XI
Over the following weeks and months Roberto and Enrique had regular daily conversations—sharing information and stories about each other’s families, along with details of their professional lives. Even though they rarely spoke about their developing friendship, each man realized the importance of the bond they had made, and were grateful.
The cumulative effect of Roberto’s confinement however, continued to take a toll on him physically and he began to have doubts about his ability to remain resolute. He knew his imprisonment would eventually end, but it was the uncertainty he felt from not knowing when or how it would end that he found most difficult to deal with.
For months now, Roberto and Enrique had been the only ones held in the crumbling old stone basement cell block, and neither man had had any interaction with another person with the exception of the prison guards and each other. So it came as a surprise, when one day they heard voices coming from the stairwell, from two men whom they did not recognize.
“No, not this one, cell number eight,” said one of the men, as they walked past Enrique’s cell.
“Ramos,” said one of the men. “The warden is moving you to another cell block. When I open the door, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Looking through the window in his cell door, Roberto could clearly see the two men. The uniforms the men were wearing looked unfamiliar to Roberto and were not the ones normally worn by the prison guards.
“What for?” asked Roberto.
“A little reward from the warden for good behavior. Now let’s go,” said the guard.
Roberto,” warned Enrique.
“Shut up, Garcia,” said the other guard closest to Enrique’s cell.
“It’s okay, Enrique,” said Roberto.
When the guard opened the door Roberto turned around slowly and placed his hands behind his back as he had been instructed to do.
“I believe you are going to enjoy your new accommodations Ramos,” quipped one of the guards as they led Roberto up the stone stairs from the basement cell block where he had spent the last ten months.
As the two men led Roberto up the stairs to the main level of the prison, he felt weak. The farther he walked the more he could feel the stiffness in the joints of his lower body. The months of inactivity had been devastating physically on his body and he was surprised at how much his level of fitness had dropped.
Once on the main level Roberto was led into a large cell block housing a total of perhaps thirty prisoners. There he was assigned a new cell with a small cot and something that resembled a toilet in the back corner of the cell opposite the cot.
Upon entering the cell the guards immediately removed Roberto’s handcuffs. They then locked the door behind them as they left the cell, giving Roberto no real explanation for his transfer out of solitary confinement.
Each cell had a small window, in the back of the cell that let light in from outside of the building, and unlike the heavy solid metal door in Roberto’s basement cell, the door to each cell here was barred, making it possible to see into or out of the cell at any time.
Walking to the back of the cell and looking through the window to the outside, Roberto could see a small courtyard surrounded by very high, thick stone walls, topped with several rows of razor wire. He could tell from the angle of the shadows cast by the sun on the courtyard walls, that it must be late afternoon or evening. It had been many months since Roberto had seen the sun, and his eyes were having trouble adjusting to the light. Despite the fact that it was late in the day the light from the sun was still too intense for him to look through the window for long.
Turning away from the window Roberto laid down on the canvas cot which had become stained with mildew from the tropical climate, and stared up at the ceiling. He was becoming increasingly suspicious of his captor’s intentions, and knew the explanation he had been given by the guards about his transfer was untrue. There was no reason why they had moved him out of solitary into what was, comparatively speaking, a fairly tolerable living situation, unless, he thought, they had something else in mind. He knew he had to remain vigilant and not let his guard down.
Less than an hour had passed since Roberto had been removed from his old cell, when the two prison officials who had escorted him to the new cell, appeared in front of his cell door.
“Hey Ramos,” said one of the men. “Time for dinner. You’ll be handcuffed until you get to the mess hall.”
Saying nothing, Roberto stood up, walked over to the cell door, turned around and put his hands behind his back.
After being led through a maze of dimly lit, stone hallways, Roberto and the two guards came to a large iron door with a window in the wall to the right of the door. Looking through the window, Roberto could see another guard with a Russian made Kalashnikov draped over his shoulder. Upon seeing Roberto and the two guards, the man unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping aside, letting the three men enter.
As soon as the door opened, the other men in the room immediately turned and stared in the direction of Roberto. Quickly looking around, Roberto counted maybe twenty other men in the room. From the look of their clothing, all appeared to be fellow prisoners. At the far end of the hall he could see an open double window with several prisoners lined up to the left of the opening, each holding a steel tray they had taken from a wooden table in the corner of the room.
“Ramos. You have half an hour to finish eating. No more,” said one of the guards, as he removed the handcuffs from Roberto’s wrists. “Pick up a tray and wait in line by the window.”
As the other prisoners continued staring at Roberto, he slowly made his way among the dining tables to the side of the room, preferring to walk along the wall to the other end of the room where the food was being served.
“Roberto,” he heard a familiar voice say. “Over here. It’s Barbaro.”
“Barbaro!” said Roberto, excitedly. Roberto walked over to the table where Barbaro was sitting, eating his evening meal. “I was so worried something bad had happened to you.”
“No, I’ve been here ever since they took me out of solitary. And what about you? Why did they move you here?”
“They told me I was being rewarded for good behavior.”
“The only people who are rewarded for good behavior are the prison goons,” said Barbaro.
“What do you mean?”
“You see those two guys over there? They’re not political prisoners, they’re criminals. Really hard core. The one guy—the bigger one—he’s in for murder. And the other one I’m not sure—attempted murder, I think. When the prison needs a favor, that’s who they call. If they carry out the favor, their reward is a reduced sentence.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Well, if you’re being held for political reasons, which everyone here is, and you’re unwilling to adjust your political philosophy, shall we say, to accommodate our beloved Comandante, the warden hires these guys to persuade you to change your mind.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then you wind up dead.”
“Barbaro, let me get some food. I’ll be right back.”
Roberto walked over to the stack of metal food trays in the far corner of the room, picked one off the top of the pile and took his place in line, waiting to be served.
When he reached the window, the man serving the food looked at Roberto, pausing briefly before handing him a plate.
“Ramos, right? Roberto Ramos,” said the man.
“Yes. Who are you?” asked Roberto.
“Camilo. Remember? We worked together at Punto Cero. Here, a little extra. You could use a few more calories,” said the man.
“Yeah, Camilo, the musician,” said Roberto.
“Not so much these days. Better keep moving Roberto. We’ll talk some other time.
“Thank you, my brother. We’ll talk later.”
Roberto returned to the table where Barbaro was sitting and sat down to eat his food—the first substantial meal he’d had in nearly ten months. The food, for the most part, was unrecognizable he thought, but at least it was warm, and Camilo had given him a little extra.
“So, Barbaro, do they allow visitors in this part of the prison?” asked Roberto.
“Sometimes. But you never know when. Depends on their mood it seems.”
“What about your father? Does he know you’re here?”
“Yes, fortunately. The last time I saw him was a month ago. He looks so much older. He’s really worried.”
“I worry about my family also, Barbaro. Especially my mother.”
“Look out, Roberto!” shouted Barbaro, as he ducked out of the way of a waxed cardboard milk carton, thrown in the direction of Roberto by the bigger of the two men Barbaro had warned him about, striking Roberto in the right side of his head. The force of the impact caused the milk carton to break apart spraying the full liter of milk on Roberto, soaking his prison uniform and turning his meal into a cold soupy mess.
Roberto remained perfectly still as the last few drops of milk dripped from his chin onto the table in front of him. He could feel the adrenaline in his body beginning to surge. His military and martial arts training told him he needed to assess the situation quickly in order to calculate a response.
“Who threw the carton, Barbaro?” asked Roberto.
“The big guy I told you about. These guys are killers, Roberto. You tell me what you want me to do,” said Barbaro, in a low voice.
“Stay here. I can handle this myself. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“But there are two of them, Roberto. I’m telling you they’re dangerous.”
Roberto slowly got up from the table and picked up the empty milk carton from the floor at the end of the table. As he began walking in the direction of the two men, the normally noisy prison canteen room fell silent. Everyone was now staring at Roberto. No one moved.
When Roberto reached the end of the table where the two men were sitting, one on either side, he pushed the bigger man’s food plate to one side and placed the milk carton on the table directly in front of him.
“I believe you dropped something, said Roberto.
