Suspicion of Deceit (5 page)

Miriam looked at her blankly, then said, "What do you mean?"

"Do you think anybody's going to care that he went to Cuba?"

"I don't care."

"What about your parents?"

Miriam's expression said this was a strange thing to be asking. She herself had been born here, and so had her husband, Danny, and most of their friends. Finally she said, "Gail, look. Papi's working two jobs to make some extra money because my sister just started college. My mom has the house to take care of, and she watches Berto for me. They're busy. If something major happened—like if Fidel dropped dead?—they would probably take a week off and party with everybody else. But this? Because an opera singer went to Cuba? Please. They've got better things to do."

Gail thought about that, then got up to pour herself a cup of coffee. The coffeemaker was on a shelf near the copy machine. Miriam made a fresh pot twice a day. First thing in the morning she put the
Miami Herald
and
New York Times
in the waiting room, turned on the lamp between the two love seats, and dusted or watered the plants in the window, as needed. The window gave a nice view of sky and clouds, or Dadeland Mall, if one really wanted to see it.

She blew into the mug, then took a sip. "Miriam, does your mother listen to those Spanish talk stations at home?"

"Not really. She watches TV. She likes the soaps." Miriam was flipping through the computer manual for the accounting program, and Gail visualized gigabytes of information flowing over a high-speed data line. "You want to know if people are talking about this guy, right? Thomas Nolan?"

"I was wondering," Gail said.

"I'll call my grandmother," Miriam said. "She lives with my uncle, and she listens to the radio all the time."

"Ask her—
^:
" Gail hesitated, feeling almost traitorous. "Ask her if she's heard of Octavio Reyes. He's a radio host, but I don't know what station." She added, "He also owns a chain of furniture stores, King Furniture. There's a billboard on the Palmetto Expressway.
El Rey de los Muebles.
The furniture king."

"Oh, sure. Danny and I bought our living room suite there."

"He's also Anthony's brother-in-law."

Miriam's mouth opened. Then she said, "Oh."

Leaving Miriam with the computer, Gail picked up her messages and went down the corridor past the spare office, where she hoped to put an associate one day, and the conference room, still empty, but the furniture had been promised this week. Her office was at the end, a bright room with plenty of plants at the window.

One of the calls this morning had come from a Silvia Sanchez of Century 21 Realty, having to do, no doubt, with the house in Cocoplum that Anthony had wanted Gail to see.

"Cocoplum," she said aloud, dialing the number. A million dollars might get them into the neighborhood.

Silvia Sanchez answered, and the noise told Gail that the woman was in her car, probably a Lincoln or Lexus or one of those cushy machines that made prospective home buyers feel loved: The house would be available for viewing this afternoon. Six bedrooms, gourmet kitchen, a pool, beautiful landscaping. It wouldn't last long–

"How much are they asking?" Gail asked.

"You really should see it first."

"We will, but how much?"

"They're asking three-seven-fifty, but we'll make an offer."

"Three . . . seven-fifty." Gail squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. "I think Mr. Quintana is in court today, a trial that's probably going to last all week—"

But the efficient Silvia Sanchez had already contacted Mr. Quintana's secretary. He was indeed in trial, but he had left word that he would pick up Ms. Connor at home at five forty-five, then they would all meet at the property at six o'clock.

"Sure, why not?" she said, after the silence had extended for several seconds. They said their goodbyes and hung up. Gail leaned back in her chair with her face in her hands.

The first house he had taken her to, on Biltmore Way in Coral Gables, was a 1920s coral-rock monstrosity with buckling wood floors. Then a French country house in South Miami for two million dollars. Finally the ranch style out in the Redlands with a horse stable in back.

He hadn't liked what she had picked out—normal houses, one story, three or four bedrooms, maybe a pool. The houses he had chosen were older, their big yards shaded with trees. Similar in location or design to the house where he had grown up, in fact. His grandparents' house, where he had lived from age thirteen to twenty. The Pedrosa mansion—and it was one—had seven bedrooms and a guest house. The floors were tile, the kitchen immense, and in Ernesto Pedrosa's study, where one sniffed the aroma of old leather and expensive cigars, there were maps and historical photographs, a jar of dirt from the country estate, and a bullet-torn flag of Cuba over his desk.

