An Innocent in Cuba Page 10

“All different places. And the United States couldn’t show any evidence against them.”

  “But they couldn’t be sentenced to life for trying to prevent the assassination of the leader of a sovereign nation?”

  “But they have.” She reads out the names and sentences: Gerardo Hernández, two life sentences. Antonio Guerrero, life sentence. Ramón Labañino, life sentence. Fernando González, nineteen years. René González, fifteen years.

  “Two life sentences, this is crazy,” said Dania. “There’s not life enough to have that. They have problem with the family to visit them in the United States. Kids, wives, mothers. The United States government doesn’t give them any visas to get into the United States. So we are having many problems with all this kind of things. Also, the lawyers, they have some problems, with the new trial that is about to begin. We want that that trial will be out of Florida, out of Miami, to be an impartial trial. René González, he send this letter to Fidel, because they have birth on the same day. And when Fidel get this letter, he wrote back, and all the Cuban people could be happy about that, because he was reading it on the TV. And then he sent another letter to Fidel to thank him for giving back that answer. It was a big help for him being in prison.”

  She spoke of Elisabet Palmeiro, wife of Ramón Labañino. “They had two girls together, and then she was pregnant when he was arrested, and he has never met his new daughter. In this letter, he talks about how he loves her very much even when he doesn’t know her very well, just by pictures. And her mother and him, they did have a lot of love, that’s why he love her, as much as he loves the other two girls that he has, even though he hasn’t met her. So they are three girls.”

  I said, “And the mother has been trying for five years to get a visa so he can meet his daughter.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “The mothers did some visits, but every time they tried to go with the whole family it was impossible, they don’t give a visa to all of them.”

  “They look like good guys,” I muttered half to myself. “Would I have had their courage?”

  “Their families has come here many times,” she said, meaning to the museum, “and we have talked to them. It’s like a crime, you know. You see them, they are strong, but they need the people to tell them thanks for what you’re doing, because it make them stronger, you know, and you have to be a very strong person to know that you cannot see your son, your husband, just because someone doesn’t allow you to.”

  “It’s very cruel punishment,” I said. “Especially putting them in all separate prisons so that they can’t even see each other.”

  “Yes. And we have this museum so that people will know what is happening. After what happened with Elián, all the things that we see they are doing with these five heroes that we have here, and all the things they are doing, or has done, historically, against our country, all the persons they have killed here, all the Cuban people that has died on the sea trying to get to the United States – that hurt us, very deep. And so we are persons who knows every time more, because they teach us. We are culturally prepared, so we understand better the things that are happening.

  “And that is why we follow Fidel. It doesn’t matter if we don’t have a lot of material things, spiritually we are rich, richer probably than anyone in the world, and that’s important. Maybe materially you have too much things. We have little things, and we share it between a lot of people. So, we don’t have too much – but spiritually! Ten years ago people were saying that many many people spoke badly about Fidel. They were saying that only about 10 per cent of the people were behind Fidel, that’s what everybody was saying, and it seemed true. And things have changed a lot in ten years.”

  I told her my friend A. had been in Cuba at that time and reported that the vast majority of people were very opposed to Fidel.

  “You know what happened, at that time we were also with Russia, and then they pulled out and we were alone.”

  “It was very bad economically,” I said. “Fidel called it the Special Period.”

  “Yeah, and that’s why many people were thinking like that. But at this time, things are getting a little bit better, and people can think and see what is happening, and it brings us happiness. You wanna go upstairs?”

  She lead me up a winding staircase to the roof. This is where the bomberos (firefighters) would formerly hang out, playing chess or dominoes, catching a cool breeze while waiting for the next fire. Dania and I not only had cool breezes up there we had a spectacular view over all of Cárdenas. It was much larger than I thought. It stretched to the horizon in all directions, except north where it stretched to the sea, then the sea stretched to the horizon.

  Dave: But many people were saying in those days, ten years ago, “I’m Catholic and so I can’t get a job.”

  Dania: That’s not true, not at all.

