“Some Cubans don’t see much difference between a Spanish colonial master and an American one, but I do. This island is still in ruins. Our ports, roads, and bridges were bombarded to smithereens, but the Americans promised to rebuild them. I want those roads and bridges. I want our ruined ports rebuilt and back in operation. I want this island to flourish, but if the insurgents have their way, the Americans will leave, and we’ll be left with no infrastructure to restore our way of life.”
Gray had seen evidence of rebuilding everywhere. The harbor was filled with ships offloading supplies. Roads were being repaired, and bridges were under construction, but Gray was still skeptical. The American government didn’t waste money where they couldn’t get a return, and he was doubtful the president intended to graciously leave after rebuilding the island.
“And once your roads and bridges are repaired?” he asked. “What then?”
Humor lightened Marco’s eyes. “Thenwe throw the Americans out. Not before.” All trace of humor vanished as he set his cigar down and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “That is why your brother is in a tight spot. If the insurgents prove difficult, the Americans will pour their money into building defenses rather than the infrastructure we need. Your brother is going to face retaliation for coming down here to stir up trouble. We’re tired of war. We want to live and work on this beautiful island, but hotheaded rebels are making it hard. Most of us want to cooperate with the Americans—at least for now. Let us get clean water and roads back in working order. Then we can work toward independence. Your brother will find few friends in a Cuban prison.”
It was what Gray feared.
The prison was a long, one-story brick building covered by a layer of crumbling stucco. The only windows were narrowslits no wider than Gray’s hand. Chickens pecked at the hardscrabble soil, and two barrels of stagnant water rested beside the open front door.
Four soldiers sat at a table outside the prison, rifles casually slung across their backs as they played cards. Two of them pushed to their feet as they saw Gray approach. He hoped at least one of them spoke English.
“I’d like to see Luke Delacroix.”
The taller of the two men nodded. “He is here,” he replied in good English.
“I’d like to see him.”
The soldier didn’t move. “He’s not a popular man. How much would you like to see him?”
Gray was prepared to play the game. After passing both men a five-dollar bill, the tall soldier gestured for Gray to hold up his hands. Gray submitted to a frisking, then followed the soldier through the open front door.
No wonder they kept the door open. It was hotter inside, and the air barely moved. The soldier said something in Spanish to the warden. Luke’s name was in the mix, and after a moment, the warden’s eyes brightened and he stood, smiling broadly. Gray didn’t understand and looked to the tall soldier for translation.
“The warden also wants to know how much you would like to see Luke Delacroix.”
After Gray paid off the warden, the soldier took a ring of keys and led him down a long hallway with a series of locked wooden doors on each side. Gray covered his nose against the stench with a handkerchief. The soldier stopped at one of the doors and looked through the tiny grate at the top. He pounded on the door. “Visitor,” he said, and the keys jangled as the iron lock’s bolt turned. Gray lowered the handkerchief. He didn’t want Luke to see how appalling he found this place.
It took a while for his eyes to adjust in the dim cell. The manlying on the cot peered at him, a hand sheltering his eyes from the hallway light.
“Hello, Luke,” Gray said.
Luke rolled into a sitting position. “Gray?” A world of hope was in that single word.
“Yes.” Gray turned to the soldier, who told him he would have twenty minutes for a visit, then closed and locked the door behind him.
Gray had never been claustrophobic, but the sensation of being trapped was suffocating. It felt like the walls were closing in, and there wasn’t much room in the cell. A cot and an overturned wooden crate serving as a bedside table took up most of the space, and a narrow window near the top of the cell was the only source of light and air.
“You probably shouldn’t come any closer,” Luke said. “I stink to high heaven.”
Gray ignored the comment and pulled his brother into a hug.
“Please don’t tell me you came all the way to Cuba for me.”
“I came all the way to Cuba for you,” Gray said, and Luke sighed.
“Have a seat,” Luke said. “You can have your choice of the doorway end or the window end of the cot.”
Gray sat, and as his eyes adjusted, he had a better view of the room. There were a couple of books on the table and a stubby candle. A chamber pot in the corner didn’t do the air any favors.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he said simply.
Luke gave a helpless smile. “I’ve been charged with collaborating with the insurgency.”
“Did you?” Gray held his breath, holding on to the slim hope that this was all a misunderstanding that could be solved now that he was here.
“Yes.”
