Michael Gomez set fire to a fresh cigar as the man on the other end of the phone line continued, “This time, we only want your expertise in planning the mission. Someone else will actually do the job.”
Gomez paused, impatiently shifting his lanky form from one foot to the other before responding. He desperately needed the income he’d figured this contract could bring. “Your people have seen my work,” he said firmly but evenly. “You also know that I’m the best at what you need in the end.”
“Were the best.” Michael’s eyes blinked involuntarily at the impact of the words. After a poignant pause, the other man sighed heavily and continued, “Look, I’m not trying to be a jerk. But it’s your health issues that’re keeping you from completing the last phase of this work. We understand your circumstances, and you need the money. Frankly, those are the only reasons you’re being offered the feasibility study for the job. That and the fact that you’ve always been known for your ability to assess and plan an operation. This is an enormous project. The leader of a country isn’t terminated every day. At least not in the Western Hemisphere. It requires careful planning.
This is an enormous project. The leader of a country isn’t terminated every day.
“We know you can do that for us. And it may take a year or so to put into motion. Some people are already being set up for their part. But we’re going to need somebody better able to move and move quickly to actually finish the contract. Our organization needs an agent to do this flawlessly, with no complications, no questions, and, most importantly, no blowback.” He paused again, then delivered the final blow, “Someone we don’t have to worry about being incapacitated by illness at the wrong time.” His tone wasn’t harsh, only mordant.
Michael remained silent, thinking over his options, running his free hand through his thick black hair. Nineteen sixty-one had thus far been a very rough year. That African assignment had nearly been fouled up by locals who, for political reasons of their own, wanted to complete and receive full credit for the politician’s elimination. He’d barely escaped their wrath when they found he had completed their objective. His exit had been necessarily speedy, forcing him to leave behind everything but the clothes on his back. They could have the acclaim or the blame, however it played out for all he cared.
The contractor recognized his line of work was competitive and getting more so every day. The Trujillo incident last month was yet another indication of that. Normally, being in this part of the world already, he’d certainly have been on tap for that assignment. But the Dominican venture went to someone else. Right now, he definitely had to have the cash that even the primary portion of this contract could deliver.
Gomez managed a tired, somewhat cheerless smile. Using words such as “contract,” “job,” “operation,” and “mission,” when it was really nothing more than well-paid, high-profile murder always seemed absurd to him, but that was the vernacular of the business he was in. And had been in his entire adult life. It apparently helped guys such as the one on the telephone to distance themselves from the ugly truth of the work, as if sitting in an office far removed from the blood, the heat, and the danger wasn’t enough detachment. But it allowed them to bullshit in vague, mysterious terms their way around the gullible women they met in the Washington, D.C. bars. Finally, Michael relented, “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” There was relief in the man’s smooth voice. “We need you on this one. Plan for a large urban scenario. There’s front-end cash and initial instructions in a packet in the name of Porfirio Diaz waiting at the post office there in Quito. We’ll be in touch later.”
“Two questions.”
“Yes?”
“Where the hell did you come up with Porfirio Diaz?”
“A pinhead,” he explained in a lowered utterance, “in the outfit thought of it. Apparently, Diaz was the president of Mexico around the turn of the century. He, too, was a thorn in the side of his national leaders. I figured you were aware of who he was.”
“I’m Cuban by birth, not Mexican,” Michael breathed into the mouthpiece.
“Right,” the man responded while stretching the word out. “Sorry. What was your other question?”
“Were you that sure I’d take the contract?”
“Yeah. Pretty much. We’ll be in touch.” The line went dead at the other end.
He hung up the phone and exhaled slowly. As he withdrew his hand from the cradled receiver, an excruciatingly sharp pain rose suddenly from deep in his abdomen. The man doubled over and braced himself against the wall. As the ache subsided somewhat, he stood upright. This time, the agony was worse than any before. The doctors had said they’d get more severe as the end drew closer. He scanned the hotel lobby. Nobody appeared to have noticed his problem. He slumped into a nearby chair to ride the ebbing tide of pain and to regain his composure. One thing the telephone conversation had told him: the people he was working for did not recognize the severity of his condition.
As he crushed his half-finished smoke into a sand-filled, freestanding ashtray next to the chair, Gomez settled against the chair’s plush cushioned back and tried to take his mind off the pain. He focused on the facets of the task before him. The freelancer didn’t know who the target might be or where the objective was to be accomplished. Knowing the people for whom he’d be working, the directions at this stage were not likely to give him any straightforward answers either, even if they were aware of the job’s location at this point.
The freelancer didn’t know who the target might be or where the objective was to be accomplished.
However, there were things he’d have to consider and plan for, regardless. Weeks, sometimes possibly months, could be spent shadowing a subject surreptitiously to learn their movements and habits in planning when and where a job could be best carried out. Ways in, routes out. Contingency plans. Patience and an eye for detail were key in this kind of action. He shook his head at the thought of what lay ahead. Well, he mused, when you need cash, something’s better than nothing.
After a couple of minutes, the discomfort had eased enough for Michael to move. He rose gingerly from the chair. As he walked unsteadily across the lobby, he saw somebody whom he suspected to be a “company man.” The fellow was known to be active in one of the alphabet-soup labor organizations created to woo the working class of Ecuador away from the communist movement. He was the tall, blond, all-American type with a linebacker’s physique and a perpetual look of suspicion concerning everything within his purview. He was possibly another Ivy Leaguer the outfit brought on board. But the college whiz kids were more suited to desk jobs in think tanks than to field assignments, so maybe not. The bulky mug squinted at the dark-haired stranger and glanced around briefly. Closing his Spanish edition of Reader’s Digest, he moved to intercept the guy, who gathered himself in anticipation.
“Do I know you?” The man fell into stride beside his prey and walked with him a distance, speaking Spanish. “You look familiar.”
“I don’t think so. But I’ve seen you around.” Michael stopped, turned to confront him, and continued the exchange in the native tongue. “And if that’s some sort of recognition code, it’s not very good. Fairly common conversation, right?” His words had more of an edge to them than he’d meant.