“I believe you may be mistaken,” the man replied.
“Hey, what is your problem?” asked Roberto, who was beginning to lose his patience. “I have no problem with you.”
“No problem,” said the man without looking directly at Roberto. “Maybe you should go back and sit down with your baseball friend.”
“And I would advise you to be careful.”
The man slowly rotated his position on the bench in front of the table where he was sitting, so that his legs were no longer underneath the table, and leaned back against the edge of the table, placing his elbows on top of the table.
“Listen little man, I don’t need any advice from you,” said the man, now staring directly at Roberto.
It was clear to Roberto the two men were deliberately trying to provoke him, and that if he was the one to start a fight it could mean additional time in prison. He decided instead to return to the table where he had been sitting with Barbaro.
Turning slowly to his right, Roberto took a step in the direction of the table where he and Barbaro had been sitting. He instantly realized he’d made a crucial mistake—but it was too late.
Leaping at him from behind, the larger man quickly had Roberto in a choke hold. With his left arm around Roberto’s throat and his right hand holding tight to the wrist of his left arm, he attempted to swing Roberto across his left leg in an effort to throw him on the ground, where his superior size would make it easier to increase the pressure on Roberto’s neck.
Roberto could tell from the simple nature of the attack that the man had no martial arts training, and instinctively moved first to relieve the pressure on his windpipe by pressing the side of his face, hard, against the man’s left forearm. While simultaneously neutralizing the effect of the choke hold, Roberto was able to grab the upper portion of the man’s left arm and pull with both hands toward the ground in front of him while bending slightly at the waist, allowing him to gain the critical advantage necessary to redirect the initial momentum of the attack in his favor.
As the man’s feet came off the ground, and in an effort to break his fall, he was forced to abandon his choke hold on Roberto. This allowed Roberto to slide his right hand down the man’s forearm, grabbing onto the man’s wrist and straightening his arm. With his attacker airborne, Roberto was now free to use both hands, enabling him to increase the leverage, more than doubling the amount of pressure he was able to apply to the man’s arm, redirecting it in a direction opposite that of the man’s fall.
The tearing sound made by the rupturing rotator cuff tendons at the moment the man’s body impacted the ground, combined with the loud popping noise made by the ball of the humerus dislocating from the scapula, was easily and clearly heard by the other inmates in the room.
Suddenly Roberto felt a searing pain in the side of his body above his left hip just below the bottom of his ribcage. The attack from the first man, and the chaotic several seconds it took to subdue him, had given his knife-wielding accomplice enough time to rush Roberto from behind, plunging the six-centimeter blade into Roberto’s side up to the handle, narrowly missing several vital organs.
Wheeling quickly around, Roberto moved into a slightly more open area between two tables, where it would be easier to defend himself, and faced the man with the knife head-on.
Roberto’s shirt was beginning to dampen as the blood oozed slowly from the wound, collecting along the top edge of his belt as it ran down his side. He realized the more blood he lost the more difficult it would be to defend himself, and the greater the likelihood he could pass out. He had to initiate a counterattack.
With the knife in his left hand the man began to circle slowly to his right. He held the knife in such a way that the short, blood-stained blade protruded from the side of his fist closest to his thumb, which in order to stab Roberto a second time, would require a flexing motion rather than an extending motion. Roberto knew this would be to his advantage, as would the fact that the man, holding the knife with his left hand, was apparently left-handed.
Moving to his left, Roberto cut off the man’s effort to circle around him, bluffing the man into thinking he was attacking. Now, clearly panicked, the man realized the fight was on a level he knew nothing about. He lunged at Roberto, in a desperate attempt to stab him in the upper right side of his torso. This was the precise response Roberto was looking for, and he wasted no time. Side stepping quickly to his right, he was able to create the space necessary to unleash a powerful kick with his right foot to the back side of the man’s arm, just above the elbow, resulting in an immediate and excruciatingly painful dislocation of the joint. Roberto’s attacker, having lost the use of his left arm, was unable to hold onto the knife. Screaming in pain as he bent over, the man had all he could do to hold the badly injured, limp, and now useless arm in his right hand, giving Roberto the split second he needed to land a second blow to the left side of the man’s neck, rendering him unconscious.
While Roberto had been engaged with the second man, the first man, in a frantic attempt to get away from Roberto had stumbled over one of the table benches and was now lying motionless on the floor, after hitting his head against the edge of the table as he fell, severely injuring his neck.
Breathing heavily, Roberto could feel the adrenaline beginning to drain from his body as he stood looking down at his two attackers, both of whom were lying barely conscious, face up on the floor, laboring to breathe.
The entire fight had lasted no more than a minute and easily could have gone either way. Roberto was badly injured and lucky to be alive.
He carefully loosened his belt and pulled his blood-soaked shirttail out of his pants and examined the knife wound.
“Roberto!” yelled Barbaro, as he came to the aid of his friend. “Let me help you. Here, sit down. Lean over a little.”
Barbaro slowly lifted Roberto’s shirt-tail and examined the wound. “It’s bleeding badly Roberto. You’ve lost a lot of blood. I’m going to get a clean towel from Camilo.”
Barbaro ran over to the kitchen window and yelled for Camilo to bring him a towel, and to soak it in warm water.
The lone guard stationed at the entrance of the canteen, who witnessed the assault on Roberto, and who must have known of the warden’s planned attack, had already called for more guards, even before the fight had ended, having realized it was not going according to plan.
Roberto was lying on his side on one of the benches, being attended to by Barbaro, when eight armed guards, guns drawn, followed by three medics and the prison warden, Colonel Torres, burst into the room.
“Ramos!” yelled the warden, who was clearly alarmed by his plan’s failure.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Colonel,” said Roberto. “Perhaps you should send me two more.”
“I’m charging you with assault. Get him out of here,” said the Colonel, motioning to the guards.
“Everyone in this room saw what happened, Colonel. You know it was self- defense.”
“Shut up!” yelled the Colonel.
“He needs to go to the hospital,” said one of the medics who was attending to Roberto. “His wound is too deep for me to treat here.”
“Then take him to the hospital,” said the Colonel, motioning once more to two of the guards. “Put him in cuffs. When you bring him back, he goes back in solitary.”
The sun was coming up by the time the doctors had finished attending to Roberto’s wound, which after a less than careful cleaning and examination, was determined to be non-life-threatening. The lack of sleep, combined with the powerful pain medication he’d been given, and the lingering effects from the physical effort that had been required to defend himself had left him exhausted, drained.
Upon arriving back at the prison, Roberto was returned to the basement cell block where he had spent the better part of the last year.
Looking through the window in his cell door, Enrique, still the only one being held in solitary, could see that Roberto was struggling physically as the guards led him back to his old cell.
Enrique waited until the guards were out of earshot before speaking to Roberto.
“Roberto,” said Enrique, just loud enough for Roberto to hear him. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“You were right, Enrique, about the warden not giving up trying to change my mind. Two of his goons tried to kill me.”
“How do you know he was behind it?”
“Barbaro told me.”
“You saw Barbaro?”
“He is the one that warned me about these guys and told me how the warden hired them specifically to intimidate prisoners who refused to fall in line, shall we say.”
“You look like you are in pain. Did they hurt you?”
“One of them had a knife.”
“Jesus, Roberto, did he cut you?”
“Yes. But it’s not that bad. The wound is deep, but the knife just missed puncturing my spleen. I was lucky. The other two guys were not so lucky. I hurt them pretty bad I think.”
“What happened to them?”
“I don’t know. They were only semi-conscious when they were taken to the hospital. That is only the second time I ever had to use my training outside of athletic competitions.”
“All of that training finally paid off.”
“I know, but believe me, I take no pleasure in hurting anyone. There is nothing satisfying about it.”
“What happens now, do you think?”
“The warden says I will be charged with assault.”
“Maybe you will have a sympathetic judge. Not all judges in Cuba are corrupt.”
“I’m not expecting much. Enrique, if you don’t mind, I need some rest. We’ll talk more later.” With that, Roberto sat down, pulled his legs up onto the bench in front of him and leaned with his right side against the cold stone wall, not wanting to put pressure on his wound, and fell asleep.
