Hostage in Havana

south of the Plaza de la Revolucion.

El necropolis. The City of the Dead. Almost a hundred fifty years ago it had been built on top of the old Espada Cemetery. The Spanish architect Calixto de Loira had designed it. The cemetery had been built when Havana had run out of catacombs.

The old man walked by the grandiose monuments and tombs that the tourists came to see, the ones that made Colon Cemetery famous. There was a seventy-five-foot-high column to los bomberos, the firefighters who had lost their lives in the great Havana fire of May 1890. The monument was a remembrance of the victims of the blaze. On top of the monument was a statue representing the fallen men. The statue remained the highest point in the cemetery and could be seen for miles, even from the sea. Nearby, a contemporary memorial of shiny metal Cuban flags honored the students killed during their attack on Fulgencio Batista’s Presidential Palace in 1957. Martyrs of the Revolution.

There were two monuments to players from the Cuban baseball league, the first erected in 1942 and the second in 1951 for members of the Cuban Baseball Hall of Fame. “A celebration of life or of death?” the old man wondered. There were as many different architectural styles here as there were in Havana. But this was a universe of marble saints and granite angels, stone griffins on tombstones and carved saints watching over small temples, Egyptian pyramids, and mausoleums. Majestic lions sat next to stone-cut effigies of long-deceased dogs and cats. Iron bats flew around family vaults.

In February 1898, the recovered bodies of sailors who died on the U.S. Navy’s battleship Maine were buried here. A year later, the bodies were disinterred and brought back to the U.S. for burial, some in Key West and some at Arlington National Cemetery. The same thing was going on today, the old man noted with bitterness. The dead couldn’t be allowed to stay dead – at least, not in one place. With nearly a million humans buried here, new space was now nearly nonexistent. There was a new policy in the workers’ paradise: after three years all old remains were removed from their burial plots, boxed, and sent to a modern storage building.

The old man took stock of the famous as he walked: Ibrahim Ferrer, the musician who became famous with the Buena Vista Social Club; Alberto “Korda” Gutierrez, the photographer who took the iconic photo of Che Guevara; Manuel Arteaga y Betancourt, Archbishop of Havana from the 1940s until his death in 1963, who opposed both Batista and Castro and still managed to live until his eighty-fourth year.

Then the old man found the tomb he wanted. He knelt down beside it. He didn’t pray so much as he closed his eyes and attempted to communicate, to seek solace, maybe even some forgiveness. He was sure that a spirit inhabited this place, the spirit of someone he had known and loved at a time that now seemed long ago. So much had happened. So much should have been forgiven, but wasn’t.

His shoulders were bent as the sun continued to pound down on him. He said a prayer. He wondered if God was listening. He wondered if God was even there.

In the distance dogs barked, one of the groups of strays that slip into the cemetery through gaps in the old creaking walls. Then the old man climbed to his feet, using the stone itself to steady himself. It was all wrapped up together in this place, the past, the present, and the future. It came together here just as he knew that it would come together soon again in the future.

He turned and retraced his path down the hill, struggling with a gnarled hand on his cane, knowing that a bitter day was coming, and that it would arrive soon.

Very well, he thought to himself. He had said his final goodbyes and seen a final Havana sunset from this solemn but enchanting place. Most of the good-byes, anyway. His hand went to the other pocket of his pants where he kept a small pistol, twenty-two caliber, American made. He hadn’t fired it in years, but, like himself, it still had life in it.

Some good-byes were more final than others, and the old man wanted to do them all properly.

For Manuel Perez, the trip to Cuba had been much easier than it had been for Alex, since no reception committee was waiting for him. He was in CIA custody, and his new handlers had brought him by unmarked jet into a vast naval base on the southeast tip of the island, where he was well received and well fed.

He was also well equipped. New armaments were given to him. A pistol and a sniper’s rifle. He remained at the base overnight and was then moved to Havana. He wasn’t there to enjoy the nightlife, however, as much as to be part of it.

His new handlers, after all, had seen to everything.

FORTY-FOUR

Morning: Alex’s eyes opened in a flash. Somewhere at the edge of her consciousness, there was a sound, like a door sharply closing. It jounced her. She looked up, and three figures were standing before her. The one in the center wore a uniform.

The first thing Alex looked for was whether the man in the uniform was carrying a gun. He was not. To his left was a younger male, no more than a teenager, but very tall and muscular, obviously a farm kid used to heavy labor. He had the same face as the older man, a son, Alex presumed.

To the man’s other side was a woman. Alex sat up quickly. The three cubanos were looking at her as if she had just arrived from outer space. Then her gaze settled briefly back on the well-built teenager. He was holding a machete close to his body.

“Senora,” the older man said, speaking Spanish. “This is our cabin.”

Alex sputtered an explanation. “?Lo siento!” she said. “I’m sorry! I was lost and terribly tired. I will … I will leave.”

The man shook his head sharply and put a hand on her shoulder. “No, no,” he said. “The area is filled with police and army. There was un suceso horrible-a horrible incident – yesterday on the beach. We cannot let you leave. You must come with us.”

Alex drew a deep breath. “?Esta bien!” she said. “All right.”

The woman went to the door and held it open. Obviously, they meant for Alex to follow. The bright rays of the morning sun slanted down onto the floor.

Alex made no effort to flee. The man in the uniform indicated a path that led from the cabin. The boy with the machete stayed behind and closed the door. When Alex looked back, he was using a small hammer to put the padlock and its clasp back in place.

The path was sandy, with small stones. No one said anything. Alex’s heart pounded. Was this the beginning of years of imprisonment? She scrutinized the man’s uniform, looking for some clue as to his intention, and suddenly she felt relieved. The words CORREO DE CUBA were stitched on an epaulet on his right shoulder. He was a postal carrier. Now she understood.

They led her through a clump of trees to a small cottage with a dilapidated facade and a rusty roof. The man went ahead and pushed open the door. He looked at Alex. His eyes were dark, curious, but not hostile. “Por favor,” he said. “Entre.”

Alex followed. She wondered if she was being taken here to wait for police. She looked for evidence of a telephone but didn’t see any. She came into a small threadbare central room with peeling paint but with a comfortable homey feel to it. There was a dining table near a ramshackle kitchen, which was off to the side. Suddenly she became aware of the pistol on her ankle. The last thing she wanted to do was to reveal it, much less use it. She wondered if the police or army had already been notified. Again she wondered if Paul was dead or alive.

“Please sit,” the man said. “My name is Carlos,” he said. “This is my wife, Maria, and my son, Guillermo.”

Alex sat at the kitchen table. She nodded. “Mi llamo Anna Maria,” she said, sticking to the lie on her fake passport. “Soy mexicana.” They nodded. The boy with the machete took a seat by the door, which he left partly open. Looking for someone? Alex wondered. Waiting? There was a napkin holder and a small bowl of fruit at the table’s center, apples and oranges. There was a crucifix above the sink on the wall.