Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (25 page)

There was no back door to the house. The only way out was straight through the crowd. I was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, which would lessen my chances to make a getaway. I walked out the front door, hoping to talk my way out of the situation. The crowd began mumbling among themselves, pushing and pointing at me.

“There he is. Get him before he escapes,” shouted an old woman wearing pink plastic curlers and a flowered blue housedress. She was waving a crooked, arthritic finger in my direction. It was just the kind of gesture that could spark trouble.

“He's the one the boy described,” shouted a man.

Before I could make a move, the crowd pulled back and the director of the coast guard station and one of his guards pushed their way toward me. The director was carrying a pistol. They both were toting machine guns.

“What's going on here?” thundered the guard.

“That man's a criminal,” bellowed a short young man with thick, horn-rimmed glasses. It struck me that he was trying to impress the young woman standing next to him with his machismo.

“Stay where you are,” ordered the director. “Put your hands up. Make a move and I'll shoot.”

I wondered what I had gotten myself into. He was a beefy man, about forty-five, with a stubbly gray beard and several missing teeth. His face was pocked from acne and his black eyes blazed. Bushy eyebrows nearly covered his eyes. He was one of the fiercest men I had ever seen. I tried to maintain my composure while my mind raced to figure out what to tell him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was low and threatening.

“What are
you
doing here?” I countered in a feeble attempt to buy some time. Adrenalin was coursing through my bloodstream, but I was still half asleep. I needed a moment to think.

“I'll ask you once more,” hissed the man. His body was close to mine. He was poking me in the chest with a thick, dirty finger.

“I'm a friend of Macho's,” I said. “We stayed out late drinking last night, and he asked me to sleep over.”

The man stepped forward, his eyes blazing. I was wondering what I had said that made him so angry. “Liar!” he screamed. “Bastard!” He grabbed the front of my shirt. “Now are you going to tell me what
you're doing here, or am I going to have to show you who's boss?”

I took a step backward. “I'm a friend of Macho's,” I repeated. I had no desire to get into a fight with this guy—and certainly not under these circumstances. But I would do what I had to.

“You are a lying son of a bitch,” he said in a menacing voice. “How do you know I'm not a friend of his?”

I knew I could take this man if need be.

“Because I know all of Macho's friends, and you're no friend of his.”

“So you know
all
of Macho's friends?” I was looking him over, measuring his body for where to aim a blow. “Exactly how is that?”

“You stupid jerk,” he roared. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the house. I had no idea why. “Look, asshole, do you see that picture?”

A portrait hung slightly askew on the wall above the living room couch. It showed a family of six. The man talking to me was in the middle of the picture. “That's how I know his friends. I'm Gerardo, Macho's brother. I know everyone he knows. So you better come up with another story—and fast.”

I winced, knowing I'd have to change tactics. I broke the man's grip, and the way I did it made him take notice. He glared at me sideways, regarding me with more respect. I looked him straight in the eye and said in quiet, controlled voice, “You know, you are absolutely right, Gerardo. Macho is not a friend of mine. I just met him last night. And we didn't have drinks together. In fact, I paid your brother to take me out of Cuba, and it didn't go well. So he brought me here. I haven't murdered him, his wife, or his children. And, by the way, if you poke me in the chest one more time, I will kill you.”

“What?” sputtered Gerardo. His voice rose an octave and then cracked. He suddenly looked confused.

“You heard me,” I said. “And one more thing. What we did last night was illegal—and you know it. Me, I'm just a kid. The authorities will give me five years—max. But your brother? He's an adult. They'll
shoot him on sight. And you being so close to your brother—knowing all his friends as well as you do—they'll figure you were in on it, too. No doubt they'll shoot you along with Macho. So if you want to take me in, do it. But I suggest you use your head. Just let me walk out of here nice and easy like. And you'll never see or hear from me again. Understand?”

The man's body deflated like an old used tire. His shoulders collapsed and his face turned the color of putty. He hesitated for just a moment and then walked with me to the door. The throng was cheering, “Get him. Get the criminal.”

Gerardo raised his hand, palm out, to quiet the crowd. “Hey, it's not a problem,” he said. “It was all a mistake. This guy's a friend of Macho's. It's just a big misunderstanding.”

The crowd muttered and began to disperse. They seemed disappointed. I squeezed between Gerardo and the wall and started walking outside. I figured Macho's brother wouldn't have the nerve to shoot me in front of everyone—but I couldn't be sure. I began walking down the street in my yellow Hawaiian shirt as if I had not a care in the world. A hundred eyes drilled my back.

As I approached the bus stop a couple of blocks from Macho's house, a car pulled up beside me. In it was Cuni.

“I hear you had quite a night,” he said.

“Not one I'd care to repeat.”

“Where can I drop you?” He reached across to open the passenger door. I slipped into the front seat, practically embedding myself into the upholstery.

“Just take me to Guanabacoa. I'll figure it out from there.”

When I got to Guanabacoa, I stopped at my parents' house to change into my extra army uniform. My father was home. He was astonished to see me.

“What are you doing home, and why are you wearing those clothes?”

“I can't explain, and I don't have much time. I have to get back to base before they come looking for me.”

My father regarded me carefully. He shook his head. “You tried to escape, didn't you, Frankie?”

I couldn't lie to him. “Yes.”

“And you failed?”

“Obviously.”

“So you were going to leave without telling me? Your own father?”

“I'm sorry. I wanted to. But if I did, I could've put you all in jeopardy.”

My father sighed. I had heard that sigh before. It was his signature sound, an expression of his weariness in waging a war against the inevitable—something my father had done his entire life. I thought he would be angry with me, but I didn't get the sense that he was.

