of bread for lunch. “Real bread,” he

always added.

Father announced he was going to bed. Mami and I tried to convince him to stay in the living

room, to stay awake as he'd been ordered. He said he'd been awake long enough, that he hadn't blacked


out—my sister said he did—and that in the Polish army they had done much worse to him, topping it

off by making him clean the latrine.

Mami followed him into the bedroom.

I finished all the café and went to my room to change. My open window faced south and

overlooked a garden where vegetables were grown by people I never saw. Sometimes the aroma of

tilled earth wafted up. This time all I smelled was the lingering stench of Isaac's cigars. The bed was

made, the linen changed; for days I'd yearned to sleep in that bed.

I put on Jeans, a short sleeve shirt I left untucked, of course. The slits I’d made on the flannel

coffee filter hadn’t started to fray. It looked like the holster would hold up.

I laced up my high top Keds. Last time I’d worn those sneakers was to try out for the basketball

team. I’d done great, to no avail; the coach only cared that I was five-seven. That must have been over

two years ago.

I slipped into my sister’s bedroom. She and I threatened each other with sneaking into the other

one’s room to tickle their feet. Neither of us ever did so, but we both slept with our feet tucked into the

cover sheet to thwart any such attacks.

She was asleep; her cheeks flushed, her hair spread about her pillow like a halo. She looked like

an angel. I kissed her forehead. I could never have imagined it, but I would miss her.

I returned to my room, dug out the twenty-six of July, red and black armband Ernesto’s mother

had sewn for us, slipped it on my left arm and stole down the stairs, quiet as a shadow, pausing outside

Señora Meneses door, where I listened for any sound, and again at the building’s front door. I scanned

the park across the street, stepped out, looked right and left.

No one was out there. No suspicious cars. It was early Sunday Morning. It was quiet. The sky

threatened rain.

I pressed down on my gun—lest it escape its makeshift holster—as I sat down on the stoop atop


the front steps. Two marble-like plaster vases, one each on its pedestal on either side provided some

cover. After a minute I slid to the left side, to allow my right arm quicker access to the gun. I hadn't had

much sleep but was awake, as awake as I’d ever been.

The thugs would return. Early, before people were up. I figured this time they would shut-up my

sister before she could scream.

A car parked on my side of the street. A man and a woman emerged and went into their house,

their front gate complaining about the lack of oil. I knew them by sight. He came back out, carrying a

trash can. People were getting antsy about disposing of their garbage. I’d noticed a few trashcans

littering Vista Alegre street the previous night. No way anyone would be picking up trash on a Sunday,

during a general strike, in the middle of a revolution.

A bit later, a priest and Señora Gallardo appeared on my right, coming down the street. They

were engaged in an animated conversation; her voice carried well.

She fell silent at the bottom of the steps, disappointed to see me. She sneered at my armband,

muttered something, and hesitated, as if expecting me to go away or the priest to follow her. She closed

the door to her apartment much too loud for the time of day.

The priest took a seat at my side.

“Thanks for last night,” I said.

“You would have done the same.”

“When did you become a priest.”

“I didn't. I'm attending seminary. I'm in my second year. You?”

“Waiting for Havana University to open.”

“Literature?”

“Chemical engineering.”

“Figures,” he said. “It’s you all right.”


“How many more years before you become a priest?”

“I won’t. I’ll become a Brother.”

“You already have a brother.”

“Haha. I’ll be a Marist brother.”

“Is your brother also attending—”

“Him? You kidding?”

The two brothers, fraternal twins, neighbors from across the hall, were a couple of years older

than me. They had been the leading mischief makers within our little gang of doorbell ringers and

flower thieves and the least likely to join the priesthood, or the brotherhood. I hadn't known there was a

difference.

“I’m home for Christmas,” the non-priest in the black cassock said.

“Where’s your school?”

“Boston.”

“Really? How is it up there?”

“Cold.”

“No, I mean, living there. Have you seen the Red Sox play? Ted Williams?”

“The seminary isn’t in Boston proper, it’s north of the city, near the state border.”

“Oh, I see.” I didn’t. If near Boston nothing could have kept me from watching Ted Williams

play ball. “I’ve never seen snow. What’s it like?”

“Cold.”

“That’s it?”

“Very cold.”

He'd run into Señora Gallardo at early Mass, and she'd insisted he walk her home. He said she

talked non-stop of her husband, her son all alone in Spain, worried to death about them. She spoke


about her distrust of her maid who she knew was spying on her, and of her fear of looters and rapists.

“She said something was up with you, that you were acting weird. I told her there was nothing

unusual about that.”

He stood up, we shook hands, and I thanked him again. He'd grown taller, more mature, even if

he was wearing a black dress.

Two other people approached, another two neighbors. Early Mass seemed a favorite Sunday

activity. I wouldn't know: I'd never been up that early on a Sunday.

Twenty minutes later or so—I’d forgotten my watch at home—Ñato came walking down Vista

Alegre street, dressed much like the day before, white T and tan chinos.

“Buenos Dias,” he said, from the bottom of the steps.

“Buenos Dias,” I said. “What brings you here this early on a Sunday morning?”

