MANICHAEAN
11-13-2010, 03:39 AM
THE CUBAN RUN.
When he had left the house, his wife had not spoken. She sat in the lounge chair by the stone built outer wall & the shade from the table lamp threw mixed shadows and colourings on her gaunt profile. The kids had been put to bed earlier.
Outside it was cold & the sea breeze blew inland with the smell of dead sea grass thrown up and rotting on the small port’s sea wall.
He moved downhill with that physical grace that big men have, towards the bar & the chance of work. Some strangers wanted to charter his boat & he was in no position to be fussy. Initial information was that they wanted carrying to Cuba & the official route was not an option.
There was risk but there was no room for self pity. Ever since a boy in this small community he had no pity for nobody. But then he never had pity for himself either.
The intermediary & four Cubans could be seen as he entered the bar, sitting in an alcove corner.
“Sit down” said one of them in English. He was heavy and hard looking with a big face and a voice somewhere near his boot straps.
The others were younger, spoke softly in Spanish & deferred to the spokesman.
“What’s your name?” the heavy Cuban said.
“Who’s asking?” Monty replied. It was that kind of relationship.
He wanted to do this on his own, but then knew he could not.
He tried to ascertain if any of them looked like sailors. The young quiet one he thought. He looked more weather beaten around the face & had competence.
Monty knew that he had to know the odds. If they figured out there in the Gulf to do without him and take the boat, he had to take measures to avert it happening.
Betrayal is a nasty word, but then survival for him and his family in these times was not exactly an inspirational word either.
Difficult times are supposed to bring out the best in man. Monty’s instinct told him not to be so naive. He had his boat. There was no fishing any more, no tourists, no nothing. The boat was his ace and his mainstay, his dignity and his article of faith.
It was outside of Cardenas Bay, east of Havana that they hit trouble, when the gun boat came at early light before they could disembark. Don from back in the Keys got it first with a bullet through the throat & three of the Cubans were also down. Monty wounded below the shoulder knew he did not have long to go, but still clung to the wheel trying to escape. The young surviving Cuban was moving among the dying on deck, doing what he could, but it was hopeless.
The engine took a hit from the gun mounted on the patrol boat & momentum through the choppy sea ebbed away. Monty took another hit in the chest & slumped down. He could see the young Cuban move towards him bringing a cup of water. There was something about the positioning of the fingers that disturbed him.
The Cuban knelt on one knee beside him, supporting his shoulders with one arm and offering the cup.
Blood from within his chest ran from his mouth and mingled with the water offered.
The Cuban leaned forward close to Monty.
“Do you want me to hear your confession?” he said.
“I’m not a Catholic” Monty replied.
“Does it matter?” he added.
“Not really. I absolve you”
And he passed away.
When he had left the house, his wife had not spoken. She sat in the lounge chair by the stone built outer wall & the shade from the table lamp threw mixed shadows and colourings on her gaunt profile. The kids had been put to bed earlier.
Outside it was cold & the sea breeze blew inland with the smell of dead sea grass thrown up and rotting on the small port’s sea wall.
He moved downhill with that physical grace that big men have, towards the bar & the chance of work. Some strangers wanted to charter his boat & he was in no position to be fussy. Initial information was that they wanted carrying to Cuba & the official route was not an option.
There was risk but there was no room for self pity. Ever since a boy in this small community he had no pity for nobody. But then he never had pity for himself either.
The intermediary & four Cubans could be seen as he entered the bar, sitting in an alcove corner.
“Sit down” said one of them in English. He was heavy and hard looking with a big face and a voice somewhere near his boot straps.
The others were younger, spoke softly in Spanish & deferred to the spokesman.
“What’s your name?” the heavy Cuban said.
“Who’s asking?” Monty replied. It was that kind of relationship.
He wanted to do this on his own, but then knew he could not.
He tried to ascertain if any of them looked like sailors. The young quiet one he thought. He looked more weather beaten around the face & had competence.
Monty knew that he had to know the odds. If they figured out there in the Gulf to do without him and take the boat, he had to take measures to avert it happening.
Betrayal is a nasty word, but then survival for him and his family in these times was not exactly an inspirational word either.
Difficult times are supposed to bring out the best in man. Monty’s instinct told him not to be so naive. He had his boat. There was no fishing any more, no tourists, no nothing. The boat was his ace and his mainstay, his dignity and his article of faith.
It was outside of Cardenas Bay, east of Havana that they hit trouble, when the gun boat came at early light before they could disembark. Don from back in the Keys got it first with a bullet through the throat & three of the Cubans were also down. Monty wounded below the shoulder knew he did not have long to go, but still clung to the wheel trying to escape. The young surviving Cuban was moving among the dying on deck, doing what he could, but it was hopeless.
The engine took a hit from the gun mounted on the patrol boat & momentum through the choppy sea ebbed away. Monty took another hit in the chest & slumped down. He could see the young Cuban move towards him bringing a cup of water. There was something about the positioning of the fingers that disturbed him.
The Cuban knelt on one knee beside him, supporting his shoulders with one arm and offering the cup.
Blood from within his chest ran from his mouth and mingled with the water offered.
The Cuban leaned forward close to Monty.
“Do you want me to hear your confession?” he said.
“I’m not a Catholic” Monty replied.
“Does it matter?” he added.
“Not really. I absolve you”
And he passed away.