She lit a cigarette and ignored me, and I did my best to ignore her back. I checked the tachometer, the oil level, the ammeter, and the motor temperature. Then I glanced out of the wheelhouse window. Smith Key, a small island once held by the British, lay ahead of us. It was home to many of Santiago’s fishing folk and pilots, and its red-tiled houses and small ruined chapel made it look very picturesque. But it wasn’t much next to the scene in Melba’s bikini pants.

The sea was calm until we reached the mouth of the harbor, where the water started to swell a bit. I pushed the throttle forward and held the boat on a steady east-southeast course until Santiago was no longer visible. Behind us the boat’s wake unzipped a great white scar in the ocean that was hundreds of feet long. Melba sat in the fisherman’s chair and squealed with excitement as our speed increased.

“Can you believe it?” said Melba. “I live on an island and I’ve never been on a boat before.”

“I’ll be glad when we’re off this tub,” I said, and fetched a bottle of rum from the chart drawer.

After about three or four hours it got dark and I could see the lights of the U.S. naval base at Guantánamo, twinkling on our port side. It was like staring at the ancient stars of some near galaxy that was at the same time a vision of the future in which American democracy ruled the world with a Colt in one hand and a stick of chewing gum in the other. Somewhere in the tropical darkness of that Yankee littoral thousands of men in white suits were engaged in the meaningless routines of their oceangoing, imperial service. In response to the cold imperative of new enemies and new victories they sat inside their floating, steel-gray cities of death, drinking Coca-Cola, smoking their Lucky Strikes, and preparing to free the rest of the world from its unreasonable desire to be different. Because Americans and not Germans were now the master race and Uncle Sam had replaced Hitler and Stalin as the face of the new empire.

Melba saw my lip curl and must have read my mind. “I hate them,” she said.

“Who? The yanquis?”

“Who else? Our good neighbors have always wanted to make this island one of their United States. And but for them Batista could never have remained in power.”