"vVhat'1l you gimme," said the American voice.
"vVhat you got?"
"Got nothin' but luv," crooned the voice with
ukeleles whanging a chorus.
A man got up and walked out rapidly holding his
hat over his belly. Mrs. Sidney rose deliberately and
went to the back of the th-eater. In the vestibule a
dozen men stood quietly. They were smoking and
looked at her curiously, at her American clothes and
her eyes very blue in her tanned face. One of the
men without smiling broke the intentness of his fixed
~aze. She spoke to him. "What happened?"
"A bus blew up. Right outside. You can't go now."
"How 7" said Mrs. Sidney taking a cigarette
slowly from her pocketbook. The Cuban looked with
admiration at the coldblooded American.
"A bomb," he said shrugging.
She put the cigarette in her mouth. "Allow me,"
he said graciously as if at a party. He flourished a
nice nickle plated lighter. Mrs. Sidney moved her
head politely and held it steadily.
"And the machine gun?"
"Police," he said suddenly sucking back the smile
that had appeared faintly. "People killed?" she went
on, looking at him. He nodded, staring hard, and she
moved off carelessly as if humming a catchy tune. She
did not dare ask who was in the bus, had strikers
been killed by gun fire or were the scabs dead. She
waited instead, walking aimlessly feeling the eyes
envious and contemptuous of American tourists.
vVheeling suddenly she caught them looking, brazen-
ly friendly and wary. Inside the theater the American
voices were again coming unmolested and banal
from the screen. The heavy iron shutter rolled up.
Creaking it rose and stuck half way above the now
opened doorway. Mrs. Sidney went to the edge and
looked out between the shoulders of two men. The
street was completely empty. A little rain must have
fallen. In other doorways iron curtains were raised
or were raising and a very few people stood staring
into the naked street. She did not see it at first and
then she saw it. A pool of blood gummed the pave-
ment in front of the theater. The wreck from the
bus had been cleared away. Little pieces like bed-
raggeled confetti clotted the gutters.
Mrs. Sidney looked at her watch. Ten Forty-five.
In a few minutes she must leave to be back at the
hotel by eleven. "The man" might come. She thought
of him as "the man" with the detachment of dis-
trust just as she thought of those Cubans whom she
had seen every day before her trip down the island
as friends. The friends were now in jailor in hid-
ing. She had no way to reach them or to learn what
was going on anymore except through the man. To
keep herself free and above suspicion she must con-
tinue to walk, to look aimless, to buy foolish souve-
nirs, stare at the capitol like a tourist and be indif-
ferent to death.
8
The awaited moment had come. For two months
she had been waiting. There had been time for doubt
of her to wear thin. Both sides had been suspicious.
The American officials had concluded she was O.K.
A little sentimental about the poor and oppressed
but then she was a woman with a woman's heart and
the administration had no wish to antagonize such
people. There were plenty of stinks on the island and
the best way to act was to be open and frank and
show the best side up. Her credentials were first rate,
first rate papers. And her manners, perfectly respect-
able, clothes smart, really it was a pleasure to pass
her on to the sugar crowd who liked to pretend their
affairs were an open book.
The other side of the fence had not swallowed her
so easily. Where was her money coming from? Still
three pencilled lines drawn swiftly from the lining
of her pocketbook quieted their doubts. Their proud
doubting eyes had softened. Even if they were tak-
ing a chance, they must take it or die with their story
untold. They thought of the great American cities,
the United States gorged with fat, so near yet so far,
the high buildings, millions of cars, swell clothes and
factories. Useless to tell them that poverty numbed
millions there, that factories idled. At evening along
the sea wall, they sat, dozens of Cubans, feeling the
narrow island press cruel as a cage upon their backs.
As the boats glided through the narrow pass, they
watched the gulls enviously, straining their eyes to-
ward the mainland, the light on the waves dazzling
them. To be away, to be free, to breathe without
fear. If only the world rightly knew of their sorrows.
They suffered the illusion that their griefs were
unique, that no one had borne such trouble, that if
the world knew, the end would come and a new day
truly begin. They had a terribile respect for urint
and understood the lies of the island well. As for
those papers that dared speak, they were soon
silenced. Castor oil and guns worked here as in Italy.
In dreams those Cubans saw their story liberated
with all the elaborate Spanish turns of phrase, the
indirectness that was oratory wasted, and they
fancied that such long passionate pieces would ap-
pear in headlines in New York papers, that citizens
riding in subways and great smoothly running cars
would read, would freeze with horror, would im-
mediately quit everything to telegraph, Stop, stop.
And underneath this phantasy that was wide-
spread among Cubans who longed for liberation
f~om their troubles, the hard heads that counted
cynically on organization only to achieve their pur-
pose allowed themselves to hoard a tiny hope that
she might really stir up sympathy for their cause.
They had suspicion of her respectability and respect
for her credentials and they agreed, the realists, that
she should be trusted and watched.
They had let her go down the island that had
been turned into a long lush wasteland of pale green
sugarcane, both crowds passing her from hand to
OCTOBER,
1936