As his face reddened slightly and his fist tightened around the rolled-up magazine, the big man bristled and reverted to English. “Listen, fella–”
Gomez responded in kind, bowing up. Though he was deceptively strong and capable of taking care of himself, the Cuban didn’t want to create a scene. “Relax, bub. I’m an employee with the same firm you likely work for, okay? Just passing through. Been here only a little while.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder vaguely. “On my way out of town.” Ready to bring their dialogue to a swift conclusion, the black-haired man turned and walked away without waiting for any response. He smiled to himself and shook his head. Ecuador is crawling with these guys, he contemplated. They must be tripping over each other. Some heads were likely going to roll in Washington because of the recent fiasco at the Bay of Pigs. And since it flows downhill, the local operatives were probably doing everything to make a good showing at whatever they were up to here.
Michael stepped outside into the bright morning sunshine, which belied the crisp, cool air that greeted him. He stopped to take in the vista. Perched high on a hillside, the hotel had a spectacular panorama of a nearby volcano, when clouds or fog didn’t cover it. The ailing man had mixed emotions regarding his condition. He now made time to enjoy life’s simple pleasures, like the view from his room. But simultaneously felt the need to move fast enough to get that last paycheck before he absolutely required the more intensive medical care he was trying to delay. He hailed a taxi, a dilapidated Plymouth Belvedere, and set off for the National Postal Company on Avenida Eloy Alfaro.
Although the drive north from the hotel to the post office was a relatively short distance, the ramshackle hack, combined with the cabbie’s erratic driving, made it seem an intolerable duration. Accustomed as he was to experiencing danger, it was usually of his own making or within some measure of his control. This cab ride was different. As he swayed and bounced in the vehicle, Michael experienced another twinge of pain, but this one was mild in comparison and passed rapidly. He grimaced slightly as he prayed that his luck held out on one final assignment, securing him the funds to return to and die in the land of his birth.
Leaning back in the seat, he reached into his pants pocket, fishing for his lighter to ignite the last of the Romeo y Julietas he had taken from his African target. Why let premium figurados go to waste on the rabble that would soon descend on the dead man’s location? he asked himself at the time. As the smoke seeped down into his lungs, he smiled at the thought of enjoying the same brand that Churchill prefers.
The doctors had lectured him sternly on the effect his vices of alcohol and tobacco were having on his condition, but an infrequent cigar to relieve the stress was the one indulgence on which they’d compromised. And Gomez loved the panatelas from his native land. The smoke helped, whether it was psychosomatic. As he enjoyed its flavor and admired its tightly wrapped form, he wondered if the current standoff between Washington and Havana might curtail his ability to enjoy his favorite panatela in the future. The idea of stockpiling a few boxes, while he had the opportunity, occurred to him.
A short time later, Michael climbed from the taxi and entered the post office. The packet was there, as promised. He put it in a jacket pocket and returned to his hotel.
* * *
In his room, he found a generous amount of United States currency in the envelope. The company always paid well. After a quick count, he tossed the cash onto the bed and read the accompanying document. As expected, his instructions gave no hint of his final destination or of the target of the mission, only the procedures to follow for his next contact. According to the schedule outlined, he had slightly less than a week before a rendezvous with somebody named Bedoya in Tampico, Mexico. The packet provided no other information about the man he was to meet: only where and when the encounter was to take place and how to identify him.
The timetable was fine, he thought as he struck a match to burn the letter and envelope in an oversized ashtray. He had several things he wanted and needed to do before leaving Ecuador. After the episode in Africa, Michael had replaced the most vital “tools” of his trade in anticipation of future projects. Despite the necessity of this equipment, he referred to them as “trash,” because of their expendability, at a moment’s notice should the need arise, as it had on the last mission. And he’d bought only a few items of clothing. Because this contract merely called for an assessment and operation plan, he now had to deposit his gear somewhere for safekeeping. He hoped to buy a few more articles to wear, too.
As he dialed a number to make plans for a flight to Mexico, it occurred to him that Quito’s new airport had been built around the same time as his hotel. The entire world, he reflected, seems to be building for the future, a future he won’t see. He exhaled heavily and shook his head vigorously to stop such feelings. Here and now, he told himself. Here and now. They completed the travel arrangements after a quick conversation.
The Cuban made a second phone call to a local who provided the information he needed. Then he pulled a hard-sided suitcase from under the bed and retrieved a locked duffel bag from the closet. After determining that neither had been tampered with, he placed them on the bed, unlocked the large canvas tote, removed the few clothes inside, and tossed them to the side. Gomez checked the remaining gear in the duffel, then closed and re-secured it.
As he slid the cash into his pocket, a wave of pain rose to a crescendo from his abdomen. The intensity was such that Michael simply fell onto the bed to await its passing. When everything was said and done, the money didn’t relieve his mind of what was to come. He lay there, eyes closed, in a fetal position for an unknown length of time.
When he opened his eyes, he realized the sun was much lower in the sky and he must have dozed off as the ache had faded. Glancing at his watch, he sat up on the edge of the bed and gathered the scattered money he’d dropped when the pain overcame him. The man put the currency into a pocket as he tried to clear his head. After splashing his face with water in the room’s small bathroom, the ailing fellow grabbed the bags and left the hotel, heading to a place of business just off Calle Sucre.
On a street barely wide enough to accommodate two-way traffic, the little bookstore occupied one-half of the ground floor of a building. A pastry shop took up the rest. Michael navigated through the cluster of pedestrians on the narrow sidewalk. Entering to the accompaniment of a bell over the door, an older, diminutive shopkeeper with small, flickering eyes set behind a pince-nez greeted him. He spoke in Spanish with the betrayal of a German accent. “Good afternoon. May I help you locate something?” The old man eyed the things his potential customer carried with curiosity but not suspicion.
His caller put the belongings down and looked around the shop. The shelves were bursting with editions of every sort, and stacks of books stood in the corners. No one else was in the place. His gaze returned to the pale, elderly gentleman as he replied in English. “Do you have a copy of Jack London’s The Sea-Wolf?”
The older fellow took a small step closer to his caller and brought his gnarled hands up to his chest, gently folded. His aged eyes studied the stranger’s face, determining to his satisfaction that they understood one another. “Are you looking for a first edition?”
“No. Just something to read on the beach.” Now this was a recognition code, he thought, smiling as he reflected on their absurd conversation. Since his diagnosis, things he’d previously considered mundane had taken on a ridiculous aspect.
“Yes. Fine. I may have what you’re seeking in my back room.” As he spoke, he walked to the front door, locked it, and took the sign reading “Abierto” from the window. “I’m Hans. What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling and glancing at Michael’s baggage.
