When We Left Cuba(74)
“Of course.”
“I’m glad you’ve had that opportunity.”
“I suppose I’ve just screwed everything up.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that yet. You have time to figure it out. You might be able to take a leave of absence; you might not even be gone that long. You can always return whenever you want. If Dwyer’s people disposed of the body, you might have nothing to worry about at all.”
“Perhaps.”
At the moment, it seems foolish to worry about such mundane problems under the threat of nuclear war.
We speak little on the flight to D.C., our relationship taking a back seat to politics, the threat of the moment, and the things Nick cannot speak of in public. Surprisingly, though, I sleep, Nick’s arm draped around my shoulders as I make up for the hours of rest I lost in his hotel room.
I dream of Nick, of his arms around me, his hands on my body, his lips on mine. I dream of the struggle with Ramon, the gun in my hands, the pop of the gunshot, only this time, when I look down, my hands are covered in my blood.
When I wake with a jolt, Nick kisses my forehead, worry etched all over his face, in the furrow of his brow, in the tension that radiates from his hand to mine, our fingers linked together. We don’t bother with pretense surrounding the nature of our relationship; there hardly seems to be a point with the threat looming before us.
We arrive in Washington, and Nick takes me to the apartment he keeps in Georgetown, pausing to change his suit for a fresh one, leaving me with a brief kiss before he is gone to work.
Once I am alone, I call Elisa and explain the situation to her with as little detail as possible.
At first, she peppers me with questions about my relationship with Nick, how we saw each other again, what happened, why I decided to accompany him to Washington. I say nothing of my extracurricular activities, of course, nor do I say much about the current diplomatic crisis, other than to warn her to be on alert.
The buildup of Soviet weapons has been monitored for the past week now, but the news that they are capable of launching a nuclear strike on American soil is grave indeed.
“You’re scaring me, Beatriz. What are you suggesting?” Elisa asks.
“Just that you might want to get supplies. The president is addressing the nation tonight.” I swallow as I think of my little nephew, whom I have not seen in a year and a half now. How much has he grown? How will we survive this? “Just get some supplies. And think about where you could go if you needed to leave Florida quickly.”
It takes little convincing to get Elisa off the phone so she can call the rest of the family, so they can prepare for the coming days. We have lived through enough horrors to know better than to take such warnings for granted. We were caught off guard once; let it never happen again.
I occupy my time exploring Nick’s apartment, running my fingers over the suits in his closet, the scent of his cologne on the fabric, learning this part of his life. We slip into domesticity each time together with an ease that simultaneously thrills and terrifies me.
There’s a market a few blocks away where I buy some groceries with the money I exchanged when we landed in D.C., grateful once more for the independence my arrangement with the CIA has provided to me.
I return to Nick’s apartment to cook dinner, sitting down in front of the television for the president’s announcement.
* * *
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Just one day after we left London, at seven P.M. President Kennedy addresses the country; he is seated behind his desk in the Oval Office, his manner grave. He possesses a calm temperament that, despite his relative youth, suggests he is not the sort to be rattled by these affairs, that he has a firm hand behind the helm of the nation. I envy the Americans their steady leadership contrasted against Fidel’s fiery rhetoric and erratic outrage. When I was younger, I embraced the fury, fought for radical change, but now I find comfort in the calm manner of Kennedy, even as I cannot forgive him for the way he handled the Bay of Pigs.
My hand trembles as I swallow the drink I poured earlier, my gaze riveted to the television as the president tells the world Soviet missile sites in Cuba are capable of reaching Florida, and Washington D.C., among other places, a chill sliding down my spine. Military bases in Cuba are standing up with offensive capabilities, prepared to launch a nuclear weapons attack against the United States and the world.
Fidel is the wild card in this, the man who courts chaos and revels in strife. What is his aim in allowing the Soviets to establish such a position in America’s backyard?
The Soviets engage in the fiction that they are supporting Cuba, providing a defense for a defenseless country faced with a great power’s impressive military might. However, there is no doubt they are challenging the Americans, taunting them, and Cuba is the easiest method to do so, even if so many innocent lives hang in the balance.
And yet, as I listen to Kennedy’s words, his condemnation of the Soviets’ actions, decrying their attempts to insert themselves in the affairs of other countries, to amass power by proxy, I cannot help but think of the United States’ own actions, their role in Cuba’s current condition. Is the distinction between the two powers that the Soviet Union does so brazenly and with flagrant disregard for international condemnation whereas the United States does so covertly and secretly with the use of the CIA and other organizations like it, while maintaining the moral authority on the world stage?