The revelers gone, the earlier din flooding the street had subsided. A short distance along their stroll, Renata slid her hand into his. Then she quietly asserted, “I’ve decided that it’s better for a man and woman to share a brief encounter with each other without an attachment or so-called love that will wilt with time. I don’t need love right now–just affection and physical warmth with no strings, no guilt.” She looked up into his face. “I’d like us to be together, but not long enough for there to be a sting when we part. Fond recollections, perhaps, but not painful ones. Memories are illusions that deceive the heart,” she sighed in conclusion.
“I don’t need love right now–just affection and physical warmth with no strings, no guilt.”
Gomez had no immediate answer for what she’d said. It struck him as curious how their very different circumstances had brought them to one another. This woman apparently felt unloved, almost needy in her search for a tender bodily connection. He, on the other hand, was desperate to experience a final passionate embrace from the opposite sex before the inevitable overtook him. He decided he didn’t need to respond to her notion directly.
“I have only rum in my room.”
“Do you mind if I buy some pisco? I know where—”
“Of course not.” As she pulled away, he gently grabbed her arm. Fishing cash from a pocket, he said, “Here. Get what you want and any mixer to go with it.”
She hurried into a nearby shop and, a short time later, reappeared carrying two bags. When she reached him, Michael took them from her.
“I got you Coca-Cola and a lime to go with your rum. Was that okay?” Her voice had taken on the tone of a little girl.
“Sure,” he laughed, as she returned her hand to the crook of his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. The gesture made the Cuban smile. They continued walking silently toward the hotel.
* * *
The twosome sauntered through the lobby under the slow-moving overhead fans and past the dozing desk clerk to the elevator. When they emerged on the third floor, Renata was regaling her companion with a humorous anecdote concerning teaching naïve nursing students. Michael laughed at her story and the way she told it.
At the door to his room, he stopped and turned to the woman.
“Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, I don’t want you to hate me afterward. Or yourself, for that matter.”
Her answer came as a long, passionate kiss. As she pulled back from the embrace, she looked up into his eyes. “I have no classes to teach at the university until later in the week. Let’s share what time you have left here with the heat of physical pleasure. No strings, no guilt, no regrets.”
Considering his medical prognosis, her words “what time you have left” hit home in an extraordinary way. He could only smile weakly and unlock the door.
* * *
Gomez’s vagabond adult life had been divided between stealthily stalking selected subjects, precise planning, expert executions, and furtive flights. He had little leisure time, much less anything involving romance. The next forty-eight hours were the most relaxed and enjoyable Michael had experienced since his family had been together in Cuba years earlier.
At one point, he thought of the other men who had approached Renata that first night in the restaurant and had been turned away. In a moment of curiosity, he asked her, “Why me?”
“Because I liked your face,” she replied, her black eyes dancing with the simple answer.
The pair filled their time with laughing, drinking, and making love. They spent most of it in his hotel, except for outings to eat and for Renata to make good on her offer to show him the city. The latter sorties were few and short-lived thanks to their desire to return to his room, its bed, and the drinks that awaited them.
On a few of these excursions, Michael insisted on buying her gifts: a new dress she momentarily admired in a shop window, or shoes, or a handbag. These were done over the girl’s objections. He also gave the woman more than enough cash to make certain their favorite liquors and mixers were well-stocked. Then, he made her keep the change over her further protests. She proclaimed she was with him for his company, not for any money he might give her. After recognizing the Cuban couldn’t be swayed otherwise, she finally accepted his generosity. Nonetheless, she pouted a little while, declaring she was not to be taken for a puta.
Meanwhile, the nurse loosened up, smoked a few of his panatelas, and kept him laughing. More than once, her antics caused them to spill their drinks during bouts of questionable sobriety.
Despite Gomez’s concerns, the ominous clouds of his medical situation lifted, except for the occasional bout of moderate agony, which he could get through without alarming his companion. His luck on that front abandoned him during their second night together. In the very early morning hours, Renata found him on the floor of the small bathroom, doubled over in pain from the worst episode yet. Her training kicked in. She got him back to bed and tried to make him comfortable, placing a damp washcloth on his forehead. Then she urged them to call a doctor, but he adamantly refused. He looked up into her face, contorted with worry, relented, and told her of his physical condition and its prognosis. When she slipped to the washroom to re-soak the cloth, Michael heard her weeping softly. He immediately regretted telling her of his circumstances.
… Renata found him on the floor of the small bathroom, doubled over in pain from the worst episode yet.
Renata returned and replaced the washcloth on his head. With a heavy sigh, she then turned and sauntered out onto the small balcony as she struggled with her conflicted emotions. She was grateful for a diversion from her recent heartache that didn’t involve a commitment. It was too soon for that. At the same time, it saddened her that this gentle man was facing an untimely death, a demise she could not prevent. Sometimes life was cruel beyond belief.
The pain that had momentarily debilitated Gomez gradually subsided. He raised himself on an elbow. In the dim light from nearby buildings, he watched as she leaned against the rail, a slight breeze playing with his shirt that she wore. Her figure was delicious.
He sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and got off the bed like a man climbing out of quicksand. He approached the woman and, from behind, wrapped his arms around her. As she turned to him, he saw glistening tears streaking her face. She held him tight and sobbed quietly into his shoulder. He guided her back to the bed, where they fell asleep embracing each other.
* * *
Later that morning, they went to a restaurant and had an early, subdued lunch among a gaggle of American tourists. The subject of Michael’s medical condition was never mentioned. Nonetheless, the Cuban sensed a change in his paramour’s demeanor. Though she tried to hide it, Renata’s fun-loving personality had become restrained. They’d moved full circle from acquaintances to confidants to lovers, then back to friends. In the coming hours, the pair drank and made love as before, but without the passion, the joy. As he had many times in his life, Gomez reconciled himself to the circumstances. He knew it had to end in the next two days, regardless.
* * *
When he awoke that Thursday morning, Renata was gone. Michael sat up in bed. A quick scan of the room confirmed that she had taken the things he had bought her during their time together. He shook off the fleeting feeling of abandonment that could lead him to self-pity. It was an emotion he’d not experienced even during the darkest of his family’s days back in Cuba. Since he had been given his terminal diagnosis, the sensation had tried to overtake him on several occasions.
