Ernesto slipped out of bed and began his usual morning routine by turning on a small gas stove to heat water for coffee. As he brushed his teeth, he noticed the lines on his face had grown sharper and patches of his short hair had become grayer. He spat in the sink and stared at himself in the cracked mirror. He wondered how much longer he could wait. Was he getting too old? Would the call ever come?
No time for such doubts. He had too much work today. His patients needed him. Checkups, vaccinations, perhaps he might even deliver another baby. Yesterday he helped deliver a healthy baby boy in the stairwell on the fourteenth floor of a half-finished building that will one day be a bank headquarters. The mother, out of gratitude for the doctor’s care, named the boy Che. His nickname. The thought made him blush.
Despite the poverty and desperation of the slums, Ernesto loved the work and loved his patients. And the views. From the upper stories of the squatters’ towers, he could see across the city, behind the soaring buildings, to what felt like the entire world. He could see the open spaces that had once been the dense shacks of those fleeing the countryside for the relative wealth and safety of Luanda. The problem was too little money.
From the top of the towers, Ernesto could also recognize the place that had once been his first assignment, his first home in Africa. Boavista had been one of Luanda’s poorest slums, but it was erased. The official orders from the Minister of Public Health claimed the bulldozers were deployed to protect the people from cholera and rainy season mudslides. But Ernesto, like everyone else in the capital, knew that the true reason was to clear land for a new commercial real estate project by a member of the ruling party’s politburo. Again, money.
Ernesto could also spy, up high on a ridge overlooking the waterfront, what had once been Roque Santeiro, Africa’s largest open-air market, where not long ago one could buy everything from used shoes to the latest satellite dish. No more. Now it was fenced off and crowded with construction cranes covered with Chinese lettering.
Although these changes made him angry and sad, he knew the future of Angola was not his fight. He would have to wait for his chance for that. For now, he consoled himself with small victories, keeping his patients alive, bringing babies into the world, and waiting patiently for his chance to do something great. To be consequential.
—
Ernesto finished getting dressed, grabbed his medical bag and stethoscope, and stepped out into the noisy street. His neighborhood was a series of narrow, densely populated alleys. The homes were made of sand-colored concrete, interspersed with specks of yellow and pink, the peeling paint of a more hopeful time. In between the formal structures were inventive shacks of plastic and liberated bricks, topped with rusty metallic sheeting. Down the center of the dirt road ran a steady stream of milky water and cellophane wrappers. At this early hour, the roads were not yet jammed with people and the battered blue-and-white minibuses, but Ernesto knew they were coming.
As Dr. Ernesto Sandoval began his hike to his clinic, tiptoeing through garbage, the cell phone in his pocket buzzed. The number was a series of zeros, something he had never seen before. He decided to answer anyway.
“Alo?”
“Hermanito?”
“Ruben?” Ernesto’s pulse quickened.
“Mi hermanito Che? Is that you, my brother?”
“Ruben? Is that you?”
“Yes, Che. It is me.”
“How are you, Ruben? Is there news?”
“It’s time.”
“Now? Are you saying this is it?” Ernesto’s heart pounded in his chest.
“Yes, mi hermanito. This is it.”
Ernesto’s eyes began to water. “I can’t believe it, Ruben. After all these years and so much dreaming. Are you certain it is now?”
“Yes, Che. This is the call. It’s finally time for us to all come home.”
44.
U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY, 11:42 P.M.
Judd Ryker had finally decided that the best approach to the Cubans would be through baseball. The Cubans were obsessed with baseball. And what was more American? And how could Congress possibly object to a State Department diplomatic effort built around sports? Yes, that would be his pitch to Landon Parker—a low-key initiative to diffuse tensions, build confidence, and allow secret negotiations for the hostages from The Big Pig. It sounded stupid, but maybe stupid just might work. The U.S. helped break the ice with China with Ping-Pong, so why not baseball in Cuba?
More to the point, he didn’t have anything else. And it was nearly midnight. Judd began drafting talking points for Parker about the potential for baseball diplomacy:
Abner Doubleday, inventor of baseball
Baseball and apple pie
American troops bring baseball & democracy to Japan
Ping pong détente with China
Chance of success: 25% 50%
What would Landon Parker think about this? Judd wondered.
“What do you have for me, Ryker?” Parker said. Judd spun around to find the Secretary’s chief of staff standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Parker. I wasn’t expecting you. I am just finishing talking points to present to you.”
“So what do you have?”