This was the house that Anthony had been thrown out of, so he had said, after an argument with his grandfather. Gail had met the old man several times now, and despite his advanced age, the shuffling gait left by a stroke, and his poetic manner of speech, he still made her nervous. Ernesto José Pedrosa Masvidal. Over six feet tall, with piercing blue eyes. Descendant of Spanish aristocrats. She thought that he probably did not like Americans, but he tolerated them.

For love of his youngest daughter, grieving the loss of two children, Pedrosa had recovered one of them. He had reached into Cuba and pulled Anthony out, resentful and angry, demanding to be sent back. He got into fights at school and for a long time refused to speak English. His younger cousin Carlos, who despised him, mentioned at the dinner table that his own father, Pedrosa's only son, had died at the Bay of Pigs fighting for the liberation of Cuba, while Anthony's father had fought for the enemy. Anthony waited until after dinner to take Carlos into the backyard and grind his face into the dirt.

As the years passed he settled down, but Pedrosa never broke him. Anthony asked nothing from his grandfather, neither money nor approval. He made his own way through law school, earned his own living, married, and divorced. And yet—Gail had seen this clearly—these two men respected each other, even if neither would admit it. Anthony flew his children down from New Jersey as often as he could, and on each visit took them to see their great-grandparents. He knelt each month at his mother's grave, remembered birthdays and saints' days, and attended every family event as if his presence were expected, which of course it was. His grandmother adored him. He would rise when his grandfather entered a room, speak to him formally, and receive a nod in reply. Gail had seen how the old man watched him. How he listened. And how they often ended up sitting near each other, apparently without conscious thought.

At her desk Gail kicked off her shoes and sat down, curling her feet under her. What a scene it must have been, when Pedrosa told his grandson to get out.

Late afternoon. A room upstairs. Through the open window one can see the heavy foliage of a banyan tree. Stretched out on the bed, reading, is a tall, slender young man with a beard, age twenty or so. His skin is honey gold, his hair rich brown, curling to his shoulders. He has thick lashes and eyes so dark they seem black. When he is angry they glitter.

No, wait. Ernesto Pedrosa would not have permitted long hair and a beard in his house. Anthony is clean-shaven. He is not lying down, he is sitting at his desk reading a textbook on philosophy. A brilliant student. He arrived in this country just seven years ago, speaking no English. It was to be only a visit, but of course his mother, who had fled with her parents, never intended to let him go back once she got him here. Does he still dream of home? The green fields, the river where his father taught him to fish?

On the back of the door, hidden under a coat on a hanger, or even a flag of Cuba hung vertically, there is a poster of Che Guevara. Black, white, and red. Che with his wispy mustache, his beret, and his burning eyes. And through the door, very softly, comes music. His grandmother is playing her radio. Beny Moré or Celia Cruz. Old music from Cuba, preserved on the stations in Little Havana. So many things from
el Cuba de ayer
are preserved in this town.

The young man turns a page. He has an exam or report the next day. He doesn't know that he will become a lawyer. What does he think he will be? Who knows?

Suddenly heavy footsteps are pounding up the stairs. They come closer. They stop. The doorknob rattles. Then a fist on wood. His grandfather yells for him to open up. (No one locks doors in this house.) Open it, I tell you! Open this door!

He is afraid, but of course he won't show it. He swings out of his chair and calmly turns the lock. His grandfather shoves him aside, and he stumbles backward. His mother runs into the room. Papi, no, please! He's a boy! He doesn't know what he's doing!

Too late. The coat or the flag on the back of the door is swept aside, and there is the face of Che Guevara, glaring back at Ernesto Pedrosa. Maybe the maid saw it and told.' More likely his cousin Carlos.

Pedrosa slaps Anthony across the face with a huge, hard-knuckled hand. Get out of my house! I should have left you in Camagüey with your communist pig of a father. Ingrate! Traitor! Get out! He tears the poster into pieces.

