Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (21 page)

I nodded. “Of course, I understand. But Abuelo sent me here. I'm sure he'd be fine with any information you can give me.”

Ralph studied us for a minute. I could tell he was not quite convinced to part with his information, but he wasn't sure what else to do. He sighed and said, “I know someone who can help. He's arranged for hundreds of people to get to freedom.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “What's in it for him?”

“He hates the Communists with a vengeance. I'm not sure why.”

I brightened at this news. “Good. Where can I find him?”

“He's a barber in Cojimar, born and raised there. He knows every-body—who to talk to and who not to.”

I nodded at Sergio to grab his notepad. “What's the name of his shop?”

Ralph waved me away. “Doesn't matter. He won't talk to you there. It's a business—too dangerous, too many people around.”

“Then where?”

“He spends Sundays at a bar in Cojimar, La Terraza—where Ernest Hemingway used to hang out. He sits at a table overlooking the boats. You'll find him there.”

“How will I know him?”

“He's about forty-five, five foot nine, medium build.” Sergio scribbled the description on his pad.

“Anything else? Glasses?”

“No, but he has a little gray hair.”

“You're sure I can trust him?”

“You can trust him. He's wary, but he needs to be. That's what makes him the best.”

“Name?”

“Just call him Cuni.”

While I was on leave the next Sunday, Sergio and I went to see Cuni. We had had a long conversation with Magda's family beforehand regarding whether we could trust him, and we came to the conclusion that we had to take a chance.

Magda wanted to go to the meeting, but I insisted she remain home with her mother. I told her we would need privacy to conduct this conversation. She balked, but finally gave in. Naturally, everyone in the family was nervous.

La Terraza Bar had been a popular gathering spot for American and European tourists during the days of Batista, and it retained its elegant trimmings. Framed photographs of Ernest Hemingway lined the walls and polished brass accented the mahogany bar. It was also a comfortable place where workingmen could let down their hair and enjoy a few drinks with their buddies. As we walked in the door, the chatter of fishermen who had known each other for years filled the air. It was crowded and very noisy.

When we stepped inside, a hush fell over the bar. The men on the barstools turned to look at us. Sergio sported his usual starched shirt, and I had on my army uniform so I'd be ready to go back to base that night. Our clothes signaled that we were not one of them. For a moment we were a source of mild curiosity.

Sergio and I sidled up to the bar and ordered a couple of beers, while the men resumed their conversations. We looked around, but from Ralph's description, we couldn't identify Cuni. Several tables overlooked the marina, and they were all filled to capacity. The
bartender smiled, placed our drinks in front of us, and wiped off the bar with an old, wet rag. I put some bills on the bar and caught the bartender's eye.

“I'm a friend of Cuni's. Please send him a drink with my compliments,” I said. “I don't want to interrupt his conversation.”

The bartender nodded, plucked a bill off the bar, and pulled a lever to fill a mug with beer. I watched as he carried the drink to a table of four overlooking the water. I had no idea which man was Cuni, but I was about to find out. The bartender leaned down and whispered something into the ear of a man who was eating a hamburger. He wore a red plaid shirt and met Cuni's description.

I waved when Cuni acknowledged my drink. He wiped his face with his napkin and motioned to me to come to his table. I extended my hand and introduced myself and Sergio to him and his companions.

“We have a mutual friend,” I said.

“Who's that?”

“Ralph Huezo. He asked that I stop by and say hello. I'm Frankie and this is Sergio.”

“Yes, yes,” said Cuni. “Pull up some chairs. Here.” He made room for us at the table and we sat down. Cuni took a sip of his beer and said, “A great fisherman, Ralph. We used to go to cockfights together.”

“He's an old friend of my grandfather's,” I offered, hoping this would impress Cuni.

“Well, any friend of Ralph's is a friend of mine.” Cuni wiped off a line of foam dripping down his beer mug before lifting it in a toast to Ralph.