He got up long enough to check that his money and the job-related documents were still with him. They were. As Gomez stood beside his travel bags, he experienced a twinge of guilt for doubting the woman’s intentions.
The man surmised that beneath a soft exterior beat the heart of a lost, confused woman, trying to make sense of the world she’d found herself in. Apparently, she simply left rather than dealing with anymore heartache in her life at that moment.
He retrieved a Partagás from his luggage, put a flame to it, and retreated to his bed. Watching the smoke trail upward and swirl in the overhead fan’s movement, the Cuban inhaled the fragrance the woman had worn while she was with him. It clung to the linens like a pitiful reminder of better times. Regardless, the memories of them made him smile. He recalled his mother’s words. “Don’t be sad that something good ended. Be happy that it occurred.”
Michael glanced at his watch. It was eight forty-three. He still had a little over five hours before he had to meet his contact for further instructions. As he lay there, he contemplated the possibilities of the task ahead and recalled the circumstances that led him to his occupation.
* * *
Around six months after he’d gone to live with his aunt in Havana, she returned to the apartment with word of her missing nephew. Through a person she knew at the Tropicana–a man highly placed in the Cuban government–, she’d learned that Michael’s sibling was now in the army. He had been stationed at the Moncada Military Barracks in Santiago de Cuba. The boy received the news with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was relieved to learn his brother was alive. On the other hand, Jesus had been pressed into a service for which he was not suited. He was likely miserable.
That evening’s meal, which was filled with his aunt’s upbeat talk about the boy being alive and safe. Meanwhile, Gomez’s mind ran rampant with thoughts of how to get to him and somehow rescue him from his situation.
He casually inquired about the distance Santiago was from Havana. Stating her uncertainty with respect to the exact number of miles, the woman told him it was at the other end of the country on the south shore. She estimated it to be at least five hundred miles. When he asked if they might visit Jesus, their aunt advised him that it was a two-day trip by bus. She explained she needed to get away from the club for such travel. When the opportunity presented itself, she promised she’d ask for time off. Though Michael smiled and agreed to the plan, he was far from satisfied with the prospect of waiting until she could go.
Over the next several days, while his aunt was at rehearsals and work, the boy learned more in regard to what was involved in a journey to find his brother. He determined that a ticket for a bus to Santiago de Cuba cost seventy-five pesos, a king’s ransom to him. As Katie had estimated, the trip, with stops in Santa Clara, Camagüey, Holguín, and a few lesser towns, would take the better part of two days.
The only obstacle to the trek was getting the money for the fare. The solution was readily at hand, but it required him to do something he had never contemplated: theft. He knew his aunt kept a sum of cash in a cigar box in her closet.
One night, while Katie was working, the teenager wrote a note to explain to his benefactor that he’d taken eighty pesos from her funds and why he had. He finished the message with a pledge to repay the money no matter how long it took or what he had to do to make good his promise. Packing some bread stuffed with leftover arroz congri for the trip and a few changes of clothes into a small travel bag, Michael set off for the bus station.
Shortly after midnight on the second day, his hot, dusty, cramped ride ended in Santiago de Cuba. He climbed off the bus and asked a uniformed individual standing nearby for directions to the Moncada Military Barracks. He was told to go north to Calle General Portuondo, along which he’d find the building he sought. Bag in hand, the young man started exploring the dark, deserted roads. As he walked, he wondered what might be accomplished on this trip. He reconciled himself to being satisfied to see Jesus alive after all this time.
Finally, the weary boy caught sight of an extensive structure further along and across the street where he’d been told he could expect to find the military quarters. When he started to cross the thoroughfare, a truck and several cars, carrying people, approached at a high rate of speed. The lead vehicle swung in from the road toward the barracks. As the people jumped from them, soldiers poured out of the building and gunfire erupted. Men were screaming and falling, wounded. Stunned by the scene before him, Michael froze. Bullets struck and ricocheted around him.
As the people jumped from them, soldiers poured out of the building and gunfire erupted.
Suddenly, a large hand grabbed the back of his neck and dragged him to safety. Turning to his rescuer, the confused kid looked up into the dimly lit face of a tall, muscular man. He was holding a large handgun. The extraño pressed the boy to the wall they hid behind. Nonetheless, his captive peeked around its edge at the firefight taking place at the Moncada building.
In the moment’s chaos, Gomez glimpsed his brother in the headlights of an attacker’s car. He was wearing an ill-fitting military uniform, struggling to carry a rifle, and being shoved forward by a fat, older officer. As Jesus awkwardly raised his weapon, several bullets tore into his torso. His mouth opened wide in shock, but if he uttered any sound, Michael couldn’t hear it over the pitched battle. The young soldier dropped to the ground. The trooper who’d been pushing him kicked his lifeless body in frustration and continued to fire at the attackers.
Michael made a sudden move in the fallen boy’s direction. The unfamiliar person took a firm hold of his shirt and kept him from going anywhere.
“Stay where you are if you don’t want to die,” the person restraining him growled softly in Spanish.
“My brother!” the boy yelled in his native tongue.
A response barely audible above the din came to him. “If he’s in that mess, you can’t do anything to help him.” The man glanced beyond his captive around the corner of the wall before releasing his shirt and taking a firm grasp of the young man’s shoulder. “C’mon, son. Let’s get out of here.” He virtually dragged Michael to a dilapidated pickup truck parked on a road running off Calle General Portuondo.
When the stranger started the vehicle, Gomez had the impression of a powerful engine that didn’t match its run-down appearance. He slammed the thing into gear and pulled onto the street slowly.
“No sense arousing suspicion by a hasty retreat,” the man mumbled to no one in particular. Then he said, “Relax, kid. We’ll get to a safe place and talk.” As they drove away, the gunfire decreased gradually, then stopped. Much to his surprise, Michael began to feel distant from what he’d seen happen to his brother. After the initial shock, he felt nothing but emptiness. For a reason he couldn’t have explained, he shed no tears for his dead sibling. Maybe, he thought as they rode through the darkness, I’m too tired, too cried out from the deaths I’ve already encountered.