But no. Even at twenty, Anthony would not have been foolish enough to have a poster like that in his grandfather's house. The poster came later. Say there were books on communist theory. Or a copy of
Juventud Rebelde,
or the newspaper,
Granma,
straight from Cuba. Whatever. Pedrosa rips them apart. Get out of my house!

When Anthony leaves that very night with his clothes and his books crammed into a duffel bag and his mother's tears on his face, he calls his friend. Sure, come on over, man, no problem. Becky won't care. You can sleep on the couch.

It was some time before Gail realized her intercom was buzzing. She picked up the telephone. "Yes?"

"Come out here, quick! Hurry!"

Gail ran, not pausing to put her shoes back on. As she neared Miriam's desk, she heard a male voice speaking Spanish.

Miriam waved at her. "Shhh-shhh!" There was a radio on a shelf over her desk.

It was a slow, deep voice—the kind that might narrate a state funeral after the assassination of a president. Gail picked out words, tried to translate them in her head, then lost the next sequence. The Rs were drawn out in long trills.

"... apoyarrrr la comunidad, no la dictadura . . . Tenemos el deberrrr—la rrrresponsibilidad de
—" Gail missed it.
"Gracias por su atención. Soy Octavio

Rrrreyes, el rey del comentario, WRCL, Rrrradio Cuba Libre, 870 en su dial. "

Thank you for your attention. Octavio Reyes. King of the commentary. Radio Free Cuba.

Miriam smacked the desk with an open palm. "My grandmother said that he has a commentary at 10:55, and I looked at my watch and said I have to hang up! We missed most of it."

"What did he say?"

"I don't know exactly. He was talking about the arts in Miami. How they have a responsibility to support the community, not the dictatorship. He didn't mention the opera." Miriam added, "I mean, not by name."

"Not yet," Gail said.

CHAPTER FIVE

"Gail Connor! Gail, wait!"

She stepped back onto the curb. A man with curly gray hair was hurrying toward her, jacket flapping open, tie askew. When he got closer he put a hand on his chest and pretended to gasp.

"My God, you walk fast." He smiled broadly. "I hope you remember me—Seth Greer? I'm not some nut accosting beautiful blondes on the street."

"Of course I remember. Hello, Seth."

He touched his fingertips to his forehead. "I'm getting a reading. It's coming . . . hold on. I think the lady is going . . . that way." He pointed to the flat-roofed building across the street, four stories with a grid of sunshade on the upper windows.

"Amazing," Gail said.

"Your secretary said you went downtown. Didn't say why—you obviously trained her well—but I put two and two together and got Thomas Nolan." Seth smoothed his tie down over his slight paunch. His blue suit was of good quality, if a little rumpled. "Would you mind if I go along? I've met him. I could introduce you."

"Thanks, but—" Gail smiled. "You're not exactly nonpartisan."

"At least let me buy you some coffee." There was a McDonald's just across the street, students going in and out. "Come on. Five minutes."

She hesitated, then said they could walk to the end of the block. They turned west past the community college, a modern concrete structure with a broad plaza in front. A cool breeze moved through the bright green fronds of palm trees.

"What are you going to say to Nolan?"

"Don't start lobbying, Seth. All I plan to do is ask how he happened to travel to Cuba, what he did there, and so forth."

"A completely neutral fact-finding mission."

"Completely."

"Not influenced by anybody, not even Anthony Quintana."

She looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Well, it would be better for Quintana—hence, better for you—if Tom Nolan packed up his music and got the hell out of Dodge City."

"Why do you say that?"

"Why?" His gray eyebrows shot upward as if testing whether she were serious. When Gail continued to smile politely at him, he said, "Because this little brouhaha puts Tony right in the middle, between you and his grandfather. Who is Tony's grandfather? A right-wing exile, a very rich one. Tony doesn't want to alienate him. If granddad thinks we've got communists in the opera, and Tony's engaged to the opera's attorney—"

"Oh, Seth. No way. Anthony hasn't put any pressure on me, and I wouldn't respond if he did."

"Good. I was hoping you'd say that." Seth put a hand on her shoulder. "Want to hear a prediction? Tom Nolan will not be replaced. I've had phone calls all weekend. People are outraged we're even considering it."

"They can be outraged all they like," said Gail, "but the general director may decide it's too risky."