When We Left Cuba(41)
“Claudia sent me,” I answer, following the instructions jotted on the note below the address even though I have no clue who Claudia is, and have a sinking suspicion she has no idea who I am, either.
Does Dwyer have other spies infiltrating this meeting? If I get into trouble, will someone come to my aid, or am I truly on my own here?
The man nods, stepping back to make way for me to enter the house.
I follow him past a galley-style kitchen, into a living room filled with four other people.
He jerks his thumb at me. “Claudia sent her.”
I sit on one of the couches in the corner and listen while the man who answered the door—whose name is Jimmy—starts the meeting. From the bits of conversation going on around me, I glean that he studies at one of the universities in town; the two women in the room—Sandra and Nancy—are classmates of his.
Like Che, they are communists, not Cubans, and whatever their allegiance to Fidel, it stems from ideology, not nationality. When Mr. Dwyer gave me this assignment, I envisioned dangerous revolutionaries plotting violent attacks, not intellectuals—or pseudo-intellectuals—spouting dull rhetoric. Is this really what the CIA fears? Or is this all a test of my utility to them?
The other two men are brothers—Javier and Sergio—and from their introductions, I gather they left Cuba a few years ago when Batista was cracking down on the student groups at the University of Havana organizing against him. Of all of the group’s members, the brothers seem the most likely to have useful intelligence on Fidel, and I smile at Javier, peek at Sergio a few times during my own introduction.
I give them my real name, talk about my activities in Havana prior to Fidel taking power, expound on my dislike of Batista, my wish for Cuba to be independent from American influence. The Americans’ eyes are wide when I mention my brother was involved in planning the attack on the Presidential Palace. I very much doubt they’ve been anywhere near the kind of violence we lived through during the revolution.
There’s a look of understanding between the two brothers, though, as if they were intimately familiar with Batista’s personal brand of hell. That Batista is living out his days in lavish exile in Portugal without answering for his crimes, the men he killed, his role in delivering us to Fidel, is yet another injustice we’re forced to tolerate.
Once the introductions are complete, and I am somewhat assured Claudia isn’t going to appear and denounce me as an impostor and a spy, the conversation shifts to other topics: namely, the new trade embargo on Cuba.
President Eisenhower has restricted all American exports to Cuba except for a few humanitarian essentials like medicine and some foods. For a country that relies on so much of its foreign goods coming from the United States, it will be a blow to Fidel. But is it enough to destabilize him?
The Hialeah group rails about the embargo for nearly an hour, offering little in the way of meaningful plans or suggestions, and I still struggle to see the danger Dwyer alluded to. The Cuban brothers are largely silent through this discussion, and I follow their lead, contributing little, taking the time to get the lay of the land in an attempt to understand the inner workings of the group.
We agree to meet again in a month, and I head back to Palm Beach.
* * *
? ? ?
When I arrive at my parents’ house, Eduardo is parked outside, leaning against his snappy red convertible.
“Have you been waiting long?” I ask as I step out of my car.
“Not too long,” he answers.
Eduardo kisses me on the cheek, his gaze running over my appearance, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just taken aback, that’s all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed so . . . austerely?”
“Very funny.”
He’s not wrong, but even in my plainest outfit, I still felt ridiculously overdressed at the communist meeting.
Eduardo trails a finger along the sleeve of my top. “Dare I ask, or are there some things I’m better off not knowing?”
Despite the fact that he’s been my initial contact with the CIA, Dwyer stressed secrecy on the spying front, and the fact that he hasn’t mentioned any of this to Eduardo gives me the impression I shouldn’t, either.
“Better off not knowing,” I reply. “Let me guess, you’re here to whisk me away to acquire more explosives.”
I’ve heard nothing of the dynamite we picked up that evening months ago, of his plans for it, or whether they’ve come to fruition.
“You’re hilarious. I actually wanted to talk to you.”
“Do you want to go for a walk on the beach?” I ask.
It’s become a routine of sorts between us when he’s in Palm Beach, and I’ve missed the time together.
“Of course.”
I follow him down the path, exchanging small talk.
When we arrive at the beach, we both remove our shoes and walk barefoot in the sand.
“How was New York?” he asks.
“Confusing.”
“Was it hard? Seeing Fidel?”
“Harder than I imagined it would be. In the beginning, he looked so ordinary sitting there with everyone else. I suppose I let my guard down a bit. And then it all came rushing back to me: Alejandro’s death, the violence in Cuba, the fear we all felt. La Caba?a, everything. It was like a scream kept building inside me while I sat there staring at his smug, smiling face, and then I couldn’t take it anymore and I had to leave.”