In a little while he observed clinically that there was no respiration. He went to her, unknowingly shrugging off the priest’s hand, and took her into his arms.

“I love you. I love you. Please.” His voice was loud in the silent room.

His mother went out in expensive but lonely splendor. Rafe made certain there were flowers in profusion. The casket was like a copper Cadillac with blue velvet upholstery. The last thing he did for her was pre-pay for the Solemn High Mass of Requiem in St. Cecilia’s. Guillermo and Uncle Erneido flew up from Miami. The housekeeper and the floor maid from the Ritz came and sat in the last row. A trembly drunk who muttered to himself and knelt at the wrong times sat alone in the corner, four seats away from the church custodian. Other than that, St. Cecilia’s was completely empty, a polished echo smelling of floor wax and incense.

At the graveside in Brookline they were alone, shivering with sorrow and fear and the bone-piercing cold. When they returned to the Ritz-Carlton, Erneido excused himself and went to bed with a headache and pills. Rafe and Guillermo went to the lounge and sat and drank scotch. It was like bad old times, drinking and not listening to Guillermo. Finally, through an alcoholic haze, as from a distance he understood that Guillermo was telling him something of great importance.

“. . . Giving us arms, planes, tanks. Training us. They will fight right by our side, those Marines are wonderful fighters! We’ll have air cover. We’ll need every officer, you will have to contact everybody you know. I am a captain. You no doubt will be a captain, too.”

He concentrated hard and realized what his brother was talking about, then he laughed without mirth. “No,” he said. “Thank you.”

Guillermo stopped talking and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I need no invasions. I plan to stay here. I’m going to apply for citizenship papers.”

Sixty percent horror, thirty percent hatred, ten percent contempt, he decided, watching his brother’s veiled Meomartino eyes.

“You don’t believe in Cuba?”

“Believe?” Rafe laughed. “I’ll tell you the truth, big brother. I don’t believe in anything, not the way you mean. I think all movements, all large organizations in this world are lies and profit for somebody. I believe, I suppose, in people doing as little harm as possible to other human beings.”

“Noble. What you really mean is you have no balls.”

Rafe stared at him.

“You never had balls.” Guillermo downed his drink and snapped his fingers for service. “I have balls enough for all the Meomartinos. I love Cuba.”