After a short time, the driver pulled into the courtyard of a modest house. The pair climbed out, and the big man led his young companion inside.
Michael’s rescuer turned on a few lights, then asked, “Are you hungry?” The boy realized he hadn’t eaten for over a day. He nodded vigorously. His host jerked his chin toward a small kitchen. “There is food in the icebox. Help yourself. If you want to warm it up, there’s a stove on the other side of the fridge.” With that, Cabrera disappeared into an adjacent room and closed the door behind him. The young man heard a lock being manipulated.
He hurried to the kitchen and retrieved a bowl of arroz congri from the refrigerator. Holding it caused his thoughts to return to his Aunt Katie. He underwent a pang of regret at leaving her the way he had and prayed she was not too upset with him. He would make it right when he returned to her, he told himself. The aroma of the dish was overpowering to the point where he decided not to take the time to heat it; he’d eat it cold.
As he sat at the small table eating, he overheard the man’s voice in the next room. He was speaking English! He spoke with an American accent, as his mother and her sister had had.
Gomez crept to the door separating them and listened. The man was describing the scene that had taken place at the barracks, though his depiction included unfamiliar terminology and unknown men’s names. The voice of the other individual in the conversation was interspersed with static. He also spoke English. Michael was “worldly” enough to know that the fellow who had snatched him from the gun battle was in radio contact with someone, although he could not make out everything the second person said. When it sounded as if the discussion was ending, the boy froze before hurrying back toward the kitchen. The door to the next room opened before he was halfway there.
The voice of the other person in the conversation was interspersed with static.
The big, mustached man smiled and, in Spanish, asked, “What gives…? Say, what’s your name, anyway?”
“Miguel Gomez. What is yours?”
“You can call me Ernesto. Ernesto Cabrera. So, what were you doing that you had to run to the kitchen?”
While he recognized that the fellow calling himself Ernesto had not said it was his name, the boy chose not to question it. Instead, continuing the conversation in Spanish, he admitted, “You were speaking English to somebody over a radio.” He sat back at the table and ate a spoonful of the rice dish.
“Oh, yeah, that,” the older man chuckled. “Well, I know people who are interested in the events at the military barracks. I–”
“I have to return to my aunt who lives in Havana,” Michael blurted out in frustration. “She needs to know I’m all right and,” he moaned, “what happened to my brother, Jesus. I need to leave.”
Cabrera approached the kid casually. He made a vague motion toward the room containing the shortwave. “My associate tells me that the Moncada soldiers who were attacked are in a murderous mood. They’ve already massacred some rebels who were caught or surrendered during the fight. And they’re torturing others.”
“They wouldn’t do that? They were victorious,” the kid protested.
“Were they? You strike me as an intelligent young man. Remember that history is always written by those who win the war. And to determine who the real winners are, you must invariably look at the long-term outcome.”
Sitting in the chair opposite his charge, he continued. “The expectation is that Batista’s men are on the lookout for anything or anyone suspicious. El Presidente will use his army and his collaborators to save face while taking revenge on everyone suspected of being disloyal. And more than a few of his junior officers will probably go to extremes to find people to sacrifice and prove their allegiance to him.” When Michael started to speak, the man cut him off. “Look, I can no more let you try to get on the road by yourself than I could leave you at the Moncada. And we don’t need the danger of traveling and running into a military roadblock.”
Ernesto looked the boy up and down. “How old are you? Around twenty?”
“Sixteen.”
“Huh! You are big for your age, then. Regardless, Batista’s soldiers could easily assume you were one of the rebels and arrest or kill you on the spot. If you’re lucky, they might just press you into military service. Either way, you won’t have much of a future.”
After a minute of contemplation, Michael, who was rapidly becoming a man, confronted Cabrera. “I think you were at the barracks for a reason. Whose side were you on?”
“What day is it?” Ernesto laughed. Shaking his head, he added, “Picking sides is like choosing between the ebb and flow of the tide. Today’s favorite is tomorrow’s duty.” The big man got up and prepared a pot of coffee. As he did, he said over his shoulder, “Neither of us is going anywhere, at least for a little while. In the meantime, I’ll try to get word to your aunt that you are alive and safe. I need you to tell me how she can be reached.”
When he returned with two cups of the hot liquid, the boy sipped his and gave him all the information he had regarding his mother’s sister, including her employment as a dancer at the Tropicana. His voice cracked as he finished with a request that she also be told of Jesus’s fate. It was the only manifestation of grief Miguel showed concerning the death of his brother. The older fellow nodded his understanding.
The pair spent the next several weeks in relative isolation in the small house. Michael slept on the old sofa in the outer room while the stranger used a bed in the space he laughingly called the “dispatch center.” When Gomez finally confessed his knowledge of English, the older man insisted on continuing their conversations in Cuba’s native language just in case someone overheard them.
On two occasions, Ernesto ventured out for groceries. At least, that’s what he said. During the initial period of this time, his young companion took what the stranger told him with a certain amount of skepticism. The feeling wasn’t lessened when Gomez discovered the door to the radio room was locked during Cabrera’s absences. Despite his minor concern, Michael grew to trust the man who’d probably saved his life. He also came to believe there was more to his host than simply a guy who happened along at the moment of the attack on the military barracks.
Despite his minor concern, Michael grew to trust the man who’d probably saved his life.
Other than the almost daily communication Cabrera had with his cohorts via his shortwave rig, the only connection with the outside world was through a small transistor radio that picked up local stations. And the news they reported was limited.
After a time, Ernesto started addressing the youngster using the term mi hijo. The words had not been spoken to him since his Papa died.
During the third week of their seclusion, Miguel awoke to hear talking over the two-way rig. After a few minutes, the other person mentioned Katie’s name. It prompted the young man to leap from his sofa bed and burst through the unlocked door into the radio room. It was the first time he’d entered the space. The big man didn’t seem the least bit concerned about the intrusion and continued his transmission. At once, Michael saw various maps on the walls. Pins marked several locations around his island homeland. Papers were spread out on the table where the shortwave was sitting. As the boy stood there gaping, the conversation with the second man was cut short.
