II
The following two weeks went by quickly after their trip with Maykel, and soon the day came when Roberto was required to report for military basic training. He planned to leave early that morning for the Ministry of the Revolutionary Armed Forces, not wanting to further upset his mother with an unnecessarily long goodbye.
However, all four siblings, along with his parents, were gathered in the living room waiting to say goodbye, when he came down the stairs from his bedroom. Roberto knew how difficult the separation and time away would be on the family, and in particular for Carlos, so the tearful goodbyes were intentionally brief.
“I’ll see you in six months,” Roberto said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. “The time will go by quickly. You’ll see.”
“Do what you are told Roberto, and remember, don’t be cocky,” Rosa said sternly.
“Yes I’ll remember. I know how to stay out of trouble.”
As he left the house and headed toward the Ministry, he felt calm and not particularly nervous about what lay ahead, knowing that the physical part of the training would be easy for him, and that he had a good chance of being stationed in Cuba, after the training was complete, and most likely in Havana.
The discipline he had learned and the confidence he had gained from his years of high level training and competing in Taekwando would prove invaluable over the next several years, becoming, in fact, the critical element in what would ultimately become a fight for survival.
The following six months in basic training passed quickly and uneventfully for Roberto. He encountered little trouble meeting all of the physical requirements for entry into Special Forces and was well respected among his fellow trainees. He was proud of his accomplishments, and—having been recognized for his exceptional abilities in self-defense, as expected—he received a special assignment at the Palace of the Revolution.
After receiving an additional two weeks of Secret Service training, special Palace uniforms and the necessary credentials, Roberto was granted two weeks of much anticipated military leave. After signing out at the base entrance he nodded to the attending officer and walked through the gate. As he made his way through the streets of Santos Suarez nearing home, he became increasingly excited about seeing his family, and especially Carlos. Roberto’s brother depended on him heavily for emotional security and he hoped the time away had not been too hard on Carlos.
He remembered also the painting from Julio and wondered if Carlos had made any more attempts to research the painting at the Jose Marti Library. Roberto realized then how much he had missed looking at the painting and he began to feel excited about continuing their search for information about the work and the artist.
Reaching home he wasted no time going inside, dropped his military duffel bag in the living room, and went straight to the kitchen, knowing his mother would be there waiting for him.
Madre, como
“I’m fine, Roberto,” said Rosa, as she embraced her son. “The question is how are you? You look thin. Fidel doesn’t feed you?”
“Yes, he feeds me, but I train hard every day. It’s hard to keep the weight on, but I feel good,” said Roberto. “Anyway, it’s official mother, I don’t have to fight in Angola. I have been assigned to the Palace. I am a member of the Secret Service.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Roberto slowly and deliberately reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, carefully revealing to his mother the shiny new SS identification badge he had been issued the day before.
“I wouldn’t joke about something so serious, Mother. You know that.”
“Carlitos will be happy,” Rosa said. “He has missed you terribly. He is in his room. You should go and see him.”
“I will go see him now.”
“Roberto,” Rosa said, as Roberto turned to go upstairs to see his brother. “Don’t be long. Supper is nearly ready.”
“What are we having?” asked Roberto.
“Baked corvina and sweet plantains.”
“I love you, mother,” said Roberto.
“Go see your brother, he’s been waiting for you all day.”
When Roberto opened the door to the bedroom and went inside, Carlos was sitting on his bed looking at the painting propped up against the wall at the foot of the bed.
“You know, Roberto, I have an idea where we will find the information we are looking for about Sobrino,” Carlos said, not bothering to formally greet his brother.
“I missed you, Carlitos,” said Roberto, sitting down next to his brother on the bed.
“I missed you as well brother. How long will you be home? Are you going to Africa?”
“No, I don’t have to go to Africa. As a matter of fact I am stationed here in Havana, working at the Palace of the Revolution, and I have military leave every three months. So when I am home we can go fishing with Maykel. I don’t have to report for duty for two weeks!”
“Tomorrow, can we go to the library?” Carlos asked.
“Absolutely. Tell me about your idea. Actually, we should wait until after supper. Mother is cooking corvina and sweet plantains. Let’s eat now and we can sit outside on the terrace later and you can tell me.”
“Okay, Roberto.”