“I need to ask a favor,” he said.

“Really? What?”

He moved up a couple of steps until his eyes were level with mine.

“It’s not my idea…” he said.

I waited.

He hesitated.

I couldn't imagine what he could want from me, or what I could do for him, but it had to be big

for him to be so…I picked up movement out of the corner of my eye.

“My wife thinks I should,” he said. “I’m not sure…”

A fifty-six Pontiac had rolled in, engine off, to a spot across the street, almost on the corner with

Cortina. Two men were in the car. Neither came out.

“What do you think?” Ñato said.

Something made me peek the other way. I had to crane my head forward to see. A cream-colored,


fifty-nine Chevy, the new model with the horizontal fins that made it look like a spaceship, was parking

on the corner with Figueroa, a man wearing dark, mirrored, aviator glasses on the passenger seat.


47

“What’s the matter?” Ñato said.

I patted my side. The gun was there, under my untucked shirt.

“What?” Ñato turned to follow my gaze.

“There’s something I need to do. Stay out of it.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Those guys beat up my father,” I said. “I knew they would be back. I’m ready for them.”

“Why?”

“They want Isaac. The old man I told you about. He’s gone, he’s no longer with us. It’s my

problem. I’ll handle it.”

Dark glasses and his driver, a young man wearing an untucked shirt, left their car.

I stood up, my right hand on the shirt above my gun. The thug driving the Pontiac had stayed

behind the wheel. His passenger was now leaning against the hood.

I stepped down to the sidewalk to face the American and his thug. Ñato followed me, doing his

little pirouette to get on my right, his good ear toward me.

I stood on the sidewalk, in front of the building, creating a sort of blockade, helped by two trash

cans.

“Good morning. May I?” The man pointed at the sidewalk past me. He had a sort of American

accent.

“You pistol whipped my father.”

He paused.


“I came to apologize for last night and make amends. The last thing I want is trouble. I want to

make things right between us.” His Spanish was good.

“You choked my mother, threatened my sister, pistol whipped my father, sent him to the hospital,

and now you want to make it right?”

Bitter, hot bile was building on the back of my throat. My neck was tense, prickly with concern

that the other thug could be closing on me from behind. I was dying to turn and take a look but

couldn’t. I would die for sure if I turned my head.

“I'm sorry about that. How is he? It was a light tap. I assure you it isn't like me, not what I

wanted. I lost my temper. It won't happen again. Trust me. All I want is a bit of cooperation, an address.

That's all. Someone to tell us where the old man is. No harm will come to you or your family or the old

man. My name is Wilson.” He stretched out a hand. “We just want to ask the old man a few questions.”

He wanted to shake hands? Had to be a trick.

“Friends?” He said, his hand still reaching for me, palm up.

I looked at his extended hand. How I wished it was true. How I wished a handshake would be all

it took, knowing all along it was a trap.

“Coño, you blind? You deaf?” Dark glasses’ companion, a tall, thin man, with an extra long neck

and a prominent Adam’s apple, no more than twenty-five, placed a hand on his waist, the bulk of a gun

clear underneath. He patted the gun once. Before he could pat it again, he fell to his knees.

Ñato had knocked him down. Without a wind-up, without any warning. As if spring-loaded, his

fist shot out and punched the thug flush on his mouth.

I assumed as much because I couldn’t swear that I saw Ñato’s arm move. Wilson must have felt

the same way because, for a moment, Wilson and I watched the thug kneeling on the sidewalk, one

hand on the ground, one hand covering his mouth, a trickle of blood seeping through his fingers.

“My teef,” he mumbled. “You knocked out my teef.”


“They can put them back. Find ‘em quick. Stick ‘em in your mouth. Keep ‘em between gum and

cheek,” Ñato said, pointing at his mouth. “Keep ‘em wet. Go to a dentist.”

Wilson turned to look at Ñato, at me, his left hand reaching behind his back as he took a step

back. He tripped on the thug on the sidewalk searching for his teeth.

My gun was out before Wilson hit the ground. His glasses had slipped off and hung by one thin,

golden arm off his right ear. His right eye was milky blue, the eyebrow riddled with scars.

“You son of a bitch,” I said. “Reach for that gun, and I'll blow your fucking head off.”

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” Wilson said. “We can fix this.” He was almost on his back, one leg

still tangled on his partner, both arms up, hands pleading.

“You told my sister you were gonna shoot her.”

Ñato had disarmed the other thug who tried to disentangle himself from Wilson by squirming

backwards, crab-like, no longer worried about his missing teeth.

A quick glance behind me revealed that the Pontiac thug was conferring with the one behind the

wheel.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to hurt your family. I’m so sorry. Let me

go. I won’t come back. I swear. Finito, tutto finito.”

“Bullshit. You’ll come back bringing more of your gangsters. Gimme one good reason I

shouldn’t finish you off.” I was leaning forward, waving the gun, my aim swinging from good eye to

bad eye and back.

Wilson put both hands on the ground and started to crawl backwards.

“Jacobo…Don’t,” Ñato said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

The gun went off. It almost jumped off my hand.

Oh shit.

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