Harbor of Spies

by Robin Lloyd

  “It is nice to meet you, sir. You are so young to be a ship captain. What did you say your name is?”

  “E. J. Townsend,” he replied. “From the Chesapeake Bay.”

  She nodded in a knowing way, but didn’t say anything more.

  Then it was the other woman’s turn. He found himself meeting her intense gaze, so filled with life and energy. She had sparkling black Spanish eyes that flirted openly with him, and rich full lips that were hard to ignore. This woman could probably have any man she wanted. Her red silk dress was the latest Paris fashion, displaying an open neck, her shoulders and arms bare. She had a scarlet ribbon over her forehead, the dark brown hair, long and flowing, curling down the side of her neck. Her voice was deeper and had a more sultry tone, with a mixed French and Spanish accent.

  “¿Qué le parece nuestra Habana? What do you think of our Havana? ¿Bonita, verdad? Beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, very pretty, es una ciudad muy linda.”

  “Ah, I see you can speak some Spanish. And are you staying long, Captain?”

  “He will be leaving soon to run the blockade,” Don Pedro said proudly. “On my new schooner, Gaviota.”

  “Oh!” she replied. “How adventurous, and how gallant. It seems such a shame that you will be leaving us so soon. But they say ship captains are like driftwood. They never stay on shore long.” She smiled coquettishly. “Don Pedro must show you the sights of Havana at night. We are at the end of Carnival now, you know. It is the height of festivities. Everyone will be out on the streets. Don Pedro should take you to one of the masked balls.”

  “Masked balls?” Townsend asked curiously.

  “The masquerade dances. Los bailes de máscaras. It is a tradition here. I believe there is one tonight. Not the formal ball at the Tacón theater. There is another one, much more lively where there is música habanera. Don Pedro knows the place. Come after eleven. The fun will only just have begun.”

  Townsend looked over at Don Pedro, but the Spaniard didn’t say anything. He was looking at the countess with an inquiring but bemused expression.

  “¡Ay, es una maravilla!” she said in Spanish and then switched to French, “une folle nuit de danse. It is quite exciting. You don’t know if you are dancing with a saint or a devil. All masked dancers, twirling like planets to the Cuban rhythms. And no one knows who the other is. They are strangers to each other.”

  Townsend felt his face flush.

  “And if you go, Captain,” the Condesa began with a mischievous laugh as she leaned over toward him. He couldn’t help gazing at her bare neck. “You should know that it is against the law here to take the mask off your dancing partner. Don Pedro will tell you all about it.”

  Townsend had never encountered a woman, clearly older, so openly flirting with him. He wasn’t certain how to react.

  “A ver si se animan y vienen a las máscaras. We shall see if you both have the energy to come. ¿Me promete un baile? Will you promise me a dance, Captain?”

  “Por supuesto,” Townsend responded eagerly, without even realizing he was speaking Spanish.

  As they drove off, Townsend didn’t take his eyes off the departing carriage. “Who were they?” he asked.

  “Two ladies of high society here,” Don Pedro replied. “The Condesa returned to Cuba about a year ago. She was raised here but her parents sent her to France where she married a French count, Le Comte Henri de Buisson. She is not popular with many of the society ladies here in Havana.”

  “How so?”

  He smirked.

  “Some of the married women here call her “La cazadora,” the huntress. I suppose they think of her as Diana, the huntress of Greek mythology. Only she hunts men for game. She lives here without her husband. It seems they have an accord. The old count has remained in Paris with his mistress. And she stays here in Havana. She is, as they say, more Parisienne than Havanese in her manner.”

  “But she is married.”

  “Ah, but this is Havana, and that distinction does not necessarily make a difference. To some Spanish gentlemen, it makes her even more desirable.”

  “And to her?”

  “I believe she enjoys a conquest. She has told me she views Havana like a river that is abundantly full of men who always rise to a pretty feathered lure. Some of the wives call her bad names, but as she is quite wealthy, she can do what she pleases. She is beautiful, is she not?”

  “What about the older woman? She seems quite distinguished.”