After signing off, Ernesto slowly turned in his swivel chair to face the intruder. “Sí, mi hijo?”
Gomez nodded toward the communications rig. “You guys mentioned my aunt’s name.”
“We did.” He raised a calming hand to the anxious boy. “Our people tracked down her apartment building. She no longer lives there.” Miguel uttered a sharp gasp, but before he spoke, Cabrera continued. “According to the landlord, she moved out a week or so ago. Through tears, she told him she’d learned that the remaining members of her family in Cuba, two nephews, had been killed by the army, and she was returning to the United States. The building’s proprietor had no additional information about her. She left no forwarding address. All we could confirm was that Katie departed the country the next day. We haven’t traced her whereabouts in the U.S. yet. My associates are still working on that, so you can re-unite with her at some point.”
Stunned and despondent, the young Cuban retreated to one end of the sofa in the front room. Ernesto followed him, taking him a seat at the opposite end.
“Listen, I’ll try to help you return to Havana if you want, but—”
Michael shook his head adamantly. “No. No. There is nothing there for me now.” After a pause, he breathed, “I don’t know what I should do.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. During that time, both men realized a heavy downpour had enveloped the area.
Finally, the big man looked hard into the young man’s eyes and spoke. “Before you came into the room, I received instructions to leave Cuba. I’m stepping outside my authority to make you this offer, but if you want, I’ll take you with me. From there, you can get to the States and your aunt.” He drew a deep breath. “It’s a start, anyway. But it’s your call.”
“How? Where–”
“I can only tell you I–we–depart tonight from a nearby point. To where I cannot say right now. I’ll share with you our destination after we’re on our way. But I promise it will put you in a better position to reach Katie than staying in Cuba.”
Many thoughts ran through the younger man’s mind, but he remained silent for the moment. Because Gomez’s trust in Cabrera had grown strong, he believed the man had his best interests at heart. The Cuban bent forward, dropping his hands between his knees and clasping them together. His eyes met his protector’s. “I truly appreciate how you’ve treated me. I want to go with you, if possible.”
With an unexpressed feeling of relief, Ernesto leaned back in the seat. Several security issues, involving the safe house and his presence during the attack on Moncada, resolved themselves with Miguel’s decision. “Then it’s settled. We’ll leave after dark. Hopefully, the rain will help cover our departure and movements. Get your stuff and put it by the door. And we need to empty the icebox. We can make a meal of anything left in it. The rest needs to be thrown out. I don’t know how long it may be before someone else moves in here. Please scrape something together for us?” His companion nodded. “In the meantime, I have a few matters to take care of.”
We’ll leave after dark. Hopefully, the rain will help cover our departure and movements.
With that, each man set about performing the tasks that needed to be done: Ernesto in the radio room, and Michael setting his small travel bag at the front door and working in the kitchen. Later, they ate a meal of whatever leftovers were in the refrigerator.
Just after dusk, they made more than a few quick trips through the rain to load their gear into the bed of the old pickup. Besides several duffel bags, Michael saw Cabrera, dressed in rather tattered attire, carrying a long, slender case he hadn’t seen before. When the things were situated, the man covered them with a tarp, then signaled his companion to follow him. They walked around to the back of the house, where they retrieved a number of wooden chicken crates. At the truck, the pair stacked them as well as could be done under the circumstances. Finally, they tied them down.
After one last cursory inspection of the place, they locked up and climbed into the truck. Michael was glad to get out of the rain, which was cold relative to the ambient temperature. Ernesto slammed the old vehicle into gear and drove away. The travel time was prolonged by the savage downpour.
The heavy rainstorm provided the pair with a benefit. During the journey, they came upon a military roadblock. In their headlights, they saw three soldiers manning the post, huddled under a nearby awning. Only one stepped out into the weather as they drew closer. Ernesto quickly told his charge to go along with anything he said.
Cabrera stopped at the uniformed man’s signal. In flawless Spanish, the driver gave their names and explained that he and his “son” were returning from the market in Holguin, where they’d sold their chickens. The soldier stuck his head inside the driver’s window and used a flashlight to examine the tattered clothing of the man behind the wheel before shining it on Miguel’s face. The young passenger nodded to confirm his “father’s” story. Withdrawing, he then made a hasty inspection of the empty crates in the vehicle’s bed. He returned and sent the men on their way. As they drove off, Gomez watched as the soldier hurried back to the shelter of the small canopy.
After several minutes, they were on a road that ran more or less parallel to the Bahia de Santiago de Cuba. The rain gradually stopped as they drove. A short distance later, Ernesto pulled to a halt near an old wooden pier on the bay. In the backdrop of lights from across the water, Michael saw the silhouette of a vessel tied to the end of the dock. It was in complete darkness.
Cabrera interrupted the momentary silence. “We need to quickly and as quietly as possible transfer our stuff onto the boat so they can shove off.”
Fifteen minutes later, the gear was stowed on the deck of what Gomez now knew to be a fishing trawler called the Del Mar. Standing at the rail, he watched his companion meet someone halfway along the little pier. They spoke briefly and exchanged something. Meanwhile, the vessel sprang to life, and machinery from somewhere in the boat’s belly suddenly roared into action. The big man finished his conversation, then hustled and climbed back aboard the ship as crewmen released the mooring lines. Within a brief time, the boat had pulled away from the dock and was headed south toward the ocean.
The newcomers were occupied shifting their paraphernalia to a storage compartment. A short, sinewy guy, wearing a sweat-stained sea captain’s hat, entered the space as they were finishing the task. He and Cabrera had a brief, harshly whispered conversation. The stranger nodded at the boy as they spoke. He didn’t appear satisfied with the kid’s presence. Ernesto raised his hands slightly to calm the other fellow. He reached into a pocket, produced a wad of cash, and handed to him. The recipient of the money fanned the bills quickly and showed a slight smile. Then he shrugged his sharp shoulders and hurried out. When he left, the older man sidled over to his young companion.
