Full Circle

"It's Mercedes."

Will was referring to the retro travel poster he'd purchased at the book store that morning which now added a splash of color to the previously blank wall in their apartment.

Jack squinted one eye and cocked his head. "Yes, I can see the resemblance. Quite remarkable."

The smiling girl on the poster posed under bright blue skies and tropical palms, a lovely attractive lure for the snowbound tourists who used to flock to her island.

CUBA - Paradise of the Tropics.

Will ran a smoothing hand softly across the image. "I prefer to remember her, and Havana, this way. Before…"

Wrapping an arm around Will's waist, Jack gave an acknowledging squeeze. "Before it all went to hell."

They hadn't known the fate of the two women after they'd left them that night in Havana. After haggling bureaucratic red tape for near a week, Jack and Will had finally been given clearance to sail on the Flying Pearl, leaving behind the motor launch with strict instructions to Miguel to turn it over to Flavio when he returned to Cojimar.

As predicted, the island had exploded in a revolutionary fire not long afterwards, closing the ports and isolating the people. Many fled before, during, and immediately after Fidel Castro took power, but it wasn't until the new regime began to show the same ugly side as the old that the others fled – on boats, inner tubes, rafts, anything that would float.

They were called Balseros, or Rafters.

Freedom lay but a short distance away, across the Florida Straits, a seven hour ferry ride to Key West. But for many, that 90 mile stretch of water would be their final destination.

It was during one stormy night, when the Flying Dutchman had surfaced to collect those that had perished, that Will had come face to face with someone from his past. Clinging to the hull of the overturned launch, so grossly overcrowded it had capsized in the storm, Flavio had been shocked to see the Captain of the Dutchman.

"Captain Turner!" The man's face went white as he glanced fearfully around at the ship. "Where am I?"

Will squatted down next to him and explained calmly. "You are on board the Flying Dutchman. I will see that you pass safely to the other side."

"Then I am dead?"

"Yes, we have found no survivors."

Flavio buried his face in his hands. "It was all my fault. I couldn't say no. Pedro, he wanted to send his young daughters to America. Maria, she begged to bring her grandmother, and her cousins. Javier, he bought a fare for one and showed up with twelve others, all relatives he said. They all begged, most didn't even have the fare, I couldn't leave them behind. The launch, it sat so low in the water, the waves began to come over the sides. And then, the storm hit. And now they are all dead." He began to weep.

"You were trying to help."

Flavio looked up at Will, shock and dismay in his eyes. "I was wrong, Captain Turner, wrong about everything. I thought we would free Cuba from tyranny and instead, we opened the door to something even worse. I saw, with my own eyes, the destruction of my homeland, families torn apart, death, killings, many more that Batista ever carried out. And I vowed I would try, on my mother's grave, my father's name, that I would do anything I could to help the people who were suffering. And yet, still I have failed. I failed Marta, and Mercedes. And I have failed these people as well."

"These people knew the risks, they chose to take them."

"Yes, they were desperate. And desperate people do desperate things. I should have told them no, left some behind, not overloaded the boat."

Will knew from experience that the newly deceased had to come to terms with their own death, each in their own time. He left Flavio to grieve privately and moved on to the remaining casualties, a calming presence amidst the chaotic night. Something nagged at the back of his mind, but Will managed to set it aside until later that evening, when he returned to his cabin to fill out the log.

As he added Flavio's name to the record, he remember what was bothering him. Flavio had said he had failed Marta, and Mercedes. Names Will remember from long ago, names that brought back memories of a summer of heat and passion and revolution.

Returning on deck, Will sought out Flavio, who had settled down in the bow and was watching the waves with a pensive stare. At first Flavio hadn't wanted to talk about it, so Will had joined him in silent vigil, waiting patiently for the story to come. When Flavio did begin to speak he spoke so softly that Will had to strain to hear the words.

The story was a familiar one, and yet more chilling in its brutality as the victims were both known to him. The women had been picked up shortly after they left the Hotel Nacional. Taken to police headquarters they had been "questioned" for several hours on their knowledge of the insurgents' movements and plans. Both had been tortured, and most likely raped. Marta did not survive the night, though she stayed true to the cause and did not reveal any information. They found her battered and bloodied body dumped in a vacant lot the next morning.

Mercedes, sweet innocent Mercedes, had been brutalized in the worse way. Her lovely face cut beyond recognition. Realizing she did not have any information, they had finally released her, barely breathing. Taken to a safe house, she had spent several months recovering, and from the ashes a true revolutionary had been born. She had fled to the mountains and joined the bearded ones as camp nurse, trading her fine gowns for army fatigues. In time, she became proud of who she had become and no longer hid behind bandannas and scarves, her many scars, seen as proof positive of the evil that needed to be overthrown.

It was even rumored that Fidel had taken a special interest in her, and made her his mistress.

Poor Mercedes. Once the Revolution had reached Havana, she had been shuffled aside as her scars rendered her less than desirable in the public eye. She had been assigned to the prison, to aide in interrogations; it was said one look at her face would make even the most hardened cringe in fear. But the years of intimidation, torture, death, took their toll, and Mercedes had finally ended her torment with a plunge off El Morro's watch tower.

Flavio, having spent the greater portion of his adult life fighting for the welfare of others, chose to stay aboard the Dutchman and aide those unfortunate souls lost at sea. He was to meet many more of his countrymen in the years ahead, as the steady stream of Balseros made their bids for freedom.

"To Mercedes," Jack raised a solemn toast.

Will clinked his glass softly with Jack's. "May she be at peace."

The two men drank in silence. So many wars, so many revolutions, so many senseless deaths, lives ruined. Eternity stretched before them and history repeated itself, like a broken record. But life was to be embraced, not despaired.

After a moment of silent respect, Jack went over and flipped through the old album collection he insisted on carrying wherever he went. Finding the one he wanted, he carefully placed it on the turntable and lowered the needle. The scratchy tune brought back sultry nights and smoky nightclubs. Turning to Will, Jack bowed and asked, "Shall we dance?"

And so they danced. Swaying to the rumba beat, eyes closed, once more in Havana, 1957.

You could almost smell the cigars.

Finis.