One
1
The most remarkable feature of the Parque de la Quinta, in Havana's posh Miramar suburb, is the full-grown, sixty-foot ficus trees. Their numerous hanging vines reach the public park's red clay, dig into it, grow roots, and form dozens of slender trunks around the main one. Nature-loving tourists coasting along Fifth Avenue in their rentals frequently slow down to gape at them, then risk a traffic ticket by parking next to the curb to photograph or videotape themselves next to the vegetal giants.
When that happens, the police officer standing under a metallic sunshade by the gleaming white residence of the Belgian ambassador to Cuba, a restored mansion on the corner of Fifth and 24th Street, usually says into the transceiver mounted on his left shoulder something like, "41 to 04. A 314 on Fifth between 24th and 26th. Plate T-00357," then waits to see whether a cop in a nearby squad car will arrive and slap a fine on the violator. But on this Friday morning, the young cop had been ogling a woman jogging around the park and didn't report the black Hyundai that had illegally pulled over on Fifth and discharged a tall, overweight man.
The jogger's blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail that reached below her shoulders and swayed gracefully as she ran. A light-green sweatshirt covered a skimpy bra in which were nestled small breasts; black Lycra leggings hugged ample round hips and well-proportioned thighs; cotton socks and sneakers completed her apparel. The cop wasn't paying attention to her long eyebrows, honey-coloured eyes, straight nose, or thin lips; he was focusing on her behind – not as hefty as he preferred. "Nice temba," he said, using the Cuban slang for an attractive woman in her late thirties or early forties.
The cop thought that her rangy escort, a few yards behind, looked like a middle-aged scholar who had decided to exercise on a regular basis only after intellectualizing the benefits involved, an impression enhanced by his innocent-looking blue eyes and clean-shaven face. Six or seven inches taller than her five-feet-four, he had short copper-coloured hair partially hidden by a white bandana. A purple sweatshirt covered his flat chest and belly; hairy legs showed under his baggy brown shorts. His feet, shod with Reeboks and lacking socks, revealed bony ankles.
The joggers turned on the corner of 24th and continued their fourth lap on the sidewalk along Fifth. Perspiration glistened on their faces, darkened the cloth under their armpits. Their skin, where visible, was quite rosy.
This made the cop assume the joggers were 61 is, the code for aliens. In Havana, among white people, at a glance and from a distance, a suntan frequently sets locals apart from foreigners. Particularly in Miramar, where embassies and the offices of multinationals are flanked by private homes, it's not easy to surmise who is or isn't a native.
Clothing is not an infallible clue. Most Cubans dress modestly, but the number of those in fashionable sportswear and flashy running shoes – the dress favoured by many tourists – grows steadily as remittances from Cubans living abroad increase year after year. Red or rosy skin is a more reliable indication.
Few of the sun's rays filtered through the park's dense foliage canopy and reached the soil, where spots of lawn survived precariously alongside fine gravel. Dead leaves were being raked by a gardener. The scent of dew and plants was overpowered by the exhaust fumes from the steady stream of vehicles speeding along. Sparrows and grackles pecking close to the sinuous walkways fluttered to the safety of branches and twigs when pedestrians got too close. A thirty-foot pergola was being swept clean by an old woman who resembled Warty the witch, minus cat and hat.
The couple ran past the bust of General Prado, the nineteenth-century Peruvian president who favoured the independence of Cuba, and rounded the sidewalk at the corner of 26th. This was the third consecutive morning they'd exercised in the park between 7:45 and 8:15, give or take a couple of minutes. Across the street, the Catholic church of Santa Rita de Casia already had its doors open.
The joggers rounded the corner of 26th and stared down Third A, a curved street. The three young men shooting the breeze on the corner and the tall, overweight man contemplating a monument to Mahatma Ghandi behind the pergola eyed the couple curiously when the man slowed down, stopped, bent over, and grabbed both knees. The woman glanced over her shoulder, reduced her speed, and came to a halt. He hunkered down. She retraced several steps, rested her left hand on his back, and talked to him with a look of concern.
The man nodded before straightening up. Both were trying to get their breathing back to normal. She said something, looking at a three-storey apartment building across the street. He shook his head, but then grabbed her shoulder, as if for balance. She steered him toward the apartment building, eyebrows knitted in a frown.
The concrete-and-block cube, numbered 2406, was a six-unit - three facing the street, three at the back – built in the 1950s. Painted light grey, it was flanked on one side by a lot where the foundation for a new building was being dug, and on the other by a house with a red-tile roof. It looked out of place in this neighbourhood of older buildings. Three balconies with French windows, one on each floor, faced the street.
Inside the apartment building, the woman pressed the buzzer alongside the sole door on the ground floor. Nearly a minute went by before it was opened by a tall, good-looking woman wearing a white short-sleeved blouse, a dark-green knee-length skirt, and high heels.
"Sí?" the surprised resident asked, her left eyebrow arched.
"I'm so sorry to inconvenience you," the female jogger said, also in Spanish. "My name's Marina. This is my husband, Sean. We were jogging in the park and … his vision blurred, he felt dizzy. From the heat, you know. Canadians are not accustomed to this temperature. Could you offer him a glass of water, please? We forgot to bring some with us."
For a moment the woman stared at the man. He seemed exhausted, an embarrassed flicker of a smile on his lips. "Sure, come on in," she said, stepping back and pulling the door wide open.
Marina and Sean entered a spacious living room in a deplorable condition. A chesterfield with overstuffed arms and two matching club chairs were badly frayed and stained. At some point the cedar coffee table had lost its glass top and now showed multiple water rings; on it was an ashtray full of reeking butts. The drapes framing the French window to the balcony, like the shades of the two floor lamps, were also soiled. A solitary light bulb hung from the ceiling, and the cream-coloured vinyl paint on the walls was beginning to flake off.
"Take a seat, please," the hostess said. "I'll get some water."
She disappeared into a hallway, her heels clicking on the granite floor. The joggers perched themselves onto the edge of the chesterfield and took in the beautiful still life in a baroque frame hanging to their left, two mismatched chairs, and the TV set facing them. From somewhere inside, a man bellowed, "Who the fuck was it, Elena?" The couple swapped a glance. A refrigerator door slamming shut was the only response. The woman returned to the living room with two glasses of cold water on a tray, which she placed on the coffee table.
"There you are. Let me know if you want some more."
The man reached for a glass and drank avidly, his Adam's apple bobbing with every gulp. Then he leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.
"The family doctor is two blocks away. I can fetch him, if you want," the hostess suggested, a dash of solicitude in her tone, as she slid into a club chair.
