side of the sea. Then it continued to the east for a final stretch. There were several rest stops on the side of the road, and in each there were children selling fruit, strings of bananas, guava, and
Then the road turned into a private driveway lined with flowering plants in large industrial drums. Paul pulled the Toyota up to a veranda on the side of a house that was particularly imposing due to its setting. The veranda, and the house it was attached to, did not sag, and Alex could tell it was in good condition. There was a battered Peugeot 404 parked to one side, also. It was a faded maroon with rust and dents.
A screen door opened. A lithe brown woman in a short green dress appeared quietly. She stepped out and looked carefully at the arrivals. Across her chest, held carefully and at the ready, she carried a rifle.
“We’re here,” Guarneri said. “Be careful. She’s a sweetie, but she can be trigger happy. I’ll get out first.”
FIFTY-TWO
This is Thea,” Paul said to Alex, introducing the woman with the rifle. “She’s a cousin of mine. Or maybe she’s my sister and no one ever told me. Who knows? I lose track.”
Thea laughed.
“You’re a beast, Paul,” Alex said.
“That I know,” he answered.
Thea stepped forward, and smiled. She was tall for a Cuban woman, perhaps five ten, with reddish brown skin and eyes that suggested a hint of an Asian lineage. She was thin and wore a simple green cotton dress that flowed to her mid-thighs. She had a pretty, unaffected face and a wide smile.
Paul introduced Alex by her real name, indicating to Alex that these were people Paul could trust.
Thea had an easy grace as she led her guests to the house and set aside the weapon. The veranda had an awning above it that presumably gave it shade during the hot Cuban afternoons. Several wicker chairs with cushions were scattered around and a large red cat sat quietly, inspecting the new arrivals.
Once inside, Alex could see that there were many rooms, joined together railroad style. The colors on the walls were bold and contrasting. Decorating the walls were an array of seashells, bottles, and driftwood, cleverly designed to look like animals, marine life, and human faces. The furniture ranged from the modern to the threadbare. Thea led her guests to another screen door, which led to an outside sitting area, one that was enclosed by a screen but which faced a vast, empty stretch of beach.
“I’ll get my uncle,” Thea said when Alex and Paul were seated. “He’s sleeping now. May I get you refreshment? Tea? Wine?”
“Either would be fine,” Alex answered. “Something cold would be good.”
“Of course,” she said. “We have a refrigerator … and electricity so the refrigerator is running. Does that surprise you?” She laughed and smiled broadly. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I’ll get Senor Johnny. Please, Uncle Paul, show our guest around.”
Thea disappeared. Alex looked around.
“Senor Johnny?” Alex asked.
“It’s what my uncle likes to be called. Go with it,” he said.
“Absolutely,” she answered.
She noted a garden in a different direction and what appeared to be a small farming area with chickens. Paul saw her looking.
“Step outside if you want,” he said.
“May we?”
“Of course. This is family.”
“But you’ve been here, what? Once in fifty years?” she asked.
“It’s still family.”
Paul led her through the screen door. The air outside was salty and fresh. “Who do they think I am, by the way?” Alex asked.
“You agreed to come to Cuba and pose as my wife,” Guarneri answered. “So here you are, and that’s what you’re doing. It’s really mostly for Senor Johnny’s purposes. He has very traditional values. He’d be heartbroken if he knew I’m divorced.”
“So we’re lying to your family?”
“It’s in their best interests right now. I’ll set them straight eventually.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say sometimes.”
“That’s usually a good time to say nothing.”
There was no sound except the waves rolling onto the shore, gentle white surf upon the dark water. Alex caught a whiff of a fire, smoke from a grill, followed quickly by the aroma of food cooking. Nearby, an array of fishing rods leaned against the screen from the outside. The rods looked worn, but also as if they’d been freshly used.
“Everyone here fishes,” Paul said in English, reading Alex’s thoughts. “They catch grouper, turbot, snappers. Also crabs and eels. It’s a simple life, unspoiled, for better or worse.”
“Your family seems to have done better than most,” Alex said.
“They’re smarter and better educated,” Guarneri said. There was a pause and he added, “Better connected too.”
“In what sense?” Alex asked.
Guarneri glanced back to make sure they were alone. “As I said, my uncle was a
“A hero how?”
“An early supporter of the winning side,” Guarneri said. “He left the university in 1957 and joined the revolutionary Twenty-sixth of July Movement, which Castro had formed in Mexico. In March of 1957, Johnny was one of the students from the Revolutionary Directorate who attacked Batista’s presidential palace. The attack was a miserable failure. Thirty-five students were killed, and then scores of others were tortured or murdered in the days that followed. Johnny went underground after that and eventually found his way into the rebel army.” He paused. “Somewhere in the house there are photographs. If you want to see them, he’ll show you. With pride.”
Alex felt her fascination battling with her own convictions. She was in the belly of the beast, the home of the enemy. As an American, and a practicing Christian, as someone who believed in democracy, the man she was about to meet had spent his life on the other side of history’s battles. Yet she was in no state of mind now to refight old wars.
“You seem to celebrate this sometimes, Paul,” she said. “Your family was torn apart by the Castro revolution, many of you lost property, and the island has been isolated for years thanks to the revolution. You can’t be in favor of it, can you?”
They walked to an area where the sand was wet. Alex removed her shoes and continued to walk by Paul’s side. Paul’s eyes found the horizon on the distance, then came back. “No,” he said, answering her question after many seconds. “Of course not. I’m not a Marxist or a socialist or a closet apologist for Castro. But sometimes one can see heroism in those whose views differ from one’s own. Can’t you? Look at what a horrible regime preceded Castro’s. Who can blame people for rising up against it? In the generations before Castro, much of North America treated Cuba as its gambling den and brothel. My own father was part of that. I’m not here to be judgmental. I’m here to get some answers and do a job. Same as you, right?”
“Right,” Alex said, “but if you really believed all that, then what’s the big deal with the money?” she asked. “Why not let it lie where it’s lain for all these years?”
“Why did you use that expression?” he asked. “‘Lie where it’s lain’?”
“Just a figure of speech,” Alex said.