  Dave: And the black people, they were saying I can’t get a job because I’m black.

  Dania: That’s not true. You know what happened? People don’t like to work too much. That’s why. People here in Cuba, we talk too much and we hate to work. Normally, I’m telling you, white people, black people, they would prefer parties, dancing, walking on the street, and all that kind of things. That’s the truth. So maybe your friend saw the people who don’t really like to work at all.

  Dave: That’s a pretty good answer, I guess.

  Dania: So they use that as an excuse.

  We both laughed. It was unspoken but true that both of us felt on shaky ground. Just for a moment, I felt that my ground was less shaky than hers, and I wondered what Fidel would say if he were here at the Battle of Ideas Museum. Everybody knows that when times are tough certain racial groups or religious groups get marginalized, if not worse. But when times are good, jobs, money, and love are in abundance.

  Dave: But, you don’t see very many black people in the government, or many black people in tourism even.

  Dania: Yeah, but if you go to our sports clubs, and our dancing clubs, and all that kind of things, you will find a lot of black people. That’s what they like – sports, dancing, music, and that kind of things – in my opinion. They don’t really like to think too much.

  That was a zinger. To the Canadian ear that would sound like racism. If, say, a Canadian Member of Parliament said that, he or she would be thrown out of the party. But to me, it’s all a matter of tone, and to me it was as if she was actually praising the blacks for having the wisdom not to work too much, not to think too much, to enjoy life, sports, music, dancing. She was definitely dealing in racial stereotypes, but with no evil intent.

  Dania: But here we have our leader in the museum, he is a black person. And the second one is black too. And they are beautiful persons.

  Dave: And the governor of La Habana province?

  Dania: Yeah, he’s black too!

  We stood quietly looking out over the city. “So this is the view of my town,” she said.

  “It’s beautiful!”

  “It is, right?”

  “And what’s the domed building over there?”

  “That’s the marketplace, where you can buy fruit and all that kind of things.”

  “It looks like the Capitolio in Havana.”

  “Yeah, it looks like it.”

  “I know the outskirts of the city are very depressed, but it looks very beautiful from up here, and the outskirts of all cities tend to be depressing if not depressed.”

  “That’s it. And this one is from the nineteenth century and so it is a very old town.”

  “I came along from Varadero, and I saw all this messy part of Cárdenas, by the bay and the train station and the zoo, and I wanted to get out of here, I almost didn’t come downtown.”

  “Yeah, it was terrible. The government here in this town is working hard, trying to clean up all the places. But it takes time, because you have to educate also the people not to throw things on the street and all that.” I laughed. “No, it’s true,” she said. “And that” – she pointed into the distance �
� “is our principal Catolico church here in our town. And maybe you can see there, the flag? Well, this place was where for the first time in Cuba our national flag was, how can I say? Raised?”

  “Yes. What year would that have been?”

  “At the beginning of the nineteenth century, I can’t remember exactly what year.”

  “That’s okay. You know the people of the United States say you copied it off their flag.”

  She hadn’t heard that. She was momentarily stunned. It was true that both flags featured stars and stripes, and both were in red, white, and blue – but the arrangement was much different. “They can say whatever they want,” she said. “I don’t care.” We both laughed. And we relaxed and enjoyed the cool breezes.

  —

  I wanted to make sure I had her name right. Dania Hernández Monti. There’s a vague tradition of an Italian ancestor, but she has never taken an interest. I said maybe it’s a Canadian ancestor – you’ve heard of the Royal Canadian Monti Police.

  “Who knows?” she said, laughingly. “Who knows? I never been looking for it in the book, so I have to look for my ancestors, to see where I come from….”

  “But you’re Cuban!”

  “Totally! From my heart to my toes. Completely. I love my country.”

  I told her I was very impressed. Ten years ago Cubans were not saying such things, or if they did they spoke in ambiguous terms, with no enthusiasm. But now all the Cubans seem to be speaking like that. And yet in Canada, if you spoke like that about Canada, then or now, people would shy away, they would think there’s something the matter with you psychologically.