"Let's give him a minute," Marina said, still frowning at her companion. "Nothing like this has ever happened to him. It may just be sunstroke."
"I asked who the f—," a short bald man yelled from the entrance to the hallway. He was barefoot, wearing only his boxer shorts, and part of his pubic hair could be seen through the opening at the front. With a surprised expression he checked himself, turned and fled. The long hair at the back of his head flopped ludicrously.
Repressing a snicker, Marina took a sip from her glass, then drained it. Sean had opened his eyes at the man's voice. "Thanks," he whispered in English before sliding forward on the seat and extending his right hand. "Sean," he added, apparently recovered.
"Elena," the hostess said with a firm handshake. "Feeling better?"
Marina interpreted for her husband. "He doesn't speak Spanish," she explained.
"Much better, thank you," said Sean, beaming and resting an ankle on the other knee.
"He says much better, thank you."
"Well, my English is lousy, fifty words maybe, but that I can understand. Would you like some espresso? Coffee is a great stimulant, you know. And here in Cuba we brew it pretty strong. A sip might do him good."
"We don't want to trouble you."
"No problem. Ask him."
Sean yielded at Elena's insistence. She went back to the kitchen and the joggers exchanged grins, then waited in silence. A few minutes later the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of angry whispering wafted into the living room. The joggers exchanged a questioning glance.
Another minute went by before Elena returned with two demitasses on tiny saucers. She was followed by the short bald man, now in a blue guayabera, white chinos, and cordovan boots with three-inch heels. What hair he had was pulled back in a meagre ponytail. Before handing out the cups, Elena made the introductions.
"Meet my brother, Pablo," she said, her expression neutral.
Pablo shook hands with a grin. "How do you do?" he said in heavily accented English. Elena rolled her eyes. Marina wondered how the siblings could be so physically different. Elena was a good four inches taller than his five-feet-three or -four, a fit, big-boned woman with dark eyes, supple lips, and nice curves in all the right places. Pablo had green eyes, thin lips, an unhealthy pallor, narrow shoulders, and skinny arms that made him seem frail. Perhaps that was why he looked younger than his sister. Only one parent in common? Maybe. But she had said "brother" not "half-brother." There was little love lost between them, from the look of things.
"Good you come. This" – a sweep of the arm – "your home," Pablo added, his grin seeming rather forced.
"Pablo," said Elena through clenched teeth.
"Oh, yeah, my sister, she don't understand English."
Elena pursed her lips in disapproval.
Pablo slid into the remaining club chair and impatiently waited for Marina to finish her espresso, then started questioning her in Spanish. What had happened? Did her husband feel better now? Was she from Argentina? Yeah, he had guessed it, had identified the accent. From Buenos Aires? Ah, "Mi Buenos Aires querido," he sang, the only line he knew from the most famous of all tangos, while his eyes stole a lascivious glance at her thighs. And her husband? Oh … how nice. What city? Toronto? So, she lived in Toronto now, right? And when did they arrive in Cuba? Where were they staying?
As his wife answered all kinds of questions, Sean sipped his coffee slowly, eyes moving from the brother to the sister, appraising them coolly. Elena seemed okay; Pablo too garrulous for his taste. He emptied the demitasse and put it on the tray, then reached for Marina's and did the same. Elena rose and took the tray back to the kitchen. When she returned to her club chair, they were all laughing about something. Her brother lit a cigarette and blew smoke to the ceiling.
"This is a nice apartment," Marina commented, her gaze shifting around the living room. "Have you lived here long?"
"All our lives," Pablo answered. "We were born here. Our parents …"
"How is Sean feeling?" Elena asked, interrupting her brother, who frowned.
Marina interpreted. Sean said he was fine now.
"Well, then you'll have to excuse me. I mustn't be late for work."
Pablo widened his eyes. "Elena, that's very rude of you."
"Listen, Pablo … ," said Elena testily, trying not to get into an argument with her brother in the presence of strangers.
"But of course," Marina butted in, jumping to her feet. Sean, seemingly surprised, uncoiled himself from the chesterfield. "You've been very kind. Would you allow us to reciprocate in some way? Take you to dinner maybe?"
"No, thanks, this is nothing …"
"We'd be delighted," Pablo said, leaping at the offer with a fresh grin.
"Pablo! No, Marina. We just …"
"But I insist. We would enjoy your company enormously. We don't know anybody here. It would be great to take you guys out tonight. Learn from you about a nice place, somewhere off the beaten track. In fact, you'd be doing us another favour."
"I would gladly take you to wherever you want to go," Pablo said, also in Spanish. "There's this nice private restaurant. It would have to be after five, you know. That's when I leave the office."
Marina interpreted for Sean.
"By all means," he said when his wife had finished speaking. "I won't take no for an answer."
"Sean says he would consider it an honour to take both of you to dinner tonight. It has to be tonight because we are leaving tomorrow. We rented a car, so we can pick you up." And turning to Elena. "Please, Elena, you admitted two complete strangers into your home. That's real hospitality. Don't turn us down. Please?"
Elena shook her head and forced a smile.
"C'mon, sis," Pablo said in a false pleading tone.
Elena considered it. "Okay, tonight. At eight."
"Eight's perfect," Marina said.
Once they had said their farewells, the joggers left the apartment building, walked to the corner of 24th, turned left, and disappeared from view. Unaware that he had got away with a traffic violation, the tall, overweight man shot a last admiring glance at the big trees before climbing back into his rental and speeding off.




Early evening was turning to dusk, birds had settled in their nests in the ficus, and bats were beginning to swoop when Marina again rang the apartment buzzer. The door was immediately swung open by a perky Pablo in a garish shirt, a pair of jeans, and pigskin loafers with two-inch heels.
"Come in, my friends, come in," he said in English as he stretched out his hand to Marina first, then to Sean. "And how is my … ," he frantically searched for the words, didn't find them, and reverted to Spanish " … mareado amigo?"
"Dizzy friend," Marina interpreted.
"Much better, Pablo, ready for a wild night out, if you know what I mean," Sean said with a conspiratorial wink.
"Good! Good!" Pablo exclaimed, but then cast a slightly worried glance at Marina. "I want to … offer you mojitos. You know what a mojito is?"
Sean and Marina nodded.
"Okay. You sit down on the sofa. I go prepare mojitos. My sister is getting dressed. Women, always late. One minute."
The living room had been tidied up. The marks on the coffee table were barely visible, the ashtray was empty and clean, the floor mopped. The black-and-white TV was on, its volume low. From the kitchen came the sounds of tinkling ice cubes, the opening and closing of cupboards, a metal spoon stirring the drinks.
