Fifty Grand

“Two trips to the United States in a year are bound to raise suspicions. Even though he’s a Party member, Ricky was followed by the DGI. He did indeed cover a conference at the UN and a Friends of Cuba rally in New York City, but then the DGI lost him for four days. They think he was in Manhattan doing the tourist scene and probably fucking like crazy, but I suspect that during that time he borrowed some Cuban American friend’s ID, flew to Denver, drove to Fairview, checked into a ski lodge or a hotel, and spent three days asking questions about his father’s death. Then he came back to New York, crammed a week’s worth of interviews into a single afternoon, and flew back to you with his results.”

“This is your guess, not that of the Interior Ministry?”

“Yes.”

“Am I under surveillance?”

“Neither of you is under surveillance. The DGI isn’t interested in you. Not yet. But you’ve been clumsy, Mercado, you and your brother. And clumsy doesn’t get ignored forever. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“I understand.”

“So let it go. Just let it go.”

“How can I?”

“Aren’t you Cuban? Where did you grow up? Have you learned nothing? Don’t you know the game is rigged from the start?”

“What are you going to do with these guesses of yours?” I ask.

He spits on the floor. “I’m no chivato, I’m not going to let them know about Ricky or the manner of your father’s death or your plans, but I am going to stop them giving you that visa. If you go to America and get arrested or stopped at the border it’s over for me. I’m not going to let you destroy me, Mercado.”

“You can’t do that.”

“It’s too late. It’s done. I opposed your application. I sent them a letter yesterday telling them that you’re too valuable an asset and that it would be a mistake to let you go to Mexico. They’ll take the hint.”

“What about what you said in the office?”

“Oh, that was just to give them an angle. They always want an angle. The boss who lies to his subordinates.”

Now I’m angry. “You can’t do this to me, Hector.”

“I’ve been patient with you. Now, do me a favor, get the fuck out of my building, Mercado. Take the rest of the day off, and I never want to hear about this again.”

“Fuck you and your fucking shitbox. I hope you choke in it, you old bastard!”

I storm out, cursing.

On the way up Morro a kid blows me the fucky-fucky. I flash my ID. Hassle him. Power: makes everyone a tyrant, and in a country where one in every twenty-five people is either a cop or an informant, that’s a lot of tyranny to go around. Pat the kid. Fake ID, not interested, but sixty bucks Canadian is a good get. Pretty boy. A jockey. I take the cash, tell him to fuck off.

An old man sees the dough, hisses me from an alley.

“What?”

From under his coat he removes a packet of American Tampax.

“How much?” I ask without even thinking about it, for the Cuban generic is, of course, a complete disaster.

“Twenty U.S.”

“I’ll give you ten Canadian and I won’t bust you,” I say, hovering the ID.

“Ten it is,” the old man grumbles.

Tampax and hard currency. Small comforts.

Walk to O’Reilly, climb the four flights to my apartment. Look at the coffeepot, the bottle of white rum. Ignore both. Slide back into bed. I don’t sleep. I just lie there scoping the dump a detective in the PNR gets to call her own. Bed, dresser, color TV, half a shelf of poetry books, windows uncleaned since the last hurricane, hole in the floor, ant problem, Van Gogh prints tacked over the cracks in the plaster-Night Café, Sunflowers-washbasin leaking brown water because the bad plumber won’t fix it, the good plumber only takes dollars.

Lie there.

Lie there all day.

Sun slanting over the Parque Central.

Fly buzzing against the window.

The phone down the hall.

Knock at the door.

The new maid at the Sevilla, a short plump girl from Cárdenas. Syphilitic nose, cross eyes. How did you get a permit to move to Havana? Who do you know?

“Phone call for you,” she says.

Wipe her sweat off the mouthpiece.

“Your visa came,” Ricky says breathlessly.

“What?”

“It came. Of course they sent it to Mom’s. I’m here now. Hand-delivered. Good thing I was here.”

“Jesus, it came?”

“It came. Seven days. Mexico City only.”

“What’s the date? Hector said he spiked it yesterday.”

“He did? I thought he liked you? Well, I guess his influence isn’t as strong as he thinks,” Ricky says with a knowing lilt in his voice.

“You did something, didn’t you? You talked to people. In the circle.”

“I didn’t. I really didn’t.”

“You’re at Mom’s? Aren’t you the dutiful son? Wait there, I’ll be right over.”

Out of bed, wash off the makeup I put on for Hector, look at the woman in the glass. Pale, pretty, a little too thin, narrow eyebrows, uncomplicated green eyes, dark hair. Something about her, though, something a little intimidating. If she had glasses you might say she was severe, a librarian, perhaps, or a staff nurse, or a fucking cop.

Back down the stairs.

Out.