By this point, Miguel was ready to face any difficulty head-on and asked, “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Cabrera chuckled. “They just weren’t expecting anyone to come aboard with me. It’s okay now. I gave him a little of the cash the fella on the pier passed to me when I handed him the key to the truck.” He gazed around the room. “What say we find a coffee pot on this tub?”
Though the drink had never been a part of Michael’s daily routine, he’d developed a taste for it while sharing the house with Cabrera. The pair found the galley and a fresh-brewed pot. They poured themselves mugs and took them out on the deck to the bow. There, they sipped and absently watched the shoreline. Neither spoke. At one point, their ship passed a government patrol boat of some sort. Miguel became tense until he realized Ernesto had paid it no mind.
In time, the Castillo de San Pedro de la Roca del Morro loomed in the darkness of the hills off the port side. Then it slowly receded as the trawler sailed into the open waters of the Caribbean.
Later, in the cabin they’d been assigned to share, Cabrera explained to his young friend that he had been given a new assignment in Guatemala. They were underway for that destination. The trip of around eight hundred miles would take close to a week, according to the trawler’s captain. Once they arrived, he promised Miguel he’d do everything possible to put him on his way to the States.
As the pair settled in for the night, Michael lay awake on the pallet of a thin mattress on the compartment’s deck, conflicted and concerned regarding traveling to America. Where should he go to look for his Aunt Katie? What would he do if he got there and couldn’t locate her? He had a fitful night’s sleep.
Michael lay awake on the pallet …, conflicted and concerned regarding traveling to America.
* * *
The combination of a disturbing recollection and a sharp pain in his abdomen brought Michael out of his semi-drowsy state. He glanced at his watch. The Cuban was to meet his contact in less than an hour. As he sat up on the edge of the bed, he experienced a coughing spasm. When he pulled his hand from his mouth, he saw a spot of blood in his palm. The doctors had told him to expect it at some point, but they’d said it wasn’t necessarily a sign the end was near. It was merely a symptom to be recognized. Blood, even his own, didn’t disturb him.
He felt unusually weak and lethargic. After splashing his face with water in the bathroom, he dressed and left the room for his rendezvous with the stranger.
* * *
Gomez’s appointment with the man was at the same restaurant where he’d first met Renata. She wasn’t there, as he might have hoped. One more encounter of reckless pleasure with the lady would have been delicious, he thought, as he stood in the doorway, scanning the place. He recognized the person he was to meet by the red feather in the hatband of his Panama hat. Michael smiled as he slalomed among the tables toward his objective, because the thing was of Ecuadorian origins, but had been misnamed for more than a century.
“Señor Bedoya?” the new arrival inquired quietly when he reached the table.
The man stood and extended his hand. “Sí. Señor Diaz?” Apparently, the company expected the Cuban to maintain the alias throughout the mission. Bedoya was short, dark, and wiry, with narrow features. His small, flickering eyes reflected suspicion of everything and everyone. After shaking hands, both men took seats. Gomez leaned on his elbows across the table.
“What do you have for me?” Michael said softly, cutting to the point of the meeting.
From inside his linen suit coat, Bedoya removed an envelope and reached it partway toward his contact. Then he snatched it back from the other’s outstretched hand. “Do you possess any money to pay for the information I have for you?”
Though shocked at his words, Michael merely shot a steely stare at the man opposite. He scoffed. “That’s not part of the deal, my friend.” Following a brief pause, he added, “Is that how you want your role in this little vignette to be reported to the agency? If you do, fine. But I’m gonna leave out of the account the segment where I took you outside and kicked the hell out of you,” he fumed quietly.
The fellow turned ashen, relinquished the thing, and sat back in his chair. He rubbed a thumbnail over the black stubble on his jaw. “There’s no need to become violent, señor. I am simply trying to provide a living to feed my niños.”
Gomez skimmed the envelope. It showed no signs of having been tampered with. Then he glared at Bedoya. “Sounds like a personal problem. Don’t make it mine, hijo de puta.” He slapped the correspondence against the table as he stood up. “¡Muchos gracias!”
* * *
Back in his room, a weary Michael tumbled onto the bed. Lying on pillows propped against the rough-hewn headboard, he tore open the envelope and read its contents. He was to board the M/V Del Campo at the Tampico docks that evening. Accommodations aboard it had been set aside for him. The vessel was scheduled to depart the port at midnight. The captain of the ship, Tomás Seguda, would have a packet with additional instructions and documents for him when they met. As had always been the case, the people he was working for provided their operatives only enough information at each stage of the operation to get him to the next step. It gave them what he’d heard termed “plausible deniability.” As usual, he burnt the document in an ashtray.
At least he was traveling by water, not by air. Over the years, he had learned how much easier it was to slip someone into a country by ship rather than through the more restrictive airports. The agency often used the ploy.
Glancing at his watch, he saw he had time to rest before he was to meet the vessel. He lit a cigar and sank deep into the pillows. As he did, his mind pondered what might lie ahead of him with the assignment. He’d go aboard a vessel to sail the same waters he had on his first adventure at sea those years ago. And the beginning of the way of life he had known since then. Eventually, his thoughts wandered back to that voyage.
* * *
During the next week on the fishing trawler Del Mar, the prospects for Miguel’s young life changed dramatically. So too did the future Ernesto encountered.
It began the morning after they sailed when he, looking for something in the storage chamber, came upon the long, thin case he’d seen his rescuer load into the truck. Curiosity overcame him. He pried the container open. It held a rifle and a telescope. As he was closing the thing, his traveling companion appeared at the door behind him.
“There you are! I wondered—?” The boy whipped around with guilt written across his face. “What are you doing?” the man demanded. He stepped into the room, shut the door, and swiftly moved past the horrified youth. Cabrera scrutinized, then opened the gun case. As he examined its contents, he asked, “Have you messed with this in any way?”
“No, Ernesto! I promise! I just wanted to see what it was,” he said sheepishly.
The older man felt sympathy for the kid. It was an emotion he rarely experienced for anyone or anything. Putting a gentle hand on Michael’s shoulder, he allowed, “It’s okay. But you need to understand that this equipment is the tools of my trade. It is very important that they never be touched.” His young protégé still had the look of fright. “Have you ever held a gun?” Gomez shook his head. “Tell you what. If you swear to me you won’t mess with any of my things again, I’ll let you shoot the rifle.” Cabrera chuckled. “I could use some practice, anyway.” He lifted the boy’s chin so their eyes locked. “Agreed?”
