God's Favorite (14 page)

“It's all true. Beliefs are like radio stations to him; whenever he gets bored he changes the frequency. I will tell you something that may surprise even you,” Roberto said, adopting his confidential whisper. “There is an actual shrine to Noriega at the foot of Mount Fuji.”

“A shrine to Noriega in Japan?”

“I know it sounds bizarre. Some exotic Buddhist cult Tony has become associated with, called the Value Creation Society—they put up a statue to him and they worship him or something like that. I think Tony must have given them a fortune. In return, they awarded him the title ‘shogun.' He actually thinks he is a reincarnated spirit of some thirteenth-century warrior monk.”

“Well, I am surprised,” the Nuncio confessed.

“The things some people believe!” Roberto exclaimed, shaking his head.

“Yes, it's continually amazing,” said the Nuncio, watching Roberto scrape the sides of his cantaloupe for some additional bit of nourishment. “I hope your yoga and fruit prove equal to the task.”

“I'm still going to need your help, Monseñor. Certainly the Church is opposed to satanic practices. I'm only asking that you act in the interest of your own faith.”

“Exactly how do you see my role?” the Nuncio asked reluctantly.

“I think you should perform an exorcism on Tony.”

Whatever appetite the Nuncio had enjoyed now vanished. “I'm afraid that such a ceremony is completely outside my field of expertise. I've never even seen it performed. Moreover, these days even in Panama the liability laws are such that you can't just go off exorcising people without their permission. I imagine one would need legal releases with witnesses and notaries and all that—I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

“But you are a priest!” Roberto protested. “Aren't you interested in the man's soul?”

“It's true I am a priest, but my primary role in Panama is to serve as ambassador. I represent the official interests of the Church. I'm not here to minister. It wouldn't be very diplomatic for the papal nuncio to exorcise the leader of the country to which he is assigned.”

Roberto sank back in his chair. “I think you underestimate the man we are dealing with, Monseñor. Unfortunately, I know him very well. We have been friends and competitors all of our lives. He's a wicked man, and a clever one. You and I should work together on this. Otherwise, each of us will have to face him alone.”

“I'm afraid I really must decline,” the Nuncio said firmly. But to himself he admitted that Roberto's final words had an ominous ring of truth to them.

I
CAN
'
T BELIEVE
you are doing this, Mama,” Carmen said to her elegant, slender, and wonderfully well preserved mother, who was installed at the head of the baronial dining table like a queen. Señora Olga Ramona Morales was a middle-class shopkeeper—she operated a women's clothing store in the Bella Vista district—but her royal bearing boosted her social status, and her clientele included most of the female aristocrats in the country. Her customers depended on her for advice not only about fashion but also about food, romance, and even politics, since it was well known that La Olga had her fingerprints everywhere. She was widely feared because of her genius for social etiquette, which kept even her richest clients in a dependent and slightly cowed condition.

“I am simply acknowledging the facts of a relationship you choose to hide,” said Señora Morales. She glanced significantly at the other end of the table, where Carmen's erstwhile boyfriend, Tony Noriega, studied the array of silverware at his place setting with a knitted brow.

“For the first time in three years, I'm not hiding anything!”
Carmen cried. “It's over! I'm free! I don't know why you're trying to bring it back to life!”

“I am only acting in your interest.”

“My interest is to have an ordinary life—husband, children. To be respected in society,” Carmen said. “But as long as I am Tony's woman, forget it! I'm radioactive.”

“What we are talking about is more important than social respect,” Señora Morales chided.

“Mama! You don't believe that! Why would you say such a thing? What has he paid you?”

The nostrils in Señora Morales's fine nose flared like a wild mare's. “Do you think I would betray my daughter for any price in the world?”

Actually, Tony had promised her a seat on the Canal Commission, an incredibly lucrative partnership for both of them.

A servant with an expression of a beaten dog entered with a soup tureen and ladled a serving into Tony's bowl.

“He's a married man!” Carmen protested. “You've told me this yourself countless times. Do you want me to be a kept woman for the rest of my life?”

