“And now,” said Antonio, “on your right you will see the statue of Lenin,” which turned out to be John Lennon, not Vladimir Lenin. The Yalies laughed and Antonio smiled. He was in a good mood this morning.
The bus zigzagged through the streets of Vedado so that we could see and appreciate the accomplishments of Cuban socialism, and we stopped at a memorial to the American Communist spies Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, which I had always wanted to see.
The bus drove through the gates of a huge cemetery, the Necrópolis Cristóbal Colón, a.k.a. Christopher Columbus, which held, said Antonio, over five hundred major mausoleums, chapels, vaults, and galleries, and thousands of tombstones. If I had my Glock, this would be a good place to whack Antonio. Not that it would solve any problems. But it would make me feel good.
“The rich and famous, the colonial aristocrats, the war heroes, the merchants, the artists and writers—they all rest here alongside the martyrs of the revolution,” said Antonio as though he were trying to sell us a plot. “In the end, death is the great equalizer.”
Indeed it is.
The bus continued slowly through the vast marble orchard, past Greco-Roman temples, miniature castles, and mausoleums embellished with cherubs and angels, and even an Egyptian pyramid. It occurred to me that the dead of Havana had better housing than the living.
The bus stopped in a plaza near a Byzantine-styled church, and we all got off.
Antonio gave us his cemetery lecture, peppered with Marxist observations about the extravagance of the rich, even in death. Turns out you can take it with you.
Antonio said, “You may explore on your own. Please be back on the bus in thirty minutes.” He added, “Miss Ortega, I don’t want to come looking for you.” He smiled, and a few of the Yalies laughed.
Sara did not reply to Antonio, but said to me, “I’d actually like to meet him in my room tonight.”
I pictured Antonio in Sara’s bed with the lamp cord wrapped around his nuts and the other end plugged into the socket. I said, “The best revenge is leaving him standing at your door with a deflated ego and an inflated pepino.”
She smiled.
The Yale group separated into smaller groups and began wandering through the cemetery, which was laid out in a grid with wide avenidas, calles, and plazas, the city of the dead.
Sara took my arm and led me past an imposing mausoleum of the Spanish royal family to a smaller burial vault whose inscription read: AMELIA GOYRI DE LA HOZ. Carved in marble was the figure of a woman with a baby in her arms. About a dozen people stood or knelt around the tomb, which was piled with hundreds of fresh flowers.
Sara said, “This is the tomb of La Milagrosa—the Miraculous One.”
“Right.”
“She died in childbirth on May 3, 1901, and was buried here with her stillborn child at her feet. For many years after her death her grieving husband visited the grave several times a day. He would always take hold of one of those brass rings on the tomb and knock when he arrived, then back away as he left so he could see her resting place for as long as possible.”
In fact, a number of people who approached the tomb were doing just that.
Sara stood silently, looking at the tomb, then said, “After her husband died, Amelia’s sarcophagus was opened and her body was found to be incorrupt—a sign of sanctity in the Catholic faith. And the baby that had been laid at her feet was now found cradled in her arms.”
Okay.
“Since then, she has been called La Milagrosa, and if you pray to her for a miracle, it will be granted.”
We should have come here sooner.
Sara approached the tomb, knocked three times with the brass ring, then knelt with a dozen others, mostly women. She prayed, made the sign of the cross, then stood and walked away backward, still facing the tomb.
She took my arm and we strolled down a tree-shaded lane between the tombs and statues. She said, “Many childless women pray at Se?ora Goyri’s tomb for a pregnancy.”
“Excuse me, but that’s not a miracle I would have prayed for.”
She smiled. “Relax. I prayed for a successful mission and a safe journey home.”
That would be a miracle.
We wandered around the necropolis, which was filled with tour groups, and every time we passed some of our Yale group, I said to Sara, “I see dead people.”
She didn’t think that was funny, but she seemed in a better mood than last night after Antonio’s proposition. In fact, she said, “I’m happy to put Havana behind us and get on the road to Camagüey.”
“Assuming we don’t meet our Havana contact in the next few hours, how do we get to Camagüey?”
“Carlos had a contingency plan.”
“Which is?”
“A livery service in Miramar used by foreign business people that will take us anywhere we want to go in Cuba. Cash, no questions asked, and no record of the trip.”
I wish I’d known this last night, when I was trying to talk her into taking a taxi to Cayo Guillermo.
Sara added, “When we get to Camagüey, we become backpackers—and cave explorers.”
“Okay. And how do we get the dozen steamer trunks to Cayo Guillermo?”
“You steal a truck.”
“Right.”
“From Camagüey to Cayo is about a hundred and eighty miles. We can make that in three or four hours.”
“And what do we do when we get to Cayo Guillermo?”
She stayed silent a moment, then replied, “We go to a resort hotel called the Melia and sit in the lobby bar.”
Well, I knew that someone must know what Sara and I were supposed to do in Cayo Guillermo. Turns out it’s Sara.
“At seven P.M. each day, starting last night, there will be someone in the lobby bar who knows what we look like and who will approach us.”
“ID phrase?”
“He—or she—will say, ‘It’s good to see you here.’?”
Indeed it would be.
“He or she will tell us the plan to get the goods onboard The Maine.”
“Okay.”
Sara continued, “The Melia Hotel’s clientele are mostly European and Canadian tourists, so we’ll fit in.”
“And where do we park the truck with sixty million dollars while we’re having a drink?”
“I’m told we can see the hotel parking area from the lobby bar. Or you can stay in the truck with your gun.”
“Can I get a roadie?”
“We’ll play this by ear when we get to the hotel.”
I had more questions, but she’d told me enough—the last piece of this plan—to carry on without her, which was why she was telling me this. “Okay. I get it.”
She took my hand and we continued through the quiet cemetery, then turned back toward where the bus was parked.
Aside from the tomb of La Milagrosa, there weren’t many locals visiting graves on this Monday morning, and we were alone on the path except for a guy in a black shirt coming toward us. He was about thirty, tall and lean, and he wore wraparound sunglasses. I said to Sara, “I saw that guy near the bus.”
She looked at him as he approached, then let go of my hand and we slowed our pace.
As the guy got within ten feet of us, he looked around, then stopped.