Preview First Novel from Micheal K. Nishitani

Excerpt from THE LAST REVOLUTION

“But where are the lights?” Hiro muttered, feeling his breath quicken. The plane was approaching its final descent to the Havana airport, but aside from a scant few landing lights, it was dark. And frighteningly strange.

With unease that was fast approaching panic, Hiro peered harder at what he hoped was the runway, tempted to call the flight attendant and demand to know why there were no lights below. Just as fast, he thought, Don’t make a fool of yourself. It’s just dark. Nothing to be frightened of.

He could make out the outline of buildings, and what he recognized as Russian-made airliners and jets: Aeroflot Tupolev-Tu-154s, and USSR-made supersonic Tupolev Tu-144 LLs. Though he’d never seen real ones, only pictures in a magazine, sighting the Tupelovs reassured him that he was actually in a Communist country.

Somehow the plane made a safe, if bumpy landing. Yet more sights troubled him once they were on the ground. As the airplane landed, several green-uniformed Cuban military officers approached. At least they didn’t carry weapons. Several rundown-looking transport buses followed the officers, and Hiro and his fellow passengers were told to board them.

It was only 8:30 p.m. A US airport would’ve held scores of planes, workers with carts everywhere, and lights and more lights illuminating a busy, lively tarmac. Other than his, there were no airplanes in sight.

After years in the United States, Hiro had almost forgotten what it was like back in Japan during and after the war. What he was seeing now reminded him of wartime Japan.

Perhaps that’s why so few lights are burning, he thought, trying calm himself. Perhaps Cuba’s trying to conserve energy?

Inside the airport, he saw many of what appeared to be Cuban Americans returning home to Cuba, as well as others who seemed to be American tourists like him. Their numbers were another puzzle to him, since he’d read that American citizens hadn’t been allowed to enter Cuba legally since 1965. Only his Japanese passport allotted him entry now.

Inside the airport, a woman in a green uniform handed out cards, charging twenty dollars for each and telling people to fill them out. The card asked questions about how long he intended to stay in Cuba, and where. That wasn’t the only thing so different. Military uniforms were everywhere. He felt his former anxiety come back, trepidation he hadn’t felt since his childhood in Hiroshima. It was dark here as well, the only light from a small fluorescent tube. The entire area was plain and shabbily depressing.

At a row of booths made of rough plywood, uniformed officers were using computers to check the immigration status and background information on everyone entering. The computers resembled some of the ones he’d used nearly twenty years previously, obsolete in both Japan and the United States. But not here in Cuba.

He heard shouting from the line of booths, and the hand holding his camera case stiffened when he glanced over. He’d read that the Cuban government took security seriously. The Cuban officers were being particularly harsh and tough with the Cuban Americans returning home. Would they treat other visitors even worse? Visitors like him?

He got in line at the second booth. When it was his turn, he handed over his red Japanese passport. The officer, a man in his thirties whose tense, somber face made him look older, took a slow look at the passport, then Hiro’s face. He used his hands to signal Hiro to take off his hat. Feeling panic rise again, Hiro complied.

The man waved for Hiro to replace his hat, then said in stern Spanish, “What is the purpose of your trip?”

Hiro had only begun to study Spanish a few weeks before, but thanks to recall ability that had helped him become a wealthy and preeminent computer scientist, he was able to reply with some confidence, “I am here to tour the country.

 Tiene usted algun comprobante o recibo de reservacion del Hotel donde se hospeda??? He understood “hotel,” but didn’t understand the Spanish word for “voucher,” or anything else, so he said, “I would like to stay here for four weeks.”

The officer repeated the question. Hiro answered nervously, “A hotel?”

Clearly annoyed, the officer said in tortured English, “If you don’t have a voucher from a hotel, you will have to pay a fee here. The cost is forty-five dollars a day for three weeks. When you get your hotel bill, show this receipt. The hotel will deduct it from your bill.”

“I . . . I have a computer printout from a Canadian tourist company. I’m not sure if it’s a voucher.”

The officer looked through the paperwork and nodded, then told him his hotel reservation was in downtown Havana at the Hotel Inglaterra.

Feeling bolder, Hiro said, “I would like to visit the Japanese Embassy during my trip, too.”

“That is fine, but remember that you are authorized as a tourist only. You can stay only at a Cuban tourist hotel and only use the Cuban tourist taxis. You cannot stay in a Cuban’s home or ride in a personal car. . . . How much money are you carrying for this trip?”