  Don Pedro looked at him searchingly.

  “Doña Cecilia is a woman of considerable influence from one of the older plantation families. Her husband, Rafael Espinoza Vargas, died many years ago leaving her a widow and the owner of her family’s sugar estate in the Yumurí Valley. She has been helpful to me over the years, shall we say.” Don Pedro’s gaze didn’t move off Townsend’s face. “I see she left an impact on you, or perhaps it is la Condesa you are thinking of. Es una mujer magnífica. ¿Verdad que sí?”

  Without thinking, Townsend nodded, as he inadvertently translated what Don Pedro had just said.

  “Yes, she is quite stunning.”

  “You speak Spanish better than I realized, Captain. You’re a quick learner or perhaps you’re getting lessons in some of those dockside fandango bars.”

  Don Pedro laughed deeply, and pulled out two of his trademark Fígaro Regalía Imperial cigars, offering one to Townsend. This time the young captain accepted.

  “How do you like our young women, Captain?” Don Pedro asked pointedly. “You must have your opinions. Son hermosas de buen ver, are they not?” he asked with a lascivious grin on his face. “Guapas. ¿Verdad que si?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he continued.

  “I have always felt that full-bodied women and full-bodied cigars go together.” He struck a Lucifer match and puffed on his cigar. “You might be interested in knowing that the best tobacco in Cuba comes from the southwestern part of the island, the area known as la Vuelta Abajo in Pinar del Río. The tobacco leaves are selected for their good color and their elasticity.”

  The Spaniard cocked a bushy eyebrow and puffed before continuing.

  “In my opinion, this region is also where Cuba’s most beautiful women can be found. Who knows why. It’s just been my personal experience. Maybe it’s something in the soil? Both the women and the tobacco are richly flavored and delicate, but once lit, they are slow-burning and hard to extinguish.”

  Don Pedro laughed at his own joke. Townsend smiled politely.

  “You should know here in Cuba, people judge you by the way you handle your cigar. Among the finer class of people, the smoker should always present the lighted end of his cigar to the guest.”

  Don Pedro handed his lit Fígaro Regalía to Townsend so that he could light his own cigar.

  “Now you should return it, holding the burning red tip away from your host. An intricate custom perhaps, but this is an important demonstration of courtesy here on the island. Unlike you Americans, we have more Old World customs here.”

  “Thank you for the advice,” Townsend said as he puffed on the large cigar, and watched the light gray smoke curl upwards into the dark sky.

  Townsend breathed in the cool night air. He could hear the whisper of palm fronds rustling somewhere high above him in the wind. It was shortly after eleven o’clock, and Don Pedro was walking toward the sound of music. Townsend’s head was spinning, and as he stumbled along he realized he was drunk. Dark shadows and mottled light from the scattered gas-lit street lamps marked the way. They’d been drinking at the crowded Dominica Café near the Plaza de Armas where the evening regimental military bands were playing. The Dominica, as Don Pedro called it, was a meeting place for everyone from money-lenders to gamblers and diplomats. It was located right across from the gloomy walls of a convent for Dominican nuns. Townsend’s blurry mind was f
illed with images of swaying hips, fluttering ladies’ fans, mixed rum drinks, all lost in a smudgy veil of tobacco smoke.

  He could now hear the clattering of carriage wheels on the cobblestones, and the jingling of harness bells. Masked men with dress coats and top hats and women clutching their long flowing robes and trailing skirts swept by, the women giggling with excitement. He heard a steady rhythm of dancing music spilling out into the street. For a moment, he thought he saw Emma. She was with a crowd of young people ahead of them. But then he looked again and she wasn’t there.

  They walked into a large stately house where he heard what sounded like a string quartet with a piano and a rhythmic beat. The air was a potent blend of tobacco smoke, perfume, and rum. Don Pedro handed off some money to a man at the entrance who whispered something to him. Townsend soon found himself amid a crush of people being directed to what was clearly the bar area. Don Pedro headed for a marble-topped table presided over by a silver-haired man with a snow-white moustache. It was the British consul general, Joseph Crawford. The distinguished diplomat was seated with two other gentlemen holding their masks and surveying the dance floor.

