Noel Hynd - Hostage in Havana
The path was sandy, with small stones. No one said anything. Alex’s heart pounded. Was this the beginning of years of imprisonment? She scrutinized the man’s uniform, looking for some clue as to his intention, and suddenly she felt relieved. The words CORREO DE CUBA were stitched on an epaulet on his right shoulder. He was a postal carrier. Now she understood.
They led her through a clump of trees to a small cottage with a dilapidated facade and a rusty roof. The man went ahead and pushed open the door. He looked at Alex. His eyes were dark, curious, but not hostile. “Por favor,” he said. “Entre.”
Alex followed. She wondered if she was being taken here to wait for police. She looked for evidence of a telephone but didn’t see any. She came into a small threadbare central room with peeling paint but with a comfortable homey feel to it. There was a dining table near a ramshackle kitchen, which was off to the side. Suddenly she became aware of the pistol on her ankle. The last thing she wanted to do was to reveal it, much less use it. She wondered if the police or army had already been notified. Again she wondered if Paul was dead or alive.
“Please sit,” the man said. “My name is Carlos,” he said. “This is my wife, Maria, and my son, Guillermo.”
Alex sat at the kitchen table. She nodded. “Mi llamo Anna Maria,” she said, sticking to the lie on her fake passport. “Soy mexicana.” They nodded. The boy with the machete took a seat by the door, which he left partly open. Looking for someone? Alex wondered. Waiting? There was a napkin holder and a small bowl of fruit at the table’s center, apples and oranges. There was a crucifix above the sink on the wall.
“?Agua fria?” Carlos asked. Cold water?
“Si, por favor,” she answered. Please.
He nodded to his wife. She opened a small old refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of water. She poured a glass and set it on the table. The man turned on a ceiling fan, which created a nice breeze. The woman managed a faint smile at Alex. The woman looked as if she didn’t much believe Alex but didn’t care either.
Suddenly Alex had never been so thirsty in her life. She took the water with a trembling hand and drank almost all of it. She stole a glance at a clock. It was 9:15 in the morning. Alex finished the glass and the woman graciously refilled it.
“Who are you?” the man asked. “Why were you in our shed?”
She embarked on her cover story. “I’m mexicana,” she said again. “I was touring Cuba with my husband. He has business here.”
“He’s mexicano or cubano?” the man asked. “Your husband?”
“Venezolano,” she said, slipping into a convenient and well rehearsed lie. “We had a horrible fight. He threw me out of the car and left me.”
The man snorted as if he sensed a ruse somewhere. “Why would a man abandon a woman as bella as you?” he asked, with a faint grin. “Even a stupid Venezolano?”
“My husband is not a good man,” Alex continued without a beat. “I married him when I was very young. He has other women and wishes to discard me. We argued by the roadside and I jumped out of the car. I ran and hid. I started walking, but decided to hide when I saw my husband’s car returning on the road. Then I grew very tired and slept.”
“Ah,” Carlos said. Alex had no idea whether he believed her or not.
The woman looked at Alex with sympathy, then reached for the bowl of fruit and pushed it to her. Alex, starving, took an apple and thanked her. Then Carlos explained that the shack where Alex had been hiding was where they kept supplies for their garden. His son saw that the lock had been knocked off its hinges that morning and went to reseal the building. Then he had discovered her.
“So no one else knows I’m here?” Alex said.
“Nadie,” the man said. “No one. Just us.”
“I will travel on shortly,” Alex said. “I need to get back to Havana.”
“There was a disturbance at the beach toward dawn yesterday morning,” the man said. “Smugglers maybe. Or local drunks or criminals. No one knows exactly what happened.”
“There are rumors,” the wife said. “Yankee spies, maybe.”
“Was your husband one of those men?” the man asked.
Alex quickly and adamantly answered, “No.”
“A small ship came from somewhere,” Carlos said. “It’s all anyone has talked about.” He said he had gone to his work the day before and heard nothing but rumors. Then, this morning, his son had told him about a woman asleep in their shed.
“People heard gunfire at dawn,” the boy interjected from where he sat. “There were gunshots. The police and army have been all over the area.” He waited for a moment, then added with too much enthusiasm. “I saw an ambulance too.”