He had not been asleep for long when he was suddenly awakened by the sound of Enrique calling his name.
“Roberto, Roberto!” said Enrique in a loud whisper. “Someone is coming.”
Awakened by the sound of Enrique’s voice, Roberto realized he was in the same position as when he had fallen asleep. Rotating his body on the bench, he placed both feet on the floor, careful not to make any sudden movements that would exacerbate the pain he was feeling. The pain medication he had been given had worn off and his body ached from the after effects of the fight from the day before.
As the men came closer, Roberto recognized one of the voices as that of Colonel Torres, the warden. He knew then they were coming for him.
“Ramos,” barked the warden. “Let’s go.”
“I need more pain medication.”
“You’ll need more than that after the judge is finished with you.”
“Where are we going?”
“Municipal court. You’re being charged with assault, Ramos.”
Roberto was nearing the limit of his ability to resist emotionally and was happy to be leaving the prison, even if it was only temporarily. I am unbroken, he thought to himself. If I am given the chance to explain my side of the story, there is always the possibility something good will happen.
The thirty-minute drive to the Tribunal located on the south side of Havana, gave Roberto time to gather his thoughts and consider what he would say in his defense, given the opportunity.
Arriving at the courthouse, the military police van Roberto was riding in was directed to an entrance at the rear of the building where he was turned over to several non-military officers of the court, and placed in a holding cell with two other prisoners.
“My name is Santiago,” said one of the men. “This is my friend Mateo.”
Santiago. I am Roberto.”
“What are you charged with?” asked Mateo.
“Assault. A couple of prison goons tried to kill me.”
“Who won?” asked Santiago, smiling. “I’m guessing not the goons.”
“No, I think I hurt them badly. I don’t know what happened after they were taken to the hospital,” said Roberto. “Another inmate friend of mine told me they were hired by the warden to change my mind about a few things.”
“Did they change your mind? Maybe not if you’re here,” said Mateo.
“No, not yet anyway. What about you guys? What are you charged with?” asked Roberto.
“Officially, I guess we’re being charged with We had a little black market business. We sold just about anything we could to make a little money. You know how it is; everyone here is poor. We’re just trying to make it from one day to the next. The economy is a failure,” scoffed Santiago.
“Yeah, everyone is poor except Fidel and his family. I know, I worked in special forces at Punto Cero,” said
“What is Punto Cero?” asked Santiago.
“One of his private estates. He has many throughout the country,” replied Roberto.
“Cuba has so much potential, Roberto,” Mateo responded.
“Nothing will ever change. Not as long as Castro is alive,” said Roberto.
Just then, the door at the end of the hallway leading into the courtroom opened and the two court officers who had taken custody of Roberto when he arrived at the courthouse walked over to the holding cell, unlocked the door, and motioned for Roberto to come with them.
suerte, Roberto,” said Santiago.
Santiago. You as well, Mateo,” said Roberto, stopping to address the two men directly before walking down the hallway and into the courtroom.
The courtroom was small, and the judge had not yet arrived when Roberto was led into the room by the officers. Seated on the opposite side of the room at a long table facing the judge’s bench, was Colonel Torres, the two prison guards who had taken Roberto to the hospital, and a government attorney. None of the men made eye contact with Roberto as he entered. Sitting alone at a table on the left side of the room was a sheepish-looking young man who upon seeing Roberto, stood up and motioned for him to sit down at the table next to him.
“Good morning, Mister Ramos. My name is Orlando Diaz. I am a public defender, and I will be helping to represent you today.
Orlando. Excuse me, I don’t mean to be rude, but you know nothing about my case or why I was in jail to begin with.”
“I know a little bit about your case, but only the warden’s version of events. Maybe you can tell me about why you are in prison. Anything will be helpful Roberto,” said Mr. Diaz.
“It’s simple, really. I was serving in the military, special forces, working at Punto My commanding officer had it out for me and set me up. I wanted to buy a pair of American blue jeans and he offered to help me. I had no reason to think it was a set-up. He connected me with a friend of his—or someone he claimed was a friend—who got me the American dollars I was to use as payment for the jeans. When I met with him to make the payment, I was arrested for possessing foreign currency,” explained Roberto.
“Okay, that is no longer considered a serious offense. That law was changed several months ago.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“One thing at a time, please. What happened at your trial?”
“Trial? There was no trial,” said Roberto, clearly surprised by the question.
“In accordance with Cuban civil law, this is classified as a misdemeanor. Incarceration, according to the law, is limited to those who have committed crimes that cause public fear—for example, murder, rape, robbery, etc. So your case was never submitted to an investigator? Is that correct?”
“Mr. Diaz, I have been in jail for almost a year. You can’t imagine what it’s like in It’s a cold, dark, wet, rat infested shit-hole. I was in solitary the entire time—well except for when they tried to kill me—but I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“Why do you say you’re lucky?”
“Because I’m alive and I haven’t gone mad,” said Roberto, feigning a laugh and staring directly into the eyes of the young attorney.
“I’m sorry for your suffering, truly, Roberto. What else can you tell me about the fight in the prison?”
“Two days ago, I was removed from solitary and into the general prison population with no explanation. The first time I went to the prison canteen to eat I was having a conversation with a man I knew when I was hit in the head with a full carton of milk. My friend had warned me, just minutes before, about the two guys that ended up attacking me, one of whom was the guy that hit me with the milk carton. It is well known that the warden hires these thugs to, shall we say, change the minds of certain prisoners. If they’re successful the warden reduces their original prison sentence.”
“Why do you think they targeted you?”
“Because I wouldn’t sign their confession.”
“Cuban law prohibits the use of violence or force to obtain a confession, and also requires that no one is required to testify against themselves. What did you do in response?”
“I picked up the empty carton and took it over to the table where these two guys were sitting and set it down on the table. I asked the guy what his problem was. He told me he didn’t have a problem. I made the decision to walk away. It was at that point the guy put me in a choke hold from behind. You need to understand, Mr. Diaz, I competed on the national team at the highest levels in Taekwondo and Karate. I was trained by the government to kill.”
“What happened next, exactly?”
“Well, you probably don’t need all the details.”
“No, just the important parts.”
“The first guy—I was able to dislocate his shoulder, basically destroying his rotator cuff. It’s an excruciating injury, trust me. So he was finished. Although in an effort to get away from me he ended up falling and knocking himself out when he hit his head on the edge of a table. The second guy, however, had a knife and before I was able to turn around and confront him, he stabbed me. Here,” said Roberto, pointing to his side. “It was deep, about six centimeters. Neither of them knew what they were doing. In the process of getting the knife from the second guy, after dislocating his elbow, I knocked him out, and that was it. There were maybe, oh I don’t know, twenty other inmates in the room when it happened.”
“Roberto, we’re pleading not guilty to everything, and I am asking for all charges to be dropped. I know this judge. He’s by the book and he will not be happy with the way you have been treated. You need to trust me.”
“I have to trust you Mr. Diaz. You’re my only option at this point.”
“All rise,” announced the court clerk as the judge entered the courtroom.
“Your honor, the first case is that of the government versus Roberto Ramos. Mr. Ramos is charged with the unprovoked assault of two other inmates at DTI,” said the clerk.
“How do you plead Mr. Ramos?” asked the judge.
Diaz motioned for Roberto to stand before answering the judge. “Not guilty, your honor,” said Roberto, who remained standing.
“Mr. Ramos, what are you serving time for?” asked the judge.
“For the possession of foreign currency.”
“How long have you been incarcerated?”
“I have been in solitary confinement Your Honor, so it is difficult for me to know for sure, but I think a little more than eleven months.”
“What happened at your trial, Mr. Ramos?”
“I never had a trial Your Honor.”
“Can you repeat that, Mr. Ramos?”
“Yes. I was never tried, Your Honor.”
“What did you intend to do with the money?” the judge asked.
“My intention was to buy a pair of American jeans from my commanding officer. It was a set-up.”
“My understanding, Mr. Ramos, is that you were a member of the Secret Service at the time of your arrest. Is that correct?”