Relieved, Miguel smiled broadly and nodded.
Shortly after lunch, Ernesto located Michael standing by the gunwale at the vessel’s stern. The latter had been contemplating his future as he watched seagulls diving in the ship’s wake. The man held the gun case in one hand and a large sack of something in the other. “Are you still interested in learning how to shoot?”
“Sure,” the youngster barked eagerly.
The big man poured out the bag, which contained a couple of dozen empty tin cans. “We’ll use these for targets. The crew’s gonna dump them over the side, anyway.” He removed the rifle from its case, inspected it, and mounted the scope. Then he loaded it with a single cartridge. Michael watched him closely. When he’d finished, he told the boy to throw a can as high and as far as he could.
He removed the rifle from its case, inspected it, and mounted the scope.
When Miguel complied, the wind caught and tossed it unexpectedly. Cabrera shot it out of the air with one round. The birds loudly squawked their objections and momentarily flew away. The blast surprised the kid. Nonetheless, he laughed gleefully at the stunning accuracy of Ernesto’s marksmanship. At the sound of the rifle’s report, several crewmembers gathered around the pair to watch.
“We’ll start you out with something easier, Miguel,” the sharpshooter assured him. First, the man gave his cohort a quick, but very firm lesson on how to handle the gun safely. He had his student repeat the rules back to him three times. The schooling ended with the admonition that if he ever failed to follow all of them, he could never again touch the rifle.
With that understanding, the man walked the youngster through how properly to prepare himself physically–breathing, posture, etc.–for firing a weapon. Miguel practiced a few times with the unloaded firearm before his companion inserted another round and handed it back to him.
“I’m going to toss a can into the ocean. You shoot at it.”
“Throw it in the air! I’ll hit it!” Gomez trumpeted.
With a gentle laugh, the instructor replied, “Let’s try to crawl before we run, okay? Get ready.”
His student showed a disappointed expression but said nothing as he turned toward the choppy ocean. Ernesto threw the container a moderate distance from the stern. In a second or so after, the rifle discharged. The bullet only missed the target by a foot or so, much closer than Cabrera might have expected. Beginner’s luck, he told himself. However, the next three shots got progressively nearer the mark. On the fifth shot, the boy hit the can. The man questioned whether his student simply had a natural talent for shooting. The following days at sea answered his question.
They practiced at least once each day. By the time they were twelve hours out from Puerto Barrios, Guatemala, Miguel handled the USMC 1952 rifle like a seasoned pro. Ernesto broached an idea that had been dogging him for a few days. After confirming Miguel’s thoughts that he didn’t want to go to the States to locate his aunt, Cabrera suggested his companion team up with him in his trade.
The bond of trust had grown between the two men during their time together. So, swearing Gomez to secrecy, Cabrera shared with him information about himself and his occupation that no one else–not even close family members–were aware of. The youngster was spellbound as Ernesto laid out the details of his life and profession. With no other prospects before him, Miguel readily agreed to the “partnership.” He surmised his first guess that Cabrera’s presence at Moncada was no mere coincidence had been correct.
Later, the older man spoke directly to the agency that employed him. Despite their initial hesitation, they eventually concurred with the arrangement after the successful endeavor on the pair’s part in the operation in Guatemala. During that assignment, Miguel kept the thing from going awry in one instance by his quick, intuitive action.
So began a career of involvement in covert operations in many locations, which included political interventions and disruptions and, occasionally, exterminations. During that time, Ernesto taught his young protégé the ins-and-outs, the nuances, and the skills, such as pre-op surveillance and protective and counterintelligence, necessary to survive and succeed in his chosen profession. Michael proved himself to be a quick learner, capable of tweaking a situation to his advantage and improvising on the run. They visited several continents, traveling to and through a number of countries.
To the young man’s horror, during one such undertaking, Ernesto was mowed down in the crossfire between warring factions in an emerging African nation. Though unable to save his close friend, Michael successfully finished the task at hand. When he reported to the “company” what had happened, they didn’t miss a beat in telling him he should pick up where his partner had left off.
These were the circumstances that put him on the path he followed today.
* * *
At eleven o’clock that evening, Michael stood on a pier at the Pánuco River, gazing at the ship he was to leave on. The sailing board at the bottom of its steep gangway listed its departure time as midnight and its destination as New Orleans. In the glare of the waterfront lights, he recognized the Mississippi Shipping Company’s logo painted on its smokestack. Lugging his bags, he trudged up to the main deck, where he was met by a beefy member of the ship’s crew.
After identifying himself using his assigned alias and explaining that the captain was expecting him, the crewman led Gomez across the deck to the outboard rail of the vessel. The area was a scene of organized chaos as a gang of stevedores loaded an unknown cargo into a hold. A barge was tied to the Del Campo on the river side.
The men climbed stairs to an upper level in the superstructure. He deposited the newcomer at the captain’s cabin door and disappeared. An older, heavy-set, bushy-haired man wearing tight-fitting khakis happened past at that moment. He stopped and introduced himself as Harry Felten, the ship’s purser. Michael briefly explained his presence in general terms. After apologizing for the captain being occupied with a problem elsewhere, the vessel’s officer said he’d been made aware of someone departing Tampico and had a room ready for him.
An older, heavy-set, bushy-haired man wearing tight-fitting khakis … stopped and introduced himself as … the ship’s purser.
With that, Felten led the way through a series of turns to a large space decorated with faded murals of what the Cuban assumed were scenes of “old” New Orleans. There, the purser paused and leaned heavily on a table. The Del Campo was a cargo ship that also carried passengers. The man explained the room had been, in the ship’s heyday, their main lounge.
“Here,” he detailed, “mid-morning coffee was served. The travelers could read books from the vessel’s limited library or newspapers that might have been picked up in the various ports of call. In addition, when the company was in its prime, movies were shown in here. The various vessels of the line exchanged films when they met in port. It provided varied entertainment for the passengers. And cocktails were available here in the evenings,” he ended his trek down memory lane.
