ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After serving in the German navy and working in Bolivia and Germany, PETER SHOENAU immigrated to the Piedmont region of Italy. He has published both short story collections and novels, and also worked as a translator.
The Coup
By Peter Schoenau
The day began with a hazy morning. Lately, he had been able to see the ocean from his room on the twelfth floor. His view was restricted only by the uneven, jagged line of rooftops that lay between him and the ocean. But this morning he peered in vain beyond the sea of houses. He could only make out a grey band that marked the horizon.
His right arm was badly swollen. Each movement of the fingers on his right hand was intensely painful. The rectally administered antibiotics which he took morning and night had not halted the blood poisoning. His mind felt strangely muddled, and he tried but failed to put his thoughts in order. Every time he tried, he returned right away to the beginning of whatever thought he had held, and it was impossible to think something through to its conclusion. Somewhere in between, the line was disconnected. Eventually he gave up, and stared out of the window without a thought.
The apartment on Malecón was in a dilapidated building with a neo-classical façade whose pastel blue paint was blotchy where the stucco had crumbled. The bare spots were gradually taking over.
The apartment consisted of a bedroom, living room, bath and kitchen. Two miniature pictures looked out from the sideboard in his bedroom. They depicted two of his ancestors―Pedro Bandejas, the pirate, and Camilo Bandejas, his great-grandfather, who had fought on the side of the Mambists during the war for independence.
He had rented the apartment fully furnished and paid the rent three months in advance in US Dollars. His landlord had insisted. He was a small, unsavory bureaucrat who managed the buildings for the Interior Ministry. There was no rental agreement. The only thing exchanged between them was the money and the keys.
All the same, he knew that the landlord would make inquiries about the tenant. During the investigation, the long arm of the Interior Ministry would at some point find out that his Peruvian passport was false. But who was to say what the landlord would do about it? He wasn't planning to stay at the apartment more than two weeks. He was no stranger to the long administrative process at the Ministry and he felt relatively certain that the risk was minimal at this time.
When he woke up on the first morning at the apartment, he was covered in sweat and felt leaden. The thought of getting up was intensely unpleasant. He stared at the floor where a fly was circling in its last death throes. Reluctantly, he rose and went to the window and pulled the curtain in one swift move.
Thick grey clouds covered the horizon, merging with the ocean so that no clear line separated the sea from the sky.
A battered old Fiat 600 took him to Plaza José Miguel Cérrez.
The stink of urine lingered between the statues, and the ground and the walls were covered in graffiti. He looked for a sign. When they had parted, Federico and he had arranged that whoever was first to return would leave a sign of life hidden somewhere between the declarations of love and the wise-cracking lines on the walls.
He found the message next to large letters declaring, True love needs no pay, it is free. "Every Friday night at 10."
The square in front of the cathedral was lit by two spotlights. Deserted, it looked remarkably like an empty stage. A few guests lingered at the tables in the palm court of the Patio. From the piano, metallic sounding evergreens tinkled into the night. Two skinny tabby cats snoozed beneath an empty table, periodically opening their eyes and peering in the direction of the only occupied table at the restaurant. A bored waiter sat in a corner waiting for the last guests to leave. The bird inside the cage above the chilled wine case had tucked its head under its wing. The lone waiter looked relieved when one of the last remaining patrons asked for the check in an authoritative voice. Life pulsed through the white and black clad figure. Several minutes later, the sounds of laughter and chair legs scraping the floor confirmed that the guests were leaving. When the last of the crew had left the stage, the lamps that had lit the palm court went out and the two skinny cats left the scene, disappointed. Perhaps the kitchen had left some scraps lying around with no one on guard. Maybe they'd get lucky.
He stood in the shade of Palacio del Segundo Cabo before he quickly crossed Calle Mercaderes to Plaza de Armas.
Before entering the restaurant La Mina, he surreptitiously eyed the few guests on the patio and surmised that they were ordinary tourists, as ordinary as he was hoping to appear. He took a seat at a table for two by the wall and caught the last of the current fashion show at La Mina. Four models pranced around, two women and two men passing in alternating sequence. Light-footed and twirling, they skipped by, their dark skin contrasting with the white linen dresses and suits they paraded. The men looked arrogantly past him while the women smiled at the parrot screeching in delight from the cage above his head.
He knew why the men didn't smile. In their centuries-old code a smile could evoke doubt as to their masculinity and provoke the ugly epithet Maricón among the patrons.
The fashion show ended.
Federico was late.
It was 10:15 p.m. when a short man appeared at the entrance. His long arms swung back and forth as if they were entirely independent of the rest of his body. Before turning his head in the direction of the table by the wall, he scanned the other tables and then, apparently satisfied, turned toward him.
A smile pursed his meaty lips and wrinkles fanned out from his eyes. He raised his right arm a little and said, "Hola."
As he sat down, he scanned the room again.
"I see that the old methods still work."
