When We Left Cuba(13)
When we reach the restaurant, Eduardo pulls into the dusty parking lot, sliding the sporty car between an Oldsmobile and a Buick. The rest of the lot is barren, the building’s exterior a far cry from the elegant restaurants on the island. The chance of recognition here is exceedingly low, what’s left of my reputation at the moment safeguarded.
Eduardo walks me to the front door, steadying me when I stumble, my heels slipping on the loose gravel, kicking up dust in my wake.
“This is where I leave you.”
“You’re joking.”
He shakes his head. “I’m merely the messenger. He only wants to meet with you. I’ll wait for you in the car, and when you’re finished, I’ll take you home.”
I’ve met with Mr. Dwyer alone, of course, but somehow, it felt different when we were ensconced in a balcony off a ballroom. This setting is another thing entirely, the sort of place my mother never would allow any of her daughters to patronize, and I hesitate at the entrance, the door battered, the restaurant’s dingy interior visible through the glass hardly encouraging.
Eduardo leans forward, kissing my temple.
“You’ll be fine.”
He holds the door open for me, and I cross the threshold, my gaze sweeping over my surroundings, my dampened palms brushing against my skirts.
I’ve been on edge since the revolution took hold in Havana, since Alejandro’s death, since I began wondering if one day they would come for me, too. We lived under Batista’s rule for so many years in a constant state of conflict that it was easy to pretend as long as we displayed a modicum of sense, as long as we didn’t dare too much, with our father’s influence enough to keep us out of real danger, we would be safe. Alejandro kept me a step or two removed from the rebel movement, shielding me from Batista’s ire. But then Fidel came and everything changed, our last name enough to cause real trouble, to threaten us all, my brother’s death reshaping the way in which I view the world. Now when I walk into a room, I look for the danger first.
The restaurant is practically vacant. At one table sit two elderly gentlemen, newspapers in hand, cups of coffee beside them. On the other end of the restaurant, tucked away in a booth, sits Mr. Dwyer—CIA kingmaker.
Dwyer doesn’t look up from his newspaper and coffee mug as I walk toward him, and I sweep into the booth with the Perez charm that has served me well thus far. When all else fails, pretend your palms aren’t sweating, your knees not knocking beneath your skirts.
“Mr. Dwyer.”
He looks up from his drink. I’ve no doubt he knew the moment I stepped into the restaurant.
“Miss Perez.”
The waitress comes over and takes my order, bringing me coffee.
“Why did you call me here?” I ask once she leaves.
“Because I’ve spoken with others about your proposal.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “They find it intriguing.”
I lean forward in my seat, lowering my voice. It’s time for some intelligence gathering of my own.
“Where do things stand with Fidel?”
It’s hard to not be in Havana, to rely upon the word of others as to the mood of the country, the rumbles on the street.
“Not good,” Mr. Dwyer admits after a pause. “We tried to open a secure communications line between Washington and Havana. Didn’t take.”
The fear that the United States will legitimize the regime and leave us Cubans to our own devices has been a looming specter over our plans for quite some time now. At the moment, any attempts to remove Fidel from power hinge on American support, or at least the possibility that the Americans won’t come to Fidel’s aid. We learned the hard way under Batista that the United States is a formidable ally with a seemingly endless supply of resources behind them.
“No, it likely wouldn’t,” I comment. “Fidel is not the sort to welcome someone else interfering in his affairs.”
“In this case, he doesn’t get a vote.”
“Bringing him to heel will not be easy,” I warn.
There were those of us who thought it useful to allow Fidel to defeat Batista and then simply eject Fidel from power. Many of my brothers and sisters in arms believed he could bring about the change we yearned for. When Fidel failed to do so, his removal became a necessity. Unfortunately, he’s proven far more resilient than anyone ever imagined. Better the Americans learn the lesson now rather than later.
“He is an arrogant man,” I add. “They are all arrogant men. Serving on bended knee will not be in Fidel’s nature, and he’s not a man born to compromise, either. He cannot afford to lose face in Cuba, to be a puppet to the American regime as Batista was. I’m not sure the people would stand for it.”
“His arrogance is precisely why we need you.”
“So now you need me.”
“It would appear so.”
“Why now? You didn’t intervene last January when Cubans were being slaughtered in Havana. What’s your interest in all of this? What has he done to push you to the breaking point?”
“Sugar,” Dwyer answers.
The agrarian reform law. I should have guessed. The ground gives and Castro takes it away. The law is the final blow for my father, one he rants about over dinner and drinks, the unfairness of it a crushing defeat for all of us. Under the agrarian reform law enacted in the summer of 1959, the Cuban government nationalized estates and companies, restricting large-scale landholding, and prohibiting foreign ownership. While some of the land was distributed to the Cuban people, rumor has it the government kept the majority for itself.