Libra - Don Delillo [152]
“Carmine has talked to people from Chicago, from Florida. This is amazing material, Leon, for you to think about. Think about it. On one level the government is seeking conciliation with Cuba. On another level it is sending out assassins.”
The next day—it was September 9—Lee picked up the Times-Picayune and read that Castro was charging the U.S. with plotting assassinations.
“United States leaders should think that if they are aiding terrorist plans to eliminate Cuban leaders,” he said, “they themselves will not be safe.”
Lee read the story several times. It was as if they had control of the news, Ferrie, Banister, all of them, all-knowing. Of course it was only coincidence that Ferrie mentioned the thing one day and it appeared in the paper the next. But maybe that was even stranger than total control.
Coincidence. He learned in the bayous, from Raymo, that Castro’s guerrilla name was Alex, derived from his middle name, Alejandro. Lee used to be known as Alek.
Coincidence. Banister was trying to find him, not knowing what city or state or country he was in, and he walked in the door at 544 and asked for an undercover job.
Coincidence. He ordered the revolver and the carbine six weeks apart. They arrived the same day.
Coincidence. Lee was always reading two or three books, like Kennedy. Did military service in the Pacific, like Kennedy. Poor handwriting, terrible speller, like Kennedy. Wives pregnant at the same time. Brothers named Robert.
His nosebleeds started again the second night he was home. There was blood on the pillowcase. Marina told him he’d been shaking in his sleep.
They knew all about him, even where to get cartridges for his rifle. Plus the Feebees were reading his mail. Plus Marina was almost eight months pregnant, complaining about the way they lived, sarcastic about his principles as a fighter for progress. He missed two meetings with Bateman. He didn’t care about the money. They could keep their money. They didn’t own or control him. He lost weight. He could feel the difference in his clothes and see it in his face in the mirror. He took a careful stance on the screened porch and aimed the rifle at a man crossing the street, holding right where the head and neck join, saying the word windage to himself. He decided to study Spanish again.
He got his tourist card from the Mexican consulate. He got his documents and clippings in order. It was all for little Cuba, so the Cubans could see who he was.
He could get his visa and have them stamp it with a future date. He could go back to Dallas and shoot the fascist Walker. Then return to Mexico City, knowing his visa was already set, a solid fact, guaranteed travel to Havana. They would welcome him there as a hero.
He’d studied Spanish once before, or twice before. It would come easy this time.
Ferrie called his rifle the Man-Licker.
He fastened the playpen and stroller to the top of Ruth Paine’s station wagon, a green Chevy, a ’55, with rust spots and soft tires. He jammed suitcases and boxes inside, everything they owned. It was Ruth Paine’s now. He sneaked the rifle in, disassembled in an old blanket wrapped tight with kitchen string. He tied a granny knot.
He told Ruth Paine he might go to Houston to look for work, or maybe Philadelphia.
Marina’s eyes were wet with worry and love. He ran his fingertips along her high white neck. He fought off the tears. He thought his face might crumple like a child’s, washed in sorrow.
That night he streaked through a heavy rain with bag after bag of leftover junk, pushing old newspapers into a neighbor’s garbage can, letting pop bottles crash. Was anyone watching? Did a sleepless old lady keep track of these midnight sprints? He went back to the house at a shambling trot and was out again a moment later, quick-walking down the driveway with more junk pressed to his chest, the boy who spoke to no one on the street.
The next evening he stood on the porch waiting for the bus to pull up at the stop directly across Magazine. When it did, he hurried across the street carrying