"At least we can count on that, you agree?"
Federico cast a glance at the other's Mojito.
"You haven't changed."
The smile of the other man expanded somewhat.
He signaled at the waiter. "Another one."
The fashion show ended. They were the last guests at the restaurant.
The waiter brought the Mojito. Federico sipped to test it. He fingered the glass.
“Much has changed over the past four years," Federico began cautiously.
"We are a country that runs at two different speeds. Those with access to the Dollar fare better. They have certain privileges and are considered wealthy by their neighbors. The others are more or less content. At the moment, the level of discontent is manageable, but it's growing. The repressive tactics are less obvious, they work on a more subtle level…"
They toasted each other.
“For example, the well-targeted distribution of homes, the restricted hand-out of milk and meat coupons, the public denunciation of students who try to avoid joining the work brigades. Of course, this is reflected in their grades. The same old principle is still firmly in place. Everything for the revolution, and nothing against it."
"We'll toss a rock into the pond," he interrupted, "and make waves. At the same time, our action should create the means for further actions."
"Good enough," said Federico, "so tell me, what are your plans?" He bent forward. "The post office at the central train station. Huge amounts of money are stored there and it is practically without security." Federico nodded.
"We need a reliable escape vehicle and a second man. I thought of Miguel."
"Yeah, Miguel would be good."
"Are you going to talk to him?"
"Sure. I think he'll be willing. He's reliable. He's never disappointed us."
"Okay. So who's in charge of security at the train station?"
Federico twisted the glass between thumb and index finger to and fro. "An old friend."
The other man looked at him quizzically.
“Carlos, Capitán Carlos Mendoza. Yes, even he has risen in the ranks."
“Carlos, well.”
"You were close friends back then, isn't that right?"
"That's right. We were good friends. We're both from Pinar del Río, and later on, we met again at university. We shared everything, sometimes even our women."
He watched the barman make the Mojito he ordered. Two spoonfuls of sugar, a little lime juice, mineral water and mint leaves. The barman crushed a large chunk of ice with a wood block, dropped the pieces in the glass and topped it with a liberal dose of white rum. A drop of Angostura rounded it off. The ice of the Mojito steamed.
He was looking to the old cannons. Light faded rapidly as night approached. The street-lamps across the street cast their dim light onto the still palm trees. The fronds pierced the night sky like sharp knives. The sky was streaked in orange flames above bands in charcoal and pitch-black. In front of the palm trees, the silent mouths of the old cannons pointed toward the canal. To his right, the beacon had started blinking sequentially, four times short, twice long …
Across the canal, he made out the darkening outline of a circus tent. Two days earlier, a circus had set up shop, turning Malecón into a long row of lights. In the darkness he could barely make out the five-foot high seawall and the narrow strip of algae-covered rocks and the dark and dirty sand where the waves crashed.
At exactly 11 a.m. the old Buick approached the post office. Federico was behind the wheel. The engine ran smooth and quiet, purring like a freshly oiled sewing machine.
Federico stopped at the post office and let Miguel and him out, then drove up to the green curb opposite the station, as planned. Miguel had stuffed the AK47 inside a large travel bag. Carrying the bag, he looked like your average traveler. He looked around but saw nothing alarming. Everyone around him looked as if they were where they were supposed to be, going about their business without a care in the world.
The two men entered the lobby and stood in line for a moment. Then he pulled his Beretta from the waist and Miguel simultaneously pulled the AK47 from his bag.
"Everyone against the wall," he said, pointing the weapon at the opposite wall.
"Stay calm, and you will live, compañeros."
The staff behind the unsecured stations was too bewildered to set off the alarm or resist in any way. He leaped across the counter and handed a plastic bag to a timid young woman, her whole body trembling.
"In there. All of it. And be quick about it."
The bounty amounted to a couple of thousand dollars and about fifty thousand pesos. As soon as they stormed out of the post office and headed for the '54 Buick parked across the street, everything that could go wrong did.
A policeman, wrapped in a tight embrace with his girlfriend as they said their good-byes, had smelled a rat. He pushed the girl away. She fell to the ground as he reached for his gun. His second shot landed in Miguel's back.
He turned and returned fire. But he was out of breath and the sun blinded him. The policeman continued to fire. He felt a strong jolt against his right upper arm. He had almost emptied his Beretta 7.65 when the young police officer doubled over and fell to the side. A red stain appeared on his light blue shirt, spreading quickly.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Federico get out of the getaway car and aim, and then he heard the old Mauser bark twice. But who was Federico shooting at? He turned to his right and saw Carlos, his face covered in blood. My God, he thought, please no. No.
He turned to Federico, but Federico was on the ground and didn't stir. Then all was quiet, and the old Buick started up right away. He took Calle Egidio to the coastal road. He zigzagged around for a little while before he approached the hotel. He parked the car on Calle 21. He would be able to monitor the hotel entrance from here. He spent several hours in the car smoking one cigarette after another. But it stayed quiet. No police, just the normal patrol on the beat. No conglomeration of cars, no one pacing up and down in front of the hotel waiting. It was dark now. No red dots in the darkness, no signs of lit cigarettes that repetitively lit up in a far too steady pattern for passersby.