“Believe me, chère, love is too rare a thing to be traded away for”—she waved her hand in the air—“social convention. What do you care about the opinion of the people in the cafés? They are only speaking out of envy.” Señora Morales looked down at Tony, who had picked up the wrong spoon for the soup. “How do you like the vichyssoise, General?”

“It's cold,” he said in a puzzled voice.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps the General would like some chives.” Señora Morales nodded to Carmen, who gave her a brief outdone look but then proceeded to pick up a small pot of chives on the silken tablecloth and snip the tops into Tony's soup. Tony smiled at her gratefully.

“Señora Morales,” Tony said, his voice heavy with emotion, “I wish sometimes that I had had a mother and she would have been like you.”

With that, Carmen burst into tears and ran out of the room.

Tony and Señora Morales watched her go, then returned to their soup. He stole a surreptitious glance at her figure, which was still admirably formed. Señora Morales caught him staring and smiled. There might even be a bonus in this arrangement, Tony realized.

W
ELCOME TO THE
workers' paradise,” Tony muttered to Felicidad as they entered José Martí Airport in Havana, a squalid spot half-lit by yellowed lamps and stinking of overflowing urinals. A chorus of children greeted them, singing “The Third World Debt Must Be Canceled.” When they stepped outside the terminal doors, souvenir vendors swarmed toward them bearing pirated Gloria Estefan CDs and mother-of-pearl key chains imprinted with the image of Che Guevara. A mob of illegal cab-drivers stood in front of some of the oldest American cars Tony had ever seen, and a dozen fabulous hookers screamed for attention. One day, these people will be the richest people in Cuba, Tony thought. Perhaps they already are.

A gray-haired soldier came to greet them and escort them to the Protocol House, a former Soviet Army resort on the Bay of Pigs. The place was even grimmer than Tony had expected. Tony and Felicidad sat by themselves in a cavernous room, waited upon by three grinning bartenders. Furious oversized portraits of the heroes of the revolution stared down at them in sullen admonishment. Outside, the surf crashed and crashed against the
beach, like Time pounding itself on the forehead, wondering what it had forgotten.

“Tony, you are drinking too much,” Felicidad warned quietly as he signaled the waiters for another Cuba Libre. “Do you want Fidel to see you like this?”

“It's the custom,” he assured her.

“You've got a duty to your country to behave yourself,” she said sternly.

“You know, you shouldn't concern yourself with matters of state, Fela. Fidel will not be here until midnight. He always keeps his visitors waiting, that's his style. I know very well what he's up to. Nothing will be accomplished tonight. He's probably out enjoying himself, expecting that we'll become nervous and impatient. That we'll lose confidence. Then, when we think he's forgotten us, he'll walk in full of apologies about the official duties that detained him. It's an old strategy—I've used the same tricks myself. There will be no actual meeting until tomorrow, believe me.” Tony turned to the bartenders.
“Viva Cuba!”
he said.

“Viva!”
they cried in unison.

“Viva Fidel!”
said Tony.

“Viva!”
they said, less enthusiastically.

“You see,” Tony said. “It's a very simple country.”

Three hours later, just as Tony had predicted, the doors banged open loudly, and Fidel burst in, flanked by a half-dozen revolutionary bureaucrats wearing chinos and Izod shirts—the new Cuba. Tony was snoozing noisily in his chair.

“Comrade!” Fidel said.

Tony startled awake and stood up groggily, his tie askew and his shirttail ballooning over the back of his pants. He made a frantic attempt to straighten up before Fidel crushed him in a bear hug. Tony disappeared into his wiry gray beard.

“Forgive me, my dear friends,” Fidel said. His uniform was green and crisp. “I have been speaking to the cane farmers. It seems whenever I open my mouth, it takes several hours to get it closed again.”

“We were simply enjoying your hospitalality,” Tony said, realizing that hadn't come out quite right.

“Apparently so,” said Fidel. “And now, Señora Noriega, will you excuse the men for a while? We have business to discuss.”

