Hector found his brother Julio working in the shop by the light of several naked bulbs. “Where is Ocho?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
Julio was replacing the valves of an ancient straight eight under the hood of an Oldsmobile. The light was terrible, but he was working by feel so it didn’t really matter. He straightened now, scowled at his older brother.
“He has gone to try his luck in America.”
“You didn’t try to stop him?”
Julio looked about at the dimly lit shop, the dirt floor, the shabby old cars. He wiped his hands on a dirty rag that hung from his belt. “No, I didn’t.”
“What if he drowns out there in the Gulf Stream?”
“I have prayed for him.”
“That’s it? Your little brother? A prayer?”
“What do you think I should have done, Hector? Tell the boy that he was living smack in the middle of a communist paradise, that he should be happy here, happy with his labor and his crust? Bah! He wants something more from life, something for himself, for his children.”
“If he dies—”
“Look around you, Hector. Look at this squalid, filthy hovel. Look at the way we live! Most of Cuba lives this way, except for a precious few like dear Maximo, who eats the bread that other men earn. You saw him yesterday at Mima’s—nothing’s too good for our dedicated revolutionary, Maximo Sedano, Fidel’s right-hand ass-wipe man.” Julio snorted scornfully, then leaned back under the hood of the Olds. “I told Ocho to go with God. I prayed for him.”
“What if he dies out there?”
“Everybody has to die — you, me, Fidel, Ocho, all of us — that’s just the way it is. They ought to teach you that in church. At least if Ocho dies he won’t have to listen to any more of Fidel’s bullshit. He won’t have to listen to yours, either. God knows, bullshit is the only thing on this island we have a lot of.”
“Have you told Mima that he left?”
“I was going to keep my mouth shut until I had something to tell her.” Julio turned his head to look at Hector around the edge of the car’s hood. “Ocho is a grown man. He has taken his life in his own two hands, which is his right. He’ll live or die. He’ll get to America or he won’t.”
“He should have waited. I asked him to wait.”
“For what?” Julio demanded.
Hector turned to leave the garage.
“What are we waiting for, Hector? The second coming?”
Julio came to the door and called after Hector as he walked away down the street: “How long do I have to wait to feed my sons? Tell me! I have waited all my life. I am sick and tired of waiting. I want to know now—how much longer?”
Hector turned in the road and walked back toward Julio. “Enough! Enough!” he roared, his voice carrying. “You squat here in this hovel waiting for life to get better, waiting for someone else to make it better! You have no courage — you are not a man! If the future depends on rabbits like you Cuba will always be a sewer!”
Then Hector turned and stalked away, his head down, his shoulders bent forward, as if he were walking into a great wind.
The Officers’ Club at Guantánamo Bay Naval Station was sited on a small hill overlooking the harbor. From the patio Toad Tarkington and Rita Moravia could see the carrier swinging on her anchor near the mouth of the bay.
These days the O Club was usually sparsely populated. The base was now a military backwater, no longer a vital part of the U.S. military establishment. For the last few years the primary function of the base was to house Cuban refugees picked up at sea.
Still, the deep blue Caribbean water and low yellow hills under a periwinkle sky packed picture-postcard charm. With cactus and palm trees and magnificent sunny days, the place reminded Toad of southern California. If the Cubans ever got their act together politically, he thought, this place would boom like southern California, with condos and high-tech industries sprouting like weeds. Hordes of people waving money would come here from Philly and New Jersey to retire. This place had Florida beat all to hell.
He voiced this opinion to Rita, the only other person on the patio. It was early in the afternoon; the two of them had ridden the first liberty boat in after the ship anchored. Jake Grafton sent them packing because today was their anniversary.
They had a room reserved at the BOQ for tonight. They intended to eat a relaxed dinner at the club, just the two of them, then retire for a private celebration.
“The Cubans may not want hordes from Philly and Hoboken and Ashtabula moving in,” Rita objected.
“I wouldn’t mind having a little place in one of these villages around here my own self,” Toad said, gesturing vaguely to the west or north. “Do some fishing, lay around getting old and fat and tan, let life flow by. Maybe build a golf course, spend my old age selling balls and watering greens. This looks like world-class golf country to me. Aaah, someday.”
“Someday, buster,” Rita said, grinning. Toad liked to entertain her with talk about retirement, about loafing away the days reading novels and newspapers and playing golf, yet by ten o’clock on a lazy Sunday morning in the States he was bored stiff. He played golf once every other year, if it didn’t rain.
Now he sipped his beer and inhaled a few mighty lungfuls of this clean, clear, perfect air. “Feel that sun! Ain’t life delicious, woman?”
They had a nice dinner of Cuban cuisine, a fresh fish, beans and rice. By that time the club was filling up with junior officers from the squadrons aboard ship, in for liberty. The noise from the bars was becoming raucous when Toad and Rita finished their dinner and headed back to the patio with cups of coffee.
“Maybe I better check on my chicks,” Rita said, and detoured for the bar.
Toad paused in the doorway, staring into the dark room, which was made darker by the brilliant sunlight shining outside the windows.
“Commander Tarkington!” Two of the young pilots came over to where Toad stood with his coffee cup. “Join us for a few minutes, won’t you? We’re drinking shooters. Have one with us.”
Rita was already standing by the table. Toad allowed himself to be persuaded.
A trayful of brimming shot glasses sat on the small round table. As Toad watched, one of these fools set the liquor in the glasses on fire with a butane cigarette lighter.
“Okay, Commander, show us how it’s done!”
Toad looked at Rita, who was studying him with a noncommittal raised eyebrow.
He sat down, one of the youngsters placed a glass in front of him. The blue flame was burning nicely.
It had been years since he did this. Was it Rota, that time he got so blind drunk he passed out while waiting for the taxi? Ah, but the navy was politically correct now. Nobody got drunk anymore.
Toad steadied himself, took a deep breath, exhaled, and poured the burning brandy down his throat. It seemed to burn all the way down. Some of the liquid trickled from his lips, still on fire, but he licked it up with his tongue. Was he burning? He didn’t think so. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand just to make sure.
The members of his audience were gazing at him with openmouthed astonishment. “Jesus, sir! We always blow the fire out before we drink it.”
Toad didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You goddamn pussies,” he said, and tossed off another one.
“Our anniversary, and you’re drunk!”
Toad Tarkington felt like he had been hit by a large truck, an eighteen wheeler, at least. He turned in the bathroom door and looked carefully at his spouse. He squinted to make his eyes focus better.