Paul Levine - False Dawn

Foley barked a laugh. “Wake up, Soto. The Russians need the Americans.”

“To go to a market economy, that is true. But it is shameful for an avowed Marxist to do so. And why did the old guard seek to oust Gorbachev? To reform their socialist society to conform to the founding principles, to say with Lenin that ‘the state is the proletariat, the advance guard of the working class’? No! They believed the system is theirs for the plundering. In Russia, as in the States, it does not matter who is in charge. Each is equally corrupt.”

Foley eyed the two soldiers who hovered over him. “Soto, you know what you hate. The Russians and the Americans like each other. We have the same desires, the same needs.”

“ Si, you all need to be rich. But to be rich, some must be poor. Who is to speak for them?”

“Who appointed you? Why don’t you hold an election here and see how many votes Fidel gets, or did you see what happened in Nicaragua and decide not to risk it?”

Soto showed a sad, tolerant smile. “Lenin also said that ‘liberty is so precious that it must be rationed.’ There will come a time for free elections, but only after Cuba is already free, not when it is quarantined by your government and indentured to the corrupt Russians. The Americans now say Cuba should follow Russia’s example, but should we prostitute ourselves again to be handmaiden to both the Russians and the Americans? Or should we be strong and independent? Should we-”

“Make a revolutionary statement the world will never forget,’’ I said.

Foley threw up his hands. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You’d better ask Senor Soto. It’s his line.”

“It is not your concern,” Soto said. He snapped orders to the officer in rapid-fire Spanish. The two soldiers grabbed Foley by each arm and lifted him from his chair.

Soto’s voice was soothing. “You will not be harmed, Senor Foley. There is a hacienda for you in Cienfuegos. Two hundred acres not far from the bay. You can watch the pesetero ferries and the cargo ships unloading at the fertilizer plant.”

Foley struggled unsuccessfully to free his arms. “Fertilizer plant! What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve got a villa waiting for me in Lausanne.”

“Not feasible, I’m afraid. Your property here is adjacent to our first nuclear power plant. It is quite scenic, really, right on the water. You will live comfortably there on a pension as if you were a retired colonel in the Cuban army. Life will not be luxurious, but neither will you starve.”

“Starve! There’s two hundred million dollars being wired today to my account on Grand Cayman.”

“No,” Soto said, “I countermanded that order. The money will be wired to your account in Aruba.”

Foley rubbed his chin. His eyes were moist. “I don’t have an account in Aruba.”

“Ah, how unfortunate. Perhaps the account number I provided Langley was incorrect. I suppose we will have to impound the funds for safekeeping.”

We again.

“You thief, you cocksucking communist crook!” The soldiers tugged at Foley, pulling him toward the hatch. I remembered Foley subduing Kharchenko so effortlessly, but now, surrounded by troops with automatic weapons, his body went slack, his feet dragging across the deck. The last words I heard him say were to me. “Lassiter, what are you going to do about these bastards?”

I didn’t know.

“Sue them?” I suggested.

Severo Soto didn’t say where we were headed. After the soldiers left with Foley, there was only a skeleton crew left on the freighter. All Cubans in camouflage gear. Maybe the Polish crew got a hacienda next to Foley’s. Soto stood on the bridge with the captain, a wiry, leather-skinned man with white hair and grease-stained clothes.

The captain coaxed the Polonez from the dock and we chugged eastward. Gulls dipped and cawed and taunted us from their feathery heights. At first, I thought Soto was taking our precious cargo to a more remote site at the eastern end of the island. Las Tunas maybe. Then I watched the position of the sun off the port side. We were headed northeast, riding the Gulf Stream across the Straits of Florida. A strong southeasterly wind whipped up whitecaps in our path. Ninety miles due north was Key West, but our heading would take us east of the curving chain of islands. I stood on the deck in my jeans and Dolphins jersey, watching the whitecaps appear, build, and die. Overhead, four U.S. Air Force jets streaked in formation, heading back to Guantanamo.

Soto had disappeared into the hold, telling me to wait for him. The old freighter pitched gently through the small waves, the motion making me sleepy. A crewman offered me a can of guava juice and a piece of sugary pastry.

Half an hour passed before Soto reappeared and greeted me with a silent nod. We stood on deck, shoulder to shoulder, elbows leaning on the rail, watching the waves break, staring at the sea. Studying the great green depths quiets a man. We look into our species’ past, the beginning of life in the salty waters, and it stills us. The endless vista compels contemplation. Beneath the surface, the sea teems with life.

And danger.

And death.

Finally, I said, “If my bearings are right, Andros Island is off to our east.”

“ Si.”

“If we continue this heading, we’ll hit Grand Bahama Island tomorrow morning.”

“ Si.”

“We’re taking the art to the Bahamas?”

“No.”

Soto drew a Partagas from one of four pockets in his guayabera. He had trouble lighting it, so I helped out, cupping my hands around his, shielding the wind with my back. We stood that way a moment, huddled together, and he looked up, studying me intently. Did those dark eyes seem to soften for just a moment?

“Jacobo, have you lived a full life?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you have any regrets?”

Still, I looked at the sea.

Regrets.

Who hasn’t looked back and considered the road not taken? We’re not handed an itinerary when we start out. Most of us get where we’re going by accident. A kind word from a math teacher, and the student aims, knowingly or not, toward engineering. A thoughtless rebuke and the young violinist surrenders his dream.

If we’re lucky, we take a path where we can do some good along the way. My first career had little social utility, other than providing televised entertainment interrupted by sixty-second accolades to the glory of various beers, cars, and insurance companies. My second career has even less. Now, I’m one of the players in a game where justice is dispensed nearly as often as the Red Sea is parted.

Regrets.

I wish I’d been faster then, smarter now. I wish I could paint a picture or build a bridge. I wish there was a woman-just one-who had lasted. A best friend and only lover, a soulmate, not a cellmate.

After a moment, I said, “We all have our regrets.”

“Have you accomplished all you have wanted? Have you left your mark?”

“My name’s not in the NFL record book,” I told him, “and I doubt it will be in any history books.”

“Perhaps you are wrong.” But he said it in a whisper I barely heard above the droning of the diesels and the whine of the tropical wind.

D usk came quickly, and still we stood, side by side, as the sky deepened to a dark purple, and the light softened. The whitecaps were tinged with pink from the fading light. “You think I am misguided, a foolish, deformed old man living in the past,” Soto said.

I didn’t know if it was a question. “You’ve confused me. First I thought you were a rabid anticommunist, a right-wing nut like so many of the exilado s in Miami. Then, I find out you’re a charter member of the Fidel Castro fan club. Now, I don’t know what’s up your sleeve.”