Anticipating that Elena had no evening gowns, Marina had dressed casually in a pink, short-sleeved blouse, an ivory-coloured mid-calf skirt, and leather sandals. Her makeup was very light, her blond hair was gathered at the back of her head in a bun, her only piece of jewellery a gold wedding band; she looked stylish in a quiet way. Sean wore a maroon-and-white fine-striped dress shirt, its cuffs folded up to his elbows, khakis, and cordovan loafers. They glanced at each other and Sean pulled a face at Marina. She grinned and crossed her legs.
Pablo returned to the living room carrying a tray with three tumblers filled to the brim with the cocktail. He handed the drinks to his guests and clinked his glass to theirs before easing himself into a club chair.
"Salud."
"Salud," concurred Marina and Sean. He didn't mix one for Elena, Marina observed as she extracted a sprig of mint before sipping.
"Great," Sean said, lifting his eyebrows in admiration.
"You like it?" Pablo asked, obviously pleased.
"Best I've ever had," Sean replied.
"And you, Mrs … ."
"Marina, please. It's superb."
"I'm glad you like it. Now, I tell you about this place I'm taking you to. Would you please interpret for Sean, Marina?"
"But you don't need it. Your English is very good."
"You think so? Not very good, I know. But it'll improve with time. I'm studying hard."
From the TV set's speaker came a fanfare of trumpets.
"Oh, the news. Ugh!" Pablo fumed. "Always the same. Everything in Cuba is perfect, the rest of the world is a mess. Just a moment."
Marina translated the bald man's blanket contempt of the Cuban newscast as he turned the TV set off and returned to his seat. Sean seemed amused.
"Please, Marina, interpret for your husband. For many years, the government didn't allow private businesses in Cuba. Now, some are allowed. They are heavily taxed, can't expand beyond a certain point, have to comply with many regulations. It's why some are … clandestine. In fact, all the best are clandestine. I'm taking you to what Cubans call a paladar, a private restaurant. How would you translate paladar, Marina?"
"Sense of taste?"
"I'll remember that. Now, few foreigners dine at a clandestine paladar. You need a sponsor to get in, someone whom the management trusts and can make a reservation. We'll be the only customers there tonight. The food is excellent, the service great, fine entertainment …"
"Good evening," Elena said with a pleased smile on entering the living room. Sean stood up. Fresh out of the shower, with just a touch of makeup, she was even more attractive than twelve hours earlier, Sean observed. Her thick dark-blond hair fell past her shoulders gracefully and her black, long-sleeved silk blouse embroidered with multicoloured butterflies was exquisite.
"What a beautiful blouse!" Marina said with sincere admiration.
"You like it? It belonged to my grandmother, my mother inherited it, then she gave it to me a few years ago."
"It's lovely. Your brother mixes excellent mojitos. Would you like one?"
"Yes, I would."
Pablo was nonplussed for a moment, but he recovered fast. "Sure," he said, before getting to his feet and marching into the kitchen. Marina zeroed in on Elena and girl talk prevailed for a couple of minutes. Pablo returned with the cocktail and handed it to his sister. "Drink it quickly," he snapped. "We are late because of you."
"I wouldn't have been late had my dear brother helped me to tidy up a little," Elena remarked wryly to Marina. "But he never does, you know, never."
"Oh, it's only ten past eight," Marina said, glancing at her watch and pretending not to notice the intense antagonism. "And these mojitos merit slow appreciation. Tell me more about your grandmother's Spanish fans …"
After a minute of feathers and sticks inlaid with mother-of-pearl, when the topic became so esoteric that the men were effectively excluded, Pablo moved away from the two women, closer to Sean. "You said ‘wild night' and, in this paladar, two girls, beautiful, incredible, one black, the other blond," he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, "but you are with wife …"
"I've got to pee," Marina mouthed to Elena as Sean considered his reply.
"Excuse us for a moment," Elena announced, rising to her feet. They left their cocktails on the tray and disappeared down the hallway.
Pablo sighed with relief. "I want you have good time. I don't know if you can … send wife back to hotel?"
Sean shook his head. "No, Pablo, I can't," articulating slowly, making it easier for the bald man. "Marina has this fiery Latin temperament. She'd get pretty mad if I did that to her in public. When I said ‘wild' I meant, you know, a nice meal, drinks, driving around, maybe going to a nightclub. I might return soon – alone – then you can take me to the best places to refine my ‘sense of taste.' Okay?"




From the toilet seat, Marina examined the bathroom. The usual plus a bidet. An old plastic shower curtain frayed at the bottom, a circular swing window by the bathtub. Two gaping holes by the sink indicated where a towel rack had been. Marina wondered what purpose a plastic bucket full of water served. No toilet paper was in sight and she fished for a tissue in her handbag.
After zipping her skirt up, Marina inspected the ceramic soap dishes recessed in the wall alongside the bathtub, by the sink – where a sliver of soap survived – and next to the bidet. Then she turned to the toilet-paper holder. The four pieces were level with the light-blue glazed tiles on the wall. In all probability they had been there since the tiles were installed.
Marina flushed the toilet. Aside from a little gurgling, nothing happened. So that was what the bucket was there for. She poured half its contents into the toilet bowl, closed the lid, looked around. She filled a glass jar by the sink with water and washed her hands. She was inspecting her face in the medicine-cabinet mirror, shaking the drops off her hands to pull out a fresh tissue, when there was a knock on the bathroom door. Marina said, "Come in," and Elena turned the knob and handed her a towel.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize there weren't any in here."
"It's okay."
"We have running water from 5:00 to 7:00 p.m. only. It's when I shower and fill up all the buckets and pans in the house."
"Why is the water restricted?" Marina asked as she wiped her hands dry.
"For two reasons, according to the president of the Council of Neighbours," Elena said, watching Marina's manicured hands with envy. "The system of pipes supplying water to the city is in ruins; half of what's pumped into it is lost underground. So, the cistern never has water for more than three or four hours of normal consumption. Secondly, the pump that fills the tanks on the roof of the building is too old and breaks down frequently, so the neighbour who tends to it turns it on two hours a day only."
Marina returned the towel to Elena. "Such a nuisance. Life here seems to be fraught with problems." Feeling her way.
"It is, it is. Inconveniences, nothing tragic, but you may have to wait two hours for a bus, two months for a beef steak, save for two years to buy a decent pair of shoes."
"And to live in a place like this?" Marina asked as she produced a lipstick from her purse and turned to the mirror.