Before leaving the bedroom, Carlos carefully placed the painting under the mattress at the foot of the bed and went downstairs with Roberto to the kitchen for supper.
Their father had not spoken to the brothers again about the painting, and they were careful not to talk about it when he was at home, knowing how upset he would be to find out it was still in the house.
Excited about the opportunity to renew their search for information about Carlos Sobrino, and wanting to make the most of his time on military leave, Roberto left early the next morning with Carlos for the library. With a portion of the money Roberto had been paid for military service, the brothers made time to stop along the way at Cafe El Escorial, for a colada and
The quiet little cafe, located on the Plaza Vieja, was the perfect place to sit and relax in the early morning.
“Carlitos, you said your plan for when we arrive at the library is to go to the archive room where they keep all of the pre-revolution newspapers, like Diario de la Marina, right?”
“Exactly. If Sobrino won the National Painting award in 1957, two years before the revolution, there has to be a news article about him . . . something. It’s too important,” said Carlos.
“We asked about the newspaper archive room when we were there before and they said we were not allowed in there,” said Roberto.
“I remember, but I think we should try again.”
“All right. We have nothing to lose.”
And with that the brothers finished their coffee and left for the library, putting the remainder of their pastry in a small sack to eat later.
Arriving at the library the brothers signed in, went past the military guards in the lobby, and straight to the newspaper archive room on the seventh floor.
Walking into the archive room Roberto noticed that it was the same clerk on duty behind the desk that had denied them entrance the first time they had been there.
“Roberto, it’s the same man as before. He isn’t going to let us in,” said Carlos.
“I’ll do the talking, Carlitos,” whispered Roberto.
dias, said Roberto.
“You have identification?” the clerk asked.
Taking out his wallet, Roberto slowly handed the clerk his military ID.
“I’m sorry but you need specific permission from the local Committee for the Defense of the Revolution to use this part of the library,” the clerk said, handing the ID back to Roberto. The CDR was the principal counterrevolutionary investigative arm of the regime.
“You will have to leave,” the clerk said.
Roberto taking his ID and putting it back into his wallet, remembered his Secret Service badge. Without responding and with no hesitation, he took the silver SS badge out of his wallet and held it directly in front of the clerk’s face.
“We are here to do an investigation,” said Roberto, continuing to hold the badge where the clerk could clearly see it. “I am going to need your name and ID number.”
The clerk, clearly stunned, said nothing.
Roberto, trying not to appear surprised that his scheme seemed to be working, leaned forward placing both hands on the desk, and looked straight at the man.
“I said, I need your name and identification,” said Roberto.
Incredibly, the impromptu plan worked. Saying nothing, the clerk handed his ID to Roberto, who pretended to study it intently.
“Thank you, said Roberto. “Now if you would please let us in.”
“What is the investigation concerning?” the clerk asked.
“It’s classified,” said Roberto, responding bluntly to the clerk. “We are not authorized to reveal anything about the investigation.”
With that the clerk stood up from behind his desk, walked over to the archive room, unlocked the door, and let the brothers in.
“How long will you be?” the clerk asked.
“I will let you know when we are finished our investigation,” said Roberto.
Not wanting the clerk to eavesdrop on their conversation, the brothers walked past several rows of shelving to a point in the room where they knew they would not be overheard.
“I hope this doesn’t get us in trouble,” said Carlos. “What if he tries to verify your story? I can’t believe you did that.”
“I’m not worried. Come on, let’s see what we can find. Where do you want to look first?”
“Well, we know that Sobrino won the award in December of 1957, so let’s start looking through everything we can find from December 1st and later. I’m certain it would have been in the news.”
“I don’t know how you know these things, Carlitos, but let’s start looking,” he said.
The brothers easily found the section that contained Diario de la Marina newspapers from December of 1957. As they methodically went through each one, beginning with December 1st, they were astonished to find numerous articles highly critical of the revolutionary forces fighting to overthrow the Batista regime.
“Roberto,” whispered Carlos, “Look at these articles!”
“This is why they don’t allow anyone in here,” said Roberto. “The government doesn’t want us to see any of this. Look, I’ll start at the end of the month and work backwards. That way it will take only half the time. We need to work quickly.”
