by Jake Arnott
And this is what he told me:
‘I was born out in Santiago de las Vegas. My father worked on a tobacco plantation. He was a real bastard. Sorry, I suppose he was your grandfather. Anyway, there wasn’t much room, all five of us living in a shack, so I was hardly missed when I left. I was fifteen. I got a job in Marianao, working as a stable hand. I was shovelling horse-shit all day but it wasn’t bad. Horse-shit is better than most kinds of shit, certainly better than human shit. It was a racing stables by the track at Oriental Park. I got there in November and there was plenty of work. American owners brought their horses over to race through the winter season. I earned a dollar a week and slept in the hayloft.
‘There was a girl I worked with, Dominga. A light mulatta with a hard face but an elegant, long-limbed body. About my age but taller than me, more developed: you know how girls grow up quicker than boys. She was proud and haughty, and ordered me about with little mercy. Today I see her as a bossy girl; then she seemed a goddess to me. She showed me the duties of the stable and taught me how to roll a cigarette in one hand.
‘One day I came across two strangers in a box stall. One had a vet’s bag but he clearly wasn’t a vet. They were sticking something into the backside of the horse. I went to tell the manager. I came across Dominga on the way and told her what I had seen. She nodded and asked me where I was going and when I told her she slapped me across the face. What was that for? I asked her. For you to remember, stupid. You see anything, come to me first.
‘She told me all the tricks of the trade that we might witness. A horse might be doped to go fast, or to go slow. Or even be swapped with a ringer. In a race confined to three-year-olds, say, one of the horses entered might be substituted with an older, stronger horse that looked the same. She explained that there was always the possibility of making a dollar here or there. Errands to be run, lookouts to be posted, leaving a bucket of water in a certain stall before a race to load a horse down. When I looked, astonished, at the lengths people would go to to cheat the odds, she pinched my cheek and called me Angelito, the little innocent.
‘One afternoon in the hayloft she showed me another kind of trick. The oldest. She rode me hard and when I begged to have a turn at jockey she shook her head and pushed me down into the straw. Man, whenever I smell horse-shit I think of Dominga. Later I plucked up the courage to tell her I loved her and she slapped my face again. Don’t be stupid, Angelito, she told me. You’re just a stable hand. That’s not going to work, is it? So that was that.
‘Then came the night we helped a gang bring in a ringer for a race the following day. This time it was a substitute for the favourite; this ringer was meant to lose. It was the same size and shape but there was one problem. It was the wrong colour; the tone of its coat was too light. The favourite was a deep chestnut, the ringer was bay. I stood to one side and watched how everybody argued over what was to be done. Dominga suggested that we paint the thing. The men laughed but she assured them she had seen it done. With something called henna. You mix this red pigment in water and it works as a dye. In the end they agreed. We would do it at first light, and then they would come and see the result. They offered five dollars, but Dominga haggled up to seven. She had to go into Havana to get this stuff and at dawn we mixed it in a bucket and started to brush it on. We managed to get some sort of a match, a little blotchy in places maybe, but the gang seemed happy and paid us our money.
‘It was only after they had left that we noticed how frisky the ringer was getting. This could be trouble, Angelito, she told me. Perhaps there was something in this henna that was irritating the horse. By the time it was in the paddock it was fairly jumping around. I asked Dominga for my split of the money and she suddenly gave me this look. No, she said. Get all the money you’ve got and bring it to me. Hurry. I had five dollars and two bits saved that I had stashed by my bedroll. I ran to get it and brought it back to her. What are you going to do? I asked her. She shook her head and told me to meet her later behind the grandstand.
‘You can judge a race easily enough simply by the sound of it. I heard the commentary on the tannoy, the roar building up. I knew that somehow our ringer was coming in as favourite and that we were in a whole pile of shit. The gang would be after our blood, and so would most of the bookies on the track when they learnt what had happened. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt a tap on my shoulder. But it was Dominga, and she told me that we had to get going. What are we going to do? I asked her. She said that we’d think of something. But, look. She showed me the money she had got. With a sudden thought that, in its henna-induced delirium, the ringer might go like the wind, Dominga had staked everything she could scrape together on it at two to one. We had nearly fifty dollars. Time to go, Angelito, she said. Enough of horse-shit for us.’