I felt an overwhelming understanding and tenderness for this man who had worked so long and hard in a very difficult job to raise me. He was a kind man and a good father. I was going to miss him.

“It's ironic,” he said. “I was going to urge you to leave Cuba anyway.”

I looked at him, surprised. “You were?”

“Yes, it's not going to get any better. Your grandfather thinks the Americans will come and save us, but I think that time has passed. It's just going to get worse from here on out.”

“You think I should leave?”

“I think you should do what you must to make a life for yourself. I was going to have a long talk with you about it. But now it's not necessary.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be, Frankie. It's just the way it is. But you should know I'm going to urge your brothers to leave also—when the time is right.”

“The time is never right. But you have to keep trying.”

My father's eyes conveyed a new respect for me. “What can I do for you, my son?”

“I could use something to get this grease off. After that, I'll need a taxi to take me back to base. I've got some big problems to deal with there.”

When I got back to base, a new recruit was on guard, someone I didn't know. It was early afternoon, and I was supposed to have reported back to base by eight o'clock the previous evening.

The guard looked skeptical.

“Do you have a pass?”

“No,” I said. I was just about to ask him to call Lazo to let me in when Pino drove down the road in a jeep.

“What's this all about?” he demanded. The suspicion in his eyes was as bright as gilt.

“This man just got back to base,” explained the guard. “He was due in last night, and he doesn't have a pass.”

“What's going on, Mederos?” asked Pino.

“I'm sorry I'm late. I had a rough night.”

“Rough night?”

“Yeah, I went drinking with my friends, and we all fell asleep in the park. Then I had to go home on the bus and get changed and—”

Pino's eyes narrowed and he made a sniffing noise. “What's that I smell on you?”

“I don't know,” I lied. “I don't smell anything.”

“Well, I'll tell you one thing, it's not alcohol,” he said as if relishing this conclusion. Pino turned to the guard. “Take this man to a holding cell. I want him to appear before a military tribunal. I'll be there shortly to question him.”

The guard pushed me forward while I tried to think of a way to contact Manny and Lazo. They probably believed I was in the States by now—a depressing thought.

I waited in the cold, dank cell for about an hour before Pino appeared. He looked very smug. I couldn't tell whether he was angry that I was late or delighted to finally have me where he wanted. I
stood at attention, and he moved very close to me, positioning his face against mine. It was a method he used to intimidate people. Knowing I was about to get the third degree, I stifled my impulse to turn away and steeled myself for the grilling.

“What did you do last night?” he demanded.

“I told you, I was out with my friends.”

“What friends?”

“Friends from Guanabacoa.”

“Anyone from here?”

“No, sir.”

“What are their names?”

“It doesn't matter. Just friends.”

“What were you doing?”

“Drinking.”

“You weren't trying to escape?”

“No, why would I do that?”

“Because you're a troublemaker, that's why.”

“Well, I wasn't.”

“Do you take me for a fool, Mederos?”

“No, sir.”

“Then tell me again what you were doing.”

“Drinking.”

“What's that I smell on your hair?”

“Alcohol, sir.”

“You got alcohol on your hair?”

“It's not on my hair. It's on my breath, sir.”

“You said it was on your hair,”

“With all due respect, sir,
you
said it was on my hair.”

“You know what I think?”

“No, sir.”

“I think I smell gasoline. Gasoline from a boat. A boat you were on to try to escape. Only it didn't work. Isn't that right, Mederos?”

“No, sir.”

“Where did you get the gasoline then?”

“It's not gasoline. It's alcohol, sir.”

The questioning went on for five hours, but I stuck to my story. No matter what Pino asked me—or how he framed his questions—I simply told him I had been out drinking with friends. No more, no less. As time went on, his eyes turned feral and his face bloomed red in frustration.

Finally, one of the guards went off duty, and I knew the soldier who came on. He alerted Lazo that I was in a holding cell. Lazo immediately informed Lieutenant Brown who hurried down to the cell to find me. He burst in upon the scene, furious with Pino.

“What the hell are you doing? You have one of my men in a holding cell and you haven't told me?”

“That's right, I do.” Pino turned to look at me with contempt. “Mederos tried to escape last night.”

“Has he confessed to that?”

“Not yet.”

“How long have you held him here?”

“Five hours.”

“Five hours and you haven't bothered to inform me?”

“It's none of your business. Mederos is under my authority.”

“The hell he is.”

“This is a political matter.”

“Not if he hasn't confessed.”

“I smelled gasoline on him. He claims it's alcohol, but I know better.”

“You're an expert on odors?”

“I'm not an expert, but I know the difference between alcohol and gasoline. I'm not an idiot.”

“I'm not sure you
do
know the difference,” said Brown.

“Are you challenging my authority, Lieutenant?”

“No, you are challenging mine. You've overstepped your bounds, Lieutenant.”

“But this is a political issue.”

“It's not a political issue just because you say so. You have no proof that this man was trying to escape. You've been itching to find a way to get Mederos for months. Now let my man out of that cell, or I'll report you to the base commander immediately.”

The two men glared at each other for what seemed like an eternity while I stood watching. Pino's eyes bulged and his mouth contorted with rage. His nostrils opened slightly as he blew out his frustration. Finally, he turned to the guard and gave the order for my release. The guard unlocked the cell door. Brown nodded to me.

“Clean yourself up and report to my office,” he said. I looked at the lieutenant in gratitude and headed toward the bathroom. I took a long, hot shower and scrubbed my skin, my hair, my arms, my legs. I worked to get the remnants of filth from beneath my fingernails and to remove the patches of grease from the back of my legs. When I finished, my skin shone pink.

I dressed in a fresh uniform and went to see Lieutenant Brown. When I entered his office, he looked at me skeptically. He shook his head slightly and pressed his lips together. I wondered where this conversation would take us.