Hostage in Havana

Cultured. Not what we normally process here. Are you familiar with a film director named Luis Bunuel? He was a Mexican citizen, though born in Spain. Went to university with Dali and Lorca, the painter and the poet. It was said they were all Communists together in the 1930s.” He lapsed into Spanish. “Bunuel. The director. You know of him?”

She made a decision. She would try to follow his conversation, to see at least where he was leading. “Yes, I know who Bunuel was,” she answered in Spanish.

“Good. What was he known for?”

“Films,” she said.

“What sort of films?”

“Enigmatic ones,” she said. “Bunuel’s films were famous for their vibrant and distorted imagery.”

“Very good,” the major answered. “There were scenes where noble young men who aspired to sainthood were tempted by prostitutes. There were women with beards, bears in living rooms, and chickens populating nightmares. He was also well-known for his atheism. Bunuel once made a film in Mexico about a village too poor to support a church and a priest. Yet the place was happy because no one suffered from guilt. ‘It’s guilt we must escape from, not God,’ Bunuel once said. He also once said, ‘Thank God, I’m an atheist.’ Now. Talk to me, mi amiga. What do you think of all that?”

“I don’t think anything about it because I haven’t thought much about it,” Alex answered.

They had worn her down physically. Alex now knew they were starting the mind-twisting games. Mejias wasn’t even taking notes. She assumed that, somewhere, others were listening and that a recording was being made. She held by her cover story, that she was a Mexican citizen and had come into the country legally on the twenty-fourth of May. At this point, she was praying they were plain stupid, or inefficient.

“I’m going to ask you several more questions,” Major Mejias continued in English. “You would be wise to cooperate. If you answer all of our questions, we can afford to be extraordinarily generous. We might even send you back home after a short time. Home is America, isn’t it? Now, why don’t you begin by telling me your real name?”

“Anna Tavares,” Alex said again. The major steepled his fingers.

“Very well,” Mejias said, adding in English, “let’s try another. En realidad, let’s try this again from the beginning. Why are you in Cuba, and why did you enter the country illegally?”

“Hablo espanol,” Alex said.

“Yes. Of course you do,” Major Mejias said. “But you also speak English,” he said, switching back to Spanish. “We all know this. How is my English, by the way? I think I speak it reasonably well. I spent two years at the University of Toronto. Have you been there? It’s quite a beautiful institution. Beautiful city also. But they only have two seasons – winter and July.”

“Hablo espanol,” Alex said again.

“I’d like to see your hands,” Major Mejias said.

Alex didn’t make a move. Her hands were already on the table out in front of her.

“Sus manos,” he said.

He reached to Alex’s hands and turned them palms up. She did not resist. A condemned feeling started to creep up on Alex, one that went with her sense of panic. It wasn’t just the situation, the filth, the danger; it was also the unrelenting isolation. The heat continued to assail her as well. She could even hear the occasional tick of her own sweat hitting the floor. And there was a stench in this office, even worse than the stench of backed-up plumbing in the jail. At least the bugs were gone, for now.

Major Mejias examined the interior of Alex’s hands, paying special attention to the palms and fingers.

“Interesting,” he said in English. “It is amazing how much one can tell about a woman by her hands. You have very nice hands. The hands of a wealthy woman perhaps. No scars, no nicks, no calluses. You work for a living as something professional, such as a lawyer or an accountant or a businesswoman. Or you don’t work at all, which means you’re married to a man who is highly affluent.”

He pulled his own hands away and gave Alex’s back to her.

“I’m told that you insist that you are Mexican,” he said. “But a Mexican lady of your social status would speak passable English. At least that’s my experience. Yet you refuse to speak to me in English or acknowledge my efforts. That tells me you’re hiding something.” He paused. “You already owe me one enormous favor,” Mejias continued. “You were in line for some of the more brutish inquisitors, people who have trained against the drug traffickers and who use unspeakable physical means to obtain answers. In some rare cases, yours being one, I am allowed to intercede when we have a more sophisticated prisoner. So I have limited time with you. How limited, even I do not know. I will need to leave today with something, or the more thuggish in my trade will take over. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Hablo espanol, no hablo ingles,” Alex said.

“Let’s cut the charade, shall we? How are you feeling?” he asked in Spanish. “Have you been treated well?”

“No,” she said.

“Good,” he answered. “This is a prison. That’s the way prisons should be. Prisons are the sewers of civilization. Do you wish to spend the rest of your life in a sewer, maybe die there, too?”

He again took her hands, gently, not roughly, but as a physician might.

“Look at this white powder, for example. It’s from the jail cell, isn’t it? I’m told that there is a microscopic bacteria in it that infects the flesh. A small parasite perhaps. Hydrocortisone cream soothes it. Perhaps you’d like to see a doctor after you start to speak with me.”

He released her arm, and she pulled it away.

He sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I’ve attempted to be cordial. I’ve known some criminals who took a long time before they finally decided to speak. Months, years sometimes. Eventually all of them wished they had spoken sooner. We will hold you as an enemy of the Revolution for as long as you need before you decide to talk to me. And yet,” he mused, “the travesty of all this is that it would be unnecessary in your case. We are disposed to send you back to where you came from or at the very least trade you for something we want. What is the point of spending time with common prostitutes, burglars, and drug pushers in prison when you could be free in a matter of days? On the other hand, I can walk out of here and you cannot. Until categorized otherwise, you are an enemy of the Cuban Revolution. Do you know what the women’s prisons are like in this country? You would be sent to a very rough one where there are ten to twelve women per cell.

A very pretty white-skinned woman like yourself, well, the results can be unspeakable.”

“I will speak to you only in Spanish,” Alex said in Spanish.

“Muy bien,” he said. “Hablamos espanol.”

“I wish to see someone from the Mexican Embassy,” Alex again said in Spanish.

“That is not going to happen.”

“Why not? Have I no rights?”

“To start with, you are American. You see, here is the problem. You gave us a name and told us that you came into Cuba on a Mexican airliner on May 24. That is in the police report and it is what you told me. But you are lying. We looked at the flight manifests for that day. There was no one by that name on the plane. Nor was your passport stamped. We could take the time to review the immigration video surveillance for that day, but that would only further prove to us the lie that you are telling to us. So let us begin again. What is your real name?”

Alex fell silent. Her cover was blown, and they both knew it. The prospect of spending ten years in a Cuban prison hit her like a kick to the stomach.

“You see, we can be very patient in Cuba. Those in the first revolutionary generation outlasted Batista, and then our enemies felt that they could outlast Castro. Yet half a century has passed and la Revolucion still controls Cuba.” He paused. “Do you support the Cuban revolution or not? My guess is you do not.”

She remained quiet.

“Last month they sent two American women to Cuban prisons, one for twelve years, the other for fifteen. One was a black-market currency dealer. The other was someone who was arranging foreign passports and exit conduits. You know, I tried to help them also. They resisted me. Twelve years. Fifteen years. That’s a terrible price to pay, isn’t it?” He paused. “I would think you might be sentenced to twenty. Is that what you wish to do with the middle years of your life?”