Inside the heavy wooden door, I gave my name to an equally sleepy-looking soldier and, having delivered my request to see Lieutenant Quevedo, I waited in front of another portrait of F.B., the one with him wearing the uniform with the lampshade epaulettes and a cat-that-had-all-the-cream smile. Knowing what I now knew about his share of casino money, I thought he probably had a lot to smile about.

When I had tired of being inspired by the self-satisfied face of the Cuban president, I went to a big window and stared out at a parade ground, where several armored cars were parked. Looking at them, I found it hard to see how Castro and his rebels had ever thought they stood a chance against the Cuban army.

Finally I was greeted by a tall man in a beige uniform, with gleaming leather, buttons, teeth, and sunglasses. He looked dressed up for a portrait of his own.

“Señor Hausner? I’m Lieutenant Quevedo. Would you come this way, please?”

I followed him upstairs, and while we walked, Lieutenant Quevedo talked. He had an easy way about him and seemed different from the picture Captain Sánchez had painted of the man. We came along a corridor that looked as if it could be a Life magazine pictorial biography of the little president: F.B. in sergeant’s uniform; F.B. with President Grau; F.B. wearing a trench coat and accompanied by a trio of Afro-Cuban bodyguards; F.B. and several of his top generals; F.B. wearing a hilariously outsized officer’s cap, making a speech; F.B. sitting in a car with Franklin D. Roosevelt; F.B. gracing the cover of Time magazine; F.B. with Harry Truman; and, finally, F.B. with Dwight D. Eisenhower. As if the armored cars weren’t enough for the rebels to deal with, there were the Americans, too. Not to mention three American presidents.

“We call this our wall of heroes,” Quevedo said, jokingly. “As you can see, we have only the one hero. Some people call him a dictator. But if he is, then he’s a very popular one, it seems to me.”

I halted momentarily in front of the Time magazine cover. I had a copy of the same magazine somewhere in my apartment. There was a critical remark about Batista on my copy that was absent from this one, but I couldn’t remember what it was.

“You’re wondering where the title went, perhaps,” observed Quevedo. “And what it said?”

“Was I?”