door to the wheelhouse opened. A bare head came out, shouted at Diego Coca: “The boat is overloaded, man! It is too dangerous to go on. We must turn back.”
Diego pulled a pistol from his pocket and placed the muzzle against the man’s forehead. He pushed the man back through the door, followed him into the tiny shack and pulled the door shut behind him.
The man next to Ocho said, “We may make it … if the sea gets no rougher. I was a fisherman once, I know of these things.”
The man was in his late sixties perhaps, with a deeply lined face and hair bleached by the sun. Ocho had studied his face in the twilight, before the light completely disappeared. Now the fisherman was merely a shape in the darkness, a remembered face.
“Your father is crazy,” Ocho told Dora, speaking in her ear over the noise of the wind and sea. She said nothing, merely held him tighter.
It was then he realized she was as frightened as he.
Angel del Mar smashed its way northward under a clear, starry sky. The wind seemed steady from the west at twelve or fifteen knots. Already drenched by spray, with no place to shelter themselves, the people on deck huddled where they were. From his position near the wheelhouse Ocho could just see the people between the showers of spray, dark shapes crowding the deck in the faint moonlight, for there were no other lights so that the boat might go unnoticed by Cuban naval patrols.
“When we get to the Gulf Stream,” the fisherman beside Ocho shouted in his ear above the noise of the wind and laboring diesel engine, “ … swells … open the seams … founder in this sea.”
In addition to heaving and pitching, the boat was also rolling heavily since there was so much weight on deck. The roll to starboard seemed most pronounced when the boat crested a swell, when it was naked to the wind.
Ocho Sedano buried his face in Dora’s hair and held her
tightly as the boat plunged and reared, turned his body to shield her somewhat from the clouds of spray that swept over them.
He could hear people retching; the vomit smell was swept away on the wind and he caught none of it.
On the boat went into the darkness, bucking and writhing as it fought the sea.
Late in the evening William Henry Chance met his associate at the mahogany bar in El Floridita, one of the flashiest old nightclubs in Old Havana. This monstrosity was the dazzling heart of prerevolutionary Havana in the bad old days; black-and-white photos of Ernest Hemingway, Cary Grant, and Ava Gardner still adorned the walls. The place was full of Americans who had traveled here in defiance of their government’s ban on travel to Cuba. As bands belted out salsa and rhumba, the Americans drank, ate, and scrutinized voluptuous prostitutes clad in tight dresses and high heels.
Chance’s associate was Tommy Carmellini, a Stanford law school graduate in his late twenties. The baggy sportscoat and pleated trousers did nothing to show off Carmellini’s wide shoulders and washboard stomach. Still, a thoughtful observer would conclude he was remarkably fit for a man who spent twelve hours a day at a desk.
“Looks like the Cubans have come full circle,” Chance said when Carmellini joined him at the bar. He had to speak up to be heard above the music coming through the open windows.
“Goes around and comes around,” Tommy Carmellini agreed. “I wonder just how many different social diseases are circulating in this building tonight.”
When they were outside on the sidewalk strolling along, William Henry Chance pulled a cigar from the pocket of his sports jacket, which was folded over his left arm. He bit off the end of the thing, then cupped his hands against the breeze and lit it with a paper match. The wind blew out
the first two matches, but he got the cigar going with the third one. After a couple puffs, he sighed.
“Smells delicious,” Carmellini said.
“Cuban cigars are the real deal. Gonna be the new ‘in’ thing. You should
Diego pulled a pistol from his pocket and placed the muzzle against the man’s forehead. He pushed the man back through the door, followed him into the tiny shack and pulled the door shut behind him.
The man next to Ocho said, “We may make it … if the sea gets no rougher. I was a fisherman once, I know of these things.”
The man was in his late sixties perhaps, with a deeply lined face and hair bleached by the sun. Ocho had studied his face in the twilight, before the light completely disappeared. Now the fisherman was merely a shape in the darkness, a remembered face.
“Your father is crazy,” Ocho told Dora, speaking in her ear over the noise of the wind and sea. She said nothing, merely held him tighter.
It was then he realized she was as frightened as he.
Angel del Mar smashed its way northward under a clear, starry sky. The wind seemed steady from the west at twelve or fifteen knots. Already drenched by spray, with no place to shelter themselves, the people on deck huddled where they were. From his position near the wheelhouse Ocho could just see the people between the showers of spray, dark shapes crowding the deck in the faint moonlight, for there were no other lights so that the boat might go unnoticed by Cuban naval patrols.
“When we get to the Gulf Stream,” the fisherman beside Ocho shouted in his ear above the noise of the wind and laboring diesel engine, “ … swells … open the seams … founder in this sea.”
In addition to heaving and pitching, the boat was also rolling heavily since there was so much weight on deck. The roll to starboard seemed most pronounced when the boat crested a swell, when it was naked to the wind.
Ocho Sedano buried his face in Dora’s hair and held her
tightly as the boat plunged and reared, turned his body to shield her somewhat from the clouds of spray that swept over them.
He could hear people retching; the vomit smell was swept away on the wind and he caught none of it.
On the boat went into the darkness, bucking and writhing as it fought the sea.
Late in the evening William Henry Chance met his associate at the mahogany bar in El Floridita, one of the flashiest old nightclubs in Old Havana. This monstrosity was the dazzling heart of prerevolutionary Havana in the bad old days; black-and-white photos of Ernest Hemingway, Cary Grant, and Ava Gardner still adorned the walls. The place was full of Americans who had traveled here in defiance of their government’s ban on travel to Cuba. As bands belted out salsa and rhumba, the Americans drank, ate, and scrutinized voluptuous prostitutes clad in tight dresses and high heels.
Chance’s associate was Tommy Carmellini, a Stanford law school graduate in his late twenties. The baggy sportscoat and pleated trousers did nothing to show off Carmellini’s wide shoulders and washboard stomach. Still, a thoughtful observer would conclude he was remarkably fit for a man who spent twelve hours a day at a desk.
“Looks like the Cubans have come full circle,” Chance said when Carmellini joined him at the bar. He had to speak up to be heard above the music coming through the open windows.
“Goes around and comes around,” Tommy Carmellini agreed. “I wonder just how many different social diseases are circulating in this building tonight.”
When they were outside on the sidewalk strolling along, William Henry Chance pulled a cigar from the pocket of his sports jacket, which was folded over his left arm. He bit off the end of the thing, then cupped his hands against the breeze and lit it with a paper match. The wind blew out
the first two matches, but he got the cigar going with the third one. After a couple puffs, he sighed.
“Smells delicious,” Carmellini said.
“Cuban cigars are the real deal. Gonna be the new ‘in’ thing. You should
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