"Well, maybe two centuries," Elena said with a wide grin. "Apartment buildings like this are a thing of the past. This one was built in 1957. It's ugly, looks like a big box, but back then we had professional construction workers and those guys knew their business, they built to last."
"It's a great apartment," Marina said once she'd pressed her lips together and capped the lipstick. "The rent on a place like this in Manhattan? No less than five thousand dollars a month, as much as eight thousand in a nice area."
"Really?"
"Really. This could use some refurbishing, though. You haven't made any repairs, have you?"
"Never. But it's in good shape. No cracks or fractured pipes. Paint is what it needs, badly. But it's sixteen dollars a gallon."
"That's not too exorbitant."
"No, not for you. Probably you make as much in an hour."
"More," Marina admitted.
"You know what my monthly paycheque is? Fifteen dollars."
"You're kidding."
"I'm not."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a special-needs teacher." Elena stole a glance at her watch. "I teach disabled children in their homes. Let's go back to the men before they accuse us of babbling the night away."




It was dark and crickets were chirping happily in the Parque de la Quinta by the time the two couples got into the rented Nissan. Pablo and Elena sat in the back of the car. At the wheel, Sean followed the directions given by the bald man. They had been heading west along Fifth Avenue for two minutes, the Cubans pointing out the sights, when Marina turned round, wanting to learn more about Elena's job.
"Well, there are children so seriously incapacitated they can't attend the special-education schools," Elena began.
"Oh, my God," Pablo moaned in English. "Not tonight."
"Some are disabled from birth, some suffered an accident," Elena, ignoring him, went on. "They are hooked up to some life-support system that's difficult to carry around, or are quadriplegic. There's a team of teachers to teach them at their homes. I'm one of them."
"Isn't your job … a little depressing?" Marina asked, after interpreting for Sean.
"Not to Mother Teresa," Pablo butted in. "Turn right at the next light, Sean."
"Okay. But let me hear how your sister makes a living, please?" Sean said in a dry tone.
Marina shot a quick glance at Sean. Pablo sulked. Elena had trouble suppressing her smile. She hadn't understood Sean's words, but his tone spoke volumes.
"Contrary to what almost everyone believes, it's rewarding," she went on. "These kids are the happiest kids on Earth. They act as if nearly everything happens for their personal delight. They see you come in, it's like a fairy godmother came in to wave her magic wand over them. And being in daily contact with them, seeing their parents trying to conceal their suffering, makes you realize how much we healthy people take for granted, how petty most of our problems are."
"How many children do you teach?" Marina asked.
"Two. A nine-year-old boy in the mornings, an eleven-year-old girl in the afternoons."
"All the subjects?"
"All except for physical education."
"Who pays for it?" Sean wanted to know.
"The Ministry of Education, of course."
Sean was staring at the red light, his foot on the brake pedal. "She makes fifteen dollars a month," Marina told him.
"What?"
Elena smiled mirthlessly. "Low salaries make many things possible. If Cuban teachers and doctors made half the money their colleagues make in Mexico, Jamaica, or any other Latin American country, the government wouldn't be able to provide the health care and education it does."
"Green light," Pablo said. "Take a right on the second corner."
Marina finished the translation after Sean rounded the corner.
The two-storey mansion surrounded by a cyclone fence appeared to be in perfect condition, no mean feat considering that its backyard fronted onto the sea. On its covered front porch there were four wooden rocking chairs, several flower pots, and an iron-and-glass lamp hanging from the ceiling. From the roof, spotlights flooded a small, well-tended garden. An old man standing by the driveway entrance swung back the gate to a garage and waved them in. After pulling the garage door closed, he silently welcomed the foursome with a series of nods and a smile, then pointed to a small door.
Pablo went in first and found his way to the dining area of a vast space, but he kept strutting – the others in tow – until he reached the lounge section. A plump, bejewelled, and perfumed white woman in her sixties uncoiled herself from a chair and embraced him warmly. Thick makeup failed to conceal her deep wrinkles and the dark pouches that sagged under her eyes. They touched cheeks and exchanged air-kisses before the short man turned and made the introductions.
"Meet the best restaurateur in Havana! Señora Roselia. This couple, Roselia, are friends of mine: Sean and Marina. Sean is Canadian, Marina is Argentinian."
"It's a pleasure," Roselia said in Spanish, extending her hand. "I hope you'll be satisfied with our service."
Marina turned to Elena, saw the embarrassment in her eyes. "You know Elena, señora?"
"Oh, sorry," Pablo muttered.
"I don't have the pleasure," Roselia admitted.
"Elena is Pablo's sister," Marina elaborated, thinking it was difficult not to dislike the asshole.
Shaking Roselia's hand, Elena forced a grin that almost became a grimace.
Pablo rubbed his hands in eager anticipation. "Now, what would you like to do? A drink first?" The more customers spent, the higher his commission.
They took their seats in the lounge, ordered mojitos, then studied the menu. Elena looked around admiringly. Recently painted walls, comfortable modern furniture, beautiful drapes, an exquisite full-length mirror, fine porcelain and glass ornaments on side tables, two air conditioners blasting away, the lamps, the paintings, the spotless marble floor. She hadn't been in a place as grand as this in all her life. Songs from the Buenavista Social Club CD flowed from hidden speakers.
The drinks and a bowl of peanuts arrived in the hands of a smiling long-legged blond waitress in her late teens or early twenties. She wore a black mini-uniform, complete with little cap and a tiny apron in white. Bending over to serve the women first, her undersized skirt exposed a round, suntanned behind to the men. Sean couldn't tell whether she had nothing on or was wearing a thong. Pablo noticed Sean's reaction, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Elena and Marina got to see the same sight when the waitress turned to serve Sean. Marina was unfazed, but Elena gawked. What the women didn't see were the seductive smile and wink the waitress bestowed on Sean.
Having found out from the proprietress that a paella would take more than an hour to prepare, they settled for green salad, lobster cocktail, red porgy basted in olive oil, and mashed potatoes. Pablo asked for a steak on the side. Marina chose a white Concha y Toro from the wine list. Sean shrugged his lukewarm agreement, Elena assented in total ignorance, Pablo ordered a Heineken.
The second round of drinks was served by a petite, beautiful black woman. Her uniform was white, its cap and apron in black. Her bottom was rounder and larger, the thong – if any – invisible, the smile she gave Sean blatantly provocative. Sean popped two peanuts into his mouth, sipped from his fresh mojito, put the glass on the side table, then turned to Pablo, who was eyeing him with a pleased, take-your-pick expression.
"What's your trade, Pablo?"
