Randy White - North of Havana

I said, "Some years ago-it was nineteen seventy-three-I caught another pitcher; a pitcher you once admired, though his fastball was very poor compared to yours. It was in an exhibition game before the start of an amateur world series."

Rivera said, "Yes! This man-he was once drafted by the Giants of New York?"

It was a lie that Rivera and many others chose to accept as truth-that Fidel Castro had been courted to play in the major leagues.

I said, "That is the pitcher. On Monday, I am flying to this pitcher's homeland because a friend of mine is there and in trouble."

"Is he in prison?"

"No. It is a matter of money." Without using Tomlinson's name, I explained what had happened, then I said, "It should be an easy thing for me to do. I have the money; I give it to them. But what if they take the money but refuse to release my friend's boat? Or refuse to release my friend? It is a worry."

Rivera said, "Marion, hear what I am saying to you: that is the least of your worries. Please remember I know why you were there for that baseball series-just as I knew why you played baseball with me

… and just as I know the thing that happened when you visited that place in nineteen eighty. What happened that time is what you should remember most."

I thought: How did Rivera find out? Was he bluffing? No… the tone of his voice, the way he emphasized it- the thing that happened-he really did know. Listened to him say, "Take my advice, old friend, stay away from this weak-armed pitcher."

I said, "I have no choice. My friend is in trouble." Let that hang there, because it was something Rivera understood-the Latinos, some of them, still believed in a code of honor-then I said, "I seem to remember that you have a house at this place." Meaning the Masaguan Embassy. It, too, was in Miramar, west of Havana; a small house among bigger estates on Embassy Row.

"Yes," he said. "I have a house there." Said it carefully, not volunteering anything. We were getting into politics now, something he took very seriously.

"I think you know what I am asking, Juan." Used his name for the first time, making it personal.

In the long silence that followed, I knew that he was calculating the political fallout while also reminding himself that he still owed me one very, very big favor. Finally, he said, "The answer is yes-but only if things become extremely difficult."

"Of course," I said. "No other reason." Then I added, "To avoid having to impose, it would also be useful for me to know the names of anyone-local people, I'm talking about-who might be willing to help outsiders in a time of need."

Still guarded, Rivera asked, "People who are friends of this pitcher?"

"No. People who are not his friends."

Another long pause. "It is possible. But let me ask you again, on the honor of our friendship-do you go only to help your friend?"

"I swear to you. It's the only reason. In fact, you know him. The last time we played baseball together? He nearly hit a home run off you."

Heard Rivera hoot. "The hippie!"

"Yes, he's the one."

Sitting in a staff tent in the jungles of Masagua, Tomlinson and Rivera had spent evenings exchanging baseball trivia, drinking rum, arguing political theory.

"Marion, why didn't you say so? Of course, for him- the great DiMaggio, remember?-I will check on these names. A man of such abilities deserves to be helped."

I hadn't planned to ask, but Rivera's enthusiasm seemed to invite it: "Perhaps, General, you could help our friend by telephoning this pitcher? Asking for his release?" Cuba had only one sovereign friend left in Central America- Masagua. There was no doubt that Masagua's ruler had enough political clout to get small favors done quickly.

But Rivera said, "No, no… that is asking too much, Marion." Now being very open; no more diplomatic sparring. "You know how these things work."

Yes, I knew. If the nation of Masagua asked Cuba for a favor, Cuba would politicize it, use it, demand a far more costly favor in return.

There was something else I wanted to ask but was reluctant to, because the answer, any answer, would bring back uncomfortable memories, unwanted emotions. I heard myself say, "You have been a tremendous help, General. Please pass along my compliments to your people… and also to Her Majesty," meaning the sovereign of her country, Pilar Fuentes Balserio. Then I heard myself ask the question anyway: "How is she doing, Juan?"

Knowing, sympathetic laughter. "Her Highness is doing very well, Marion." He said it with the empathetic tone that men use when discussing another man's lost girl. "She is busy, always busy."

Busy indeed. Under Pilar's guidance, the banana-republic economy of Masagua had been jump-started, social reforms were being implemented, the largely Mayan citizenry was already benefiting from more schools and better health care, and the government-for the first time in Mas-aguan history-was stable.

I said, "I have read about her. The people still love her?"

"They worship her. Who would not?"

Imagining Pilar-the silk-black hair, her face, the coolness of her skin-I said, "But I have heard very little about her husband, the former president."

"Tevo? Hah!" A name spoken with contempt. "Who knows or cares where that worm is. In Spain, I heard. She says that she is no longer married to him, she is now married to her people. And of course…" I waited through his indecision-should he bring it up? "… Her Highness is absolutely dedicated to her son. Marion, he has grown so large so quickly! Such a brilliant boy, already reading books while others his age are just starting school. But an athlete, too-the way he charges around the palace, always with a baseball or a bat in his hands. I am teaching him to pitch!"

I said, "He couldn't have a better coach, General."

"It is what I tell him! But already he contradicts me. This child, Marion, he forgets nothing and is very precise about everything!"

Increasingly, I regretted that I had asked; I held the phone slightly away from my ear as he said, "Can you imagine? This blond boy with glasses, correcting me? Me- the greatest general in Masaguan history? It makes me angry but it also makes me laugh…"

I was shaking my head very slowly; it was impossible not to listen.

"… do you know that feeling, Marion? A feeling that squeezes the heart but also causes one to smile?"

I said, "Yes. I know the feeling."

"That is how this child affects me. Offended and happy, both at once."

Imagining the way it had been with Pilar: the clean muscularity of her legs and Indio hips… the way glossy hair swung when her head tilted in thought… the way her face softened when I surprised her, as if her aloofness was a wall to all but me, I said, "I am very happy for her."

Rivera said, "I will tell Her Highness that you asked."

"Thanks, Juan."

"And one more thing? If you go to this place, do not make the mistake of trying to go quietly. Go as all American tourists go. Wear a colorful hat, a bright smile. Carry a camera around your neck. Ask for directions in very loud English!"

"Very good advice, General."

It was, too.

That night, Dewey stayed up after I went to bed. Restless, I lay awake thinking, listening to the crackle of Christmas paper, the ripping of Scotch tape, feeling the weight of her through the vibrating floor and shifting pilings. The high-pressure system was now stalled squarely over western Florida; the temperature outside had dropped into the forties. The windows of my little house were fogged with condensation.

"You asleep?"

I looked, to see Dewey's head peeking around the clothes locker.

"No."

"Still mad at me?"

While shopping, she had stopped at a travel agency and booked two seats on Bahamas Air, Miami-Nassau, because the agent told her-incorrectly-that Cubana de Aviacion flew daily from Nassau to Havana. But I had already checked and the only Monday flight into Havana was out of Panama City, and I had booked it and a Sunday afternoon flight, Miami-Panama. One seat only.