Fidel put his arm around Tony and escorted him out of the room and down a dismal corridor to a small stale conference room with a poker table and a peeling poster of Mao on one wall.

“Please join me in a cigar,” Fidel said as he steered Tony to his seat.

“Actually, I don't smoke.”

“Ah, well, this is not the same thing as smoking,” Fidel assured him, pressing a Cohiba the size of a catfish into Tony's hand. “And besides, it would be a favor to me to be able to witness your discovery of this great Cuban treasure.”

Tony reluctantly accepted the light.

“And so, Manuel Antonio, it is good that you requested to see me.” Fidel exhaled a huge toxic cloud of blue smoke. “For some time I've been concerned about what is transpiring in your country. I've wondered why you haven't come to me until now. I have thought about this many times.”

Tony coughed and held his cigar as far away as possible. “I hope I didn't offend you, Fidel.”

Fidel laughed, and then everyone else began laughing, so Tony laughed as well.

“You know, Manuel Antonio, it's okay to give offense if you offend the right persons. Correct?”

The functionaries in the room nodded.

“You offend me, and it is fine, because I forgive you. I know you. You are a little stupid, and I take this into account. You offend the Americans. In my opinion, it is good policy to offend the Americans. Up to a point. But Tony, you never offend the Colombians. These are serious people. You make a big problem—for Panama, for Colombia, for everybody. And for me. Because the Colombians are very helpful.”

“That's why I have come to see you, Fidel. If you will only speak to them for me . . .”

“Haven't I spoken to them already, many times? Unlike you, they consult me, they take my views into account. Unfortunately I must report that they are inclined to take drastic action. They believe that you sold them out to the Americans. They gave you five million dollars for protection, and then you let the Americans confiscate their most modern processing plant—without even the courtesy of telling them in advance.”

“Fidel, it was an accident! Some Indian fishermen saw helicopters flying into the jungle and told the police. The Americans found out, they tracked the helicopters by satellite—there was nothing I could do!”

“You made a deal. You took the money.”

“I know, I know, it was a mistake. I've made a lot of mistakes. In fact, I've decided to get out of the drug business completely.”

Fidel looked at him incredulously. One of the bureaucrats tittered impolitely.

“You are on a one-way street, my friend,” said Fidel. “You cannot turn around now.”

Tony began to feel sick, from either the smoke or the implications, he wasn't certain which. “What should I do?” he asked helplessly.

“I recommend a change of identity,” Fidel replied.

Tony grinned sickly, unsure how to respond. Was Fidel joking?

“Oh, Tony, Tony, Tony!” Fidel said, shaking his head with pitying affection. “Okay, we understand each other. Perhaps I can speak to someone. Make certain assurances.”

“Yes, of course—anything! Anything—within reason.”

“The return of their investment,” said Fidel.

“Five million dollars?” Tony said weakly.

“That
they gave you for protection, and how little you honored it. It was the premium on their insurance, as the capitalists would say. No, their loss was much greater than that. The plant, the machines, the helicopters, the loss of production time, the
inconvenience of the men you imprisoned, the necessity of building a new facility—all this amounts to a billion dollars, in their opinion.”

Tony started to speak, but the words wouldn't come—all those zeroes had formed a traffic jam in his mouth.

L
ATER THAT EVENING
Fidel relaxed with his arm around Felicidad at the nearly empty Copacabana. A French tour group divided its attention between Fidel and the bare-breasted showgirls onstage. They were surely the most beautiful girls in the world, but everyone in the club was openly staring at Fidel. After more than thirty years in power, he was still an object of obsession in his own country. Tony thought he himself must have become completely invisible. No one knew who he was, or cared—even his wife had spent the entire meal gazing at Fidel adoringly. Tony was shocked to see her relaxing into the old guerrilla's embrace.

Strobe lights gave the whole scene a hypnotic silent-movie effect. Blinkety blinkety blinkety.

“It's the only way we bring in hard currency,” Fidel said as a way of explaining the decadence of the nightclub—and the prices. Another bottle of French wine manifested itself on the table, adding five hundred dollars to the Cuban trade deficit.