He smiled and gave a plaintive gesture to indicate that his story was done. ‘And then?’ I asked him.
‘Then we hitched a ride to Havana and found a place to flop in the Barrio Chino. Dominga got a job in a nightclub. And I started getting into real trouble.’
We both gave out the same long sigh. Then I was puzzled and wondered about him meeting my mother and how he ended up in jail. I’d expected somehow that his story would lead to that. We walked back to be part of the crowd once more. I took hold of his hand. It was hard and calloused. For some reason I told him about Juanita, a girl I’ve been seeing for the past few weeks. She’s a waitress at the restaurant and a comrade.
Larry, I’m truly sorry that things did not work out between you and Sharleen. It’s an easy thing to say now but I really never thought that you were right for each other. Of course, I always thought that it would happen between you and Mary-Lou. I remember you telling me about that night you tried to explain quantum mechanics to her. Maybe there’s always been an Uncertainty Principle between you. But even Einstein had problems with quantum theory (and a fear of blind chance, perhaps) — ‘God does not play dice with the universe,’ he says. No, not dice but roulette (and none of us likes the house odds). The Wheel of Fortune is one big particle accelerator.
And gambling is certainly a huge problem here. American gangsters use our country as a playground with all their casinos in Havana. Come the day, we will kick every one of them out. But Cubans are not immune to gaming tables themselves. We’ll probably keep the lottery after the revolution (one of the few nationalised industries, after all, though terribly corrupt). And there are so many people involved in the business that there’ll have to be a transitional period. We discussed it in a meeting last week and called for the appointment of a Commissar for Games and Chance (I’m already thinking of applying).
Seriously, though, Cuba’s curse is that it has become a bountiful source of pleasure for others. We are so good at indulging vice in what we produce: sugar, rum, tobacco, prostitution and, of course, betting. This place is a Garden of Earthly Delights for foreign tourists, while so many of our own people live in poverty. But now we have a chance to change everything and create our own utopia. Nowhere has there been a greater opportunity for a genuine revolution, a permanent revolution. I feel such optimism that it almost scares me, Larry. Remember how I said when we first met that I had always been too late, historically speaking. Too late to join the militias in Spain; too late to meet Trotsky in Mexico. Well, now my time is here, I’m sure of it. I’m in absolutely the right place at the right moment. A real jonbar point, if you like. I wish you could be here to see it, my friend. Come, if you can.
Because the struggle has to be international, universal. I truly believe that change here can change everything. The whole world is watching, and maybe beyond too. Remember I told you and Mary-Lou about Tommaso Campanella and his uprising in Calabria. In the dialect there they had this word for it: mutazione (like mutation, remember those ‘mutant’ stories in Astounding?). Anyway, mutazione means not only a worldly revolution but also an astronomical shift, a time of cosmic change. And there are signs of it in the sky.
Yeah, I know you think I�
��m crazy but I’ve seen them again. There is definitely extraterrestrial activity close by, observing. I’ve seen UFOs over the Florida Straits on a couple of occasions. And I think I know now why they didn’t make contact before, in America. They simply weren’t interested. If they detect a real civilisation that they can communicate directly with, or at least the possibility of one, then we might see something spectacular. Now, with the launch of the Sputniks, and the demonstration that socialism can beat capitalism into orbit, we are surely ready for extraordinary advancements in science and society. Maybe we are not alone (and I’m not alone with my mad interstellar ideas — there has been much discussion of these concepts among the Latin American Bureau of the Fourth International). Perhaps we can solve that old conundrum of ours: we can change the world and build spaceships.