“My company referred me to you. I have a few things that need safekeeping for a period. I was told that they’d be in excellent hands here.”
“Oh, yes, very safe indeed.” The old boy hoisted his bushy eyebrows and motioned, indicating the bags on the floor. “Are these the items?”
“Yes. But I’m uncertain how long before I’ll be back for them.”
“No matter. They will be here when you return, whenever that may be.”
As the small man struggled to hoist the luggage, he displayed obvious difficulty with his right arm. Michael intervened and picked them up. “Here. Let me do that.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m afraid an old wound has limited my ability to lift things. Please bring them this way.”
As Gomez followed the merchant through a curtained doorway that led to a surprisingly small backroom, he wondered about the man’s background, if Hans was even his real name and the circumstances of his injury. South America’s German population had grown considerably since the last world war. A former member of the Abwehr, perhaps? Or merely an escapee from the horrors they produced. Sometimes, the difference between a fugitive and a refugee was blurred at best. Casually asking a German what they did during the conflict was still taboo.
South America’s German population had grown considerably since the last world war.
Regardless, such things were not mentioned in this business. Contacts and support were what they meant. The old man’s kindly face belied the possibility of his involvement in such a devious and ruthless organization, particularly in its dealings with partisan groups. He stopped in front of a heavy metal door and withdrew keys from a pocket. Unlocking the entrance, he reached inside to turn on a light, and then stepped aside and motioned for his visitor to enter. The large room was lined with shelves holding sundry items. A few filing cabinets stood against the far wall.
“This will do nicely for your things,” Hans said, showing him an open spot on a shelf. Michael placed the suitcase against the wall at the back of the ledge and set the duffel bag in front of it to keep the former hidden to a degree. Even here and now, he was cautious.
After completing the final arrangements for the storage of his “trash,” the Cuban followed the little man to the front of the shop. At the door, he turned and asked Hans if he knew of a good place locally to buy clothes.
“What type of clothing are you interested in?”
“Just everyday knock-around apparel, but I need to get a new suit if there is someone you can recommend.”
“Oh, yes,” the shopkeeper smiled as he stepped behind the counter and retrieved a piece of paper. He wrote slowly with arthritic hands and continued, “See this gentleman. He probably sells everything you want, and he makes the best suit in Quito.” Hans paused. “His labels leave something to be desired, but his suits are nice.”
“His labels?”
Hans laughed as he handed Michael the slip of paper and escorted him to the door. “Just go. You will see.” He reached up and patted the taller man’s shoulder.
Gomez thanked the proprietor and walked outside. As he hesitated on the sidewalk and read the old fellow’s writing, he realized from his limited familiarity with Quito that the address was not too far away. He decided to walk and enjoy the beautiful weather. He lit another panatela as he strolled past the Catholic clerical complex, referred to by the locals as La Compañía on the corner formed by calles García Moreno and Sucre. His memories momentarily moved back to warm, languid nights in Cuba. The cigar only made his desire to return there stronger. In due course, he stood in front of the clothing store he sought.
After taking the time to finish his smoke, Michael entered the haberdashery. He strolled through the shop and located a decent stock of the items he needed. Looking over a rack of suits standing against a wall, he concluded Hans was correct about the workmanship. When he saw the price tag, he thought it was a bit steep for a locally made suit, but still inexpensive by, for example, American standards. He was considering the expenditure when he noticed the “manufacturer’s marker” inside the coat. It was a fair duplication of a true one, except that it read “Brook Brother.” He laughed aloud. Hans had been right about the labels, too.
“Something is wrong, sir?” A short, stocky man with a measuring tape draped around his neck and a pencil stub behind one ear had approached him. He was waving a piece of tailor’s chalk in a hand as he spoke. His tone was both apologetic and impatient over the suspected source of the potential buyer’s amusement. Apparently, he didn’t want to be reminded of the label snafu of which he was keenly aware, but wouldn’t take the trouble to replace it for the few shoppers who might recognize the difference.
There was no need to insult the merchant. “Oh, no,” he smiled. “I was simply pleased with the reasonable prices of your fine suits.” The man seemed relieved as he beamed.
Eventually, they came across one in Michael’s size and the other items he’d needed. He arranged to pick it up after a few minor alterations the next morning. Adding a canvas travel bag to his purchases, he departed the store into the gathering darkness as a tinge of pain grew in his abdomen. The Cuban decided another taxi was in order as he lit a comforting Montecristo.
* * *
Late the following morning found Michael drinking a cup of coffee in the passenger area at Mariscal Sucre Airport, waiting for a flight out of Quito. He spotted the tall, musclebound Americano he’d spoken to several days earlier in his hotel lobby. The blond was across the room, having a close discussion with a somewhat garish figure hiding behind very dark sunglasses. As they finished their conversation and the other man skulked away, the fair-haired figure saw Gomez and started in his general direction. He glanced around furtively as he walked. The object of the American’s movement leaned back in his seat, anticipating.
“Heading out?” The stranger had taken a chair across from Michael, bent forward, and spoke in hushed tones. The man being questioned returned his gaze and said nothing. “Look, I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot the other day,” he continued, extending his hand. “I’m Greg Donovan.” Gomez doubted the name was genuine. He shook Donovan’s hand and smiled, but remained silent. The younger fellow pressed on, “And you are?”
He read the man’s eyes for a second and responded, “Obviously, I’m somebody you can’t learn anything about.”
Greg’s face reddened slightly, but he showed a wide grin. “Fair enough. You’re right. I didn’t find out a damned thing, except that you may work on a contract basis for folks I might be acquainted with.”
“Just call me Juan Smith.”
The other man received the name with a knowing smirk. “Okay … Juan. How did you know who I was, if that’s not a state secret?”
Michael relented to an extent. “I wasn’t certain who you were, but I’d seen you around and had heard a few things.”
“But you were sure I was an American.” It was more a statement of fact and less a question.
“Few locals can afford to wear a crocodile on their shirt. The shirt’s new, not secondhand. Between that and the weejuns, my deduction was American, yeah.”
The man’s eyes flashed to the floor, then back to the Cuban. He blushed deeper, but smiled again. “That’s okay … Greg. My guess is that it’s your first assignment overseas. And the people who employed you probably haven’t been doing this kind of work for that long and have not yet picked up on the subtleties involved. Learning and acclimating take time and experience.” Trying to rescue the fellow’s ego, Michael added, “And from what I hear, you’re doing a pretty damned good job here.”
