The reefs of the Bahamas and the North Coast of Cuba “belong” to a dominant predator, the barracuda, and in those waters the flesh of barracuda contains a neurotoxin called ciguatera. Remarkably this has not stopped Cubans and Bahamians from eating barracuda, and they suffer some of the highest rates of ciguatera poisoning in the world.
6 July 1943: Nassau Harbour
Hemingway wandered around the harborside market evaluating the food stalls. Vendors offered Bahamian breakfast fare, steaming fish stew or an equally steaming chicken soup called souse, rhymes with house. The stew seemed a little too mysterious—one eyeball too many—so he went with the souse.
The pre-arranged plan was a little loose, rhymes with obtuse. He was to loiter until noon until someone approached, no other details. It was past eleven, and he sat at a picnic table sipping a warm Guinness.
A woman’s voice from behind surprised him. “Captain Hemingway, I presume. My name is Petty Officer Barry, Royal Navy Wrens.”
“I’m out of uniform, so may call me Ernie.” Hemingway actually was in uniform. He was wearing shorts and a polo shirt with a stain across the front.
She wore a white tri-cornered hat. She was tall and built like a Rubens model, but her immaculate uniform jacket and skirt had obviously been tailored to meet the challenge. He liked her face.
“So, chief, can I assume a little birdie sent you?”
“Little birdie…Wren, please sir you slay me. I am the radio officer at the post here, so it was I that received your radio message. As a famous author, I would have thought you could have come up with something that made a little more sense.”
“You’re not the first to make that observation, my dear. Please have a seat, and please do call me Ernie. May I buy you a beer?”
“No thank you, Ernie. On duty. Well not exactly. I am off duty as far as the chain-of-command here is concerned. However, I am on duty as far as a little birdie in London is concerned, and I am in uniform.”
“What information do you and Commander Birdie have for me—can you tell me your first name?”
“Theresa. Friends call me Terry.”
“Terry Barry? You’d really have to roll your arse to say that in Spanish. Oh, sorry, there I go again.”
“Are you sure you didn’t attend one of our public schools, Ernie? Their graduates seem to be able to maintain the sense of humor of a 15-year-old long into adult life. Now may we get on to the information bit?
“On to business,” he said.
“The fellow in question is leaving the country on Saturday, four days hence. His wife has traveled ahead of him, so the only other person in the house is the maid, and she sleeps in a wee detached cottage. The indication from the Marine guard is that he is having some kind of affair there tonight with the governor. There is a park catty-corner to the mansion where one can watch the place without being too obvious.
She passed him a hand-drawn map with the address written on it. “There you have it. I must go now.”
Hemingway was a brute, but he could be charming. He asked her to have dinner with him at the restaurant in the square. She of course demurred. Then he intimated that a dinner date would help with the operation somehow. “What the heck, chief. There’s a war on. Life is short. I will regale you with tales of Paris and Madrid.”
She was 22, and he was a celebrity. She liked the way he called her ‘chief.’ She said yes. “And can I assume you have a clean shirt and trousers somewhere?”
5 July 1953: Nassau Harbour
Sipriz lay at anchor as the men prepared an evening meal of rice, beans, plantains and fried parrot fish over the coals in two of last three tinkered stoves. The boat rode high, having been emptied of cargo yesterday at quayside.
Duvalier was ashore on secret business, but for the others it had been a day of rest and routine maintenance. Tomorrow they would begin loading up for the return voyage. It might take a week to scour the city’s refuse dumps for bottles, old shoes and all manner of discarded hardware. Last year Sipriz had sailed the entire way home with a tattered box-spring mattress lashed to the cabin top. For a small fee, Pierre would also carry messages from Nassau’s Haitian community back to relatives.
“One of the reasons I have always loved our work, despite the danger, is coming to Nassau,” Pierre said. “It reminds me of the marvelous age we are living in. Look at all the aeroplanes we are seeing here, and look over there. What a beauty!”
The crew turned their heads to watch the black motorboat that had just slowed as she entered the harbor. Two men stood on the flying bridge. Four men loitered in the cockpit. She flew a yellow quarantine flag.
“That’s a fine yacht, boys—a yacht for rich white men, but by the grace of God maybe for us too someday.” He laughed. “So never cease looking down over the side. Keep an eye out for the glitter of gold. Mark these words: When we do find that Spanish treasure, that will be the boat I buy.”
6 July 1943: Nassau Harbour
The Basque leaned back on the metal rails that formed the flying bridge and scanned the waterfront market with binoculars. He hollered down to the men playing poker, drinking Guinness and, once again, eating ceviche.
“Aha! Don Ernie is flirting with a fat girl in a sailor’s uniform.”
The poker players laughed and Fuentes offered a rough translation for Bonkowski and Saxon. The Pole’s bemusement was momentary; eyes suddenly rolled back into his head, and he tumbled over taking the folding table with him. Minutes later when Hemingway climbed from the skiff onto Pilar, a tableau of misery presented itself.
Chips and cards littered the deck. Sprawled at center was Bonkowski with the rest of the crew standing around him, their faces a snapshot of dismay and disgust.
“Jesus Christ! Is he dead?”
“Not dead. Almost. Cannot move,” Bonkowski muttered.
“Don Ernesto, he has crapped in his shorts, and it is all liquid,” Fuentes said. “He cannot stand or move his arms. We must get him to a doctor.”
“We cannot get him to a fucking doctor, Gregorio. This is a secret fucking mission, remember?”
Instantly, a realization darkened Hemingway’s mood even more, and he directed his outrage at his captain. “Carajo! What did I tell you about barracuda? That is what happened. Is it not? More of that picua ceviche of yours. He has the cigua.”
Fuentes was mortified. “But Don Ernesto I brought a jar of ants from Nuevitas. I put a little piece of the picua’s liver in the jar, and the ants were all over it. By this test the picua should have been good. Mother of God, I knew we should have just taken one of the cats with us.”
“Did it ever occur to you, Gregorio, that none of that shit actually works? Since you are the jackass who poisoned him, you can be the one that takes his clothes off and cleans him up. Carry him down below and put him to bed. And for fuck’s sake, please put a canvas down on top of my new cushions. The rest of you help carry him. See that he gets plenty of water. Turn him over every once in a while. Any one of you could be next.”
Hemingway switched to English. “Don, send a message back to HQ. Tell ’em one of the crew has ciguatera poisoning. Request advice for treatment, although I don’t think any exists. And do not—repeat—do not tell them who’s got it.”
And to no one in particular: “Goddammit, what the fuck do I do now?”
5 July 1943: Afternoon, Harry Oakes house
Dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers, like the missionaries he had seen in Haiti, Duvalier approached the great house. Unhesitating, he decided on a direct approach. Satchel over one shoulder, all-business, he strode up the walk and rapped on the front door. To his surprise the knock was answered by what appeared to be the gentleman of the house.
Duvalier spoke three words in English: “Axel sent me.”
“I’ve been expecting you,” Oakes said. “Laurete, please come here.”
Laurete came to Oakes’ side wearing a maid’s smock. What a beautiful young woman, Duvalier thought.
“Laurete, this black buck has a package for me. Talk Haitian to him and translate. Tell him to go around the house and let him into the kitchen by the side door. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Next: Hemingway goes on a date, and the Duke of Windsor reads a commendation from Adolf Hitler.