“The civil guard has been going door-to-door yesterday and today,” Maria said softly. “CDR. They must have missed our shed.” She was referring to the Comite de la Defensa de La Revolucion. The CDR was everywhere in Cuba, Alex knew. In a high-minded way, they were the civil defense squad, its activities ranging from mass inoculations to political and civil surveillance. It was also the neighborhood fink squad, tattling on everyone.
Alex cringed. She also wondered if Carlos and his family were giving her information between the lines, warning her. She started to grasp a subtext, that they were not anxious to cooperate with authorities.
“Someone said some men were killed,” Carlos said. “Intruders from off the island.”
“How many?” Alex asked.
“Tres. Quizas cuatro,” Carlos said. Three, maybe four. “But we don’t know. Stories are everywhere, but stories are cheap.” He paused. “Killed or wounded. ?Quien sabe? Who knows? Best to stay out of affairs like this,” he said.
“I agree,” Alex said, feeling her emotions sink again wondering if Paul had been killed.
“My friend Juanes,” the boy interjected quickly, “said he saw soldiers. From the garrison at Matanzas. And bodies. Maybe three, I think. I don’t know about a fourth.”
His father waved him off. Alex didn’t want to act too interested.
“It is not safe for a woman to travel alone under such conditions,” Maria said. “Police. Army. Intruders, maybe. There is a bus to Havana, but it leaves at 9:00 a.m. It’s too late.”
“Maybe there’s una posada nearby, an inn?” Alex asked.
“You may stay with us,” the woman said. “You should stay with us. We will show you to the bus station tomorrow morning.”
Alex hesitated. The family insisted.
“I would pay you,” Alex said.
They shrugged. Maria stood and went to the refrigerator. She took out a plate, reached for one or two other items, and went to the counter. She arranged a small plate of food. She returned to the table with the plate. On it were chicken wings, a few slices of celery, and three small tortillas. She pushed the plate to Alex.
“Please eat,” Maria said. “You are hungry. And you do not need to pay us.”
“Only if you wish to and can,” Carlos corrected.
“Whatever you wish to do,” said Maria.
“You’re too kind,” Alex said.
“Please eat,” Maria said again.
Alex ate. Carlos spoke again. “Are you American?” he asked point blank.
Alex looked at him. She reached to her passport and handed it to him. They crowded around and looked at it, their gaze alternating between her picture and Alex. Finally the man smiled and handed it back.
“But are you American?” the man asked again.
Alex looked back at the passport and pointed. “Mexicana,” she said again.
Carlos’s eyes twinkled very slightly. “Very well,” he said. “You are mexicana.”
Alex finished her food. She indicated her clothing, the dirt, and the tears. “Maybe I could wash later,” she said. “And maybe clean my clothing.”
“Of course,” Maria answered. “Do you have other clothes to wear?”
Alex shook her head. “I fled very quickly,” Alex said. “I had extra clothes but I left them behind.”
The woman laughed. Carlos, fully amused for the first time, shook his head.
“Maybe there is a shop nearby,” Alex suggested. “Perhaps I could buy some extra things. Maybe a skirt, a few blouses.”
Maria’s face illuminated. “Come with me!” she said. “Clothing, yes!”
Maria sprung to her feet, taking Alex by the hand. She led her out of the house and down a long dirt road until they came to a few windy, dusty streets of a town. Maria greeted a few people she met on the way and was soon in front of another small building with a heavy front door and iron gratings.
The door was open for air circulation, as were most doors on the block. She rapped on a wooden door and called out for someone named Ramona.
A small child came into view, then turned and ran. His mother, Ramona, returned moments later and recognized Maria.
Ramona was Maria’s sister. The door opened. Ramona ushered Alex and Maria in. The front room of the home had a few racks of used clothing and an area for a seamstress. The place, a small store and tailoring shop in Ramona’s home, was a godsend.
“Please,” Ramona said. “Find what you like.”
Alex riffled through the racks. She picked out a pale green dress, a pair of skirts, one green one to the knees and one ankle length in pale orange, both in a tropical-weight cotton, two white blouses, a pair of shorts, and a pair of T-shirts. The store also had some fresh underwear. Alex used the family bedroom to change and tried to keep her gun well hidden, though she wasn’t sure she had. Ramona had a twelve-year-old daughter who helped.
