After the Carnival
by
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The Woman in the Mirror July 1962, Cuba Paul’s face tightened in disbelief. He stared into the mirror as though frozen. Is this a fantasy? Her eyes fastened on his in the mirror. She raised a finger across her lips, a gesture of silence. Paul turned from the mirror and glanced cautiously to the dark booth in the corner. She was really there. Paul, trying to be nonchalant said, “I think I’ll talk to some of the customers. Keep an eye on the bar. If they want drinks, give them drinks. They’ve taken a hit with the money thing, but make sure they pay something.” Paul started toward the end of the bar, barely aware of anything except for the woman in the booth. Paul talked to a few customers and made his way to the dark-haired woman. No one seemed to be watching, as he slipped into the booth beside her. Paul whispered in astonishment, a hint of anger in his voice, “Patricia?” Her eyes stared deeply into his. Paul asked, “Where the hell have you been? What are you doing here? What’s going on?” Patricia again put her finger up to her lips to quiet him. “Not now, Paul. We’ll discuss it later. Right now, I need to talk to you about something very important.” Paul, with quiet anger in his voice, whispered again, “What the hell is going on?” Patricia spoke in hushed tones but every word was filled with electricity. “Paul, I’m a part of the anti-Castro underground. I’ve been in hiding.” Paul cut her off whispering gruffly, “I think I’ve figured that out. Why no word from you?” “I tried to call you, Paul. Then it all became so complicated.” Paul smiled and waved to a customer, heading to the toilet, “There’s no one in there.” He turned back to Patricia: “Complicated? I can imagine.” For a long moment Paul and Patricia stared at each other, longingly as if somehow trying to communicate without speaking. Finally, Patricia spoke, “We need to talk somewhere alone. Privately. I know I can trust you, Paul. Something has come up, and we need to ask you to help us.” Paul said, “We?” “Us?” he said, glancing out the window, memories of Patricia slipping through his mind. Suddenly, Paul stiffened. His mind flashed to Diaz’s picture. In the window, Paul saw Sergeant Terry. “Shit! Paul hissed, “Get outta here. Now!” Paul walked quickly back to the bar. Patricia stared after him, baffled and hurt. In a second, the doors burst open and in strode Sergeant Terry. Behind him were several other soldiers; others stood in the doorway and just beyond it. Loaded down with rifles and in baggy uniforms much too big for them, they looked somewhat comical, were it not for how lethal they were. Sergeant Terry looked glassy-eyed as though he’d been drinking. Paul looked out of the corner of his eye. Patricia had put her hands over mouth and was slinking out with the other patrons. Paul slammed his fist on the bar, grabbing Terry’s and the other soldiers’ attention. Sergeant Terry scowled, “So, the captain let you go? Well, I know what you’re up to.” Paul looked at the soldier. El Moray. Again, Paul and El Moray stared at one another like where have we met before? Paul hollered in Terry’s face, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m up to nothing. And I’m up to here with you.” Sergeant Terry pulled out his .45 automatic. The last people in the bar slowly headed for the door, then scattered quickly for the exit. Paul again, slammed his fist on the bar. Sergeant Terry yelled at the people scattering out. “Stay where you are.” He waved the pistol at them. But most everyone was now gone. Sergeant Terry turned his attention back to Paul. “We’ve heard Diaz Lanz is in town.” Sergeant Terry said. Terry pointed the .45 at Paul, as he scanned the now empty room. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to bust up your little bar here.” “I have nothing to tell.” Paul started washing glasses, then turned away from Terry, placing the glasses on the back bar. Paul looked in the mirror. He saw the .45 pointed at him. Suddenly, a loud blast rang out in the room and a lighted globe of the world advertising Schlitz beer next to Paul exploded into smithereens. Sergeant Terry calmly turned to the empty bar. “Anybody comes in here, they’re under arrest,” Paul turned to Terry. “These people are only laborers who have come in to relax and have a drink.” Sergeant Terry, his lip curled, “Shut up! You’re not supposed to be open this late. You’re breaking the law.” Paul’s face tightened with anger.
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About the Book
As he began to dump his grandfather’s body in the channel off the coast of Uwajima, a dazzling white light seared the entire western horizon on an August morning, 1945, in southern Japan. Moments later, a rumbling wave of hot air rolled over Fuyuki. The lightning light and the rumbling hot wind foretold the fifteen-year-old fisherman that his miserable life was now going to become intolerable. Ten thousand miles away on the western side of the International Date Line, below the equator, in the port city of Valparaiso, Chile, a tall young man, Paul, was playing canasta with his grandfather, father, and brother at an old inn when the doors from the kitchen sprang open and his mother walked out and asked his grandfather, “What’s an atomic bomb, Dad?” On that same Monday evening, as Paul was playing cards at Zona del Pescar, 4,000 miles away, north of the equator on the island of Cuba, a pretty young lady, about twelve years old, asked her father, “What’s an ‘automatic’ bomb?” “Never heard of it. Why do you ask, Patricia?” “It was on the radio.” And so began a chain reaction that would culminate December 1963 for Patricia and Paul.
About the Author
After more than twenty years as a professional journalist for publications that include The Hollywood Reporter, the Los Angeles Herald, the Los Angeles Business Journal, Shoreline Business Monthly, and Easyriders and V-Twin magazines, Paul Dileski developed an insight into people, their predicaments and motivations. His insight is clear here.