This time last year, Gomez wouldn’t have given a damn about the American’s feelings. But he’d abruptly learned that life was far too short for hurtful honesty. The blond grinned and nodded in quiet thanks as the subject of his curiosity changed the topic to something with which Donovan would be more comfortable. “What’s this I’ve heard about the Ecuadorian vice president having pro-communist, pro-Castro leanings? Is he really a threat to President Ibarra?”
Greg leaned closer in a conspiratorial fashion. “I don’t think Ibarra has anything to worry about. Besides, if VP Moray does something outlandish, our people won’t let him stay too long. A man like that is too much of a risk to our hemisphere.”
“Good,” Michael said, doing his best to look and sound genuinely concerned. In reality, he didn’t care one way or the other, but decided he might as well feign an interest in common with Donovan, who freely spewed forth the party line. From somewhere, someone announced the boarding for the traveler’s flight. “That’s me.”
“Going out on Ecuatoriana, huh?” Donovan’s statement made it clear he believed even this piece of information was a minor victory in his efforts to learn something, anything, concerning the enigmatic man. “Good little airline.” After a pause, he looked hard into Gomez’s face. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Are you an American?”
Ignoring the question, he extended his hand to the blond-headed guy, who reconciled himself to an inquiry unanswered.
The two men shook hands and parted. As he was wending his way toward the departure door, the Cuban picked up a newspaper to catch up on world events during his flight.
Settling into his seat, he tried to relax. For the elements of danger he exposed himself to in his work, he could never get accustomed to being airborne. Though flying was a necessary part of his life, he was always far more comfortable on the water, even in a heavy storm, than hurtling several miles above the earth in an aircraft. When they finally reached cruising altitude, Michael loosened up and focused on his newspaper. As he read, he came across an article that simultaneously brought him great sadness and returned his thoughts to his beloved homeland. The piece reported Ernest Hemingway’s recent suicide somewhere in Idaho, following a bout with depression. The man dropped the paper into his lap, shut his eyes, and leaned back. Memories of the Cuba and the Havana he’d known years ago stirred in his head.
As he read, he came across an article that simultaneously brought him great sadness and returned his thoughts to his beloved homeland.
* * *
Michael had been born Miguel Gomez-Kelly to a Cuban father, Juan, and an American mother, Janet, who lived in a batey a little distance from his country’s capital city. His Papa worked in the sugar cane fields, cultivating and chopping. His Mama helped with the harvest. Before they’d met, fallen in love and married, she, the child of a well-to-do, highly educated family who had been bitten by the show-business bug, had been a vocalist in a small café in Havana. That is until she’d run afoul of a minor criminal who’d cut her face when she rebuffed his sexual advances.
This ended her career as a cabaret performer. Michael had seen old photographs taken of her when she sang professionally. She was indeed a beautiful woman. While still a boy, he discovered that after the attack, she, ashamed and depressed, had turned to drink. That was how Juan met Janet during a brief visit to the city as he searched unsuccessfully for work there.
The scars on her cheeks disfigured her, but did nothing to stifle the magnificence of her soul. His Papa fell head over heels for this lovely spirit. Juan could only offer her love, devotion, and the promise of a better life somewhere along the road. For her part, his Mama came to adore this energetic young man who genuinely loved her regardless of her appearance. In the fullness of time, they were wed and living in a shanty, where she gave up drinking and made a loving home, raising the two boys soon born to them.
Despite the struggles of existing in a tiny sugar mill community and the rickety structure they called home, it was always a place of great warmth and happiness. This was due in large part to the character of his Mama and to his Papa’s deep devotion to his family. Gomez’s earliest memories were of sitting under the thatched-roofed porch of their little house at the end of the day, listening to her sing to him and his older brother, Jesus. His Papa swayed nearby to her sweet vocalizations. Neighbors often gathered and listened to her as well. The assault she’d suffered had not harmed her voice nor diminished her longing to perform for others.
Frequently, Janet embraced her young sons and hummed softly to them alone. She often remarked how her soft-spoken elder son had the soul of a poet. She predicted he’d one day put pen to paper and express in verse the anguish and hard life experienced by the people of Cuba in the manner of Jose Marti. It was a name the boys, especially the oldest, came to revere. His Mama held her younger child in her arms and told him of the great exploits he’d survive to liberate his homeland from its oppressors. Michael had lived on the memory of those times ever since.
As years passed, Juan’s promise to Janet of a better life never reached fruition. Although the boy didn’t understand it early on, in time he realized that the economic improvements by the Cuban government were more evident for the city dwellers than for those in outlying areas. Soon, the boys joined their father in the campos de cana. The harsh conditions and hard work, however, never dampened the true happiness of their lives. The passion his parents shared for one another never waned.
From their mother, Michael, as she called him, and his only sibling learned to speak, read, and write in his mother’s native tongue, as well as Spanish. They became fluent in English with no hint of an accent and could move between the two languages at will. Janet gave the boys a great appreciation for reading and somehow found a seemingly endless flow of books of many sorts to read. She also mesmerized them with tales of Havana and the world beyond their little company town. Her stories stirred a wandering feeling that never seemed to be far from Jesus’ mind. As they grew and worked among the cane that towered over them, his older brother often spoke to Miguel regarding leaving the batey. He wanted to make a better life in the land of the yanqui, where he’d be free to express his passions.
One day, there was great happiness in their little hovel. Janet’s sister, Katie, had come to Cuba to work as a dancer in a large nightclub called the Tropicana. Michael’s father had arranged for the family to go to the city to see her. Havana. The very word held such imaginings and excitement for both boys. When the big day arrived, they boarded a bus and headed north to the capital city.
They reached Havana after what seemed to the youngsters an interminably long, dusty ride. As they emerged from the bus station, the brothers marveled at the large buildings and the seemingly unending hordes of people everywhere. Following the directions written by his aunt, the family located her small apartment, where they could sleep during their stay. They met the American there. Both kids were at once enchanted by this stunning young woman, with dancing green eyes, flaming red hair and a look of constant enthusiasm.