“Yes sir. Your Honor, if I may.”
“You’re free to speak, Mr. Ramos.”
“The charges against me are false. The same day I was moved out of solitary into the general prison area I was attacked by two men in the prison canteen who had been hired by the warden . . .”
“Objection, Your Honor. The . . .” said the government’s attorney loudly.
“Overruled,” said the judge, not letting the prosecuting attorney finish speaking. “You may continue, Mr. Ramos.”
“I had been taken that evening to the canteen and had just sat down to eat when one of the men threw a full carton of milk at me, which basically exploded when it hit me in the side of the face. I picked up the empty carton and set it on the table in front of the man and asked him what his problem was. All he said was, ‘I have no problem,’ and I turned to walk away. That’s when he put me in a choke hold. Your Honor, you should know, I have many years of martial arts training, and I am capable of killing someone. I mean without a weapon.”
“I understand. Continue.”
“I had nothing against either of these men. Had never seen them before. I had no reason to pick a fight with them.”
“You’re telling me then this was entirely self-defense. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I had to defend myself. They were trying to kill me, and in fact the second guy had a knife. He stabbed me once from behind before I was able to subdue him.”
“Warden, were you in the room at the time of the attack?” asked the judge.
“No sir, Your Honor,” replied the warden.
“Does the prosecution have anything to add?” asked the judge without looking in the direction of the warden.
“Your Honor, we feel the defendant is a danger to the general public and should remain in prison,” asserted the government attorney.
“Counselor?” said the judge, addressing Roberto’s attorney.
“No sir, Your Honor. The defense rests,” said Mr. Diaz, standing to address the judge.
“Mr. Ramos, you’ll have my decision in thirty minutes. Court is adjourned until one o’clock.”
After the judge had left the courtroom, Roberto’s attorney turned to him and said, “He’s not happy. I know this judge well and I can tell he’s upset.”
“Upset with me?” asked Roberto in disbelief.
“Absolutely not. Like I told you, he’s by the book and doesn’t tolerate this kind of low-level corruption. He views it as a disgrace to the ideals of the revolution,” said Diaz.
“What now?”
“We wait.”
At precisely one o’clock the door to the judge’s chamber opened. Without speaking to one another, Roberto and his attorney stood up and waited for the judge to take his seat behind the bench. Colonel Torres, the prison guards, and the government prosecutor stood on the other side of the courtroom.
Out of the corner of his eye, Roberto thought he could see Torres looking in his direction. The colonel’s eyes appeared to be squinting slightly and Roberto detected a slight grin. He knew the look. It was the confident look of a cruel person, one who is certain of victory, thought Roberto.
“You may be seated,” instructed the court clerk.
After taking his seat, the judge folded his hands and looked briefly in the direction of Torres before turning to address Roberto.
“Mr. Ramos, it is clear to me that you bear no responsibility for the situation you have found yourself in, or for the suffering you have been forced to endure while being incarcerated,” said the judge, pausing briefly before continuing. “Furthermore, Colonel Torres, I have no tolerance for your intentionally corrupt interpretation of Revolutionary Constitutional Law. Therefore, I find the defendant, Roberto Ramos, not guilty of all charges. Mr. Ramos, you are free to go. This court is adjourned.”
With that, the judge returned to his chamber, leaving everyone in the courtroom slightly stunned and in disbelief, especially Roberto, who was suddenly overcome by exhaustion, struggling to process what had just happened.
“Roberto, hey, Roberto” Diaz, with a smile. “We need to find you some nicer clothes.”
“That’s it?” Roberto said in disbelief. “I am free?”
“Yes, for the most part.”
“What do you mean, for the most part?” asked Roberto, nervously.
“We can talk about it outside. First you need some clothes. Do you have some place to go? I mean to spend the night. Family, or a friend?”
“I have family in Havana, yes, but I haven’t spoken to them in nearly a year. They don’t even know I’m alive. I need to see them.”
“Where are we going?” inquired Roberto, as the two men walked out of the courthouse.
“I told you. You need some clothes. Let me see,” said Diaz stepping back slightly to look at Roberto. “You and I are about the same size, more or less. Besides, I live not far from here. I’ll lend you some clothes and then I can take you to see your family. I live outside of the city, near Finca you know, the old Hemingway farm. And, I am the proud owner of a Buick Super Sedan. A blue one. We ride in style. I’m parked right behind the courthouse,” said Diaz proudly.
“Mr. Diaz,” began Roberto.
“Orlando. Please.”
“Orlando, why are you doing this for me? You don’t owe me anything. I’m the one that owes you.”
“Every day, when I was a little boy, when I would leave for school, my mother used to say to me, ‘Don’t forget Orlando, kindness will open more doors for you than cruelty.’ I always find that something good happens to me when I’m positive. Eventually, anyway.”
As Roberto and Orlando made their way around to the back of the building, Roberto happened to notice Colonel Torres, and the prosecuting attorney sitting in a car parked across the street from the courthouse.
“Orlando, look.”
“Yeah, I see them.”
“You think they’ll follow us?”
“They may try, but the guy who’s driving, the attorney, he’s from Santa Clara and has only been in Havana a few months. He doesn’t know the city like I do. Besides, I know a little back alley we can take out onto D Street. The only way they can follow us is if they wait for us at the other end of the alley. From there I take the Linea to the Malecon, and then to the Tunel de La Habana, to the Via
“I’m sure you can understand why I am a little paranoid at this point. I mean the guy just tried to kill me.”
“Did you forget what the judge said? You are free to go. Mantente positivo man,” said Orlando.
“Here she is,” said Orlando, as they approached the car.
“Impressive. What year is she?”
“1950. As you can see, she needs a little body work but the engine is original. 4.3 L Fireball 18. 112 horsepower. She’ll do 140 when she’s tuned.”
Orlando walked around to the driver’s side, opened the door, and sat down behind the wheel. “Look, when we get to the end of the alley, you get down on the floor, just in case they’re waiting for us. It will look like I’m alone.”
He started up the car and slowly drove the length of the alley way, stopping briefly at the end to check for the warden’s car, before turning right, and heading north.
“I think we’re good, Roberto. I don’t see them.”
Roberto lifted himself back up onto the seat with both arms, wincing slightly from the pain caused by the muscles in his ribcage contracting from the effort, applying pressure to his wound.
Leaning against the seat back, he put his arm out the window, trying to relax.
“You need to have that looked at, Roberto. It could easily become infected,” said Orlando, glancing down at Roberto’s side.
“I know this neighborhood, Orlando. I have a good friend who lives nearby. I think this is her street. Yeah, Calle 15. She lives one block that way,” said Roberto.
“Girlfriend?”
“No, no. She’s a bit older than me, although she is rather attractive,” said Roberto, looking down the street in the direction of Anabela Sobrino’s house.
“I think women are most beautiful when they are past the age of forty,” said Orlando.
“Her father was a famous artist. Before the revolution anyway. My brother and I own one of his paintings.”
“How did you come to own the painting?”
“We received it as payment for work we had done for a friend.”
“You took the painting as payment? Why didn’t he pay you with money?”
“He’s poor, like everyone,” said Roberto, staring out the car window as they merged onto the
Always at this time of year after a strong norther, the wind would come around to the northeast and blow for days, flooding the streets of Old Havana with a blend of fresh, cool, salt air mixed with the smell of sea life. Roberto had always loved the winter in Cuba, more than any other season.
As they rode along the Malecon, he wondered about his friend Maykel, and the old fisherman from Cojimar, Gregorio, whom he had met at the dock one afternoon years earlier when he had first entered the military. He remembered, Gregorio giving him a bag of fish steaks cut fresh from the enormous blue marlin the two men had caught that day and the plan they made to one day fish together. I need to take Carlitos fishing, he thought to himself.
When they arrived at the hilltop home of Orlando, the sun was beginning to set over Havana. The air was dry and clear and because it was the time of year when there was no Sahara dust blowing in from the east, you could see all the way to the ocean. The last rays of the sun washed over the city, reflecting yellow off the aging neoclassical facades of the city’s buildings, giving them the appearance of tarnished brass.