Hiro struggled to find the right answer, afraid the official might confiscate the cash in his money belt if he gave the wrong one. At last, he said, “I have enough.”

Noticeably impatient, the officer said, “I repeat, how much money do you have?”

Deciding only the truth would satisfy the man, he answered, “I have eighteen thousand US dollars.” He showed the amazed official his waist pouch. He’d brought extra, hoping he could find a way to stay in Cuba for a couple of months.

The officer shook his head in disbelief. “Wow, my monthly salary is only five hundred Cuban pesos, or about twelve dollars US. Be especially careful!”

Hiro held his breath. The officer didn’t ask for any money, simply stamped his twenty-one day visitor’s visa. But then the officer’s unforgiving face was back on him. “If you want to stay longer than twenty-one days, then you must go to the downtown immigrations office one week in advance of the expiration date on the visa to complete the necessary paperwork. If you don’t do this, you’ll be fined and imprisoned. Do you understand me?”

Imprisoned? A bit shocked, Hiro nodded. “Yes. One week before expiration. Thank you.”

The man opened a door to the luggage area, and Hiro found his suitcase in the baggage claim area, in a big pile on the floor. Everything seemed so haphazard here compared to Japan or even the US. But still, he had business to take care of.

A guard double‑checked that his claim ticket number matched the number on his small suitcase. Next, a customs officer had to inspect his bags. In front of him in that line, a fat Cuban-American woman placed two huge suitcases and one large box on the table. Trying not to be obvious, he watched while the officer opened everything, and saw that she’d brought many used clothes, shoes, and other items. The customs official weighed the items and announced they totaled one hundred and forty pounds.

“Are these your clothes?” the officer asked her.

“Everything is mine. No gifts.”

He wrote a tax ticket for fourteen hundred dollars, with a fifty percent discount. Glancing at the form—he didn’t want to be caught snooping—Hiro calculated what that meant: She must pay seven hundred dollars in duty taxes, plus one-hundred fifty dollars for a small used television they had found in the box: eight hundred and fifty dollars just to enter the country.

The woman began to sniffle. “I don’t have that much money. These things are all I have. Please let me pass!”

When her tears didn’t work, she began to argue with the officer, who told her he would give her another fifty percent off, but she had to pay four hundred and twenty-five dollars or leave everything with them and pay for storage. With a mean smile, he said, “Then, when you leave Cuba, you can take it all home with you.”

“But I have only three hundred and twenty-five dollars,” she sobbed. Her sobs became hysterical and she fell to the floor.

“Take it or leave it,” the man said, his voice carrying disgust.

Hiro had never seen anyone so upset before. “Look, Officer,” he said, “I’ll pay the difference.”

They all looked at this Japanese stranger in shock, which Hiro tried to ignore while he paid the remaining hundred dollars. It was his turned to be stunned when the woman grabbed him and kissed him all over his face. He stepped back, wiping his cheeks with his hands, too flabbergasted to react while the woman thanked him over and over, and then took her huge cart of luggage out the door.

Now it was his turn. He stepped to the table with his bags. The officer asked, “Do you have any friends here?”

“No. This is my first visit,” he replied, readying himself for a similar battle.

The officer glanced through Hiro’s scant luggage, and simply told him to go on through.

Wondering how many times these two scenes had played out, right here, in an average week, he left the customs area and walked to the airport’s exit, feeling the weight of exhaustion. It was about eleven p.m. by then, and he’d been in immigrations and customs for nearly three hours. Outside, a welcome tropical breeze hit his face, but he heard many people yelling names and talking all at once. This place was dark as well, but when his eyes adjusted he saw hundreds of people, all loudly greeting friends and family, hugging and kissing, happy to see each other, the different cultures and their greetings so different from in Japan, where one greeted another person quietly and with little emotion.

From their reactions to one another, he knew they still had deep wounds inside them from the Cold War intervention between the US and USSR. He understood such wounds; he was a victim of the bombing of Hiroshima, Havana and the Cuban people were victims of the Cold War, and he was witnessing the aftermath of such deprivations in present time. He’d come here to this country that was so similar yet so different trying to heal those wounds. But at that instant, amidst the shouts and hubbub of greetings, nothing would stop what his mind was doing to him. Instantly, he was sixteen again, experiencing a flashback of the live radio broadcasts from the Cuban revolution in January 1959. From there his mind forced a much harsher, much closer flashback of bombs falling from the sky.

Fighting a scream, he dropped his camera case and suitcase, slapped his hands over his ears, and prayed to live until the noise and danger stopped.

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