I slowed my pace. Walked down to the Malecon-Havana's busiest street, the old promenade that ribbons along the sea. Did some rubbernecking: big gringo tourist taking in the sights, looking at the lovers petting on the seawall, seeing waves break over the stone foundation of a city four hundred years old, watching the riverine flow of loafers and whores and thousands of Chinese bicycles-Flying Pigeons-that were the Maximum Leader's answer to the gas crisis. It reminded me of Asia: Cambodia and Vietnam.
Straw hats hunched over handlebars. Why was it that people with nowhere to go were always on the move?
Behind me, the couple stopped, waited. I thought: If they don't make a move it's because they know about the money. I wanted them to think-hey, here's our chance. So stood looking out at the Gulf Stream
…
Land, sea, or air, ninety miles is ninety miles, except when describing the waterspace between Havana and Key West. It is a distance protracted by a generation of despair. I thought about men and women who had taken to launching inner tubes beyond the landfall beacon off Morro Castle and paddling north. Crossing the Florida Straits in a luxury liner is one thing, but attempting it in a rubber donut, one's legs fluttering through the bright skin of the abyss, is a whole different proposition. In Cuba, desperation framed crazy optimism, or there was no optimism at all.
I wondered about the couple tailing me. How desperate were they?
Beyond the flow of bicycles, the sea was inflated with gray light. I could smell the sea and the heated asphalt and there was the odor of sargasso weed on wet rock. A streak of indigo marked the Gulf Stream's edge-it swept in close to Havana Harbor-and there were men in inner tubes fishing the rim of the Stream as if fishing the bank of a river. There was no fuel for boats, so they floated out in inner tubes. More and more of them just kept going.
I turned and stared at the couple full faced for the first time. The woman-she looked more like a girl now that they were closer-averted her eyes, then seemed to gather courage. She gave me a bawdy wink, then puckered her lips as if kissing. It was the standard come-on of the jine-tera, a street prostitute, but I got the impression she hadn't had much practice at it. I smiled, looked around, then pointed to my own chest: Me?
She winked again and I signaled her over. Watched the man give her a little nudge to get her going.
In Spanish, she said, "If you are looking for a good time, mister, perhaps I can be of help." A very formal approach for a whore.
I said, "Huh?" looking down at her. She was pretty in the way that parochial school girls are pretty. The uniform was in her face, her eyes, even though she wore tight jeans, a ruffled blue blouse. Her black hair was pulled back in a pony tail.
She said, "I will be very nice for you."
I shrugged, grinning foolishly. "I don't hab-la the Es-pan-yol, Sen-yor-rita," I said.
The girl turned helplessly to the man. Concerned, but trying to appear friendly, he came up, clapped me on the shoulder and said in Spanish, "I attend university with this lady. She likes you very much. But she is badly in need of money. Perhaps you and she could step into that private place"-he motioned toward the shadows of a nearby park-"and get to know each other better."
I said, "Huh? Parque? Sorry, buddy, I don't com-pren-dough."
Listened to the girl say, "Carlos, he doesn't understand a word you're saying. Must we do this?"
Carlos was nodding-relax; everything was going to be okay-as he said, "We've talked about it; it's what we've decided. We know he's a Yankee, just as I said. What does he care about the price?"
That gave me pause. He could have meant a couple of things by that. I decided I had to see it through. I touched the girl's shoulder. Felt her cringe before reconsidering and then she leaned heavily against me. "Carlos, I'm not certain I can do this."
Carlos said, "Do we have a choice?"
"Perhaps we should find someone else. He's so big, maybe he's dangerous."
"That's why we followed him, to make certain. He's a tourist. He seems respectable and clean. Lena, it's what we have to do."
Lena. The girl had a name.
Carlos smiled at me as he created a circle with thumb and index finger, then poked a finger through the hole. International sign language. Then he flipped his fingers at me twice: twenty bucks.
I let Carlos watch me think about it before reaching into my pocket and handing him the money. Then I took Lena by the hand and led her off to a little private hollow created by frangipani trees and hibiscus. When I turned to face her, she moistened her lips then got up on tippy-toes and tried to kiss me. Got a faint whiff of cornstarch before I stopped her by holding up my palm.
She said, "Is something wrong?" Started to say, "What do you want-?" before she remembered that I didn't understand.
I was listening; I wanted to see if Carlos and maybe friends were going to come through the bushes and jump me. If he or they had, I would have run. I would have assumed there was a possibility he knew about the money and that's all I needed to know. But there was only the sound of bike traffic on the Malecon and parrots in the trees. It was just Lena and me; Carlos out there waiting for us to be done.
The girl misinterpreted my reticence. She began to unbutton her blouse. Maybe I wanted to watch. I got a quick glimpse of pinecone breasts and belly scar before I touched her shoulder and said in Spanish, "Senora, I will not help you do this to yourself." I left her standing there as I walked out of the bushes and found Carlos sitting on a bench. He had his face buried in his hands. Again in Spanish, I asked, "How old is the child, friend?"
First there was the cornstarch, then her scarred stomach.
Carlos was talking before he realized who had spoken to him. "Two years old and she is very sick-" Then he stopped, looking up at me. I watched him teeter between fear and anger-maybe I was some kind of undercover cop. He thought about it before he asked, "Why did you pretend? You understood everything we said."
I didn't reply.