Marina sighed, interpreted, then shared with Elena a boys-will-be-boys glance.
"I'm the office manager of a Cuban-Italian joint venture," the short man said. "We import clothing, shoes, perfumes, cosmetics, kitchenware, a zillion things."
"Really? How many outlets do you have?"
Pablo shook his head and grinned. "No outlets. The retail trade is a state monopoly. We sell wholesale to several state-owned chains that sell retail to the public."
Sean nodded. "I see. And excuse me for asking, but I'm still amazed by what Elena makes as a teacher. How much do you get paid?"
"Around sixteen dollars."
"That's all? No overtime, no bonus?"
"No."
Elena burst out laughing. She covered her mouth with her right hand, but her laughter was so childlike and irrepressible that Marina and Sean exchanged an amused glance. Pablo, visibly angry, glared at his sister. The teacher made an effort to control herself, failed, but after a moment succeeded. Apparently, she was getting a glow from the mojitos.
"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself so much," said Marina, still smiling.
"Oh, yes. It's the drinks, you know? They loosen me up."
"And what do you people do for a living?" Pablo asked.
Marina said she was a computer programmer and Sean a mortgage broker. Neither Pablo nor Elena knew what a mortgage was, let alone a broker, and Marina spent a few minutes interpreting for Sean. When she was through, Señora Roselia announced that dinner was ready.
"Just a second," Marina said as she fumbled for something in her purse. "Let me take a snapshot of you guys, so friends back home can see you."
With a small Olympia she took five photos: one showed the siblings sitting side by side on the sofa, two had Elena standing by a wall, the fourth and fifth caught a beaming Pablo alongside a curtain. Then they all moved to the dining room.
A beautiful crocheted white tablecloth covered the glass top of a six-seat cedar dining table where four tall candles burned in a gold-plated candelabra. The china was gold-rimmed, the cutlery heavy silver, the goblets fine crystal. Elena choked on a sip of water when the waitresses appeared topless, but Marina and Sean behaved so naturally that she tried to act blase.
The food was good, the wine heady. Conversation threw an interesting light on what had happened to Sean that morning, the professions of all four diners, Cuban food and drinks, places of interest in Havana, and other subjects.
For the piece de résistance, the waitresses served a strong espresso wearing only thongs and sandals. Elena was aghast, Sean remained unimpressed, making Pablo feel let down. Were Canadians as cold as their country or was this guy gay? Perhaps Marina was sexually starved. Then, as if to confirm this impression, Roselia came out from the swinging door to the kitchen and Marina, tongue in cheek, asked her whether she and Elena would get to see the chef in his briefs. The proprietress countered by saying she felt sure the ladies wouldn't find a short, fat, forty-nine-year-old pansy in boxer shorts attractive. Silly laughter ensued.
"Would you like something else?" Sean asked of nobody in particular when only smiles remained.
Heads were shaken. "Then could you bring me the bill, please?" the Canadian asked.
The bill came to eighty-five dollars. Sean gave a ten-dollar tip to each waitress and they all returned to the living room, where a liqueur was served. Elena, feeling a little woozy, declined.
"Well, where would you like to go next?" Pablo asked. "We can catch the show at Tropicana or at the Havana Café, go to a nightclub, maybe visit a santero, have him throw the shells for you."
Marina looked at Sean, who pulled down the corners of his mouth and lifted his eyebrows to indicate his hesitancy. Then she turned to Elena. "What do you suggest, Elena?"
"I … wouldn't know. I seldom go out. Pablo is the expert. But whatever you decide, you'll have to excuse me. I'm feeling a little queasy."
"What's the matter?" Marina asked.
"I'm afraid I had too much to drink. You can drop me off at home, then go wherever you feel like. I'm sorry, Marina."
"What a shame," Marina said before translating for Sean.
An uncomfortable silence followed. "You know what?" Sean said. "We have an early flight. We should call it a night."
Pablo filed away the grin he'd been flashing. He was hoping for one of the best nightclubs, Chivas Regal, a fragrant Cohiba Lancero, ten statuesque mulatas in thongs wiggling their asses to salsa music.
"Oh, no. Don't let me spoil your evening," Elena objected.
"You're right, darling." Marina said to Sean. The idea of spending time with Pablo without the neutralizing influence of his sister did not appeal to her. "Would you mind if we take a rain check on the rest of the evening, Pablo?"
"Suit yourself. My only regret is that my sister is to blame for it," Pablo grunted.
"I'm not feeling well, okay?" Elena retorted.
"It's not her fault, Pablo. Can we leave now?"
"If you can find your way back to my place, I think I'll stay here for a little while," Pablo said, eyeing the black waitress, who stood by the swinging door to the kitchen, between Roselia and the blond woman. She beamed and winked at him.
"Cool," Marina said. "Do you need help, Elena?"
"I don't think so," Elena said, getting to her feet.
Roselia and Pablo escorted them to the car. The tourists formally thanked Elena's brother for all his trouble, promised they would touch base the minute they came back to Havana, and assured Roselia they'd had a wonderful time at her paladar. From the garage door, smiling and waving, the restaurateur and Pablo watched the car speed away. The same old man closed the gate and trudged into the garage.




Nearly half an hour later, as she drove along Fifth Avenue heading east, Marina stole a glance at Sean in the passenger seat. Not a word had been said since they left Elena at her apartment. Sean appeared to be deep in thought, nibbling at his lower lip, indifferent to the vehicles ahead, the deserted sidewalks, the moonlight and tail lights playing across the artful plantings on the wide central walkway. She returned her eyes to the road, then took a deep breath before entering a tunnel under a river.
At Malecón and the base of Línea Avenue, she took O Street and two blocks along turned into the entrance of the Hotel Nacional. They left the rental in the parking lot, and, holding her hand, Sean steered her around a tiled Moorish fountain. A long-haired guitarist gently strummed his instrument for a group sitting on limestone benches in the courtyard. They walked across the lawn to the edge of a small cliff. Despite empty wooden benches to their right, they remained standing.
Two mammoth canons, remnants of what had been a Spanish gun emplacement until 1898, still aimed at where their last target – the USS Montgomery — had sailed a century earlier. Marina took in the serene vastness of the Florida Straits, the tiny lights from fishermen's small boats on the water, the star-sprinkled sky. "The original soap dishes are still there. And the toilet-paper holder," she said.
"Tell me something I don't know. If they weren't there, you wouldn't have looked so elated when you came out of the bathroom, would you?"
"I guess not."
They were both silent for a few moments.
"She said the building was completed in 1957."