No more than twenty minutes had passed when Roberto heard his brother drop one of the boxes containing the old, yellowed newspapers. He looked up to see Carlos holding a single paper, his eyes scanning quickly back and forth as he silently read to himself. When Carlos finished, he slowly raised his head and stared momentarily at his brother.
“I found something, Roberto.”
“Let me see.”
Roberto carefully took the paper from Carlos’s hand and read the article.
“This is exactly what we have been looking for, Carlitos. It says where he lived in Havana, that his paintings were in the National Museum, mentions his family, and even gives their names. Write down the names of his children. His parents are probably no longer living. And don’t forget the name of the neighborhood,” said Roberto.
Carlos suspected the clerk might check to see that they had left everything in order and was careful to make sure the newspaper was in the correct box. After placing the newspaper back in its box, he then slid the document box into the shelf, exactly where he had found it.
Returning to the front desk, they thanked the clerk and informed him that they had completed their investigation and would be preparing an official report on their findings.
The man at the desk still seemed nervous and said nothing, choosing instead to immediately lock the door to the archive room. The brothers, thinking it might be best to avoid any further conversation with the man, took the elevator down to the lobby, signed out, and quickly left the library.
“I can’t believe we found something,” said Roberto. “I could never have done this without you.”
“I believed in my friend Julio. I just knew he was telling us the truth. We should let him know.”
“If we do, I think we should tell him not to talk with anyone about this,” said Roberto.
“The article said that Sobrino was living in La Rampa Barrio at the time of the award. That is a small neighborhood, so I believe it will be easy to find someone there who knew him, maybe even a family member. The paper said he had children and that one of the daughters was also an artist. Here, I wrote her name down,” said Carlos.
“We can go tomorrow with the painting . . . first thing in the morning,” said Roberto.
“I don’t think we should tell anyone, not even Mother. She’ll worry too much,” said Carlos.
Walking briskly now toward home the brothers spoke little. They could somehow sense the significance of their discovery and could scarcely believe their good fortune.
The following morning they awoke at sunrise, and before going down to the kitchen for coffee and something to eat, they decided not to leave the house until their father had left for work. If he were to see that the brothers still had the painting, there would be no chance of them going to look for Sobrino’s family.
After coffee and pastry, and with their father safely out of the house and on his way to work, they carefully wrapped the painting in newspaper and then in a small burlap sack. The painting, only 20 by 30 centimeters, was inconspicuous and would not draw the attention of anyone as they made their way through the streets of Havana. Believing their mother would ask too many questions about their plans for the day, they uncharacteristically left the house without saying goodbye, thinking it might be easier to explain their way back in when they returned.
La Rampa Barrio was an hour walk or so from their home in Santos Suarez. After arriving they planned to go directly to the neighborhood post office, knowing the postmaster would have the names and addresses of anyone living there who had a permanent address.
The post office in La Rampa was a small, dilapidated concrete building directly across the street from the Mariana Grajales memorial park.
With only a few older people waiting outside for the daily mail to arrive, and no one inside, the brothers walked up to the counter where they were met by an elderly woman, the only employee on duty.
dias, said Roberto. “We are trying to find the family of a friend of ours who has passed away and we understand they live in this barrio. We have something we need to return to the family.”
Roberto showed the burlap sack to the woman, and said, “Our friend was a famous painter, and this belongs to his daughter.”
Carlos, looking more than a little surprised upon hearing his brother’s cleverly concocted story, tried to remain calm and said nothing.
“What is the name of this person?” the attendant asked, seemingly not the least bit suspicious.
“Her name is Anabela Sobrino. But I do not know if she is married. Sobrino is her maiden name,” said Carlos.
“There are two Sobrino families in La Rampa, one on Avenida Paseo and one on Calle 15. I can give you the addresses if you like.”
“Thank you, We appreciate your help,” said Roberto.
Back on the street in front of the post office, the brothers quickly decided to go first to the address on Calle 15, which was a little closer.
“I can’t believe you just made up that story!” said Carlos as they began to walk the three blocks toward Calle 15.
“People are very suspicious, Carlitos. She probably wasn’t going to give us any information unless we had a good explanation why we were looking for the Sobrinos.”
“Well, it worked. Here is the street,” said Carlos, as they turned the corner on to Calle 15. “We need to go to the right, maybe two blocks.”
