Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

I was feeling a bit inadequate in my Hemingway T-shirt.

“If Batista hadn’t been such a corrupt thug, kept in power by the American Mafia, American corporations, and the American government... the Communists would never have won.”

“And you would have been born here in luxury and we’d never have met.”

She forced a smile. “We would have met. It’s in our stars.”

“That’s a nice thought.”

She kept looking at the former American bank, now a government office where people signed for their libretas — their ration books. She said, “Maybe this building will be returned to the American bank as part of the negotiations.”

“Maybe. But we’re not returning the money to the vault.”

“No. But we’ll return it to the rightful owners.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

She took my hand and we caught up to the group.

As Antonio promised, we stopped at the Hotel Ambos Mundos, a pastel-pink edifice whose façade had been restored to its pre-revolution glory.

Antonio said, “You can use the baño here, visit the bar where Hemingway drank each night, and have a daiquiri or mojito if it is not too early for you. For two CUCs you can see his room where he wrote Death in the Afternoon. Fifteen minutes.”

The Yalies filed into the hotel, including Richard Neville, who looked like he was going in for a root canal. I was thinking about a cold beer, followed by a leak in the same urinal that Ernest Hemingway used, but Sara said, “I’ll show you my grandparents’ house. It’s close.”

“Okay.” I followed her down Calle Obispo, then we turned onto a cobblestoned side street of old baroque mansions. As we walked I could see that a few of the grand houses had been restored, and Sara said they had been turned into luxury apartment houses for non-Cubans by foreign developers in a joint partnership with the Cuban government. Sounded like a nice deal for everyone except the former owners. It struck me that the issues of legal ownership and compensation could drag on for half a century, which again made a good case for stealing what was stolen from you.

I saw that a number of the old houses seemed to be in a state of limbo — condemned but inhabited. Sara pointed to one of these balconied baroque mansions across the street. “That is my grandparents’ home — where my father and uncles were born.”

I looked at the four-story house of faded blue stucco, most of which had fallen away, revealing the stone core. Some of the windows were gone, as were most of the louvered shutters. The house had an imposing entrance flanked by red granite pillars, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine this huge house as it had once been. And it also wasn’t difficult to understand why the socialist government thought it was too big for a family of five. Plus servants, of course.

I could see people through some of the big windows, and an elderly couple sat on a balcony that looked like it was held up by the Holy Spirit.

Sara told me, “I went inside when I was here. All the plumbing leaks, and there are only two working bathrooms. The kitchen is in the basement and it’s communal, and the house is filled with mildew and vermin. When the rent is free, as it is in Cuba, you get what you pay for.” She asked me, “Would you like to go inside?”

“Only with a hazmat suit.”

She assured me, “The people were very nice to me.”

“Did you tell them you inherited the deed to the house and you wanted it back?”

“I told them that I was an architect, and that if I could reclaim the house, I would restore it for them, top to bottom, and take a small apartment for myself.”

“Did they believe that you would let them stay?”

“I mentioned a rent of five dollars a month.”

“How’d that go over?”

“Not very well.” She added, “They have a long way to go here. They’re frightened of the future.”

“Who isn’t?”

She kept staring at the house, then said, “My grandmother’s piano is still in the music room. I took a picture of it for her... She didn’t want to see it.”

I glanced at my watch. “You want a daiquiri?”

“No.”

“You want a picture?”

She nodded and handed me her cell phone.

I took a few photos of her standing across the street from her former family mansion, then a few close-ups under the pillared portico while I listened for the sounds of imminent collapse.

We began walking back to the Ambos Mundos. I understood the emotional attachment and the sense of loss that Sara Ortega must be feeling, but you really can’t go home again. Unless you’re just there to pick up what you left behind.

We got back to the Ambos Mundos as our group was exiting the hotel, and Antonio led us to the nearby Plaza de San Francisco de Asís. On one side of the plaza was the newly restored Spanish-style Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal, which Antonio pointed to and said, “Today, at some hour, an invasion fleet is arriving from America.”

The Yalies chuckled tentatively, waiting for a further explanation.

“It is actually a fishing fleet which has sailed out of Key West. This is a new tournament called Pescando Por la Paz—” He translated, “Fishing for Peace. A... how do you say, a double entendre. Very clever. Yes?”

The clever Yalies seemed to think so.

Antonio continued, “The fishermen will come through this terminal and walk directly into this beautiful plaza, and be welcomed by the people. And then they will find the good bars and get drunk like sailors.” He laughed at his own lame joke.

I looked around the plaza, but there were still no signs of the fleet’s arrival — no dignitaries, no reporters, no banners or bands.

The arrival of the fishing fleet from America was not exactly world-shaking news, but it was news in the wider context of the Cuban Thaw, so it should be marked by some sort of official ceremony and appropriate news coverage. Unless, of course, the regime wanted to ignore it or downplay it. Or cancel it.

Sara said, “I’m getting worried.”

“Let’s assume Antonio has the latest update.”

Antonio fixed his gaze on me. “Mister Mac is a fisherman in Key West, so perhaps he will want to drink with his fellow fishermen tonight.”

I didn’t respond, and Antonio moved on to other points of interest.

Our next and last plaza of the morning was Plaza Vieja — the Old Square — and on our way there Sara asked me, “Why did he say that?”

“I’m not reading anything into it.”

“He practically said that he knows you’re going to meet someone.”

“There are only three people in the world who know that — me and Jack, and now you as of an hour ago.”

She seemed frustrated with me. “He’s made the connection between you — a Key West fisherman — and the Pescando Por la Paz.”

“There is no connection. Only a coincidence which anyone would comment on.”

We reached the Plaza Vieja and Antonio talked as he walked. “This square was laid out in 1559 for the private residences of Havana’s wealthiest families, who in former times would gather here to watch the public executions.” He added, “Now, of course, those wealthy families are gone.”

Having attended their own public executions. But Antonio didn’t say that. He said, “Please look around. Ten minutes. Then to lunch.”

Half the group headed toward the fountain in the center of the plaza to get their fountain photos, and some headed for the shade, as did Antonio, who retreated under a tree, lit a cigarette, and made a cell phone call. I said to Sara, “He’s calling for a firing squad.”

“You deserve one.”

Funny. I said, “You need to calm down—”

“And you need to ask yourself if this mission has been compromised.”