Sean stared at her, apparently satisfied. "You know, you're a much better actress than I thought. You were pretty slick this evening."
"Thanks."
Another, shorter pause.
"Sean?"
"Yes."
"The job's done. It's been done right, far as I can tell. We've found out all we need to know. I've given it my best shot, as have you. So maybe I can ask you a question, okay?"
Sean locked gazes with Marina. She didn't like his suppressed smile, the twinkle in his eyes. "Okay."
"You said, ‘Don't take anything for granted, don't talk about our business in the rental and the hotel room; there may be hidden cameras and bugging devices.' Well, I very much doubt these people want to, or can, get on tape every couple that comes here to spend a week, but since you were calling the shots I followed instructions. What really pisses me off is this driving around like frigging tourists, buying souvenirs, playing out this ludicrous honeymoon act, pawing each other in public. Why? Who's going to suspect us? Why the fuck should anyone suspect us? We've been here for a week and haven't even driven through a red light, for Christ's sake! In this bankrupt banana republic the tourist is king."
His gaze lost in the dark sea, Sean nodded. "So, you think I've been overcautious?"
"Yes, I do."
"Okay, you're entitled to your opinion. I won't argue with you. The important thing is you did as you were told. Let's move on. Tell me what you think of these guys."
Marina clenched her jaw, annoyed that her concerns had been dismissed so lightly, but her tone remained controlled. "The freak's a complete bastard. Never loses an opportunity to embarrass and belittle his own sister. It's appalling how he looks down on her!"
Sean paused, then said, abstractedly scanning the blue-black horizon, "But she's used to it."
Marina glanced at the monument to the victims of the battleship Maine. To its left, right in front of the U.S. Interests Section, stood the square where the rallies for the return of Elián González took place. "Elena seems pretty decent, don't you think? A reasonable person, not difficult at all," she said.
"I agree," Sean said. Then, as an afterthought: "Pablo thinks he's the smartest, smoothest con artist on earth. That's probably why Elena hates his guts. And why we should expect trouble from him."
"Such intense hostility," Marina said. "There's a lot of bad blood between those two."
"And he's on coke."
Marina turned to stare at Sean. "How can you tell?"
"I can tell."
She faced the sea again. "What did you make of Elena sniggering when her brother said he made sixteen dollars a month?"
"That he's making a lot more than that."
"Yeah, that's what I figured too."
"But he didn't want us to know. And she's so well mannered she didn't squeal on a sonofabitch who humiliates her for the fun of it."
They fell silent. Marina looked across the wide avenue at the metre-high seawall extending miles into the distance. On it, keeping respectful distances from each other, fishermen held lines. The lighthouse beam swept across the water with the same boring exactitude of all beacons.
"He doesn't look like the kind of guy who would take his cut quietly and count his blessings," she said, more to herself than to her companion.
Sean released the promise of a smile. "Lady, the word sleazy was coined for guys like him." And pointing with his chin toward the ocean, he added, "He would drown his own mother right there to grab it all."
"What about Elena? Would she agree to split it?"
"I don't know. That woman is … ," he paused, searching for the right word.
"Unpredictable?" she prompted.
"No. Not at all. But I can't predict how she would react to our proposition. We don't know her views on a million things. She's
… difficult to pigeonhole. Special-needs teacher. What kind of a fucking profession is that? Makes me suspect she's one of those principled, nose-in-the-air spinsters. Know what I mean? Living with her brother, no husband, no kids."
"Maybe she married and divorced."
"Why didn't you ask her?"
"Didn't want to give the impression I was prying."
"Maybe you did right."
Marina lowered her eyes and studied the straps of her sandals. "He said they've lived there all their lives. How old would you say she is?"
"Late thirties?" Sean surmised.
"Yeah, something like that, certainly not older than forty. And the freak?"
"I'd say thirty-five, thirty-six. He was fascinated by your thighs this morning."
"I noticed. Horny little rat can't keep his hands off women. You saw how he eyed the black waitress? She probably pukes after having sex with him."
"You never know. Maybe he's seven feet tall in bed."
She raised an eyebrow. It wasn't the kind of comment she'd expect from a man. So true, though: You never know. She remembered a shy, unassuming, scrawny, and slightly cross-eyed guy who had led her to the heights of pleasure. Only one of the few hunks she had bedded had taken her there, and he was blind. She wondered whether behind Sean's remark lurked a phenomenal lover or a bit of a philosopher.
"Doesn't look it to me," she said. "What will we do with him?"
"Do with him?"
"You said we should expect trouble from him."
"Sure. But is there something we can do?"
Marina considered it. "Forget it."
"Fine."
Sean seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. Then he raised his eyes to the hotel's top floors. "I'll rest my arm on your shoulders now, you circle my waist. Let's go and have a nightcap."
They sauntered back to the terrace and plopped down on a sofa. Sean ordered a Black Label on the rocks; Marina remained faithful to the local taste by ordering a mojito. Forty or fifty people relaxed on couches and armchairs, laughed at jokes, seemed to be enjoying themselves. Once their drinks arrived and they had taken a sip, a tall, overweight man sitting alone to their left pulled himself up and marched to the restroom.
"Excuse me, honey, I've got to take a leak," Sean said. Marina wanted to say "Me too" but decided to wait until he returned.
Sean unzipped in front of the urinal next to the one in which the tall, overweight man was relieving himself. He made sure the attendant standing by the door was out of earshot. "The short, bald guy lives there. He speaks a little English and is a money-grabbing bastard on coke," he said.
Without so much as a nod, the tall, overweight man shook his penis, buttoned up, and washed his hands. The attendant handed him paper towels. Before leaving the restroom the man dropped a quarter into the dish for tips. Feeling expansive, Sean left a dollar.




The following morning, at a quarter to nine, just as Marina and Sean boarded a DC-10 bound for Toronto, the tall, overweight man left the church of Santa Rita de Casia through the side entrance that faces 26th. He crossed the street and, holding his hands behind his back, head tilted backwards, stared at the ficus trees in the Parque de la Quinta. He appeared to be in his forties and had the powerful forearms and wrists of a dock worker. His brown eyes were lively, his thick moustache coffee-coloured, his lips full. After a few minutes circling the trees in awestruck contemplation, he slid behind the wheel of a black Hyundai and sped away.