The reunion between the sisters was a tearful one. Katie, who had not seen her since Janet left America years before, was particularly so. Michael often wondered if her tears were of joy at seeing her sister once again or of the great sadness at the change in the once-beautiful face. Jesus, sixteen at the time, did his best, despite his quiet shyness, to convince the new arrival of his manhood. For her part, the newcomer pretended to be impressed with what a fine man he was.
By day, the sisters showed the family the city, as the two women reminisced about their childhood and Janet’s days as a singer in Havana. They spent a couple of evenings at a movie theater, a new and exciting experience for the boys. One afternoon, they were walking along a street named Calle Ibispo when a big, dark-haired man with bare feet walked past them, strolling in the opposite direction.
He wore only floppy khaki shorts and an open-collared sport shirt. He received no particular attention from anyone until his aunt became animated. She stopped and explained excitedly that he was Ernest Hemingway. They watched as he sauntered into a building at the corner. While their mother was suitably awestruck by this, Michael, Jesus, and their father were at a loss for its significance. The males of the Gomez household had a momentary disconnect with the name.
She stopped and explained excitedly that he was Ernest Hemingway.
With the red-haired beauty leading, they turned and slowly tracked the man’s steps as she explained he was a famous American writer who lived in a nearby hotel. Reading the uncertainty in the faces of her men, Janet reminded them of books she’d told them of, such as A Farewell to Arms and For Whom the Bell Tolls. Their aunt excitedly described how he sometimes came to the Tropicana and saw her dance. They stopped in front of the building into which he’d entered. It bore the name El Floridita.
The disheveled man was standing by the large mahogany bar talking with someone when Katie left the family and went inside to speak to him. She returned to the sidewalk with the novelist in tow. He recalled the Americano as surprisingly gracious to these strangers and said nice things concerning their aunt’s talent as a dancer.
The older man talked briefly with their father about his work and the conditions of the working poor on the islands. As Michael stood there in the open doorway of the bar, he could feel a gentle breeze emanating from a large floor fan inside as it pushed across the room. The moving air felt good in the heat of the day. When Hemingway bent over somewhat unsteadily to speak to him, he smelled of a mixture of sweat and what the adolescent later determined to be alcohol. He spoke of his son named Bumby, who was around his age, and mentioned that they might go fishing sometime.
On the way back to her apartment, Katie pointed out the hotel where Hemingway lived. Later that evening, she recounted to the boys the stories from his books she’d read. Her enthusiasm for his writing was clear. Miguel and Jesus were wide-eyed at the narratives, especially those dealing with bullfights. They had only heard vague accounts of such things. Here was a person who had seen them and described them in a book. Nonetheless, the significance of meeting him didn’t register with Gomez at that moment. He just knew that an important gentleman had gone out of his way to pass pleasantries with and was a gentleman to his aunt and his family.
In later years, he became a great fan of his work. The author’s words about there being no hunting like the hunting of man struck home, given his chosen profession. He recalled where he was “hunting” when he read of Hemingway’s Pulitzer Prize for The Old Man and the Sea. And now he was gone; for all his brusqueness, a tortured soul finally at rest. The Cuban closed his eyes to shut off the tears that, for the first time since his mother’s death, threatened to streak his face.
* * *
When his flight approached Tampico, its landing was delayed. A crewmember came through the cabin and quietly told the passengers that cows were on the runway. Until they were herded away, the plane had to stay in a holding pattern. The news caused a titter and light-hearted conversation among the travelers. Michael’s mind again drifted back to Havana, where he recalled that several months earlier the airport there had been bombarded in a prelude to the failed invasion. He smiled as he thought of that airfield, named for the same Jose Marti to whom his mother had often referred when cradling Jesus in her arms.
* * *
Later, as he rode in a stifling taxi from the airfield into Tampico, Gomez missed the cool, crisp mountain temperatures he’d left in Quito. While in Africa, he realized that a hotter climate exacerbated the weakness and lethargy his medical condition caused him. He smiled to himself and shook his head. It was as if he had never grown up in or worked in the intense warmth of his native Cuba. Emerging from the cab into the blazing afternoon sun bathing the Plaza de la Libertad, he was greeted by sights and sounds oddly familiar to him, although a stranger to the city.
The dusty streets, populated by street vendors, older model cars, even a donkey-drawn cart here and there, the open-air cantinas, and the mariachi music wafting from somewhere unseen. They offered a panorama that had not changed significantly since the opening scenes of Bogart’s The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, a favorite film of Gomez’s. After he had departed home and traveled, Michael’s devotion to reading, nurtured by his mother, was complemented by a great love of motion pictures. Snatched in those few snippets of freedom away from his chosen vocation, both served as welcome diversions from a life that flickered palely between waiting patiently and moving rapidly. And on one occasion, a movie theater had been a means of eluding the authorities. Now, to be standing in the middle of a landscape he’d only seen on the big screen was a joy even for a man of his nature.
With the harsh temperature momentarily forgotten, he followed the directions he had been given to his hotel. As he walked through the plaza, he was once again that boy on his first visit to Havana, mouth agape, taking in the view, as he recalled the scenes from the movie. Soon, the novelty of being in this setting wore off; the intense heat once more bore down on him. Michael stopped and braced himself against a coarse, adobe-like wall as he sensed a growing spasm of pain. Thankfully, the discomfort was relatively mild and passed quickly.
A slight smile of gratitude crossed his face as the ache faded. He then realized the structure he braced himself against was the outside of a cantina. Locating the hotel could wait, the weary traveler decided, until after he paused for a cold drink and a respite out of the sun. He wearily eased into the saloon, slid into a chair, and dropped his bag at his feet. After a moment, Gomez ordered a beer and lit a perfecto. Okay, so the alcohol had not been part of the negotiation with the doctors, he reflected. What they don’t know will kill me. A fatalistic grin briefly played across his expression as he inhaled the acrid smoke deeply. ¡Así es la vida!
“American?” a raspy voice interrupted his contemplation of the pain’s inconsistent severity. He turned to see a grizzled old man sitting across the room at the bar. The gaunt figure, dressed in a loose-hanging, tattered pair of chinos and a threadbare shirt, was eyeing him through a florid complexion and a perpetually hung-over countenance beneath a sweat-stained fedora.
The Cuban smiled in return. “Do I look the part?” He gave no outsider too much information about himself. Only the company had any significant background on him. They were thorough and determined to know who they were dealing with at certain levels. The outfit knew what it knew.
“Nah, not necessarily. Just bein’ sociable.”