We all made small talk for a while and Sergio and Cuni seemed to be enjoying each other's company. Suddenly Cuni pushed his chair back from the table. He looked like he was about to leave. I realized I needed to figure out some way to speak with him alone.

“I parked my car around the corner,” I said, looking down the street. “I'm not familiar with this neighborhood. Is that a safe place to park?”

“I don't know exactly where you mean,” said Cuni. “I'll walk out with you, and we can check it out together.”

“Great!”

We opened the door to the bar's porch. As soon as we stepped outside, Sergio took Cuni by the elbow and said softly, “I hate to take any more of your time, but we have a situation we thought you might be able to help us with.”

Cuni stepped back and eyed us both cautiously. “What kind of a situation?”

“My family is leaving Cuba,” said Sergio. “We have two boys nearing draft age, and we don't want them to go into the army.” Cuni looked at us with a flat affect. I was not getting a good feeling about this conversation.

Sergio turned his head toward me. “Frankie is like a son to me. He's going to marry my daughter, and we don't want to leave him behind. We need to get him out of the country, and we were told you could help.”

Cuni shook his head vigorously. “You have the wrong guy. My business is to cut hair. I'm a barber. Besides, what you're asking me to do is illegal. I wouldn't do anything like that. Who told you I would?”

The muscles in Sergio's face suddenly collapsed. This was not the reaction he was expecting. Sergio started to say something and Cuni cut him off sharply. “Quiet! Not another word.”

We stood together in silence for a couple of minutes. I wasn't sure why. Sergio and I were feeling very uncomfortable. Cuni had not made a move. He was simply standing there staring at us. Beads of perspiration gathered at my hairline and trickled down the side of my face. Sweat broke out in my armpits, and I could feel my shirt getting wet. Sergio's face had gone pale. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants before pulling the collar of his shirt away from his neck with his finger.

Cuni rolled his shoulders and leaned against the banister. He drew a lighter from his pocket and lit a cigarette, tilting his head back and
looking up at the sky as if he were daydreaming. I watched as two men walked past us and down the stairs to the street. They nodded to Cuni as they passed.

Finally, Cuni's gaze turned toward me and he said casually, “I'm going to have to visit Ralph very soon. It's a shame he lost his leg in that fishing accident. All he can do now is sit. He's gotten so fat.”

Sergio's face contorted in confusion. He had no idea what Cuni was talking about. I could tell what he was thinking. Perhaps we had knocked on the wrong door the other night and spoken to the wrong man. Perhaps this was a setup, and the man who claimed to be Ralph would turn us in to the authorities. Perhaps we would both end up in jail—or worse.

I smiled because I knew immediately what Cuni was doing. He had never met us before, and he wasn't about to take a chance. The stakes were too high. He was trying to determine whether we really knew Ralph and whether he could trust us.

“Ralph's doing great on two legs,” I said. “And I guess he's been on a diet, because he's not fat at all. Perhaps you're thinking about another Ralph.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Cuni. He took another puff on his cigarette and eyed me with a little less suspicion. His shoulders relaxed. “Walk with me a little,” he said. We walked the length of the porch. People were dining inside, but there was enough ambient noise that our conversation could not be overheard.

Cuni looked at me as if he were trying to resolve some half-formulated doubts. “Ralph is a great friend of mine. I would trust him with my life. But this is a very delicate business you bring me.”

“I understand.”

“If I'm to help you, you must follow the rules. If you aren't willing to abide by them, we can end this conversation right now.”

“Tell me the rules,” I said. The fact that Cuni had rules made me feel more confident about him.

For a brief moment fire danced in Cuni's eyes. “First, you are never
to mention my name. Ever. To anyone. No matter what happens. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly clear.”

“Second, you are not to talk to anyone about this. Not to your mother, your father, your sister, your brother.”

I nodded and he continued, “In the last five years, more people have died trying to escape Cuba due to loose lips than to mistakes by fishermen, to bullets, to the ocean—to everything else combined. This is very, very serious business, Frankie. Do you understand?”