The gardener and the sweeper who tended the park became intrigued when the man repeated the same routine two days in a row. Their curiosity, however, was not stirred by his arriving before eight and going into the church the minute it opened its doors. Several Cuban Catholics did the same and, occasionally, curious visitors explored the interior of the small, modern church. Some diplomats and executives of foreign companies – accompanied by their wives and children – also attended Mass on Sundays. What was strange about the tall, overweight man was his fixation with the ficus. The park attendants were accustomed to seeing tourists stop by, but few returned, and those that did usually came back to show the mammoth trees to some other traveller. They wondered whether this guy was a botanist or an ecology freak.
They would have been even more puzzled had they seen him in the church. He invariably sat in the same pew, one from where he could keep an eye on 26th, paid no attention to the service, didn't kneel or pretend to pray. His behaviour had drawn the attention of an overly anti-communist layman who reported to the parish priest that a State Security official was using his church to stake someone out.
On Tuesday, as he rounded the trunk of the ficus nearest to the bust of General Prado, the tall, overweight man spotted a short bald guy in a white guayabera leaving the apartment building that faced the park and darting down Third A toward 26th. His eyes still on the tree, the tall man strolled to the sidewalk and waited until his prey was within a couple of yards.
"You speak English?" he asked with a pleasant smile.
"Sure," Pablo said, trying to look intelligent and knowledgeable. He had always envied huge men, and this bull-necked guy was at least six-foot-five.
"Thank heaven. You know the name of these trees?" the man asked, with a sweep of the hand that included all the ficus in the park.
"Ficus."
"Can you spell it for me?"
Pablo said "F" and paused. One of his frequent confusions in English was to pronounce the "i" as an "e" and vice versa. He produced a small notebook and a ballpoint from a pocket of his guayabera, wrote down the name, then tore out the page.
"Well, thanks," the tall, overweight man said as he took it. "Most amazing trees I've seen in this country."
"Is that so?" Pablo was taking in the stranger, his mental wheels turning fast. The big bastard wore a navy-blue polo shirt, khaki shorts, white cotton socks, and sneakers.
"I hadn't been able to learn their name. Not many people here speak English."
"Yeah."
"And what's the name of this park?"
"Parque de la Quinta."
"What does it mean?"
"Well …" Pablo scratched his bald head, as if picking his brain for the right translation. "Quinta in Spanish is … like a country house, know what I'm saying? Like a villa."
"So, it's the Park of the Country House."
"Yeah."
"Well, thanks for the information," the big man said. "Wait a minute," he added, fishing for his wallet and producing a twenty-dollar bill. "Here you are. Thanks."
Pablo pounced on the bill thinking it was a fiver. When he saw the Jackson portrait, he was dumbfounded. Twenty bucks for the name of a tree and a park? What would this huge asshole fork out for being taken around town?
"Well, sir, this is very" – Pablo groped for generous unsuccessfully as he thrust the bill into a pants pocket – "very good of you. If I can help … in any other way?"
His eyes on Pablo, head cocked, a budding grin on his lips, the tourist seemed to ponder the offer.
"Maybe you could. This is my first trip here, I don't know my way around, and I was hoping for a good time, catch my drift?"
Pablo grinned. "You mean fun, girls?"
"That's exactly what I mean."
"I think … no, I thought so. But now, it's morning. In the mornings, beautiful girls sleep. In the evenings, they have fun. We meet in the evening, I take you to the most beautiful girls in Havana."
A bunch of lies, the big guy figured. "Tell you what. You take me to the most beautiful girls in Havana, I'll pay you a hundred bucks. You take me to the most beautiful girl in Havana, I'll pay you two hundred. How's that?"
"That's excellent, Mr … . ?"
"Splittoesser."
"Pardon?"
"Just call me John."
"Okay, John. So, where do we meet?"
"Let's see …" John pretended to reflect. "There's this bar-restaurant where I had dinner last night, La Zaragua … something."
"Spanish food? In Old Havana?"
"That's it."
"La Zaragozana."
"You've been there?"
"John, I've been to all the right places in Havana."
The tall, overweight man considered this for a moment. "Swell. At eight then?" he said.
"Eight's fine with me."
"Can I drop you somewhere?" John asked.
"No, thanks. My office is right across the street."
"See you then," John said and extended his right hand. Pablo's hand got lost in the man's paw. The Cuban walked on, occasionally craning his neck, watching the tourist unlock his car. John waved him goodbye; Pablo did the same before crossing Fifth Avenue. Is this a lucky break or is this a lucky break? he was thinking.
John Splittoesser spent the afternoon completing the reconnaissance he had started three evenings earlier, driving around Santa Maria del Mar and Guanabo, two adjoining beach resorts twenty-five kilometres to the east of Havana.




After dinner at La Zaragozana, Pablo suggested a leisurely stroll into Old Havana. Leaving the rental in the custody of the restaurant's parking valet, they walked down Obispo, a street turned pedestrian mall. Passersby stared at the strange pair: some recalled Twins, the movie starring Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
The temperature had dropped considerably as a consequence of a late-afternoon heavy shower. Lighting from the shop windows of well-stocked, dollars-only stores reflected on the wet asphalt. A Brazilian soap opera and various pop songs blared out from radios, CD players, and television sets in an ear-splitting cacophony.
There were police officers on every corner, most of them alert young men fresh from the countryside, still in awe of city slickers: the pickpockets, whores, pimps, drag queens, male prostitutes, shoplifters, drug pushers, and black marketeers that trained eyes can detect along the Havana tourist trail.
A handful of veteran cops in their thirties, with bored expressions and cynical grins, whispered advice to the rookies. They were cops who'd survived by staying within the limit of permissible corruption: yes to a three-dollar sandwich, no to a one-dollar bill; yes to a hooker's free ride, no to a pair of jeans offered by her pimp; yes to a packet of cigarettes, no to a box of fake Cohibas.
Pablo and John turned left onto Havana Street and after three blocks took a right onto the seedier Empedrado Street. Watching them walk side by side, two candidates for the priesthood returning to the San Carlos and San Ambrosio Seminary were reminded of the David and Goliath story. A dark-skinned black youngster and a white teenager approached the strange pair.
"Mister, mister, cigars, guitars, girls … ," they accosted John in English.
"I'm with him," Pablo said in Spanish, glaring at them. They weren't impressed by the news and ignored the short man with the stumpy ponytail. "Girls, beautiful. Cohibas, forty dollars. Fine guitars, eighty dollars."
"No," said John.
"Coke? Marijuana?"
"No."
"I'm taking him to Angelito's," said Pablo, again in Spanish, trying to act nonchalant.
That stopped the hustlers cold. They turned their backs and disappeared into a doorway. John stared at the narrowest sidewalk he had seen in his life, not more than twenty inches wide.
"Now, look up, at the … balcón? You say balcón in English?"
John frowned in incomprehension.