Harry confessed, “Yeah, she’s a tired old lady, a far cry from the vessel that had carried second-level elites to those exotic ports of Mexico, Central and South America.” He swept the salon with the wave of an arm. “Fully air-conditioned and with the latest word in ocean-going comfort, she was once touted as ‘a resort at sea.’ Now,” he sighed, “she’s more likely to be referred to as ‘a last resort at sea.’” He emitted a slight chuckle. There was a subtle sadness in it.
“Anyway, you’ll be in one of the choicest staterooms. At least it was back in the day. It’s right here off the main lounge.” He unlocked the door, reached inside, and turned on a light. Then he stepped aside, allowing his passenger to enter. “It’s the only accommodation left on the ship.”
Michael entered the compartment and looked around. “This will do very nicely. I see it includes a bathroom–excuse me–a head,” he laughed.
“Well, um, yes, it does. But there’s one slight problem with that.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, um, you see, the toilet doesn’t flush. It stopped working yesterday afternoon. The chief engineer has a man seeing to it,” he quickly added, stepping to the bathroom’s door and closing it firmly. “There’s a bucket inside for you to use for … well, you know.” Felten was eager to have an end to this awkward conversation. As he made his way to leave, he apologetically finished, “I’m very sorry for this, but, as I told you, it’s the last vacant cabin on the ship. And the union contract prohibits me putting a crewmember in a space with a broken commode.” With that, he smiled slightly and disappeared.
Reconciled to his lot, Michael tossed his bags onto the bunk and sat beside them. Though he’d done all he could not to show it, he was racked with pain. The heat and simple exertion of getting to and aboard the vessel was wearing him down quickly. Nonetheless, he still preferred hot weather to cold. The Cuban lit a comforting Partagás and tried to relax. He chuckled at the purser’s concern regarding the broken toilet. It mattered little to Gomez, a man who’d grown up in a small shack with no indoor plumbing.
He was jolted from that thought by a knock on his door. He opened it and found a short, stocky man wearing a timeworn, sweat-and-oil-stained officer’s cap. Like the purser, he, too, wore khakis, though his showed a disposition toward the physical rigors of a life at sea. They bore stains. The fellow held a large manila envelope.
“Are you Porfirio Diaz?”
“I am. Captain Seguda?” His visitor nodded. “Come in.” The man stepped inside.
When he closed the door, Michael spoke the code words he’d been given in the message passed to him by Bedoya. They confirmed his identity to the vessel’s skipper. In kind, Tomás repeated a phrase that verified he was who he said.
“This is for you,” Seguda offered with a slight Hispanic accent. Michael took the packet and glanced at it for any signs of it having been tampered with. Seeing none, he tossed it onto the bed and returned to the officer, who offered, “Make yourself at home as much as possible. But don’t get in the way of the crew doing their jobs. They’re a mixture of blacks and Hispanics with a sprinkling of Caucasians. Lazy bastards, everyone of ‘em. They give smart-asses a chance to make jokes about what their union’s initials stand for.” When a confused Gomez didn’t respond, the captain added, “The union is the NMU, the National Maritime Union.”
Seguda exhaled audibly, took off his hat, and ran smudged fingers through his thinning black hair. “If we don’t hit any heavy weather or run into mechanical problems, it’s around a four-day trip to New Orleans. I’m gonna spend most of it seeing to it this tub moves in that direction and kicking the crew’s butts. So you keep yourself entertained. If you need something, let the purser know. If you can’t locate Felten, find the second mate. Name’s Cato. If he’s sober, he’ll help you. Crusty son of a buck, but a damned expert sailor. We’ll do what we can to accommodate you. But, be mindful, this ain’t the Queen Mary.”
Seguda started to leave, but stopped at the door and turned back to his passenger. “We’ll be shoving off as soon as the lighter tied up outboard finishes transferring fuel and is clear of us. Our twin Nordberg diesels are thirsty bastards.” He followed a brief pause by saying, “You know this ain’t a normal port of call for this ship. The company diverted us here to pick you up. I hope whatever you’re up to is worth it.” Michael merely smiled at what he supposed was a subtle hint for information. Here is a ship’s captain, he estimated, who needs to control everything occurring on his vessel.
“The company diverted us here to pick you up. I hope whatever you’re up to is worth it.”
When his statement brought forth nothing, Tomás sheepishly continued. “So, the shipping agent arranged for us to take on provisions, fuel, and a small amount of cargo for the return trip to New Orleans while we were here. Never miss a chance to make a buck. Do you have any questions?” The Cuban waggled his head in the negative.
“Do you have any of me?” Gomez asked, teasingly picking at the man’s obvious curiosity and grinning irrepressibly.
“No,” Seguda stammered. He swallowed hard. “Well, I need to get to the bridge. Vaya con Dios, señor.” Then he disappeared out into the lounge.
Exhausted, Michael transferred his bags to the deck and propped a pillow against the bulkhead next to the bunk. Then he stretched out on the bed, half lying, half sitting on the thing. Tearing open the envelope, he poured its contents onto his stomach and sifted through them. The first item that caught his attention was a Merchant Mariners Document. It was an identification instrument commonly known among merchant seamen as a “Z-card.” The certificate stood in place of a passport for crewmembers of American freighters and tankers. It had been issued in the name of Porfirio Diaz.
There was also a sheet of instructions. He was to meet a man named a Raoul at the International Trade Mart on Canal Street in New Orleans a week later. Somebody was cutting this schedule close, he thought. But it was manageable if, as Seguda said, they didn’t experience heavy weather. He mused on the fact that the adventures of his life began aboard a vessel named the Del Mar and might finish with a trip on the Del Campo.
A severe pain rose from his lower abdomen. Faced with the worsening and more frequent episodes, he swore to himself to see the job through and get the medical care he needed. After lighting a panatela and setting fire to the instruction sheet crumpled in a tin can which passed for an ashtray, he lay back on the bed, hoping the agony would subside. It didn’t.