  Don Pedro called out to the consul general, but instead of greeting him, Crawford pretended not to see the Spaniard.

  “Mr. Crawford, when do you expect Her Majesty and Mr. Palmerston to finally recognize the Confederacy? Rumors are it will happen soon.”

  “Pshaw,” Crawford replied. “I have nothing more to say to you, Sr. Alvarado Cardona.”

  Don Pedro insisted on introducing Townsend to Crawford as the captain of his newest ship. The British diplomat reluctantly acknowledged the young captain, and then turned away. It was clear to Townsend there was a hostility between the two men. Don Pedro ignored the snub and turned to Townsend, speaking loudly enough so that Crawford could hear him.

  “Mr. Crawford is an ambitious man with many irons in the fire. My informants tell me he is hoping to be named the first British ambassador to the newly formed Confederate States of America.”

  Just then, a finely dressed Negro servant squeezed his way through the crowd and whispered something in Don Pedro’s ear. The man had a silver-laced green jacket with a jaunty pink vest. Don Pedro nodded with a smile, and handed the black man some money. He laughed as he bought Townsend another rum drink, and they both turned their attentions to the dance floor. The saloon area was a mob of twirling masked dancers, a noisy din of music, cries, and calls. The orchestra was made up of all black musicians wearing finely tailored clothes. They were playing piano, cello, violin, and flute. The music was like a waltz, but what made it different was the thumping deep baritone from the bass, and the scraping of gourds called güiros.

  Townsend had never heard music like this before. He’d been taught how to dance the waltz, but this was far different. The dancers shuffled their feet, moving at a slow pace to the scratchy rhythm of the scraped gourds. Young ladies dressed in brightly colored muslins, neck and arms bare, yellow silk roses in their hair, were spinning round and round the dance floor with men in formal coats, jewel-colored vests, and bow ties. Everyone had masks, and Don Pedro quickly handed him one, a striped orange and black tiger mask. It covered his eyes, nose and forehead. It even had tiger ears. Don Pedro put on his own mask, a smiling court jester’s face all in white with red and green trim.

  “This is Cuban dancing, la danza criolla. Remember the usual courtesies don’t apply at a máscara, and here especially. Now that we are in Carnival, more liberties are allowed. Ladies need no introduction to invite a masked gentlemen to dance, and it’s against the rules and considered a grave offense to try to forcibly remove the mask from someone else.”

  He started to turn away, but then quickly turned back.

  “Be careful,” said Don Pedro behind his smiling mask. “Keep your hand on your money. There are plenty of light fingers and dangerous hands on the dance floor.”

  Don Pedro approached one of the décolleté masked women standing nearby, and he soon was swept away into the swirl of silk and linen. Townsend watched mesmerized as the dancers, all masked, moved in perfect rhythm. White porcelain faces with yellow lips and gilded cheeks moved by red devils with black horns and silver lips. Cheek by jowl the couples moved as one with perfect precision and grace, following formal steps but moving sensually with their hips to the raspy tempo of the gourd, and the beat of an African drum.

  Townsend’s eyes focused in on the fast moving yellow-gloved fingers of the pianist as they traveled across the white and black piano keys. His head swam and he felt like he was floating into a carefree euphoria. The flutist pierced the air with a high note. Suddenly he found himself in the arms of an unknown woman wearing a full-faced cat mask with glittery golden whiskers and ribbons adorning her hair. There was no introduction. No talking. She moved naturally with the music almost with no effort. Her steps flowed like water, shuffling to the tempo, sweeping him along.

  At first he moved awkwardly, but then he let the music flow through him, feeling the scraping of the gourd in his feet. Acting on impulse, he pulled his dance partner closer, placing his left hand on her waist. He pressed his fingers against the curve of her lower back. All he could see through the mask were the eyes, dark mahogany hair, and a beautiful smile. She was young, and slender. Her perfume was a scent he found familiar. She tried to whisper something in his ear, but he couldn’t really hear. She spoke louder.