"The balcón of the house on the next corner," Pablo said, extending his arm and pointing.
Four young women leaned on the railing of a wrought-iron balcony projecting from the top floor of an old, dilapidated two-storey house. Light from a nearby streetlamp made it possible to see that two of the whores sported shorts, a third had a miniskirt on, the fourth a French-cut bikini bottom. All wore halter tops and from their necks hung chains and medals. Gazing down at the street below, they were sharing a laugh.
"Interested?" Pablo asked.
"Let's take a closer look."
As they climbed a marble stairway, Pablo said this was La Casa de Angelito, Angelito's house, according to his translation. Greeted warmly on the landing by a white, effeminate bodybuilder in green Lycra shorts and a pink tank top, they were showed into a dim living room with four loveseats, a CD player, a minibar, and side tables for drinks and ashtrays. Three French windows opened onto the balcony where the women remained, unaware that potential clients had arrived. The body-sculpting fanatic clapped his hands and ordered, "Girls, saloon."
One of the hookers upstaged the others completely, John realized. She was one of those precious few women from all walks of life who try to underplay their devastating sex appeal and fail miserably. The blessing or curse of her sexiness – depending on the final outcome – is as indefinable as inexorable, impossible to disguise or accentuate with clothing, jewellery, or perfumes. A gorgeous American actress worth maybe a hundred million who had the seductiveness of a refrigerator sprang to mind. And here in Havana, in a tumbledown whorehouse, he was facing a two-bit hooker capable of driving tycoons and presidents and kings nuts, and him too, truth be told.
No older than twenty, she had a lovely face framed by long chestnut-coloured hair. Something of a child's sweetness and innocence survived in her dark pupils and gentle smile. Her naked body had to be a sight for sore eyes, he was sure, and he felt tempted to ask her to undress and pace up and down the living room until he remembered that he had an assignment to carry out.
"Is this the best you can do?" he asked Pablo, apparently unimpressed.
The Cuban was taken aback. "You don't like?"
"Can we shop around some more?"
Pablo marched John to Marinita, three blocks east, where they had a beer, then to Tongolele, five blocks south. Everywhere the short bald Cuban was greeted with affection. John noticed his guide was somewhat hyped up when they left Tongolele. The next stop was La Reina del Ganado, in San Isidro, translated by Pablo as "The Queen of Cattle." The tourist learned that the name was derived from a Brazilian soap opera, El rey del ganado – "The King of Cattle" – whose main character owned hundreds of thousands of cattle. The brothel proprietress's herd, comprising some twenty women, was displayed posing naked in a snapshot album. She only showed it to foreigners who were not attracted to any of those immediately available at her house. John peered at each photograph, carefully considered three promising candidates, finished a Cuba Libre, then turned to Pablo.
"Tell you what. This guy at the hotel gave me an address in Guanabo, claims there are fine chicks there. Let's go get the car and drive over. If I don't find a broad I really like, we'll come back to the first place you took me to and I'll settle for the brunette."
Pablo didn't like the idea, but he had decided to humour John all the way. He found it strange that after leaving the tunnel under Havana Bay, John didn't ask for directions. He must have been to the beach on his own, the Cuban figured. The tourist remained silent, eyes on the road, observing the hundred-kilometre speed limit, air conditioner on, windows closed.
The Cuban didn't feel like making small talk either. He had been very upbeat all day at the office, overjoyed at the prospect of making in one night what many Cubans don't earn in a year of hard work. He had even sniffed a line at Tongolele's and bought four more fixes in premature celebration. But now he was feeling uptight. Pablo admitted to himself that the motherfucker was hard to please; he could kiss one of the two Cs goodbye.
What if the bastard found a woman to his taste in Guanabo? Then he wouldn't make a penny, since it wouldn't be as a result of his procuring. He would make a hundred only if they returned to Angelito's for the brunette the asshole had eyed so hungrily. He had to concoct a story to make him turn back. Maybe if he said that AIDS had struck down hundreds of people in Guanabo? He lit a cigarette and mulled over alternatives for most of the twenty-minute ride.
It was quarter past twelve when John took a left at the crossing of Via Blanca and 462nd, coasted down to the town's main thoroughfare, then glided along until he confidently turned off the boulevard and, heading inland, followed a street for three blocks before taking a left, killing the lights, and pulling over.
"This is it?" Pablo asked, struck by the strangeness of his surroundings. To their left, behind a barbed-wire fence, the rear of a huge, one-storey warehouse stretched all the way along the block. On the other side of the street several modest houses had the wooden slats of their front windows wide open, the residents likely in bed, electric fans turning at top speed to keep mosquitoes away and fight the heat, lights off. Somewhere close a dog barked unenthusiastically. Streetlight was provided by a low-wattage bulb on an electricity pole fifty metres away.
"Yeah, let's go."
As John was locking the car, Pablo reached the sidewalk and stood by his side.
"Listen, John, I don't want to worry you," Pablo began, sounding concerned. "But last year, many people here in Guanabo have …"
Pablo didn't know what happened to him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a swift, unexpected movement and started turning his head, but an instant after John's fist smashed into his temple all his systems collapsed and he keeled over.
The tall, overweight man looked around as if he had all the time in the world. The dog kept barking. Lifting the limp body by the armpits, John manoeuvred Pablo into a sitting position and, crouching behind him, grasped the bald man's chin with his right hand and the back of his head with his left, then in one swift motion he yanked up and around with all his might. Pablo's cervical vertebrae snapped.
Kneeling by the body, John savagely bit twice into the left side of his victim's neck. He spat in disgust several times before producing a plain envelope containing four fifty-dollar bills folded in half. With the edge of his fingernails he removed the money and tucked it into a pocket of the dead man's pants. Finally, he freed Pablo of his cheap watch, his wallet, and his shoes.
Panting, with beads of sweat on his forehead, he stood up, dusted his knees, and scrutinized both ends of the block. The dog kept barking, insistently now, goaded by the scent of death. John unlocked the driver's door, slid behind the wheel, dropped Pablo's personal possessions on the passenger seat, and turned the ignition. The car crept away for two blocks, its lights off, before he took a left and returned to the town's main street. He felt the repugnance of one who has just squashed a big bug under the sole of his shoe.
After he'd dumped the Cuban's belongings into a sewer in Old Havana, John thought about going back to Angelito's and screwing the sexy whore. But after close to a minute grabbing the wheel with both hands and pursing his lips, he shook his head, sighed resignedly, and drove to the Hotel Nacional.
HIDDEN IN HAVANA. Copyright © 2006 by José Latour. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.