There was a sudden flurry of activity out on the deck. The deep rumble of winches came to him. Gomez knew it signaled that the crew was closing the cargo hatches and taking in the mooring lines. Then, the ship’s whistle blew, showing it was prepared to go to sea. Several minutes later, the ship jerked sideways. They were moving away from the dock. He took comfort in the thought of being on the ocean in darkness. Finally, he drifted off to sleep despite the discomfort.
* * *
Michael awoke mid-morning to sunlight streaming through a porthole. The roar of thundering engines deep in the bowels of the Del Campo came to him. In the experiences he’d had traveling aboard vessels during his career, he had always found the sound gratifying. He sat up on the edge of the bed and lit a cigar. His cabin seemed stifling. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was too late for breakfast, but he figured the time for lunch wasn’t long off. The pain he was suffering had killed most of his appetite, anyway, so he could survive.
When Gomez opened the door to his bathroom, as repulsive an odor as he’d ever encountered hit him. As expected, the overflowing toilet was the source. It struck him as a problem that far predated Felten’s story of starting a mere two days earlier. Regardless, he made use of the bucket provided and, holding his breath as well as he could, showered. The hot water gave him a burst of energy against the pain. After the harsh “ambiance” of the head, he dressed quickly to get out in the fresh ocean atmosphere.
Minutes later, the Cuban was leaning on his elbows over the ship’s gunwale on the main deck just forward of the superstructure. The air he breathed in seemed so clean compared to even that in a relatively small city such as Tampico. A voice hailed him from somewhere. He looked around and saw Captain Seguda standing above him on the flying bridge.
“Good morning, Captain!”
“Buenos días, Señor Diaz,” Tomás called down. Bending slightly and switching to a stage whisper barely audible above the wind, he said, “I need to let you know you are now officially on the crew manifest, listed as an ordinary seaman. In case American customs or Coast Guard…” he shrugged.
Michael nodded his understanding. Then he waved his arm toward the surrounding sea. “I’ve never seen the Caribbean this color of green,” he yelled to Tomás. “It’s usually shades of blue.”
“Sí, we saw that yesterday when we were inbound. Must be some sort of algae or kelp or other plant life, making it look like that.”
Again, the “passenger” nodded and returned to the contemplation of his future. He tried to breathe deeply and steady himself as pain encompassed his torso. Coughing blood into his handkerchief, he silently cursed his circumstances. Either let me move forward with this damned contract or get on with my death! But I don’t want to die alone!
A tap on his shoulder interrupted Gomez’s small bout with self-pity. He tried to put the pain aside and turned to see an older guy dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt.
“You must be Diaz,” the man chuckled, “‘cause yours is the only mug I don’t recognize on this rust bucket. I’m the second mate. Name’s–”
“Cato. Yeah, the captain told me to locate you if I needed anything and couldn’t find the purser.” They shook hands. Michael was grateful for the diversion from his suffering. He laughed weakly. “The good news is all is well, except for the toilet in my cabin.”
Arms akimbo, Cato put his hands on his hips and waggled his head. With a friendly but business-like demeanor, he remarked, “Yeah, I’m sorry for that. Andy Lockhart–that’s the chief engineer–told me he hoped to get it fixed ASAP.” He checked his watch. “Right now, it’s time for lunch, if you’re interested.”
“Sure. I missed breakfast.”
The men walked together to the small officers’ dining room and seated themselves. A menu, typed on a plain sheet of paper, lay at each place setting. The choices didn’t look that bad to Michael, but owing to his pain issues, he settled for only having the chicken noodle soup.
As they ate, an older, gaunt individual in heavily soiled denims entered and sat at a different table. “There’s the man,” Cato called across the room. The fellow looked his way. “Andy, this is the guy who’s lucky enough to be staying in the cabin with the broken commode. How long you figure before it gets fixed?”
Initially, the engineer merely grunted. After quietly ordering his meal, he shot a sideways glance at the skipper sitting nearby and snorted. “Well, if the damned company gave me the parts this boat needs to function properly, I’d have it done this afternoon. As it stands, it won’t happen before we hit port.” Lockhart displayed a cool, hardened exterior. While the messman set his food in front of him, he continued. “Knowing the situation you were gonna face, mister, I sent Sanchez, my third engineer, ashore in Tampico with one of my wipers to see what he might scrounge up.” He slapped the man seated next to him on the shoulder and jostled him a bit. “He’s not good for much, but he could find rice in Ghandi’s house.” The recipient of the ribbing smiled and averted his eyes.
“Sanchez here couldn’t come up with the parts we need, but he came back with a case of Air-Wick spray cans. God only knows how and where he found ‘em. But I know better than to ask questions.” Around a mouthful of food, Lockhart contended, “They won’t fix the toilet, but it’ll help stem the tide of stench some. That’s the best I can do for you. Sorry, bub.” The curmudgeon went back to his meal.
Michael caught Cato peeking at him for any response. The Cuban smiled only. They finished their meals, then went their separate ways.
For the following hour or so, Gomez restlessly strolled the deck until the pain, heat, and weariness overtook him. He returned to his cabin and found the box of deodorizing spray sitting outside the door. Inside, he used an entire can of it, trying to negate the horrendous smell from the bathroom. The aerosol lessened the malodor but didn’t kill it. Then, he went about better inventorying and organizing the gear that he might need in the coming days.
The agony increased as he worked. So did the amount of blood he expelled into a towel. Eventually, he was forced to lie down. In time, the sun set and darkness cloaked the cabin.
As he lay there, Michael’s thoughts returned to the land of his birth. In the lonely gloom, his room transformed into a surrealistic scene. Once again, he was a youngster in his family’s little shack, surrounded by Jesus and his Mama and Papa. It was the memory of a memory. Mama was crooning a Cuban folk song. The boy searched their joyful expressions as they gently swayed to the tune.
Once again, he was a youngster in his family’s little shack, surrounded by Jesus and his Mama and Papa.
Then, his Mama looked deep into his eyes, smiled, and said in a smothered voice, “Con Jesucristo, nunca estarás solo”.
Gradually, their faces blurred. Then they and Michael’s world faded to black.
El Fin ©