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150 • expulsion from paradise By the late 1960s, I was a thorn firmly planted in Marta Arjona’s side. One day, without much warning, I received a phone call from her office . The unidentified person on the other end of the line informed me that an important foreign diplomatic delegation was scheduled to visit the Hemingway Museum. That same person suggested I should receive the delegation wearing a miliciano uniform. I told them that I had no uniform and that El Consejo Nacional de Cultura had never issued uniforms of any kind to the museum staff. I went on to say that during all the years I worked at the Finca, I wore guayaberas and dress slacks, and I wasn’t planning to wear anything else. Needless to say, the irritated person slammed the receiver down hard. A couple of days later I received another telephone call from El Palacio de Bellas Artes informing me that another important delegation would be arriving at the museum. It was a delegation of foreign war heroes and their wives. I was instructed to close the museum to the general public and attend only to them. They also wanted people who had firsthand knowledge of Hemingway’s life in Cuba to be present and ready to answer questions. The only other person available on such short notice was Gregorio Fuentes. Gregorio had been able to receive a smaller boat in exchange for the Pilar and had joined the cooperativa de pescadores. But because of his old age, he had had to give up fishing. Fortunately, I was able to get him a permanent position at the Finca. When the delegation arrived, I began the tour outside of the house. When we reached the dining room area, I allowed them to come into hemingway’s cuban son 151 the house. In addition to the delegation’s escort, who spoke Russian to the visitors, I had the help of my two assistants, Gregorio Fuentes, and the two milicianos who guarded the museum at night. At one point, as I turned my back to the group to point out one of the trophies on the west wall of the dining room, I saw out of the corner of my eye one of the female visitors take a dessert spoon from the table and put it in her bag. The silverware displayed on the table was the expensive silverware Mary had brought back from Venice with Hemingway ’s emblem engraved on it. My two assistants witnessed it too, as did Gregorio, the other members of the delegation, and the escort. The two milicianos looked at me and confirmed that they had also witnessed it. Discreetly, I approached the escort. He said to wait until the tour was over and he would speak to the woman. The woman knew we had seen her. Nervous, she insisted on going out to the terrace. I whispered to Gregorio to follow her. He followed her as she walked toward the tour bus. I quietly urged the escort to do something before she got the opportunity to discard the evidence. “Compañero, you’re accusing one of the wives of these distinguished officers of theft!?” he said in a loud voice, capturing everyone’s attention and expecting me to back down and not confront him. But I confronted him and demanded that the silver spoon be returned. The infuriated man turned to the delegation and spoke to them. By the reaction of the group and the tone of his voice, I knew it was not good. “I told them you said they were all thieves!” I gestured “no” to the delegation and then, clenching my fist in his face, demanded that the guide tell them the truth. “You’re mierda now! You’ll end up in jail or working in the fields!” he blurted. I held back. Things were bad already, and if I hit him it would get worse. “Let’s call Fidel Castro right now,” I said. “Let him hear both sides of the story. When this is over, then let’s see who’s going to jail. Or, if you want, we can settle it como hombres!” “I’m an officer. I’m not a common street brawler,” the man said nervously. “Lo que no tienes son cojones!” I said, my jaw clenched. The rest of the delegation watched the altercation in astonishment. There was no way I could communicate to them and explain and let them know I had...

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