alternative, forward into the day we ride together.
21 FINCA VIGIA
Cheap handcuffs. Cheap cologne. On either side of me cheap suits. The empty highway from the airport. Morning mist. Women with bundles on their heads, Africa style.
Where are we going?
Not the ministry. Not the meat-hook basements in the MININT building, ten floors below Che’s beard.
“Where are we going?”
“Shut up.”
The southern suburbs. Shanties, tin towns. Unmetaled roads, hurricane-fucked streets.
I don’t recognize this neighborhood at all. Is this where the DGI has its torture house?
A hill. A Spanish colonial village turned into slums. Pigs rooting in the street. Old men sleeping in gutters.
The beginning of sunrise.
Climbing.
This area a little more familiar.
“Is this San Francisco de Paula?”
“We told you to shut up.”
Four of us. A driver and these two DGI goons.
San Francisco de Paula. I haven’t been here for years.
A turn off a dirt road, the Lada slewing in mud. A big gated nineteenth-century hacienda on a hilltop.
G5 and DGSE guards at the gate, snoozing under bougainvillea.
The Lada honks its limp-dicked horn, and as if to compensate our bull-necked driver shouts obscenities through the window.
A soldier in green fatigues opens the gate.
A long driveway lined with jacarandas and mango trees. Parrots, tocororos, and yellow-necked finches roosting in the branches. And above them frigate birds with scimitar wings hanging eerily in the air.
The house is a one-story Spanish colonial. Outside the embassy area all these homes are falling to pieces, but this one has a new roof and a fresh lick of cream-colored paint. Parked outside is a black 1950s Chrysler New Yorker.
“What is this place?”
“
The Lada stops. The driver helps me out. A young man in a blue uniform I don’t recognize approaches the car and puts a finger to his lips.
“What is all this?”
“Quiet. He’s still sleeping,” the young man says.
“Who?”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“What? Yes.”
I start to walk toward the house. The shutters are open and you can see through from one side to the other, and all the way to Havana.
“No, over here,” the young man says and leads me to a shack at the back of the house. Seven or eight tables. A half dozen MININT men drinking coffee.
“Alex, spare another cup, this one’s just got in from Mexico.”
Alex, an old guy with white hair,
He smiles at me, looks at them, and mutters “Vermin” under his breath.
He returns with a pot of coffee and a bowl of sugar.
“We’ve got nothing to eat, I’m sorry,” he says.
“That’s ok. Where are we?”
He looks at me in amazement for a moment. “Finca Vigia,” he says and walks off.
The name rings a bell, but I can’t quite place it. I pour coffee in the espresso cup and add a cube of white sugar. Before it’s fully dissolved I take a sip. Cuba does two things well, cigars and coffee. Local beans, local sugar, local water. And strong. The hit is instantaneous and even in this state of incipient panic I can’t help but smile.
My head feels clear for the first time in days. I lean back in the white plastic chair and breathe out.
Ok, Mercado, why don’t you try to figure out what’s going on?
We’re in some kind of garden. A beautiful one. Hibiscus, oleander, Indian laburnum, blossoming hydrangea. The scent heady and overpowering. Under the trees there are half a dozen species of orchid and a small scudding sea of Cuba’s national flower, the brilliant white mariposa. There are a score of security guards but that’s it, which means this is not Jefe’s house. The Beard’s gotten even more crazy as he’s gotten older and doesn’t go anywhere without half a battalion of soldiers surrounding him. One of the other ministers, perhaps, or an ambassador from the-
Inside the house a clock dings the hour six times.
I hear someone stir.
My legs start trembling. I’m wearing tight black American jeans and low-heeled black pumps, not exactly designed for making a break for it through the garden and over the wall.
I pour myself another cup of coffee.
The young man in the blue uniform returns. He has very long eyelashes and a nice smile.
“He wishes to see you. Please come,” he says.
Who?
He leads me around the front, past a pool, and in through a set of double doors.
The house is a museum. Old-fashioned furniture, a range in the kitchen. No modern appliances. When I see the hunting trophies all over the walls I remember what Finca Vigia is. We’re in Casa Hemingway. Preserved the way Hemingway left it in 1960. I haven’t been here before but I’ve read about it. The large open-plan hacienda, the immaculate pool, the expansive garden, the shutters open to the dawn and the early morning mist and distant sea. But for the trained assassins waiting outside, a truly charming spot.
Along the walls ibex and antelope heads and more dead animals on the floor. White-painted bookcases overflowing with volumes. Desks covered with magazines:
What’s left of his hair has been dyed. Tanned leathery skin hangs loose on his face and under his neck. There are bags around his yellow eyes, but unlike Fidel he has his own teeth and even this early he looks a lot younger than his brother.
When he sees me he puts a finger to his lips and points at the bed. A girl with him, sleeping still. It’s not a scandal. For although Vilma Espin only recently passed away, Raul had been separated from the mother of his children for two decades.
He points to the kitchen. The house is all on one floor with rooms bleeding into one another. Only the kitchen has a big thick door that closes.
“This way,” Raul whispers.
Two DGI men slip outside as we enter.
Raul gently closes the door, leans on a pine table, and opens the shutters.
“What time is it?” he asks.