Orlando’s home was a modest, one-bedroom clapboard, shotgun-style house with a terracotta tile roof, surrounded on three sides by a porch and framed in front by two large ceiba trees, often thought of as the “holy tree” of Cuba and considered by Cubans to be a source of abundance, life, and energy.
Stepping out of the car, the two men stopped long enough to watch the sun setting over the ocean to the west, in the direction of Mariel, before walking up the handful of wooden steps onto the porch and into the house.
“Orlando, would it be possible to shower before changing into some clean clothes?” asked Roberto.
Roberto.”
“You’re rather tidy for a bachelor,” commented Roberto, looking around once inside the house.
“It helps me to keep a clear head. Here, take these,” said Orlando, as he handed Roberto a pair of tan linen pants and a long sleeve white guayabera. “You need to look good for your mother.”
“I hope her heart doesn’t give out when she sees me.”
“Take this also and put it on your wound after you clean it.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an ointment a local woman makes from prickly pear. It will help it to heal faster.”
The shower was fed by an old wooden cistern made of Spanish cedar, mounted on the back of the house, kept full by a simple system of pipes that redirected rainwater into the cistern as it drained from the roof. Roberto didn’t care that the water was cold as it was his first decent shower in many months. The rainwater was clean and felt soft and had a faint smell of cedar that came from the wood and reminded him of his grandfather’s cigar boxes.
Before he finished showering he carefully cleaned the knife wound with soap and water as best he could. Drying off, he checked his wound to see that the stitches were holding and then carefully applied a small amount of the ointment he’d been given by Orlando.
Not wanting to keep Orlando waiting, he dressed quickly, stopping for a moment to look at himself in the mirror. He looked pale and thin, and wondered if his mother would even recognize him.
listo, Orlando,” said Roberto as he walked onto the front porch where Orlando was waiting for him.
“I’ll say you’re ready. You look good, my brother.
Not hesitating, the two men walked back to the car, got in and headed back down the hill toward Havana.
When Orlando turned the corner onto the street where Roberto had grown up, and where his parents lived, Roberto could just make out in the dim light from the car headlamps someone sitting on the steps in front of the house.
“I think that is my brother, Carlitos, Orlando,” said Roberto, pointing in the direction of the figure sitting on the steps.
“I will drop you off and then I can get going. I’m sure it will be emotional for your family.”
“No, no, I want you to meet them. For sure. Without your help this wouldn’t be happening.”
The car slowly came to a stop in front of the house. Roberto sat for a moment in the car, looking up at his brother Carlos sitting on the steps. Carlos didn’t recognize or know the car and it was too dark for him to see his brother clearly.
Roberto could tell immediately that Carlos didn’t recognize him and was having difficulty processing what was happening. He spoke his name before opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk.
“Carlitos, hermano, como tu
“Roberto?” said Carlos, still a little unsure of the situation.
“Yes, it is me, Carlitos.”
Carlos looked at Roberto and then toward Orlando who was standing in the street on the driver’s side of the car with his arms crossed, leaning on the roof of the car.
yelled Carlos, turning toward the house as he stood up, calling once more for his mother through the open doorway.
“What is the problem, Carlitos?” Roberto heard his mother say from inside the house.
Roberto!” said Carlos loudly. Not waiting to see if his mother was coming, he threw his arms around his brother, causing Roberto to recoil slightly in pain from the pressure of Carlos’s right arm across his wound.
“What, what’s the matter, Roberto?” asked Carlos.
“I had a little accident in prison. I’m okay. Carlitos, this is my friend Orlando. Orlando, my brother.”
“Carlitos, mucho said Orlando, reaching out to shake hands with Carlos.
“It’s okay, Orlando is a good guy.”
Carlos paused briefly and then reluctantly shook hands with Orlando, nodding slightly as he did, but did not speak.
Roberto’s mother had come to the door and was standing at the top of the steps, holding a cloth handkerchief over her mouth.
this is my friend, Orlando. Can we come in?”
“Yes, yes of course. Come. I don’t know what to say,” said Rosa, still crying. “Your father is out back, on the terrace.”
“Mrs. Ramos, it is my pleasure,” said Orlando.
“You are a friend of my son’s?”
“Yes, but only recently. Roberto will explain.”
“Roberto you are so thin. Nothing but bones. Where did you get these clothes? They look expensive.”
“Orlando lent them to me. I just got out of prison. Today in fact.”
“Oh, my God. Come. I hope your father doesn’t have a heart attack when he sees you,” said Rosa. The realization of Roberto’s sudden arrival was beginning to sink in and she was nervous about her husband’s reaction upon seeing his son.
Guillermo was alone on the terrace enjoying a small, neat glass of rum and had not heard any of the conversation outside at the other end of the house.
Rosa went ahead of the others, drying her eyes with the handkerchief, trying to compose herself, not wanting to alarm Guillermo.
“Guillermo,” she said, nervously, calling to her husband as she stood in the doorway leading from the kitchen to the terrace.
“Hola, said Roberto as he slipped past his mother, stopping to kiss her on the cheek before walking outside to greet his father.
Roberto’s father looked up from the table but did not stand up or speak.
Roberto wanting to ease the tension as quickly as possible, turned toward the doorway and called for Orlando. “Orlando, I’d like you to meet my father.”
Orlando walked through the doorway out onto the terrace and stood next to Roberto.
“Father, this is my friend, Orlando Diaz. He defended me in court today.”
“You are a friend of my son?”
“Yes sir. I was assigned his case in municipal court today.”
“So you must be a member of the Cuban Law Association.”
“I am. I defend people who have been charged with penal and civil crimes.”
“And what was my son charged with?”
“Roberto was falsely accused of assaulting two inmates, Mr. Ramos, they were hired by the prison warden to kill your son. He was simply defending himself.”
“Please sit down,” said Guillermo, motioning to Roberto and Orlando. “Rosa, could we have three more glasses please? Thank you. Carlitos, come sit down.”
Rosa brought the three rum glasses from the kitchen and placed one in front of each of the men.
“I am grateful for your services on behalf of my son. I sincerely hope you do not suffer any repercussions from the government. They have long memories,” said Guillermo.
“This particular judge is always very fair. The warden at DTI is notoriously corrupt and had broken several laws relative to Roberto’s incarceration. It was a simple case,” Orlando explained.
“Roberto,” said Guillermo, pausing slightly before continuing. “Your mother and I, along with your brothers and sister, have suffered greatly over the last year, not knowing if you were alive or dead. I’m not blaming you, but you need to understand how difficult it has been for us. I assume you have been discharged from the military?” asked Guillermo.
“Yes, but not officially.”
“What are you going to do now? There is no demand in Cuba for someone with martial arts skills and you have no university training. You can live here temporarily, but we have little money and cannot support you for long.”
“I understand. I’ll find something. I just need some time to think.”
“What about Maykel? Maybe you could work with him as a fisherman,” said Carlos enthusiastically.
“Fishing is unpredictable and there are many days when you cannot work due to the weather,” said Rosa, listening to the conversation from the kitchen doorway.
“Whatever you do, Roberto, make sure it is legal. The government will be watching you now. They have informants in every neighborhood,” Orlando warned. “I should be going, Roberto. I am working tomorrow. Senor Ramos, it was a pleasure, and thank you for the rum. We’ll keep in touch, Roberto, no?”
After saying good evening to Roberto’s parents and his brother Carlos, the two men walked back through the house and out onto the sidewalk, stopping for a moment to talk.
“Orlando, I owe you man. We’ll keep in touch for sure,” said Roberto.
The two men shook hands, embracing briefly before Orlando got back in his car and started up the old Buick, waving his hand above the roof on the driver’s side as he drove off, heading south out of the city.
Roberto watched Orlando drive away, waiting until the car was out of sight before turning to walk back inside the house. Out of the corner of his eye, halfway down the block, he noticed someone sitting on the steps in front of an old house that Roberto had always known to be abandoned. Remembering what Orlando had said earlier in the evening about neighborhood informants, he decided not to stop and get a better look at the man.
