Hostage in Havana

FORTY-NINE

Paul guided the Toyota through the back streets of Havana.

Alex took it all in with fascination. Like much else in Havana, the poorer neighborhoods were a confrontation with time. Like the better-kept sections, these neighborhoods were sprawling, eclectic, and disorganized. Grand old mansions with majestic high columns had been converted into small apartments, an air of neglect existed immediately adjacent to suggestions of past splendor. All of this splashed up against a vibrancy of the streets, music coming out of small storefronts and homes, men at tables playing dominos, and kids kicking soccer balls or playing impromptu games of beisbol in the streets and alleys. Old church towers functioned as landmarks every few blocks, rising above most other buildings. They were ornate and suggestive of the Moorish architecture that had been imported from Spain. Some churches had their doors open and obviously still had congregations.

“Didn’t the Marxist government crack down on religion?” Alex asked.

“Yes, but not successfully,” Paul answered. “The churches were never officially banned, but always harassed. Like everything else, religion in Cuba is a mass of contradictions. The constitution recognizes religious freedom and diversity, but the government does what it can to keep a lid on it. Meanwhile the old buildings remain because no one would be foolish enough to knock down a sturdy old building when it’s so difficult to build a new one.”

They approached the entrance to the big highway that traversed the island, la autopista. Guarneri made a move to access it westbound, then at the last second gave the wheel a sharp twist.

The Toyota hit a low divider, jumped into the air, and bounded over. Suddenly they were headed ninety degrees in a different direction.

“Paul! What’s the problem?” Alex asked, startled.

Guarneri scanned in every direction. Then he calmed. “Just making sure no one’s on our tail. The new highway is the faster route, but we’re taking the old road. La Carretera Central. More scenic. We have time. And the other thing is I can tell better if we’re being followed.” He poked his head out the window, even checking the sky. His expression darkened.

“What?” she asked.

“A helicopter over the water,” he said. “About ten miles behind. Probably just a coincidence. There are shore patrols all the time. But you can never be too careful.”

She pulled a hand mirror out of her duffel bag and held it out the window. She found what bothered him, but it was only a speck.

“Should we be worried?” she asked.

“If we keep seeing it, yes,” he answered. “I’d rather be paranoid than spend time in a Cuban jail.”

“Ditto,” she said, pulling the mirror in.

“Okay,” he muttered. “I have a few tricks too, just in case.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He looked at her and winked.

They rode in silence for several minutes. The road swept through a few small towns, then a sugar plantation. The surface was narrow and often barely paved. Modern it wasn’t. It reminded Alex of some of the back roads and old rural routes she had seen on visits to Louisiana and Mississippi. She had worked for Habitat for Humanity on spring and winter breaks as a teenager and had seen that part of America while helping construct homes.

They took the road that ran east from Havana. The highway snaked its way around the beaches and shoreline. Guarneri worked the stick shift with deft flowing motions, and though the ride was bumpy, it was fascinating. There were few other cars and not many trucks. The highway, like much of the rest of the island, seemed frozen in the 1950s. There was one lane in each direction with no dividing line.

“Highways that I’ve traveled,” Alex thought to herself. She thought of the super-highways of southern California, the swift sleek autobahns of Germany, and the packed expressways of the northeastern corridor of the United States. Then there was the insanity of the highway in Ukraine, scorched into her recent memory, as she raced to the airport, and then, a little more recently, the packed highways of Cairo where cars passed over the lane dividers when traffic was already three abreast. She recalled the highways surrounding Lagos in Nigeria. Those had often been littered with piles of garbage that had been set on fire, or tires ablaze, or even dead bodies.

This was peaceful and gentle, with tranquil vistas of sea and shore on one side and verdant fields and foliage on the other. Keeping the island in the previous century, she mused, had had its upside as well.

There was only one problem. Half an hour later, without asking, she stuck the mirror back out the window and scanned the sky.

“Still there?” he asked. “The chopper?”

“I think I see it,” she said.

He slowed and again poked his own head out the window. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “That looks like the same bird. It’s probably okay. Probably shore patrol. Bear with me.”

“You think you can slip away from it?” she asked.

“I know I can.”

The road elevated and there was a stunning view of the Caribbean. They had been driving for twenty minutes more when Paul pointed to a small village that hugged the shore, a cluster of small shacks and low buildings with a small harbor cluttered with modest boats.

“That’s Cojimar,” said Guarneri. He nodded toward the small village.

“Cojimar is where Hemingway sailed from when he lived in Cuba, right?” Alex asked. “When he wasn’t drinking, cheating on his wives, or writing.”

“You nailed it,” Paul laughed. “Papa Hemingway kept a fishing boat here for years. It was called La Pilar. It’s now at the museum in Havana, I think.” He gave another nod to the hamlet by the water. “It’s a popular tourist spot. So I think we should stop. We’re tourists. It also gets foggy this late in the day. Get it?”

“Got it.”

They left the highway and pulled into the hamlet, which was thick with trees, old buildings, and small shops. Paul parked, carefully choosing a spot that was near other cars that would all look similar from the air. When they stepped out, Paul offered his hand. They walked to the marina, bought drinks, stood and chatted in Spanish with fishermen returning for the afternoon. Their eyes kept to the sky and they watched as the helicopter approached and went past them. They stayed until it was far to the east of them. It had either overshot, abandoned them, lost them, or never cared about them in the first place. At the same time, a small late afternoon fog rolled in as Paul knew it would. They hustled quickly back to their vehicle. Forty minutes after stopping, they were back on the road.

FIFTY

Havana: late afternoon. The old man who had walked in the Cristobol Colon cemetery was again taking his last look at many things. He knew he would soon leave Cuba. For a better place? For a worse place? Only God above knew. That’s what he would have said if anyone had asked him. Only God knew. Mortal men make plans. God laughs. The old man was deeply religious, always had been.

“Heaven,” he thought to himself. “Heaven, heaven, heaven. I wonder if there is a heaven.”

He had a few nervous ticks. He kept fingering the parrot’s head on his cane with one hand. With the other, he kept patting his left pocket to see if that little Colt .22 was still there. It was. Reassured, he returned to his thoughts. In his way, he would miss this place where he spent so many years. Despite the poverty, the isolation, the dangerous political games, he loved this place as much as anyone who had been born here. That’s why he was taking last looks. When death came, he told himself, he wanted to have that image of Cuba in his eyes.

Today he ambled along the famous boulevard, El Malecon, perched along the stony fortress-style bluff above the ocean on the Havana waterfront. He relied more and more on his hickory cane, the one with the carved parrot’s