“Here is the house, 1465. Doesn’t look like anyone is home,” said Carlos.
Roberto knocked loudly on the wooden door and stepped back on to the street, looking up at the old facade with its faded yellow paint and crumbling iron balcony railings.
After several minutes a middle-aged woman dressed in a brightly colored, floral dress appeared in one of the second-floor balconies.
“Who is it?” she asked, leaning over the rusted iron railing and looking down at the brothers.
“I am Roberto Ramos, and this is my brother, Carlitos. We are looking for Anabela Sobrino, the daughter of Carlos Sobrino, the painter. Do you know her?”
Momentarily staring down at the brothers, the woman didn’t answer and suddenly disappeared back into the building.
“I told you, Carlitos, people are suspicious. What do we do now?”
Noticing an older gentleman sitting in front of a house several doors down the street, Carlos suggested they ask him if he knew who lived in the house at 1465.
No sooner had they begun walking in the direction of the old man, the brothers heard the door to the house behind them unlock. They turned around to see the woman in the floral dress from the balcony, standing in the doorway with one hand on her hip and the other holding the door open slightly.
“Do you work for the government?” she asked.
“Uh, no, no we don’t. We are friends of Dr. Julio Martinez from Santos Suarez. We are looking for the family of his friend, Carlos Sobrino. This is a painting that Mr. Sobrino painted in 1953.” Roberto, taking the painting out from under his arm, held it out so the woman could see it. “We are trying to determine its authenticity and value. It was given to us by Mr. Martinez. He said it was quite valuable, but in researching Mr. Sobrino, we’ve found very little about the artist. Do you know the Sobrinos?”
The woman stared at the brothers for a moment. “Come inside,” she said.
Following the woman inside, they passed through the doorway into a dimly lit hallway and into the living room.
“Sit down, please,” the woman said.
As the brothers sat down and began to look around the room, they noticed hanging on the walls, numerous small paintings done in a style that appeared to be identical to El
“Roberto, look at these paintings,” whispered Carlos.
“Were these paintings done by….”
Roberto, curious to know if the paintings in the room were done by Carlos Sobrino, was suddenly interrupted by the woman.
“I am Anabela Sobrino,” the woman said.
Roberto looked at Carlos who was staring at the woman.
“Anabela, it is a great pleasure,” said Roberto. “Your father, through this painting, has inspired us to learn about the great artists of Cuba.”
“It is a pleasure, Roberto,” the woman said, beginning to relax somewhat. “Unfortunately, there are a lot of important artists from Cuba that you will never know.”
“What do you mean?” asked Carlos.
“The government doesn’t want you to know about certain ones whom they consider to be counterrevolutionary,” said Anabela.
“You mean like your father?” asked Roberto.
“Yes, like my father. He hated Fidel and he hated communism. He wanted to be free. Free to express himself through his painting. So he left Cuba in 1969 and never returned. I never saw him again.”
Taking the painting out of the bag and unwrapping the newspaper, Roberto handed Anabela the painting and asked, “But why would the regime object to a painting of a musician?”
“What is the title of the painting?” she asked Roberto.
It is written on the back,” replied Roberto, showing her the back of the canvas.
“Saxophonists play jazz music, the freest form of creative music, and jazz is American. Fidel hates America.”
“Music? They’re threatened by music?” asked Roberto.
“Well,” said Anabela, gesturing with her hands, “painting, music, dance, literature, film, theater—anything in their opinion that could deliver a counter-revolutionary message.”
“My brother and I had great difficulty finding out any information about your father or his work,” said Roberto.
“I’m not surprised. You see my father chose exile over living under communist rule, and the result was he became persona non grata in the eyes of the regime. His paintings were removed from the National Gallery and there was no longer any mention of him in the public record.”
“Then you must know of many other artists, writers, or musicians that have found themselves in the same situation as your father,” said Roberto.
“Yes Roberto, there are many. Unfortunately, too many to remember,” she replied.
Looking in the direction of his brother, Roberto could see that Carlos was becoming uncomfortable and had reached his limit.
“Anabela, I think we should be going. It has been an honor, truly. We will never forget this moment, and we’ll forever cherish this amazing work of your father’s,” said Roberto.