He rejoined his parents and Carlos on the terrace behind the house, sitting down at the table alongside his mother. It was the first time since before he had been sent back to prison that he felt relaxed, he thought to himself, and despite the fact the future was so uncertain, he felt optimistic.
“May I have a little more rum?” Roberto asked his father.
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry this keeps happening,” Roberto said to his parents. “I want you both to know, and you, Carlitos, as well, that one day, I will make you proud. I don’t know how exactly, but I am determined. I refuse to lead a life of subjugation and poverty. I prefer to see the world as infinitely abundant, where possibilities are limited only by your imagination, and not as a place of scarcity and desperation. I don’t think it is possible to have that life in Cuba. Not now.”
“And where did you learn such big words?” asked Rosa.
“From my friend, Enrique, in prison. He is a poet,” said Roberto. “I was in the same cell block with him. The government doesn’t like his poetry, so they keep him locked up. They are afraid of his words, apparently.”
“They’re afraid of the truth. If they spoke truth themselves the threat of violence would be unnecessary. Everything is backwards with El said
“Can we change the subject please? I haven’t seen my son in almost a year and this conversation is upsetting to me,” said Rosa, looking in the direction of Guillermo.
“Whatever you like, Rosa,” said Guillermo. “So Roberto, where do you intend to look for work?”
I only just got out of prison. I need a little time. I will find something.”
“What about art?” asked Carlos.
“Art is not a career, Carlitos,” said Rosa. “Besides, it is not legal. You want to see your brother back in jail?”
“No, you know I don’t.”
“Then stop talking foolishness.”
“Have you heard from Anabela since I was in prison?” asked Roberto, directing his question to Carlos.
“Just once, a few months ago. She asked about you, of course. I didn’t know what to tell her. She somehow knew you were in trouble.”
“We should go to see her, Carlitos.”
“How old is this woman?” asked Rosa.
“Why?” asked Roberto in response.
“Don’t become involved with her,” said Rosa.
she’s probably twice my age. She’s a good friend. That’s it. We understand each other, and besides, she is very knowledgeable about art and knows a lot of people.”
“What do you mean she knows a lot of people?” asked Guillermo.
“She’s connected with people in the art community, older people who used to collect art from the time before the revolution,” said Roberto.
“There’s no future for you in art. You need to think about doing something a little more practical,” said Rosa.
“What about Maykel, Carlitos? Have you been to see him? Have you gone fishing?” Roberto asked Carlos, changing the direction of the conversation.
“No, I don’t like going without you. You know how he is when he hooks up. Sometimes he gets too excited and starts yelling. I don’t like it. But I did stop by the dock one day when I heard he had caught a big fish,” said Carlos.
“A big blue one?” asked Roberto.
“No, it was a sword. It was too big to bring onboard. They had to tie it off fore and aft to bring it to the dock. He caught it right out in front. Maykel waited until the tide was all the way up and even with the dock, so it was easier to pull up out of the water onto the dock to clean. It still took six of us to haul the fish out of the water. He gave me some steaks,” said Carlos.
“What did it weigh do you think?” asked Roberto.
“Maykel judged it for close to four hundred kilos,” said Carlos. “You should have seen the tarpon in the harbor eating all the scraps they threw overboard as they were cleaning the fish. And when they cut open its stomach, they found a squid that was at least two meters long, and with the tentacles maybe four and a half meters. The fish must have eaten it just before it died because it was perfectly preserved.”
“Did Maykel keep the squid?” asked Roberto.
“No. He said if you try and cook it the way you would calamari, it dissolves into nothing. He threw it overboard for the tarpon but they wouldn’t eat it. The sharks must have eaten it overnight because it was gone the next day,” said Carlos.
“Maykel is a hell of a fisherman. We need to ask him if we can go a day or two,” said Roberto.
“Well, it is very late, and if all you are going to talk about is art and fishing I am going to bed,” announced Rosa.
“Sorry, Madre, but this is the first normal conversation I’ve had in almost a year. We can catch up in the morning.
“I think I’ll call it a night as well,” said Guillermo. “We’re grateful to have you home Roberto. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
“Okay, until tomorrow. Madre, Padre, I love you.”
Roberto’s parents stopped and turned around to look back at their two sons sitting at the table on the terrace, before continuing into the house.
“They look older, Carlitos,” said Roberto staring down at his half empty glass of rum.
“You can’t imagine how worried they have been. They had almost given up hope, Roberto.”
“We need to find a way into the art world, Carlitos,” said Roberto.
“What do you mean, the art world?” asked Carlos.
“Buying and selling art,” replied Roberto.
“But you heard what Madre said. You could wind up back in jail, and so could I. I wouldn’t last two days in jail, Roberto. You know that.”
“We’re not going to jail, Carlitos, relax. I need to see Anabela. I need to figure out some way to connect with the people she knows in Spain who collect and have the ability to pay.”
“But we have no money, Roberto. How do you expect to pay for even one painting?”
“I don’t know. You see, in my mind I know how it could work. We need to find a way to make enough money for just one painting, Carlitos. Then if we can find a buyer in Spain, and get a good price, we can do more. The problem is making enough money for the first one. After that it will be easy.”
“And how do you expect to find these paintings? I mean the ones you want to sell.”
“Anabela knows a lot of people. Once you have a connection to that world the rest is easy.”
“How do you know all this to be true?”
“Well, when you are in prison you have a lot of time to think. I’ve been thinking about many things, Carlitos,” said Roberto, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the moonless night sky.
“Like what?”
“Like how to leave this country that is going nowhere,” said Roberto, still staring up at the sky. “There is no future for us in Cuba, Carlitos, because the government has stolen it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here there is no incentive to work hard—you know—to build a life. Something to be proud of. The harder you work the wealthier the Castros become. It’s all just one big con. Why should I work hard so they can grow fat?”
“But what about the family? We can’t just abandon them.”
“If we are successful, and make it to the U.S., we’ll find a way to get them out of here. I know it would not be easy, but I’ve heard of people that have managed to do it.”
“And so where do we find a boat? Have you considered the cost of a good boat? Something that is sea-worthy would not come cheap.”
“That’s the easy part, Carlitos. Maykel will help us. He knows everyone on the coast from Mariel to Mantanzas. And besides, I trust him more than anyone I know.”
“I don’t know, Roberto. Your plan sounds good but there are a lot of holes.”
“I already have the vision, and it is very clear. Once you have the vision everything else will come. It’s the intention that matters. It’s powerful, more powerful than you know, brother,” said Roberto, looking at his rum glass as he swirled the last few sips around in the bottom of the glass. “You think the Arechabala family had every detail of their rum business worked out when they decided to make one of the world’s finest rums? Of course not. They just knew they had to try. We need to try too.”
“I’m tired, Roberto. Maybe we can talk more tomorrow.”
“You still have the painting, right?
“Of course,” answered Carlos, somewhat surprised by his brother’s question.
“I want to see it before we turn in,” said Roberto, now slightly more animated from the effects of the rum.
I still have it hidden under the mattress, same as before.”
“Promise you won’t tell mother or father about our plan,” said Roberto, raising his glass across the table in the direction of his brother as though to formalize the deal.
“Promise,” said Carlos, pausing briefly before picking up his tumbler and touching it gently against the side of Roberto’s glass.
Carlos leaned forward in his chair and slowly turned down the flame on the kerosene lantern on the table until it went out. Under a cool, cloudless, winter high pressure, and with only a few dim lights from the neighborhood to diminish its brilliance, the Milky Way shone unusually bright, stretching far to the northeast out over the ocean, fading only slightly where it met the horizon.
Roberto had slept little that night and was lying on his back looking up at the ceiling when he heard his brother stir in the bed next to him sometime just before sunrise. He had been thinking about Anabela Sobrino, and what she had told him about the wealthy Cuban she had known who lived in Spain, and who had continued collecting pre-revolution Cuban master art works even after leaving Cuba in the years following the revolution.
“Carlitos, are you awake?”
“Not yet, why?”
“We need to visit Anabela Sobrino, soon.”
“What time is it?”