“Well, in that case, can I buy you a drink?” Without waiting for the obvious answer, Michael shoved the chair opposite away from under his table with his foot, called to the barkeeper for two more beers, and returned his attention to the stranger.
The old man pushed off the bar stool and shuffled over to the newcomer’s location, speaking as he ambled. “Much obliged, friend. Name’s Roy. The way you was watchin’ the world pass by, I just reckoned you might be new to these parts.” As the guy passed him on his way to the chair, Gomez recalled that alcohol-sweat scent from long ago.
“I was fascinated by seeing the plaza where they once filmed part of a movie.”
The ragged character sat more erectly as he beamed with pride. “Oh yeah, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre! I was here when they made it! I was in it! It was only what the movie folks called a crowd scene, but when it come out, there I was in the background bigger’n life! That was a dangblasted fun time!” The codger bent over the table toward his benefactor and announced, “The hombre that wrote the story lived right here in Mexico! No foolin’, mister,” he finished, nodding his head vigorously. The old-timer leaned back in his chair and, casting his gaze through the open doors, jutted his chin at the plaza. “Ain’t changed much.” He paused, and his face darkened slightly before quietly adding, “Me neither.” His reflection held a weary sadness.
The old-timer … jutted his chin at the plaza. “Ain’t changed much.”
“Those iron-railed balconies remind me of New Orleans,” Michael opined. In truth, he’d only seen photographs of the city, but was searching for a way to move the old man away from whatever had deflated his mood. Life was too short.
Roy’s eyes sparkled again as he showed a sparsely toothed grin. “Yeah. Been around a long while. They call it ‘Porfiriato’.
The term sounded vaguely familiar. “What’s that mean? Where’s the name come from?”
“There was a lot of buildin’ during the time of a Mexican president named Porfirio Diaz. I reckon folks just started callin’ it that after him.”
That name again. It’s funny, Michael thought, how you’ve never heard a name or a term before and then suddenly you hear it several times in proximity. “Been here long, Roy?”
“When I was a kid, I come out of the Oklahoma fields for the oil boom here. Lookin’ for new worlds to conquer, ya see. Got here in time to get caught up in the revolution. Us Americans had a devil of a time back in ‘14. Had to barricade ourselves in a hotel to keep safe. That fracas between our navy and the local Federales here scared hell out of us.
“A lot of American influence in Tampico ‘cause of the oil. True then. Still is.” Roy swigged his beer before continuing, “I recollect in February ’16, a well gusher fired a thousand feet into the air near here. They say it was the largest in history. Then the Mexican government took over the oil companies in ‘38. It went to hell. By that time, this was home, so I stayed on and worked as best I could. Still do.”
After a pause, he added, “You know Trotsky came into Tampico by ship back in ’37 when he got deported from some country or another. It was sort of a big to-do.” The old fella sighed deeply, scratched his bewhiskered chin, looked downward at nothing in particular, and shook his head. “Me and this here town been through a lot.” He paused. “Been through a hell of a ride together.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, with slightly more vigor, as if a recollection had just occurred to him, he snickered and continued, “Hell, I damn near drowned durin’ Hurricane Hilda back in ‘55! Wouldn’t’ve been so bad if I hadn’t been a little under the weather with drink!” Roy slapped his knee and roared with laughter.
Michael smiled as he realized how much Roy put him in mind of Walter Huston’s character in the movie. Pushing away from the table and reaching for his bag, the freelance contractor said, “Well, I need to locate my hotel.” He read Roy’s sad, watery eyes and offered to buy him another beer. “Can’t walk on one leg, you know,” the Cuban chuckled. In return, the old man smacked his lips, expressed his gratitude, and made sure his benefactor knew how to find his destination. They parted with the spoken anticipation of possibly seeing each other again.
* * *
In due course, Michael reached the hotel, a multi-story edifice larger than he had expected. Stepping inside, he looked around the oppressively hot lobby. The big ceiling fans, revolving slowly, did little to offset the sultry afternoon air. There was an elevator off to one side, an unexpected, modern presence. A few drinkers gathered at a small bar just off the antechamber. After registering, he took the cage-type lift to his floor. Entering his accommodations, he tossed his bag aside, turned on the overhead fan, and opened the louvered doors leading to a tiny balcony. It persuaded a slight breeze to move through the space. Fortunately, the noise from the street below was minimal because of the high temperature of the day. Gomez stretched out on the bed. He was wearier than he’d realized and soon drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke, it was dark. His shirt, soaked with perspiration, clung to him. Dim light from nearby buildings filtered into the room. The fan was still working desperately to overcome the stifling heat. He stirred only enough to retrieve and ignite a cigar. In the near darkness, Michael’s mind once again reached back to Havana.
* * *
On the last day of the family’s trip to the city, the sisters planned an outing to Castello de los Tres Reyes del Morro to show the boys a historic part of their Cuban heritage. They were very excited to see a real fort, something they’d only read of in books. The morning was warm and clear as the little group started toward the harbor. The brothers joked and made the family laugh as they walked, Jesus still trying to impress Katie. Along the way, they turned a corner and encountered soldiers fighting to quell a disturbance. Despite the group’s efforts to maintain a distance between them and the commotion, they found themselves caught up in the chaos.
In the confusion, Jesus was grabbed by the troopers and thrown into the rear of a military truck. When Juan tried to intervene, he was struck with a rifle butt and told to back away, before finally being threatened with a bayonet. His Mama and her sister wavered between screaming and crying and clinging to each other as soldiers kept the adults at bay. Through the crowd, they could see the boy cowering and weeping in the truck bed. Miguel looked up at his Papa and saw blood and tears streaming down his face. It filled the youngster with rage, held in check as his father clutched him tightly. Soon, the uniformed men piled into the vehicle and drove off. To no avail, the family screamed the teenager’s name until the soldiers disappeared from view.
Through the crowd, they could see the boy cowering and weeping in the truck bed.
When they regained their composure sufficiently to think clearly, his parents decided to go to the nearest police station. The authorities there made a few telephone calls but could not provide any information to the Gomez family. Instead, the captain said it was a military matter and referred them to the closest army barracks. After depositing his youngest son, wife, and sister-in-law at her apartment, Juan set off to locate his son through military channels.