Finally he got out of the car. The lobby of the hotel was normal, busy but nothing unusual. He asked for the key and once inside the elevator leaned back, exhausted. He took a couple of deep breaths.
The robbery had cost Miguel's and Federico's lives. He had treated his injury, a flesh wound in his upper arm, with Añejo, and bandaged it. It hurt but it wouldn't stop him from what he had planned.
He switched on the TV to listen to the news and thought of Carlos. How did that happen?
"Three armed criminals robbed the post office near the main station this morning. They got away with a large sum of money, the exact amount is still unknown. As they attempted to flee, the bandits were stopped by a patrolling officer who happened to be in the vicinity. Before the officer was killed, he managed to wound one of the criminals fatally. A second robber was killed in the ensuing exchange of fire. Capitán Carlos Mendoza, who was on duty in that area following the hint of an informer, also was killed in the fighting. A third criminal was able to get away in a car and his whereabouts are currently being investigated." With shaky hands, he poured himself a double Añejo and gulped it down. Then he put his head in his hands and groaned, "My God." Tears trickled down beneath his fingers.
He looked out onto multi-story apartment blocks on the other side of the street. A woman hung up laundry to dry on a roof terrace. Her husband, perhaps a carpenter by profession, was gluing broken chairs. One floor down, a woman sitting on a balcony was doing a crossword puzzle. She was tall and haggard. He noticed that she was wearing the same dress again, a white dress with a dark flowered print.
It was hot. No one had closed the windows or let the blinds down. Using the riflescope, he watched a couple inside the third house from the street corner as they lay naked on the sofa. His penis against her butt, they moved rhythmically. It was growing dark fast, and the dark bodies merged into the night.
The other side of the street was usually very quiet in the mornings, especially on weekends. At some point, the kids appeared. They were first. Then Mama followed, cautioning them to be quiet. Papa appeared last, was greeted with enthusiasm, kids clinging to him like nettles. The weather forecast predicted temperatures between 87 and 93 F, increasingly cloudy skies in the afternoon and thunderstorms. And the weather people were right. Thick grey clouds covered the horizon, merging with the ocean so that no clear line separated the sea from the sky.
Lightning flashed, then came thunder and large drops of rain splashing against the window pane, a curtain that obscured everything like going through the car wash when brushes, rollers, foam and water polish the vehicle.
A woman in the middle building quickly tore her washing off the line spanning her balcony. The carpenter pulled a piece of tarp over the chairs and tables set up for repair on the roof terrace. His two kids, dressed only in shorts, bounded through the rain, turning and twisting and wiping their wet hair from their faces. His wife cleaned her legs and feet with a bar of soap.
The following morning was sunny. The air was clean, as if someone had cleaned the dirty window pane with a sponge overnight. The deluge had relieved the overworked street cleaners since, for a short while at least, the streets looked clean and all the dilapidated buildings looked charming.
In the first house across the street, at the corner of Calle N, an older man did his morning exercises on the third floor. He ran small circles inside the room. His white undershirt and the white crown of hair gleamed green through the tinted glass of his patio.
Night had fallen. The sun had disappeared behind the high-rise with its uncounted apartments. A woman in a blue dress was cutting a man's hair on the roof terrace. Perhaps he would've liked a mirror because the way he looked, he harbored a sizeable distrust of his wife's abilities as a hairdresser.
At the entrance to the corner building, a group of domino players had gathered. They sat around a small table, lit by a single lamp suspended from above.
The phone had rung once in all this time, but it had only been reception. They wanted to know how long he intended to stay. He replied that he wanted to stay at least another week, and the girl at reception had made a note of it without saying anything.
Blood had seeped through his bandage. He smelled of blood and for the first time also of pus. The right sleeve of his shirt had an irregularly shaped red stain and stuck to the bandage. He was in dire need of a new bandage, iodine and antibiotics. He pulled on a fresh shirt and walked to Farmacia Johnson on Calle Obispo. He purchased a new bandage and bottle of iodine. There was another, better equipped pharmacy along the same street where he bought medication for an infected foot. He said he got it from walking on a coral reef. The pharmacist took a small bottle off a dusty shelf. He recognized the color and inscription. When he opened the package in his hotel room, he read the list of indications and dosage suggestions. The suppositories contained a large dose of cortisone. He preferred penicillin. Maybe he was partial to it, but a good shot of penicillin at 1.2 million units would've done the trick. But that was not available and the pharmacist would never have sold him a syringe, and in any case, he would've needed a second person to administer the shot.
When the cleaning girl found him the next morning, the rifle with its riflescope attached was still pointed at the top floor of the Habana Libre.
Published January 2008