“I have a lot of questions for her,” said Roberto, ignoring his brother’s question about the time. “And another thing. I think I know where I can get a job. One that pays well, too.”
“Nothing pays well in Cuba,” said Carlos, yawning loudly.
“You remember when I got out of prison?”
“What do you mean, do I remember? It was yesterday.”
“No, no—the first time, after I was released when I was on parole, and they were watching me all the time. I worked part time security for Colonel Antonio de la Guardia in his jewelry business. I’m going to ask him for the security job back.”
“What makes you think he’ll give you the job back? He probably knows you were in prison again.”
“He trusted me, more than the other guys that worked there. They were always trying to figure out ways to steal from him and I refused to be a part of it. I know he was grateful for my loyalty. He always used to tell me how he had learned the hard way through his business how few honest people there were in the world—that integrity no longer existed because everyone in Cuba is poor and paranoid—only out for themselves.”
“When do you want to see Anabela?”
“Today!” exclaimed Roberto. “I am going to see her today.”
“I don’t want to go, Roberto.”
“Why not? I thought we were in this together.”
“I’m not comfortable going. You can go, Roberto.”
Roberto rolled onto his side and looked over at his brother. He remembered how nervous Carlos had been the first time they had gone to see Anabela. He stared quietly at his brother who was looking up at the ceiling, his arms folded behind and underneath his head, his eyes unblinking.
The seriousness of his brother’s autism was becoming more apparent to Roberto, along with the realization that Carlos would probably never be able to function independently.
“Carlitos,” said Roberto, waiting for Carlos to look in his direction. “Don’t worry. Going to see Anabela will be part of my job. Yours will be to study and research. This will help us determine which pieces are important and have the most value. That’s more important because we’ll be dealing with a lot of money. We will need to be shrewd but also fair.”
“What do you mean by shrewd?”
“I mean we need to have sound judgment. We’ll probably deal with some people who will try and take advantage of us. So we need to be smarter and more knowledgeable than they are. That will require a lot of research. Like I said, that will be your job.”
Carlos pulled back the sheet covering his body and turned his body toward Roberto, placing his feet on the floor and clasping his hands together with his elbows on his knees.
“I can do that. No one will know more than me. I read many books while you were in prison, and I forget nothing. You know that about me, Roberto.”
Roberto was still lying on his side, staring at Carlos, somewhat surprised by his brother’s unexpected and uncharacteristic display of confidence. “I do know that about you. Honestly, Carlitos, I don’t know anyone with a memory like yours. I should be going. We have a lot to do. What day is it?” asked Roberto, moving slowly as he got out of bed, careful not to make any sudden movements that would exacerbate the pain he still felt from the stab wound in his left side.
“It’s Saturday, why?”
“Good. Anabela will be home. Listen, I might be back late, so don’t worry. I want to stop and see Colonel de la Guardia if I have time. Let’s go. We’ll have some coffee with mother and father before I go.”
said Roberto cheerfully, as the brothers entered the kitchen.
dias, my prodigal son. What about a proper hug and kiss for your mother?” said Rosa, standing in front of the stove with her arms open to her side.
She was smiling and seemed genuinely happy and relaxed, thought Roberto. “I disagree with the prodigal part, but I will still give you a kiss,” said Roberto, warmly embracing his mother and kissing her on the cheek. “Where is father?”
“He’s outside. You having coffee?”
“Please.”
“If you have a big day planned, which I’m sure you do, you need something to eat,” said Rosa. “I can make you pan tostado, and there are still some avocado and mango,” said Rosa.
“I’m planning on going to see Anabela Sobrino and later Colonel de la Guardia,” said Roberto.
“De la Guardia,” said Guillermo, who had overheard Roberto’s conversation with his mother and had come inside from the terrace. “Why are you going to see him?”
“For a job. You said you can’t support me for long, so I’m going to ask him for a job. You remember, I worked security for him a couple years ago in his jewelry business.”
“You trust him?” asked Guillermo. “You know he is close to Fidel.”
“I know. Anyway he was good to me when I worked for him. I have no reason not to trust him.”
“Whatever happens, please promise me you’ll stay out of prison,” said Rosa. “Here’s your coffee. Sit outside with your father and I will bring your
The morning air was cool and pleasant. A heavy dew had formed overnight and still covered the table. The dew was heaviest in the tropics on nights when there was no wind. Roberto dried off the table and chairs with a towel that his mother Rosa kept hanging by the back door just for that purpose.
Rosa’s coffee was always strong and sweet with a moist pungent aroma that only comes from freshly roasted beans. Guillermo insisted on buying beans that came from the Sierra de los Organos mountains in the Pinar del Rio province in western Cuba.
“When I was in prison, Padre, I would dream about this coffee,” said Roberto, closing his eyes as he savored the first few sips.
“I wouldn’t tell de la Guardia about your little art business plan. He’s liable to steal your idea and do it himself.”
“I don’t plan on telling anyone,” said Roberto, taking another sip of coffee.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Roberto,” said his father.
“Not really, but I’ll figure it out as I go. I’m going to do it, Padre, believe me. I just need the right connections,” said Roberto.
“I’m sure you will succeed, or die trying. You’re too much like your mother sometimes,” said Guillermo.
“How so?”
“Persistent. Never taking no for an answer.”
Roberto looked over at his father and smiled. “I need to be going,” said Roberto.
“It’s a long walk to Anabela’s house.”
Roberto went back inside the kitchen, placed his empty coffee cup in the sink, said goodbye to Rosa and Carlos and walked through to the front of the house, out onto the sidewalk and headed north toward Anabela’s home in el barrio de La
La Rampa was a little less than five kilometers from Roberto’s neighborhood of Santos Suarez and would take about an hour to reach on foot without stopping.
It was still early in the day when Roberto left home, and even though he was anxious to speak with Anabela about his plan, he remembered she was a private person and might not appreciate him arriving unannounced at such an early hour. In order to arrive a little later, Roberto decided to kill some time along the way by stopping in Quinta de los Molinos Gardens. A lush, green oasis with many large trees in the middle of Havana, the gardens were free for locals and visited mostly by the elderly along with the occasional European tourists who come to Cuba during the winter months to enjoy the relative warmth of the Cuban winter.
Formerly the home of General Maximo Gomez, the gardens were a place where Roberto could gather his thoughts and perhaps think of some way to convince Anabela he was serious about his intention to buy and sell art. If she could connect him with someone in Spain who was looking for important works of art from Cuba, Roberto was certain he could find a way to make his plan work. And if she was still interested to sell some of her father’s collection all he needed was enough money to buy the first painting.
Roberto had been sitting under the shade of a large strangler fig thinking about what he would say to Anabela, and hadn’t noticed the emerald-colored hummingbird moving from flower to flower in the bed of flor de The bird hovered closer to the bench he was sitting on, until he could almost touch it as it fed on one of the large white flowers.
He wondered how such a fragile little bird managed to thrive in a dangerous and unforgiving world, surviving only on the sweet nectar of flowering plants. The bird was free to go wherever it wanted and lived its entire life surrounded by beauty. What a joyous life. I should expect nothing less, he thought.
The hummingbird continued feeding in the flower bed next to where Roberto was sitting until finally flying off, but only after meticulously checking each flower for fresh nectar. Five minutes earlier or later, he thought and he wouldn’t have seen the tiny bird.
Leaving the gardens, Roberto had less than fifteen blocks to go before reaching Anabela’s home. He was excited to see her and hoped that she would feel the same way when he arrived.
Rounding the corner onto Calle 15, he walked the last few steps to Anabela’s house in the middle of the block. The front door was open slightly and there was a cloth bag filled with fresh vegetables and several loaves of pan sitting on the top step. Roberto walked to the top of the steps, picked up the bag and stood in the doorway, slowly pushing the door open the rest of the way, surprising Anabela who was walking back toward the front of the house from the kitchen to retrieve the bag of food she had left on the step.
“Oh, Dios mio. Roberto. What the hell,” exclaimed Anabela.
Anabela. Am I too early?”
“No, no, of course not. I’ve just been to market. Come in, come in,” said Anabela, holding the door open and motioning for Roberto to enter. “Where the hell have you been? It’s been almost a year. Did you forget about our date?”
