My heart said that Sara and I should just get a flight out of here and go live happily ever after.
But my head said I’d regret it if I let three million dollars slip through my fingers. I’d rather regret the things I did than the things I didn’t do. Also, I’d made a commitment to do this.
This was getting complicated, as I knew it would.
And what was she keeping from me? Something that would please me. I could not possibly imagine what that was. But if we pressed on, I’d find out.
CHAPTER 25
Back in my room, I changed into jeans and my new Hemingway T-shirt, then stuck two bottles of water in my backpack along with my Swiss Army knife, my binoculars, and my new treasure map. I was ready for my Havana recon.
I joined our group in the hotel lobby at 8 A.M. where Tad was taking attendance.
Sara was looking good in white shorts, a Miami Dolphins T-shirt, and a baseball cap. She had her big shoulder bag, which I assumed was filled with pesos and her map.
Sara and I held hands, and the Yale group, to the extent that they cared, understood that we were having a holiday romance. Antonio, too, noticed.
Antonio led us across the street to the small park, where he began by telling us that downtown Havana was divided into three areas: Habana Vieja, the Old Town, where we were going to walk this morning, Centro Habana, where we were standing, and the area called Vedado, the newer section of Havana where the Riviera and Nacional were located and that was once controlled by the American Mafia and their Cuban underlings.
Antonio went on a bit about the Mafia, which seemed to be an obsession of his. Antonio had probably seen Godfather II a dozen times.
Finally he said, “We will have lunch in a beautiful paladar, then we return to Centro to continue our walking tour.”
I thought Antonio was finished, but he asked, “Who has been to Havana before?”
A middle-aged couple—who looked otherwise normal—raised their hands.
“Ah, good. So you can have my job today.”
The Yalies, who were mostly humorless with each other, made an exception for the charming Cuban and laughed.
Antonio asked, “Anyone else?” He looked at Sara, who had not raised her hand. “Miss Ortega, weren’t you here last year?”
“Why do you ask?”
He kept looking at her, but didn’t reply. “So, we will begin our walk.” He began walking east toward the harbor.
The streets and sidewalks got narrower as we entered the Old Town and the group was strung out for fifty meters as Antonio stayed in the lead and gave his talk, which, happily, I couldn’t hear, but Sara gave me and the Yalies around us a commentary on the historic architecture.
Habana Vieja, some of it over three hundred years old, was very picturesque, but also hot, airless, claustrophobic, and aromatic. It was Saturday, so the cobblestoned streets were mostly free of traffic but filled with locals bartering for scarce goods and food, as senior citizens hung out their windows and watched the world go by. For people who had nothing, they seemed happy enough. Or maybe it was my outlook that had changed. Getting laid will do that.
Another thing that struck me was the number of buildings that had totally or partially collapsed. You could actually see the interiors of the rooms where the front walls had fallen away and vegetation sprouted from rotting stucco. Maybe my landlord wasn’t such an asshole.
We came to a small square where Antonio began a commentary on the Catedral de San Cristóbal de la Habana, which, he said, was almost three hundred years old and had once held the remains of Christopher Columbus. But when the Spanish were defeated in the War of 1898, they stole Christopher and took him to Spain. “We want him back!” shouted Antonio. “He will be good for tourism!”
The Yalies laughed on cue, and I said to Sara, “Spain and Cuba should just divvy up the bones. They could flip a coin for the skull.”
She glanced at me and said, “Yes, the bones need to come home . . . There are answers in the bones.”
I had no idea what she meant, but she seemed suddenly far away. I took a bottled water from my backpack and made her drink.
Antonio was still talking and I tuned out. Tonight I was going to meet Jack at the Nacional, and I hadn’t mentioned that to Sara, and I didn’t think I needed to explain my being AWOL to her. But that was before we became lovers. Now I needed to say something. That’s what happens when you sleep with someone.
Antonio said we could go inside the Catedral if we wanted. Ten minutes.
Sara said, “Let’s go.”
“Yes, dear.”
There were a number of tourists inside the dark cathedral and a few locals were on their knees in front of the baroque altar. Sara, of course, wanted to pray.
I haven’t prayed since Afghanistan, and then only when there was incoming, but Sara was insistent, and I followed her to the altar rail. This whole day would have played out differently if I’d kept my pepino in my chinos. On the other hand, if I hadn’t yet scored, I’d now be on my knees, praying for it.
Sara knelt, made the sign of the cross, and prayed silently. Out of respect, I clasped my hands and bowed my head. And while I was at it, I prayed that we’d both get out of here alive—and that one of us would not get pregnant.
She crossed herself again, stood, turned, and took my hand. We walked down the side aisle, past racks of flickering votive candles. She stopped and lit one, then continued on.
Outside in the bright sunlight she said, “I prayed for our success here and lit a candle for the soul of my grandfather.”
“That’s very nice.”
Antonio told us that we would visit three more plazas in the Old Town before lunch.
Dios mío.
We walked to a harbor fort, the ancient Castillo de la Real Fuerza, which was uphill all the way, and we ascended a rampart lined with ancient cannons from which we could see the harbor channel. We were alone, and Sara pointed to a building about four hundred meters away. “That’s the Sierra Maestra Terminal, and that’s the pier where the fishing fleet is going to dock. But I don’t see any boats, and I don’t see any activity in the plaza that looks like a welcoming ceremony.”
I didn’t need my binoculars to confirm that.
She said, “I hope it hasn’t been cancelled.” She reminded me, unnecessarily, “Everything depends on the Pescando Por la Paz.”
Actually, everything depended on a chain of events that we had little or no control over. I reassured her, “Even if the fleet left Key West at first light, and maintained a fleet speed of twenty knots, they wouldn’t reach Havana until about eleven, earliest.” I looked at my watch. “It’s just past ten now.”
“All right . . . Carlos said if we didn’t see it on the news, we needed to verify the fleet’s arrival ourselves.” She added, “He also said he’d try to get a phone or fax message to me at the hotel if the tournament was delayed or cancelled.”