Back on earth the struggle continues. Batista’s regime is collapsing. Castro now controls almost all the countryside in Oriente. Cienfuegos and Guevara are advancing rapidly westwards through Las Villas. The people of Havana are ready to rise up and take control of the city. The future holds many risks and uncertainties in this glorious venture. This has always been the biggest gamble in history. That great spin of the wheel that we call the Revolution.
Hasta la victoria, siempre (a Rebel Army slogan),
And affectionate regards,
Nemo
11
lust
He closes his eyes on a true darkness, submits his will to nothingness. The void. The empty, parallel world where he is zero. Everything descending into blackness: matter, energy, information.
Now.
He is on his knees, face at her feet in calm supplication. Nose up against toes that flex and creak in polished hide. He tries to kiss the glossy leather but she shifts her weight to stoop down over him. With gloved hands she loops the collar around his neck, buckles it, clips the dog leash on. She straightens up.
‘Hup!’ she commands with a swift tug of the lead.
His head jerks back. He feels a jolt of power run through him. That almost forgotten impulse of desire. Good Lord, he thinks with a wistful smile, there’s life in the old dog yet.
‘Open your eyes,’ she tells him.
He looks up. Booted and stockinged legs bestride his face. He sets his gaze on her pelvis thrusting forward, girdled in black lace. She grabs a meagre fistful of his wispy grey hair. Pins and needles tingle his scalp.
‘Naughty boy.’ She holds his head an inch or two from her crotch. ‘You want this, don’t you?’
‘Please,’ he whimpers.
‘But do you know what I’ve got for you there?’
He thinks for a moment. She glares down at his wrinkled, frowning face.
‘Whatever you care to give me, Mistress.’
‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘Good boy.’
Marius Trevelyan had first spotted her on his way to Curzon Street on the morning he was recalled by the Service. She was tip-toeing up Shepherd Market on high heels. A short black bob, a fur-trimmed jacket, buttocks twitching in a tight skirt with that absurd erotic waddle. It was just before 9 a.m. but she wasn’t on her way to work, he decided. Oh no, on her way back, more like. He picked up his stride and followed at a discreet distance. All his years in retirement hadn’t blunted his appetite to pursue and observe. He felt a twinge of lust and an odd sense of recognition. She had finished for the night. She was coming off the game.
Coming off the game. Just as he had so many times. Only to be pulled back by the Service to consult on some little project or other. They never quite let you go, just kept you dangling. Trevelyan noted the hint of a swagger in this tart’s gait. A little too much emphasis in the upper body, he thought. Yes, that was interesting. Maybe this one really was in the same trade as he was.
The Curzon Street offices were not as changed as he had feared. He had imagined banks of computers replacing the musty confusion of Archive and Registry, the gloom of partitioned offices torn down and replaced in a bright and unforgiving open-plan. But as he made his way along the corridor, it seemed still the same dank labyrinth he had known from his days at Information Research.
The director of his old department was a woman. That was the shock he could not quite adjust to. Oh, he knew he had to. After all, there had been eight years of a female prime minister. They were everywhere in power these days. He remembered this one from when she was an assistant desk officer fresh from the Colonial Service. She’d had long hair then, and a habit of wearing exotic Indian silks. Now she had a cropped fringe and a skirt suit with shoulder pads. He noted the flat shoes when she stood up to greet him. Sensible shoes, isn’t that what they called them? She had beady, intelligent eyes.
‘Thank you so much for coming in, Sir Marius,’ she said, shaking his hand.
‘Not much choice,’ he retorted a little too sharply, baring his teeth in a grin. ‘You know, one is never completely retired. Just in suspended animation.’
She offered him a drink. Not a real one of course. That was another thing of the past.
‘There’s not a problem with this recall, is there?’ she asked him.
‘No, no.’ He shrugged.
‘You’ll be reporting directly to me, but if there is any, well, difficulty, we now have a staff counsellor.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s a new post. An independent officer that any member of the Service can consult with, concerning any problem that they might not feel able to discuss with their line management.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘We set it up after that officer from Counter-Subversion went to the press about being asked to carry out inappropriate investigations.’
‘I hope you don’t think that I’m going to go public about anything.’