“It has been my pleasure, boys. You should know something though. It is illegal to buy or sell the work of people like my father, who have been banned by the government. You need to be very careful.”
“We will be careful,” said Carlos.
With that the brothers stood up, each warmly embracing Anabela, and after carefully repacking the painting in the burlap sack, they left the Sobrino family house and headed back down the street toward home.
“Remember, be careful, and keep in touch,” said Anabela, waving goodbye from the doorway.
“I can’t believe what just happened,” said Carlos.
“I know, I know. We would have never found Anabela though if not for your idea to look in the newspaper archives, Carlitos,” said Roberto.
“Yeah, and you showing your Secret Service badge to the clerk, pretending to be doing an investigation,” joked Carlos.
“This has been a good day,” said Roberto.
“I don’t ever want to sell the painting,” said Carlos.
“I don’t either, Carlitos. You know, tomorrow I believe I would like to go to the National Art Museum,” said Roberto.
“What for?” asked Carlos.
“I want to look at all of the other paintings there, and I also want to ask them why they no longer have any Sobrinos on display. You know, to see what they say. Obviously, now I know why. Remember the newspaper article from the library said they had three of his works hanging in the museum.”
“I don’t think that is a very good idea,” said Carlos.
“What are they going to do? Arrest us for asking about an artist that no one seems to know anything about? I just want to see what sort of answer they give,” said Roberto.
“Yeah, and if they do try to arrest you, then you can just show them your SS badge,” laughed Carlos.
When they arrived home the brothers quickly made their way to the bedroom, carefully hiding the painting again under the mattress. Late in the day and nearly dark, their mother had just finished preparing supper for the family. It was a lovely evening with no sign of a late day shower and there was a light, north breeze coming in off the ocean. With only a few days remaining on his military leave, Roberto and Carlos chose to spend the rest of the night enjoying the company of the family on the terrace under a brilliant autumn full moon.
Sometime during the early morning, just before dawn, a strong norther blew in off the ocean and across the city, bringing with it a torrential downpour of rain, lightning, and heavy tropical thunder.
Awakened by the noise from the storm, Roberto had already dressed and had quietly made his way in the dark down to the kitchen. He was sitting having coffee with his mother when Carlos joined them.
“What do you think, Carlitos? You going with me to the Museo Nacional today?” asked Roberto.
“I don’t think so. The thought of asking why the museum removed the work of Sobrino makes me nervous, and besides we already know why.”
“It’s not right though, Carlitos. The people of Cuba should know who Carlos Sobrino was, and that he was a great artist. He is part of our heritage. What right does Fidel have to say that Carlos Sobrino never existed?” said Roberto, raising his voice.
“Roberto!” Rosa said sharply.
“Someone is declared an enemy of the state because he paints an American jazz musician? It’s ridiculous,” said Roberto, as he stood up behind his chair. “You know,” Roberto said, pausing slightly, “you can wipe out your opponents, but if you do it unjustly you become eligible for being wiped out yourself.”
“Roberto, I don’t want you saying things like that,” said Rosa.
“I didn’t say it, I am only repeating it.”
“I guarantee whoever said it is no longer living in Cuba,” said Rosa.
“The person who said it is dead. But at least he died on his own terms,” said Roberto.
“And so who is that?” asked Rosa.
“Ernesto Hemingway. I’m leaving for the Museum!”
Rosa, by now clearly upset by the conversation, followed Roberto to the front door and watched him as he walked down the street.
“You be careful!” she said loudly.
The museum was not yet open when Roberto arrived, so he decided to wait in the Granma Memorial Park across the street. The park was established as a memorial to “La Granma,” the 60-foot-long vessel Fidel Castro used to transport 82 fighters from Mexico to Cuba in November of 1956 as part of the effort to overthrow Fulgenico Batista. Coincidentally, it was built by the same shipyard that built the deep-sea fishing boat, the Pilar, for Ernest Hemingway in 1934.
When the doors to the museum opened, Roberto, along with several groups of uniformed school children, who had also been waiting patiently in the park, entered the building. He decided to spend his time looking through the handful of rooms containing paintings from the late Spanish Colonial era through the Republican period.
Having previously searched unsuccessfully for works by Carlos Sobrino, and having been told firsthand by Anabela Sobrino that everything done by her father had been removed from the museum, he was curious to see what sort of subject matter the Communist regime had approved for exhibition.
