“Awake or asleep? The truth.”
“Asleep.”
“Posada asleep,” he sighs. “Before your time, Mercado, a posada was a hotel room you rented by the hour. We’d be lucky if Officer Posada used his brain for one hour a day. One hour in a day, that’s all I ask.”
I nod.
Hector sips his coffee.
“What about Ortiz?”
“Oh yes, Ortiz.”
“You could have brought me something from the bakery. The bakeries are starting to open, yes?”
“I didn’t think to. Sorry, sir.”
“Hmm, so what’s this all about?” he asks.
“Uhm, sir, as you’re aware, I’ve put in for a one-week leave of absence.”
He rummages through the papers on his desk. “I saw that. And you’ve applied to the Foreign Ministry for a travel permit to Mexico.”
I nod.
“Speak up,” he says.
“Yes, I wish to travel to Mexico City. I have applied to study at the university. I am meeting with a Professor Carranza at UNAM about the possibility of taking an M.A. in criminology.”
Hector nods. “Yeah, I read the letter. And if the university takes you, I suppose that means you’ll be taking an even longer leave of absence from the PNR? We’ll be losing you for how long? A year?”
“A year. Yes.”
He shakes his head, starts writing something on the piece of paper. “Hmmm, I don’t know about this, Officer Mercado. Has the ministry given you permission for this first trip?”
“Well, I applied weeks ago and it’s getting close to the deadline, sir. I was hoping that you could-”
Hector puts his finger to his lips and points at the wall and then at his ear. The implication is that his office is being bugged by the DGSE or the DGI. A second of dead air before he jumps in: “Hoping that I could what, Officer Mercado? Put in a good word for you? Why would I do that? Why would I want to lose one of my best detectives for a week, never mind a whole year? Well?”
He grins at me and passes me the note that he’s been writing. It says: “I’ll gain expertise that I can use to train fellow PNR officers, saving the department a lot of money.”
I clear my throat. “Because, sir, when I come back I’ll be a better detective and I will have studied all the latest techniques and I can bring my expertise to bear on our current caseload and of course I can then train fellow officers in the new techniques.”
Hector nods, satisfied. “We’ll all be like the gringos on
“I haven’t seen that show, sir, but I suppose so, yes,” I say.
“No, you wouldn’t have seen it. It’s good. Well, I must say I’m intrigued by your idea. This first trip would only be to meet the professor and visit the university? One week, you say?”
“One week.”
“Hmmm. I have very little clout with the ministry but I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Another grin. He lights a cigarette and leans back in his chair.
“There are some things I must ask you first, Officer Mercado, some formalities, some important formalities.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Your father was a defector to the United States.”
“He was on a boat that was hijacked to the United States; he did not return.”
“He was a defector!” Hector says, his voice assuming an angry tone for the listeners in the wall.
“Yes, sir,” I reply meekly.
“That makes things much more difficult, you see that, don’t you?” he says, rubbing his bulbous rummy nose.
“Of course, sir.”
“Travel permits are given only to those with exemplary records, and you’re not even in the Party.”
“Because of my father I am not permitted to join the Party, sir.”
“Yet your brother, Ricardo, is in the Party,” Hector says.
“Yes, he joined the Party two years ago. He was granted a special dispensation.”
“How did that happen?” Hector asks, again for the listeners, or more important, for the people reading the transcript.
“Ricardo has proven his loyalty to Cuba. He was president of the National Students Union and is an executive member of the National Union of Journalists.”
“And he has been given travel permits?”
“Yes. He has been to Mexico several times, Haiti, Russia, China. When my father died in the United States, Ricky even went there to clear up some of my father’s personal effects. He had the body cremated.”
“Ricardo went to the United States?” Hector asks, though of course he knows that only too well.
“He has been to the United States twice. Once when my father died and only last week to attend a UN discussion on Cuba in New York City.”
“And yet he did not defect?” Hector says.
“No, sir, he is loyal to Cuba and the Revolution, as am I.”
Hector nods to himself and lets the silence play out. His hand makes the turning “give me more of this” sign.
“And of course my mother is old and dependent upon state subsidy. I would not do anything to jeopardize her well-being,” I add.
Hector smiles, pleased. “Well, Officer Mercado, I am sure that all of this will stand you in good stead, and for what it’s worth, I’ll try to put in a good word with the ministry. Mind you, there is a lot of bureaucracy involved and these things are quite strict. If you do get a travel permit it will only be for Mexico City. You won’t be able to go to Acapulco or anywhere like that.”
“No, sir.”
“A week seems a little excessive for an interview and a look around the university.”
“Uhm, I will also wish to purchase some books and to search out cheap accommodation.”
“Yes, of course. Well, I have a lot to attend to today, Officer Mercado. Like I say, I’ll see what I can do. Allow me to walk you out.”
Away from the bugs and the performance. The dialogue for the MININT goons.
We walk.
Along the corridor, down the stairs, through the flaking orange paint, past the sleeping Posada, past Ortiz, who has miraculously awoken.
“Good morning, sir,” Ortiz says.
“Good morning,” Hector replies curtly, and with that we’re out into the street.
“You must have seen Sergeant Menendez as well today, did you not?” Hector says.
“Not inside the building,” I reply.
“You were wise not to mention his name. Never mention his name in my office. He believes that he keeps a low profile.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” I reply.
“Good. Come with me to the Malecon,” Hector says.
The Malecon: the corniche that runs along the seafront of Havana. Now that they’ve fixed up Alexandria’s promenade and Shanghai’s Bund this is the paradigm case of faded grandeur. Think Rome in the Dark Ages, Constantinople in the last years before the Turk. In any other city in the world this would be prime real estate: the main drag of the city between the headland and the entrance to Havana Bay. There’s no beach, but beyond the seawall bathers and fishermen gather all along the gentle curve of the croisette. On most days there’s a spectacular view east to the castle and beyond to the blue waters of the Florida Strait. The Malecon could be