He returned that evening, a man broken in spirit. Miguel had never seen such sadness, such weariness in his Papa’s face, even after the hardest, most blistering day’s labor in the cane fields. The family cried long and hard that night. They stayed in Havana an extra day to find the kidnapped boy or learn news of his whereabouts. Every effort proved futile. Facing a huge dilemma, they agreed they could ill afford for Juan to lose his job. With a promise from Katie to use her government contacts from the Tropicana to track down Jesus, the parents and their son returned to their little village. They were, at best, disheartened people who merely walked through the motions of life. When no word regarding the missing boy came from any source, the youngster watched as his parents sank lower into despondency with every passing day.
Convinced that her firstborn had been killed, Michael’s Mama cried much of the time. She refused to eat and appeared to age a dozen years in a matter of weeks. Her son tried to cajole her into happier moods. She moaned that the song had been stolen from her heart and gently declined his pleas to sing even her favorite tune. She no longer stroked his hair and spoke to him concerning his future. Not until later did it hurt the boy that his love and presence could not raise his Mama’s spirits. Finally, she took to her bed. When a doctor was summoned, he said there was nothing physically wrong with her, and he could do nothing for her. She grew steadily weaker.
In the same time frame, Juan wasted away to a shadow of the man the youngster had known and loved. Nonetheless, he and his son dutifully labored in the fields every day while neighbors watched over Janet. “No rest for the wicked,” Janet had often said.
Nearly five weeks after their return from Havana, Juan and Miguel were in the field chopping cane when a neighbor ran to them. Janet had lost consciousness, and they’d sent for a doctor. As the father and son reached their little shack, the old physician emerged. He rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard, gazed at Juan, and slowly shook his head, saying nothing. His father ran past him to Janet’s bedside, with the boy close on his heels. To her son, she looked to be sleeping, as they knelt on opposite sides of the tiny bed, each holding a hand. For only the second time in as many months, Miguel watched his Papa cry. He, too, sobbed uncontrollably.
They sat for hours as the light faded, neighbors coming and going, offering solace to the inconsolable Juan, trying to get the boy to come away from the scene and stay with them. He cried through the urgings, refusing to move from his mother’s side. The little room, which had always held such warmth, love, and happiness, now closed in around Miguel in unrelenting misery. He felt as if he might suffocate. Under the little blanket was not the body of a woman, but that of a misshapen and malnourished child. Father and son, joined by a few close friends, kept vigil over Janet throughout the night. As tired as he was, the youngster could not, would not, let himself fall asleep. He needed to keep awake for his Papa, as well as his Mama. Janet’s harsh gasps for breath every so often made his attentiveness easier.
Sometime before dawn, she died with a quiet shudder. While saddened, those present, except for Juan and Miguel, merely shrugged, moaned and moved on. Death was no stranger to the people of their batey.
Janet was buried in the graveyard of their little church. Of the service, Michael could remember but three things: the numbing anguish of his broken heart, the mournful sobbing of his Papa and his Aunt Katie, and the merciless heat of the day. Tears mixed with sweat. Afterward, the young man thought the world had crashed in on him. He was shrouded in gloom, his Mama’s spirit and presence ripped from their lives. When Katie returned to Havana, Miguel’s mood darkened even more. Juan wandered emotionlessly through the days.
Faced with no choice, his father went back into the fields the morning after Janet’s burial. His remaining son, too. No rest for the weary.
The boy pushed himself to shore up Juan, who moved through life as a walking dead man. As with his Mama, the boy’s efforts with his Papa met with little success.
Several weeks later, the two were chopping cane. During the hottest part of the day, his son noticed Juan did not look well and seemed unsteady on his feet. When he mentioned this, Juan quietly brushed aside his anxiety and, with a weak smile, told him to tend to his work. The members of their gang put the cut cane into bundles and piled them into the small, mule-drawn cart. When the wagon was loaded, the younger Gomez goaded the animal toward the mill, looking back with great concern at his Papa. Upon his return, he saw the workers crowded around someone on the ground. Nearby, sitting ramrod straight on horseback, was the overseer, shouting at his charges. The boy abandoned the cart while still a distance from the scene and ran to them.
Miguel pushed his way through the bystanders and found Juan lying in the dust, his bolo beside him. He fell on his Papa’s prostrate body. At once, he saw the unyielding look of death on Juan’s face. It was an expression he’d experienced too young. It became too familiar to him in his future. He was too stunned to weep, his tears held in check by a strange, inexplicable impression that his Papa was now released from the sadness and worries of his world. The boy looked up into the emotionless faces around him. Momentarily, he felt anger toward them as if a word, one act by any of them, might have saved him. Somebody read his thoughts and volunteered, “Acaba de caer muerto.”
At once, he saw the unyielding look of death on Juan’s face.
The youth returned his gaze to his Papa and embraced him. But he didn’t cry.
Juan was buried next to Janet. After his Papa’s burial, Miguel traveled with his Aunt Katie when she returned to Havana. He never saw his batey again.
* * *
The glow from Gomez’s dying El Rey Del Mundo gave the only hint of light to the dark hotel room. The low hum of the ceiling fan struggling against the heat was the only sound. Soon that drone faded into the rising din from the street below as people spilled out into the relatively cooler temperature of the evening to enjoy the plaza. He groggily moved from the bed and walked onto the balcony. A colorful, clamoring procession of humanity filled the sidewalks and overflowed into the avenue. Possibly a local festival of some sort, he guessed.
The sporadic honking of cars trying to crawl through the throng added to the cacophony of human activity. Friday night. Oil workers and others had been paid, and they were out in the sultry evening air for a good time. The living go on, oblivious to the fading life around them, Michael thought, and to the fragility of their own existence. The faded khaki uniforms of the few Federales in the crowd stood in sharp contrast to the multihued dresses and rebozos of the women sashaying along the boulevard. Several in the swarm were obviously already in their cups as they sauntered forth, singing, talking, laughing.
As he observed the spectacle, the Cuban experienced uneasiness in his abdomen. He braced himself for another attack until he realized it was simply hunger pangs gnawing at him. Returning to the bed as if he were trying to run underwater, he fumbled to turn on the bedside lamp. The soft light bathed the walls in a washed-out yellow hue. Suddenly feeling frail, he lay back down and watched the fan’s shadow twirl on the ceiling. After a couple of minutes, his craving for food overcame his weakness.