Passing from one dimly lit room of paintings to the next, Roberto began to realize intuitively that all he was seeing were poorly done paintings glorifying early attempts by the communists to overthrow Batista, along with idealized depictions of rural life in Cuba from the early years of the Republic.
Remembering as a young child the stories told to him by his grandparents about the 19th century Independence Movement, the Spanish American War, and the Sergeant’s Revolt, during the time when the family lived on a farm in the countryside outside Havana, he felt certain that surely there must exist many works done by the great artists from that time that should have been here in the National Museum of Cuba.
I have seen enough today, he thought to himself. Not having eaten since early morning and feeling hungry, he decided to leave the museum and make his way back home without confronting anyone about the Sobrino paintings. He had only one more day before he needed to report for duty at the Palace of the Revolution and wanted to spend the time with his family.
As he passed by the receptionist at the front of the hall near the entrance to the museum, she looked up briefly. tardes, she said. “I hope you enjoyed your visit, and please come back.”
replied Roberto. “I’m sure I will come back, and you know, I learned a lot more today about my country than I expected. Buenas
Because it would be a little cooler near the ocean, Roberto chose to walk the short distance to the sea and make his way home by way of La Avenida Malecon. It was one of his favorite places to walk in Old Havana. The late day breeze always blew from the north this time of year, making it feel cooler by the sea wall on the northern edge of the city.
Soon the fishermen would be coming in from the Gulf Stream, he thought, and if his friend Maykel had been out fishing, stopping by the harbor would give him an opportunity to see what Maykel had caught.
As Roberto neared the area of the harbor where Maykel docked his boat, he could see at a distance a group of locals gathered in front of the sea wall along the Malecon. Many of the people living in the area enjoyed going down to the docks in the late afternoon, checking to see what the fishermen had caught that day.
Making his way through the small crowd of people, many of whom were talking loudly and pointing in the direction of the boat, Roberto could finally see why the people were so excited. Wedged against the inside of the washboard on the port side was the steely, blue-colored tail of an enormous blue marlin. The massive head and bill were leaning vertically against the washboard on the opposite interior side of the cockpit.
The fish looked disproportionally large for the size of Maykel’s boat, Roberto thought.
Maykel,” said Roberto. “I can’t believe you were able to bring that fish onboard, just the two of you.”
“Fortunately the sea was a little choppy today. We were able to slip it over the stern at the bottom of a steep swell with the help of the block and tackle,” replied Maykel.
Maykel and his elderly friend had already begun to fillet the fish, realizing it would have been impossible to lift the fish out of the boat and onto the dock before cleaning it.
“Maykel, I thought you didn’t like to catch the blue ones?” Roberto said.
“I don’t when the dorado are biting. They take too long to land. I kept hoping he’d throw the hook, but it never happened. I could have used your help today Roberto.”
“I’m sorry I missed all the fun. Any chance I could have a few steaks for the family?” asked Roberto.
supuesto que si. You know that,” replied “Gregorio, can you give Roberto a bag of steaks? Roberto, do you know my old friend Gregorio?”
The old man was lean and dark. He looked directly at Roberto with piercing blue eyes, and his skin had the appearance of thick old leather, the result of countless days spent fishing under the intense tropical sun, in the Gulf Stream, off the north coast of Cuba.
gusto, Senor Gregorio. We have never met but I know that you are a legend here and in Cojimar,” said Roberto.
gusto, Roberto. Maykel tells me you are a good fisherman. Here, take this. This fish was healthy, thick, and quite heavy, and the meat is dark, full of fat, and very sweet. Perhaps some day we can fish together with Maykel,” said Gregorio.
“It would be my dream,” said Roberto. “I need to be going, Maykel. It’s late and tomorrow I return to military duty. It was my pleasure Señor Gregorio, and thank you for the fish,” said Roberto.
As Roberto turned to pick up his bag of marlin steaks, Maykel shouted. “Don’t forget about your old friend Maykel. We need to go fishing before I am too old and no longer able to do battle when the big ones come.”
“I will not forget. Next time I am on leave, we’ll go out. We’ll take Senor Fuentes, and catch an even bigger one, Maykel.