  “They don’t think they belong to any place,” she said. “Not only in Canada, but in Cuba, and in many places in the world it’s the same way. They don’t belong to any place, and they don’t care. It doesn’t matter. But I am from here and I am proud of that.”

  “Oh, you gotta be, you gotta be, Cuba’s the best. It seems to be on an upward spiral. I mean, Cuba is going places. In every way.”

  “Something has to happen,” she said. “People have to wake up and see what is really happening. We don’t say we have all the truth. But we are not that far away from the truth. We are closer. Every time.”

  She got a bit choked up. We leaned against the railing and looked out across Cárdenas, and across the sea. Silently. We shared a quiet little tear or two. It was winter in Cuba, and night was falling fast.

  DAY NINE

  SANTA CLARA 10, HOLGUÍN 2

  Sunday, February 22, 2004. In the middle of a dark road about seven miles west of Coliseo, near the villages of Sumidero and Castellano, lies the twisted wreck of a bicycle. A large agricultural stake truck has swerved off the road in the dark night, flown over a gully, demolished a fence, climbed a hill, and smashed into a barn, losing its stakes and spilling its contents all the way but remaining upright. The body of the cyclist has been taken away by a motorist, as it would be a while before an ambulance could get to this remote locale.

  Traffic was crawling, volunteers waving motorists on, trying to keep the accident scene intact until the police could arrive. Even a mile farther along people were out of their houses and standing in the road trying to figure out what had happened.

  I was getting back up to modest highway speed, and a great green fireball appeared in the sky, falling almost horizontally over the Straits of Florida and disappearing behind a low hill a few miles east of Cárdenas. There were no sparks coming from it that I could see, but it must have disintegrated just a moment before it would have hit the ground. I’d never seen anything like it.

  The appearance of this green fireball somehow gave me permission to overcome my numbness at the accident, and produced in me a sense of grief for whomever had been killed. It may have been a mother and her child cycling along, or a pair of star-crossed lovers, or an old married couple. Who knows who would have been on that now-twisted mess of bicycle parts? Wherever they were from, there would be great sadness. One often sees three people on a bicycle serenely sailing along the highways of Cuba late at night, bicycle lamps seem unobtainable, and even simple little reflectors in short supply.

  Of course there was no connection between the sudden accident and the sudden appearance of that vivid green teardrop in the sky moments later, but I can’t convince my heart of that. Who can explain such things? It was just a one-two punch, very strange. The first punch was devastating and left me numb, and moments later the second softened me up and allowed me to grieve at the death of someone unknown.

  —

  A hotel called Los Brizes was marked on the map, but it was a poor map and the spot could not be found, so for the second time I slept in the back seat, this time twenty miles this side of Santa Clara, a half-mile off the road, at the edge of a vast sugar plantation. The stars in the tropical sky were suitably twinkly, and a giant question mark of a constellation was floating high above the island of Cuba, taking up an entire quadrant (almost) of the southern sky. The dot star twinkled in the warm air, at times threatening to disappear entirely and at other times expanding to become almost as bright as Venus. That question mark seemed to be saying that even the heavens have no idea what is going to be the fate of Cuba.

  In the morning I was awakened by a campesino on horseback wearing a droopy straw sombrero. He just happened to be galloping by and stopped to give me a cheery hello and to make sure I wasn’t dead. Then some agricultural workers on bicycles stopped to ask if I had a good night’s sleep. There was a semi-abandoned filling station on the north side of the highway. It seemed like a good place to clean out my car and get things organized. The station obviously hadn’t been in full operation in eons, and it had been stripped clean of everything but its basic whitewashed structure: two empty service bays, an empty office. The pumps had long gone, but the concrete base on which they stood was still there.

  It was great to see that people were still bringing their cars here for communal repairs. There were no lifts, no parts, no gas, no oil, no tools, no mechanics – but it still was a magnet for people needing to do repairs, to search through each other’s tool boxes for the perfect wrench for some strange nut, to exchange spare parts, or to swap tips on fixing a car in such a way it will stay fixed at least until the next time it breaks. Most of these repairs could be done at home almost as well, but tradition dies hard.