‘Not at all, Sir Marius. I just feel obliged to let you know about new conditions of work within the Service.’
‘Since this Spycatcher business, Head Office really is worried about people blabbing, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Even got an injunction on Joan Miller’s memoirs. Ridiculous.’
‘Joan Miller?’
‘Worked for Maxwell Knight during the war in Counter-Espionage. All the stuff in her book is about that time. Nothing that could threaten national security. Though some of her work was tangential to Operation Mistletoe and the Service is still very cagey about that. Especially now, I suppose. I mean, that’s why I’ve been called back, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Prisoner Number Seven. Hess.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘Hanged himself in the summerhouse in the Spandau garden. Not easy if you’re over ninety.’
‘Quite. We’ve always known his death would be a political event so we’ve had a procedure laid down and ready for this, agreed to by all the Four Powers. The autopsy and investigation have been our responsibility.’
‘He was always our prisoner. First and foremost.’
‘Yes. And that is why we’ve called you in, Sir Marius. You’re the only one left who has known the case from the beginning.’
‘So the Service wants my post-mortem?’
‘Yes. And your take in terms of information strategy, naturally.’
‘Don’t expect much clarity.’
‘Nuance, that’s what we’re after.’
‘Because this one was dark right from the start. A perfect example of the craft. Nobody knew the whole story and nobody ever will. So it can be told again and again. Controlled confusion, that’s the key to negritude.’
‘Negritude?’
‘Sorry, an old section nickname. You know, the Black Game. Black propaganda. What the Americans insist on calling psychological warfare. As if there was anything scientific about it. The Yanks, well, they were always a bit heavy-handed. Never learnt how to play it as a game.’
‘And the Soviets?’
‘Brutal but playful. Like a cat with a mouse. Old liars, like us. And, like us, probably better at import than export. What are they
up to with this one?’
‘It’s rather strange. They appear to have shifted their attitude just months before Hess hanged himself. In April, Der Spiegel ran a story that Gorbachev was considering agreeing to Hess being released. In June, a similar statement was issued to the German-language service of Radio Moscow.’
‘That’s odd.’
‘Yes.’
‘They’ve always exercised their veto before. If it hadn’t been for the Russians the old Nazi would have been out years ago.’
‘The obvious analysis is that this is all part of the glasnost policy.’
‘Glasnost,’ he sneered. ‘If you ask me glasnost is the slyest form of disinformation we’ve ever seen. Oh yes. What we said in the past is a lie but this, this is the truth. It has this confessional, redemptive trick to it. What about our side? What have we been up to?’
‘There we might have a little problem.’
‘Really?’
‘Just a matter of detail.’
‘The autopsy?’
‘No, not that. The son has commissioned another post-mortem but I don’t think that should cause us any problems. No, there was a note.’
‘He left a note?’
‘Yes.’
‘A nearly blind ninety-three-year-old left a suicide note?’
‘Yes.’
‘Christ.’
‘We’re sure it can be verified.’
‘Sounds as if someone’s been a little over-zealous. What does it look like?’
‘It’s with our senior document examiner. We’ll get it to you as soon as possible.’
‘Good. And I’d like to run it past one of my old team, if that’s permitted.’
‘Eric Judd?’
Sir Marius Trevelyan nodded.
‘Yes. He should give it the old once-over.’
He spent the afternoon back in Archive, once more trying to make some sense out of the affair. Over the years it had continued to confuse him, even as he had been part of the confusion himself. Now the old bugger was dead. Prisoner Number Seven had a long history of attempted suicide. In June 1941, soon after his capture, he had thrown himself down the stairs of the country house where he was being held for interrogation. The banisters had broken his fall and he had merely fractured a femur. In February 1945, he had stabbed himself in the chest with a stolen bread-knife and later gone on hunger strike. In 1959, in Spandau prison, he had used the jagged edge of the broken lens of his spectacles to open a vein in his wrist; in 1977, he had severed an artery with a knife. But on none of these occasions had he ever left any sort of note.