At the front desk, Michael tipped the clerk to see that fresh ice was put in the room before he returned. Having gotten the name of and directions to a nearby restaurant, he stepped from the lobby into the night air. He lit a perfecto and scanned the thoroughfare. The procession had lost none of its vigor or its color. Turning, he made his way through the multitude that filled the roadway, weaving as he walked. Graciously declining offers from several of the ladies strolling the streets, he continued on until he reached the establishment he sought.
* * *
In the café, a heavyset, jowly waiter stood by patiently as Gomez perused the menu. The simple life he had known as a child had always stayed with him. He ordered a local cerveza and arroz con pollo, a casserole his Mama often made, stretching what little food they had available.
He sat back and surveyed the restaurant. To all appearances, it was a quiet, respectable place: not overly fancy, but not a dive, either. During his scan, he noticed a lovely, dark-haired woman seated alone at the bar. She was well-dressed, though not extravagantly so. Soon, the waiter brought his meal.
While he ate, Michael watched her quietly rebuff one would-be suitor after another who approached her. The willowy-built brunette wasn’t street riffraff or a hooker as far as he could tell; several of those she dismissed appeared to be legitimate businessmen. And the woman didn’t appear to be a B-girl: she didn’t try to coax any of the men into buying her drinks. She must have been gentle in her rejections, because each man left with what he saw as a regretful smile.
After he finished supper and paid the waiter, Michael remained at the table for a few minutes. Conflicted, he lit a cigar and contemplated the situation. Throughout his career, he’d adhered to a principle his mentor had drummed into his head years earlier: never, ever get involved with a woman while on a mission. As a result, his desire for female companionship always took a backseat to his profession.
But it had been a while since he had enjoyed the company of the opposite sex. And his hormones were working overtime tonight. They were struggling against the fatalistic outlook regarding his medical condition that was coming to dominate his attitude with each passing painful attack. Again, he was reminded that life was too short.
Technically, he told himself, I’m not on the job yet. When I rendezvous with this mysterious Bedoya in three days, my time on the clock will start. Until then ….
The man pushed back from the table, walked to the bar, and took a stool several seats away from the female. He ordered a Cuba Libre, momentarily reflecting that the events of recent years had given the concoction’s name more meaning than ever. The woman seemed to give him no notice, and he, at least outwardly, ignored her.
As he sipped the cocktail, he perceived the girl casting sideways glances his way occasionally. Initially, he remained aloof to see what might happen. Eventually, she turned toward him and asked in Spanish if he knew the time. The Cuban glanced at his watch and answered in her native tongue. When she thanked him, he casually inquired if she had some place she had to be by a certain time. She laughed and said she had nothing in particular planned for the rest of the night.
“If you don’t have to hurry away, may I buy you a drink?” Gomez continued in Spanish. With a stunning smile, she held up her empty glass and accepted. “Pisagua.”
Nodding, Michael asked, “Do you mind if I join you so we don’t need to call out to each other?”
“Be my guest,” she grinned, patting the seat next to her. She had a lovely face to go with her smile.
As he settled onto the seat beside the dark-haired beauty, he ordered another round for both of them. Then he extended a hand to the woman. “I’m Miguel,” he offered, reverting to his birth name.
She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Miguel. I’m Renata Aguilar.”
When their cocktails arrived, the Cuban lifted his glass. “¡Salud!”
“¡Por los aquí presentes!”
“Renata…. That’s a beautiful name. It means ‘born’ or ‘born again,’ doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” she answered, staring absently at her beverage. “And it never fit me better than tonight,” she chortled sarcastically as she raised her eyes to meet his.
Michael’s curiosity was piqued. “How so?”
“Another drink, and I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version of the story.”
“Sure,” he agreed.
Minutes later, as the pair finished their concoctions, he signaled the bartender for refills.
Lifting her replenished glass, Renata proposed dryly, “Por los hombres que nos aman terriblemente. Que pronto mejoren.”
“Ouch!” Gomez chuckled. “It sounds as if there is a story behind your words.”
Renata leaned in toward him and lowered her voice. “My lover left me this morning. We were in the midst of planning our wedding. He suddenly announced that he’d taken up with a younger woman. I’m not certain,” she scoffed as she sat back on her stool, “he can handle a younger one.” In a sultry tone, the woman confided, “He rarely took care of me.” After a pause, she declared, “Anyway, tonight I am reborn.” She sipped her Pisagua, then, looking deep into Michael’s eyes, said. “I’m a plain-spoken woman. If my forthrightness is offensive to you, please forgive me.”
After a pause, she declared, “Anyway, tonight I am reborn.”
He grinned. “I have pretty thick skin. It takes a lot to offend me.”
“Good!” she proclaimed softly.
“Pisagua. That’s pisco…”
“And carbonated water,” she added.
There followed a brief bit of small talk on the ongoing debate between Chile and Peru regarding where the brandy originated. It was produced in winemaking regions of both countries. Each claimed it as its national drink.
“Tell me, what do you do for a living?” he asked her.
“I am a nurse and teach in the school of nursing at the local university. What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a troubleshooter for a large corporation that’s looking to expand into Mexico and Central America,” he lied.
After studying him for a few seconds, she inquired, “So, you don’t live here in Tampico?”
“No, I’m just passing through.”
“Traveling alone?” Gomez nodded. “How long are you in town for?”
“I have three more days here before I leave.”
“Are you familiar with the city?” When the man shook his head, she offered, “I’d be happy to show you around. There are few things of interest here.” When he didn’t respond, Renata clarified, “It was only a friendly proposal, Miguel. It’s up to you.” After another swallow of the pisco concoction, the brunette put her hand on his and squeezed it gently, adding, “Look, we’re both adults here. Truthfully, I wouldn’t mind male company just now. Yours. No strings attached. And don’t let the fact that I’ve reached my quota of rejection already today have any effect on your answer,” she laughed.
Michael took her hands in his. “I’d enjoy that very much. Where do you live? I’ll grab a taxi and get you home. We can meet tomorrow.”
“Where are you staying?” she countered. When Aguilar heard his response, she insisted on walking him the short distance to his hotel before departing for her residence.
Ideas ran through his mind. He agreed before suggesting they share a nightcap when they reached his place. As the couple finished the last round, their eyes locked, and an understanding developed over the rims of raised glasses.
They left the restaurant arm in arm, each silently questioning the wisdom of what was to come. ©