  Also, keeping these old cars on the road would basically be a full-time job. Repairs would be something one had to be performing almost every day. So let’s make a social thing out of it. It’ll make everything so much more pleasant.

  One big fellow hastened over to see what I was up to. After finding out I was a Canadian and had slept in the sugar fields all night, he insisted on taking me home for some coffee. He wanted me to see his place, and his family. His name was Orestes, but his friends called him El Capitano. He was tall and heavy-set, beefy, very much in the Fidel Castro mode, but no whiskers, and not quite serious enough to be intimidating, although maybe a bit stern at times, seemingly, and he even wore a plain olive-green cap, with no logo, though it was not exactly the Fidel style. He had a very youthful manner and was light on his feet, though he was sixty.

  He had completed some little tune-up on his bright blue shiny 1954 Chevrolet, and now he wanted to go home. He insisted I get in his car so he could drive me to his casa in a tiny community just off the highway, and I could come back and get my car later. His place was a perfect little Cuban paradise, a tiny perfect finca, in fact. Just by the big highway tower saying CUBA, a tower about a hundred feet high, and a billboard with a map of Cuba proclaiming, A Better World Is Possible – an inspiration to those of us who are beginning to think the world will continue to be this cheesy forever.

  El Capitano has a one-storey house, fairly spacious by rural Cuban standards, and a two-car garage, a very kind wife, two tall skinny handsome bright sons – twins, about twenty-four, named Ernesto (after Che Guevara) and Alfredo (after Alfredo Maceo). There was the sweetest little screened veran
da at the side of the house, and it was set up as a breakfast nook, so one can sit and watch the road out front and the wilderness out back at the same time, and the place is surrounded by a modest but beautiful plantation.

  So we have here a good number of chickens darting around, one dog, several orange trees all in fruit, a few mango trees, two coffee trees, and some other kinds of trees, both beautiful and useful. Orestes picks his own coffee beans from his own tree, puts them in the oven, and when he gets them roasted black he grinds them and makes his own coffee.

  There was some problem in Canada. The Captain’s wife was telling me she has a daughter recently married to a Canadian and moved to Montreal. The husband has fallen ill and is having major abdominal surgery today. So she’s been phoning Canada to find out how the surgery has been going. They’re trying hard to hide their preoccupation, and she seemed perfectly pleased I was there, as if having another Canadian show up on such a day was a good omen for a successful recovery. And maybe that was why Orestes invited me to come home with him.

  They squeeze the juice out of the freshly picked mangos and pour it into beer bottles. They have a simple old-fashioned capping machine. They cap each bottle and stack them in the freezer to get frozen. When a guest arrives, they study the pleasure on his face when they hand him a bottle of fresh-frozen mango juice. It was like pounding stubborn ketchup at first, but it soon starts to melt on a hot day in Cuba. When it’s fully melted it’s still almost ketchup-thick. I also could not resist accepting three tall cold glasses of ultra-fresh orange juice in a row, and I also had a couple of right-off-the-tree peel-and-eat oranges, all devoured in an aura of heavenly bliss. Plus they kept feeding me numerous dizzying cafecitos. And a pair of perfectly fried eggs from free-range chickens on a farm that has never heard of chemicals. And a chunk of fresh baked bread.

  A couple of hours later when Orestes took me back to get my car, a little guy who was doing some repairs to his own car came running over with a terribly agitated expression on his face. He had urgent news. I had left the car unlocked. Luckily I had put all my junk in the trunk. But even the trunk was unlocked – and there were many adolescent louts hanging about, trying to look tough and all that. Shocking, but I think the reason they didn’t touch the car, besides the fact that they were too well bred, was because I had on the dashboard a booklet about the Miami Five called La Incredible Historia de Cinco Innocentes – plus Fidel’s book about Che and the current English-language edition of Granma were also on display. The little guy said he had kept close watch over the car for me, so I gave him a dollar.