  “You are a quick learner, Mr. Townsend.”

  Startled, Townsend leaned back to look at his dance partner. All he could see through the mask were her brown eyes.

  “Miss Carpenter? Is that you?”

  His dance partner leaned in closer. “I need to tell you something about—”

  The music suddenly became louder. Before he knew what was happening, all the dancers switched partners. Townsend found himself twirling away with another woman who was wearing a full-faced white Venetian mask with red glitter around the eyes. Again no words were spoken. This woman was more confident, and more bold. Her black hair tumbled down her neck in curls onto her bare shoulders. Her shiny curls were only enhanced by a necklace of diamonds perched strategically above her low-cut formal dress.

  He felt the rounded curves of her body, and breathed in the sweet scent of her perfume. Any caution or reserve slipped away as this mystery woman pressed against him. He felt the strength of her arms and the warmth of her hands as they twirled to the other side of the dance floor. The sway of her well-rounded hips moved like an undulating stream. Not a word was spoken until the end of the dance when she leaned into him so he could feel the soft cushion of her breasts. He instinctively pulled her closer. Through her mask Townsend could see dark Spanish eyes and below the mask, rich full lips. His mind was a blur. His only thought was how much he desired this woman. She breathed into his ear in Spanish, “Venga conmigo. Come with me.”

  Townsend was still quite drunk, and had only a faint idea of what he was doing or where he was going. She took him outside onto the street where her closed carriage was waiting. He heard the crack of the man’s whip and the jingling of the carriage’s harness as the wheels moved forward. No one could see in or out. The woman pulled off her mask and removed his, and he found himself in the arms of the Condesa. She laughed mischievously as she pressed her lips to his face and began breathing into his ear.

  “This is the end of Carnival,” she whispered to him, “and the priests say we are permitted to sin.”

  11

  The wheels creaked and groaned as they clattered along the stone. The Condesa’s fingers slid underneath his shirt, and she began caressing his chest. He was uncertain what to do, awkwardly responding to her touches. The few women he’d known were working girls, and there had been no romance in those encounters. Here he was with an older woman, a Spanish lady. A married woman of high society. As drunk as he was, he knew these were treacherous waters.

  Hang it all! I won’t follow
my judgment, Townsend thought. He knew he couldn’t stop anyway.

  “Don’t worry, Captain. No one can see us. My postilion will make sure no one comes near us. No prying eyes will get too close. Just relax.”

  In the darkness of the carriage, he sensed her burning gaze even as he felt her caressing hands. She began breathing into his ear again, whispering what she wanted him to do. His hands traveled up under her petticoats, sending a shudder through her body. She pulled his head to her breasts. Townsend needed no encouraging now. He began helping her to undress. He slid his hands over her bare hips and thighs and then the full length of her body. She was clearly experienced in the ways of handling strange men. She helped him undress, pausing for several seconds to make sure he put on one of those new “French safes” made of rubber, a new experience for him. He felt the soft touch of the carriage’s leather seats on his bare skin. Then a body on fire wrapped around him, vigorous and desirable. She was breathing rapidly into his ear. He felt the gently moving carriage, her caressing hands exploring his body. He hardly knew what he was doing, but he didn’t care. He could smell the perfume in her hair. Her moist lips had the taste of flowers. He felt the driver pull the horses to a stop, and then heard the roar of the ocean in the background.

  Townsend woke up to the sound of waves and the unsettling roar of breakers. At first he had no idea where he was, but as he looked around the dark confines of the enclosed carriage, he remembered. He looked over to see her shadowy silhouette set against an inky mauve sky. She was leaning out the carriage window smoking a cigarette attached by small claws to a golden tong with a ring that fit over her left forefinger. She was looking away from him with a dull stare at the waves crashing against the shore. Her brightly colored, décolleté ball gown of blue and green muslin now seemed incongruous. Her carefully coifed black tresses had drooped into a state of disarray. The silence between them in the carriage had settled like a windless fog.