Ramona used her sewing skills to adjust the waist on one of the skirts. Within minutes all three women were laughing as old friends might.
There were some baseball caps there too, and Alex picked one. She avoided American logos and opted for one from a Mexican professional baseball team. Los Sultanes de Monterrey. The cap was perfect. Navy blue. It would help her blend into crowds. Then Alex added a pair of espadrilles for walking.
Ramona wouldn’t let Alex leave until she had also repaired the damage to Alex’s clothes. She washed out the area that had been spoiled with sand and dirt, then went to work with a needle and thread. Alex added a pair of sneakers that fit and also saw a used tote bag. She offered to buy it. Ramona let it go for the equivalent of five dollars.
In the end, Alex wore new clothing out the door.
“I have Mexican pesos and Cuban pesos,” Alex said. “Which do you wish?”
There was a pause. Ramona and Maria exchanged a conspiratorial smile.
“Do you maybe have American dollars?” Ramona asked.
Alex paused. “I might have a few,” she said. “You’d prefer those?” Ramona nodded, not surprisingly. “How many do you want?”
Ramona couldn’t bring herself to ask for such an extravagant amount as she had in mind. So, with a giggle, she wrote the number on a pad and showed it to Alex.
Thirty-five dollars. She looked as if she were ready to bargain.
But Alex exuded gratitude, not a cheap streak. “Perfecto,” Alex said. “?Treinta cinco dolares!” Alex peeled off thirty-five dollars. Ramona was ecstatic. Then they chatted about local news and the rumors about yesterday’s incident.
Later that afternoon, Maria and Alex strolled back to the house.
Behind the house was a makeshift shower stall for bathing. There would be no hot water. Maria warned that the warmth of the day would soon be gone and the sea breezes made bathing chilly at night. So it was best to shower before their late dinner, while the sun was still on the back of the house.
The water pump wasn’t working, Maria warned further, and the showerhead was out of order. But the bathing area would drain properly. So the family directed Alex to the well, where she drew four buckets of water. Guillermo helped carry the water to the bathing area. There was a single shower curtain, badly torn, behind which Alex could shield herself from two directions only, but the family gave her privacy. Maria handed her a small bar of Camay soap, the type found in downscale American motels.
Alex stashed her new tote bag and clothes by the shower stall, safely away from the water. She pulled the curtain and undressed. Maria gave her a towel, then left. Alex hung the towel on an exposed nail outside the stall and washed quickly. She was out of everyone’s view. The cool water, fresh air, and soap on her body refreshed her. She closed her eyes and for a moment savored the notion that she had survived the day and might even survive the journey, though the uncertainty about Paul’s fate gnawed at her.
Abruptly, she heard a male voice on the other side of the curtain, so close that it jarred her. “?Senora?” the voice asked.
Alex grabbed the towel and covered herself. But it was only Guillermo, the teenager. “?Otra toala?” he asked. He had another towel for her, in case the first one was too small.
“Si, Gracias.” Alex answered.
Guillermo flipped the second towel up to where it hung over the bar of the shower curtain. Peeking through one of the rips in the curtain, Alex could see that the boy, bashful, was looking the other way. Alex suppressed a smile. She finished her shower and dressed in her new clothes.
She came back inside, still functioning in an information void of what had transpired the previous morning. She knew the rumors that the locals were spreading, but questions haunted her: Was Paul dead? What was the larger picture? Did Washington yet know what had happened? Who was looking for her? Cuban police, Cuban security? Violette? Figaro? Anyone?
As for Roland Violette, Alex had carefully memorized the contact procedures. She had little choice but to persist in her initial assignment until it blew up completely. But ugly scenarios further presented themselves. What if, by contacting Violette, she was walking further into a trap? What if the CIA wasn’t leveling on their intentions with him. There were plenty of questions and some fly-by-night morality. But no answers emerged.
That evening, as the sun was setting, the family took Alex to a small cafe in town. Alex went warily, not wishing to be spotted by police, but the hour passed uneventfully, during which she watched the street from a corner table. Working men knocked back slugs of rum in the bar lit by fluorescent light. She listened as dominos banged on tables. She tried to tune in on the bawdy passionate conversations among lovers and strangers. The ever-present whiff of puros permeated the night air, and she heard the beat of drums and maracas through bad speakers.