“You mean the mojito you were going to buy me at La Bodeguita?” said Roberto. “Of course not. When are we going?” he said with a smile.
“We go tonight. That is unless you already have a date with another old woman.”
“Anabela, I have been in jail again. For the past year. They tried to kill me.”
“What! What happened?”
“They didn’t like what I had to say in response to their request for my loyalty to El Comandante, so the warden hired a couple of his goons thinking maybe they could change my mind.”
“They obviously didn’t know who they were dealing with.”
“No, and they paid for it. Although one of them managed to stab me before I could take the knife away from him,” said Roberto.
“Jesus, Roberto. Are you okay?”
“Yes, fortunately. If you’re going to be stabbed though, this is as good a spot as any,” said Roberto, turning to his right slightly and pulling up his shirt to show Anabela where the knife had entered his side. “Looks like it’s still bleeding a little.”
“Let me get some warm water and some soap. It looks terrible.”
“It looks bad, but I think it’s beginning to heal. The infection is going down and it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Sit down in here,” said Anabela, pointing to the parlor. “I’ll be right back.”
“I have something I need to talk to you about,” said Roberto, raising his voice slightly to make sure Anabela heard him as she hurried down the hallway.
“I’ll be right back.”
Anabela returned with a bowl of warm water, some soap, and a clean towel. “Here, stand up. Let me know if this hurts. There’s a lot of dried blood. My god Roberto, this looks terrible.”
“It’s fine. I’m telling you. The doctor told me I was lucky the knife didn’t go any deeper. A couple more millimeters he said, and it would have punctured my spleen.”
“Wait a minute, I’m not finished. I want to put some mercurochrome on it. There, that looks much better. So what is it you want to talk about?”
“I need to figure out a way to make some money. Real money.”
“You’re living in the wrong country then, Roberto.”
“Remember you told me about some wealthy expats you knew who were living in Spain and collected Cuban art from the time before the revolution?”
“Sure, I remember. But it’s almost impossible to contact them, and even if you could somehow get in touch with a collector, there is no way to send a painting to Spain. It would be very dangerous. Especially for you, Roberto, considering you’ve spent time in prison. They’ll always be watching you now. You know that.”
“I know, but this is what I want to do. I would pay you for helping me,” said Roberto.
“You have a job or any money?”
“Not yet. But I plan on having a job very soon.”
“My God, you’re persistent.”
“I know, my father tells me the same thing. He says I get it from my mother.”
“I’m going to make some coffee. You want some?”
“With some pan tostado?” asked Roberto, knowing she would say yes.
“Come with me. We’ll sit out back.”
Anabela led Roberto though the house to the back and onto a small terrace. “This is my little sanctuary, where I dream.”
“It’s lovely.”
“I’ll start the coffee. Con
“Please.”
Anabela returned to the kitchen and took down the large Moka pot from above the stove that she used only when she had company. After rinsing the dust from the outside of the pot she carefully filled it with water up to the pressure valve, first adding the raw cane sugar to the filter before topping it off with finely-ground coffee and placing it over a low heat on the kerosene stove.
“Would you like some guava jam with the said Anabela, raising her voice slightly in order for Roberto to hear her from the kitchen.
“Did you make it?”
“What do you think? Of course I made it. It’s impossible to buy any.”
“Then I’ll have some.”
Looking around the tangle of plants on the terrace, Roberto counted more than a dozen different types of fruit trees, some of which he had never seen before. How could someone go hungry in a country where food was so plentiful, he thought.
colada, con said Anabela, emerging from the kitchen carrying a large tray of warm tostados, two coladas and some mango slices.
“Anabela, what is that tree?” asked Roberto.
“Which one?”
“That one there,” said Roberto, pointing to the other end of the terrace.
“That is a ciruela tree. The fruit is like a plum. It’s good for indigestion. You’re too young to know anything about that,” she said with a smile, holding the hot cup up to her lips and gently blowing across the top to cool the coffee as she looked at Roberto.
“The jam is fantastic, Anabela. How do you make it without all the seeds?”
“With great difficulty. It takes me all day to make a batch.”
“Well, it’s worth it. I can tell you,” Roberto remarked as he took another bite of the toasted bread.
“Roberto, I have an idea,” said Anabela, pausing to take another sip of coffee.
“About my plan?”
“Yes, about your plan. There is a very wealthy Spaniard. His name is Mariano and he comes to Cuba from time to time on vacation. My father knew him and always spoke very highly of him. He has some of my father’s work. Anyway, it’s my understanding that he’s managed to maintain a good relationship with Fidel.”
“The same Fidel, who is a man of the people, who lives in a fisherman’s cottage,” said Roberto, feigning sincerity.
“Yes, the very one. Can you believe it?” said Anabela, smiling. “When Fidel took control in ’59, he created something called, The Office for the Recovery of State Assets. They confiscated billions of dollars in private assets from wealthy Cubans and foreigners who fled Cuba right after the revolution. There were hundreds of thousands of paintings, sculptures, rare books, jewelry, you name it, the government simply laid claim to. A bit like the Nazis during their European occupation in World War II.”
“What did they do with all of it?”
“I know for a fact that, seventy percent of the collection in the Museo Nacional de Bellas was confiscated from these private collections. I mean that’s something like thirty-five thousand pieces.”
“But you said there were hundreds of thousands of works of art.”
“There were. Fidel has been selling off the rest since the 60’s.”
“And keeping the money for himself.”
“Of course.”
“Antonio says he spends a lot on Chivas Regal.”
“Who is Antonio?”
“His son, Antonio. I use to train him when I was working at Punto Cero,” he said.
“Jesus, it’s a wonder they didn’t try to kill you sooner. You know too much.”
“So what about this guy Mariano? You said he comes to Cuba from time to time.”
“Yeah, he has a house in at Marina I think he likes to fish. It’s near the hospital where you were being held. He comes in January and stays until June. Then he goes back to Spain for the summer.”
“Yes, I know where it is. The security there is very tight. It’s where Fidel keeps one of his fishing yachts.”
“Well, I’m telling you what I know. Maybe you should try and get a job there.”
“I was going to speak with a military friend of mine later today about a job, but I suppose I can always work two jobs.”
“What’s the job?”
“Security for Cimex. You know the place—where the government buys gold, silver, diamonds, things like that from the public.”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s where they pay you with some sort of worthless currency that you can only spend in the government’s stores.”
“Right. I know the Colonel who runs the business. Then the government turns around and makes a huge profit by selling everything overseas for what it’s actually worth, which is plenty in most cases.”
“So Fidel can buy more Chivas Regal.”
And fancy fishing boats.”
“Who is the guy running the business?”
“Colonel Antonio de la Guardia. I worked security there part time a couple years ago as part of my probation when I was released from Censam He’s a good guy.”
“Well, I strongly recommend not telling him about your little plan.”
“I’m not planning to. What I’d really like is to learn how to appraise jewelry, especially diamonds. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
Anabela smiled, took another sip of coffee, and sat back in her chair, smiling slightly. “Coming from you, not really.”
“I should be going. It’s a long walk to Cimex.”
“You’ll let me know what happens? You need to be careful Roberto, and smart. What about tonight? We’re going to La Bodeguita?”
“I don’t have any money. Remember, I just got out of prison.”
“Yes, I know, and remember I said next time was my treat.”
“Fair enough. What time?”
“Eight thirty, and don’t be late. Women who drink alone always have a bad reputation,” said Anabela, smiling warmly.
“Maybe I will have some news about a job,” Roberto replied, standing up from the table and finishing the last of his colada.
Anabela led Roberto back into the house, stopping briefly in the kitchen. “Here, have some of these,” she said, taking some bananas from a bowl on the kitchen table. “Take this, too,” she said, as she handed Roberto a large Choquette avocado. “You have a long day ahead of you. We’ll have something to eat tonight in La
“Thank you. Someday I will pay you back for all your kindness,” said Roberto, as he held open the cloth bag she had given him for the fruit.
“Maybe we’ll sell some art together, quien she said. “See you tonight.”