“I do,” I said. I was getting butterflies in my stomach just hearing him talk.

“Remember:
Las paredes oyen
, the walls have ears.”

I nodded.

“Third, this is a business, and it will cost you. Fishermen take you to safety. They charge by the passenger. No money; no escape. Everyone pays their own fare.”

“How much is it?” interjected Sergio. He was looking nervous.

Cuni turned toward him and said, “Are you the one paying?”

“I am,” said Sergio.

“Two thousand Cuban pesos,” said Cuni. “And, just to be clear, I don't take a penny of it. I want you to know that.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?”

“Why don't you take any money? And why do you do it?”

Cuni shook his head slightly, as if remembering something. “The fishermen do it for money. I do it for my beliefs.” I wondered whether Fidel had tortured or killed someone close to Cuni.

“Money is not a problem,” said Sergio. I looked at Señor Hernández and took a deep breath, wondering how he would finance my escape. He had lost a great deal of money under Fidel, and now he had to pay the travel expenses for his family to go to the States. And, thanks to Fidel, Cuban pesos were worthless outside the country. Cuni interrupted my train of thought.

“There's something else,” he said as if he were hesitant to give us this information. “You probably won't make it to the United States. The fishermen will look for a cargo ship to pick you up. There's no telling what kind of ship will be out there, or if they will stop. If they do stop, you go where they go. You may end up in South America, Panama, Canada—who knows?

“If you get picked up by a Soviet tanker, they will turn you in to the Cuban authorities. There will be no mercy. You might get lucky. An American ship may pick you up, but there are no guarantees.”

“I understand,” I said. I hadn't considered these possibilities. They added a whole new layer of complexity to the situation.

“Do you still want to pursue this?”

“I do.”

Cuni shook his head and turned to Sergio. “If we are to work together to get Frankie out of the country, from now on you must not call him by his real name. Someone may overhear. It's too dangerous. Tell me how you'd like him to be addressed.”

“We'll call him Machin,” said Sergio. “It's common enough.”

“Machin it is,” said Cuni.

Cuni looked at me. “You're in the army?”

“Yes.”

“Can you swim?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Now I must tell you this. If the police catch you on land, you'll get five to seven years in prison. Hard time. But if the coast guard catches you on the Cuban high seas, you're dead—you can count on that. The Cold War has made it too embarrassing for Cuba to have people trying to escape the country. It's all about propaganda. The United States wants to make Cuba an example of bad government, and Fidel wants the world to think he's the leader of a great nation. Both countries know a great deal is at stake, and the whole world is watching.”

“I understand the political situation very well.”

Cuni scrutinized me. “Make no mistake about it. The coast guard has orders to shoot people on sight—no questions asked. Deaths at sea are never reported in the press—or anywhere else. That way no one knows how many people are trying to escape. You just disappear. ¿
Comprendes
?”

“
Comprendo.
”

“Questions?”

“Do you have any idea when this might happen?”

“It depends on many things, including the weather. I have something coming up in twenty days, but I have to make sure there's room for you.”

Sergio and I looked at each in alarm. This was much sooner than either of us had anticipated. The family's visa applications had already been made, but the Hernándezes were still awaiting the CDRs to inventory their possessions. If I left in twenty days, I would leave before the Hernándezes. What would I do when I got to America? Where would I stay if Magda and her family did not arrive before me? Still, it was a way out.

“One other thing,” said Cuni. “I am your only connection. You are to talk to me—and only me. You are not to ask questions. Not where. Not how. Not who the fisherman is. Don't ask. Leave that up to me. That's my job—it's none of your concern.”

“All right.”

Cuni looked back and forth at the two of us. “I don't want you to give me your answer now. I want you to think it over carefully. I won't be responsible for hasty decisions.”

“That's fair,” I said.

“Then it's settled.” Cuni smiled slightly. “We'll get together next Sunday. Same time, same place—to talk. Now I must go back inside. This is my only day off.”