90 Miles to Havana by Enrique Flores-Galbis Read Free Book Online Page B

the bare cement walls.
    He claps his big hand over my face. “What’s the matter with you?”
    I wiggle free and jump out into the hallway; he grabs the back of my collar and lifts me off the ground.
    â€œCan’t breathe!” I gasp.
    Then I hear my mother, “
Ay dios,
Julian!” She’s running down the crowded hallway yelling, “What are you doing to him?”
    A crowd gathers, and soldiers muscle the onlookers against the wall—no one dares to push back—no one says a word. They watch silently as the two guards push my mother and me into another small room where my father and brothers are waiting.
    My father stands up. “Señor, I apologize. He’s not used to being searched.” He looks at his watch and smiles at the little man behind the desk, “
Por favor, capitan
, our plane leaves in three minutes.”
    â€œGetting your children on the airplane is not my department. My job is to make sure that your papers are in order,” the little man says, and then orders the red-faced guard to go ahead and search my brothers. He checks the passports very carefully. When my mother sees me staring at the man she raises one eyebrow and nods toward the door. “Julian, why don’t you wait outside.”
    My mother is very proud of those passports. I don’t know how, but she found a master forger, “an artist” she called him, who changed the dates of my brothers’ birthdays so that they could get out.
    I sit down on the floor, put my suitcase across my legs like a table, and take out the handkerchief. The first few pieces of the plate fit together perfectly; no chips or cracks. If I had some glue, you could never tell it was ever broken. But when I put all the pieces together there is still a hole right in the middle where the palm tree should be; I’m missing one piece.
    Twenty minutes after the airplane is scheduled to leave, my father opens the door. “Let’s go!” he says. I swipe the plate into the napkin, shove it into my pocket, and run to the room. Inside, my mother is checking her lipstick in a little mirror. Finally, she snaps her pocketbook closed, grabs the passports, and leisurely strolls out. She’s too proud to let the little man get the best of her.
    When my father closes the door, her expression changes from poker face to pure panic. “Run!” she yells as Alquilino and Gordo walk out into the hallway.
    We arrive panting at the gate; the propellers on the silver airplane are spinning. A man in blue coveralls is standing on the wing getting ready to close the door as my mother waves our forged papers at the guard.
    â€œHere,” my father says as he hands me a box of cigars. “They can’t get the good Cuban cigars in America. Even the president is looking for them. They’re as good as dollars up there,” he says.
    I’m not sure what he means, but I tuck them under my arm and look away as he pulls me in. I want to tell him I’m sorry for losing his lucky fish, and breaking his lucky plate, but I can’t.
    Then he looks into my eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, Julian. It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “This was all coming long before you lost that fish.”
    Just to hear him say “you lost that fish” makes me flinch. He hugs me one more time, pressing my nose into the scented handkerchief in the pocket of his suit.
    Then my mother whispers, “I love you.” She kisses me on the forehead. “Take good care of my little swallow; we’re going to need it when we get out.”
    I can tell she’s trying to control herself, but I know she can’t hold back for long. Her face looks like a big raindrop that’s about to burst.
    Then someone pulls me out into the heat and noise of the runway. Alquilino and Gordo are running ahead of me into the midday glare. I’m trying to catch up but I can’tfeel my legs on the hot