His tone took on a pleading quality. "The only reason we did it is to get money for the child. The things she needs, we can get them only on the black market, but we have no-"
I was shaking my head. I didn't want to hear his sad story. If you allow it, the private tragedies of the Third World will worm their way into the cerebral core and drag you into a vacuum of that world's own despair. Tomlinson doesn't agree, but most emotional entanglements are pointless. It pleases me when he says that I am unfeeling-just as it irritates me when he says that I often lie to myself, implying that I am more empathetic than I really am.
I took four more bills from my pocket and stuffed them into Carlos's shirt. "I didn't touch her. With that, maybe no one will have to." I took him by the arm and steered him toward the bushes. I remembered the little shove he'd given Lena, now did the same to him. Told him, "Go get your wife."
It was sunset by the time I got back to the Havana Libre.
No one I'd spoken with had ever heard of Tomlinson. Same with Rita Santoya, a.k.a. Julia DeGlorio.
Dewey was still out by the pool, sitting in a lounge chair positioned to catch the sun's last rays. She had a bottle of Hatuey beer in her hand and was speaking animatedly with a squat, bearish man. The man had pale red hair and an incongruously dark mustache. He had a thoughtful, professorial style of nodding. Probably his way of showing that she had his full attention.
Dewey's corner of the deck was the only busy corner in the pool area. A small but intense coterie of men sat or stood or moved around her, apparently waiting for the red-haired man to finish so they could have a turn. Spaniards, mostly. A couple of Germans and maybe a wealthy African. Same with the white-shirted waiters. Each man demonstrated his interest by being pointedly indifferent as he peeked at Dewey, taking her in with his eyes, probably sending the red-haired guy telepathic messages to get the hell away from her.
I thought: Good-bye closet, hello world.
Not that I was surprised that Dewey had drawn a crowd. Her wet hair was darker, combed back. She had a copper-col
ored scarf wrapped around her waist, sarong-fashion. Very stylish. The two silk swatches of bikini top hung on her as if held by a mild breeze. She looked stunning, but that's not why I wasn't surprised. Undressed, or in any partial stage, Dewey's body and her mannerisms would awaken in men what therapists might refer to as the Tarzan Syndrome. Because there was no hint of self-consciousness in the way she moved-yawning, scratching, knees thrown wide apart as she leaned to grab her beer-her physical language communicated a primal acceptance of all body functions… a primitive, welcoming sexuality to any male strong enough… a form of muscle-and-marrow primal challenge.
It made me smile, watching men compete for her; a very old and intricate drama indeed. But it also made me a tad uneasy. I knew they'd never understand or appreciate why they were among the very few men who had seen her undressed the way she now was. Doubted if they would accept or sanction the inner conflict that had prompted her to buy and wear a tissue-sized swimsuit. Mostly I thought: God help the guy who actually tries to make a move on her.
I stood there for a couple of minutes, but she was way too involved for me to get her attention. So I took the elevator to our room, showered, changed into T-shirt and running shorts, and went back down for a swim. This time she saw me and waved me over, still listening to the red-haired guy but looking at me as I approached. I watched her mouth speak a private message to me: "He knows…" somebody. Couldn't decipher it. Then, when I was close enough, heard her say to the man, "Here's Doc." Then to me: "Doc, this is Lenny Geis."
The man was standing, extending his hand as she added, "Lenny was just telling me that he knows Tomlinson."
Geis was a couple of inches under six feet, probably weighed a little over two hundred pounds. Had one of those pulling-guard bodies, a layer of fat over pounds of muscle. Heavy chest and shoulders covered by a pelt of Viking hair and balanced on a set of spindly bronc-buster legs. He looked a little like a grown-up version of Mayberry's Opie: the jaw, the hair, the perceptive collie eyes. Probably in his mid to late thirties, but already had the handshake and the poise of the successful businessman. Not self-important, but city-smart, easy to talk to. A difficult impression to communicate without the executive's tailored-suit uniform, but Geis-wearing only green trunks and thongs-pulled it off without much effort.
"Doc, I was telling this beautiful lady. My week here? I went from the outhouse to the penthouse, just like that." He was smiling, being familiar as if we were old friends, as he repositioned chairs at a nearby table-"You guys be more comfortable here?"-and signaled the waiter. "Didn't I say that, Dewey? A place like this, meet one gringo a month, you're lucky. Especially around the holidays. Who'd want to spend Christmas in Havana? But first I meet Tomlinson and Julia, now you two. Man, I'm telling you, it's like being in jail and getting visitors. Just to hear someone speak English, you know?"
Dewey said, "Lenny's Canadian. He works in Havana a month on, a month off. He's got an important meeting tomorrow or he'd be up north and we'd'a missed him."
Geis said, "The Cubans do stuff like that on purpose." Set up meetings on Christmas Eve, that's what he apparently meant.
Dewey said, "So we're lucky I ran into him." She was standing behind me, massaging my shoulders, being affectionate-maybe her tourist act, maybe not-letting the men watching know that the game was over, her guy was here. I took an absurd and adolescent pleasure in their disappointment. Thought to myself, You're as bad as they are, aware that Lenny Geis appeared unaffected, like he was just as happy to see me.
I said, "Where in Canada?"
"Montreal," he said. "I've got an office there and my backers have offices in Toronto. Poor Dewey, she had to sit here and listen to the whole story." He looked at her so Dewey could smile and shake her head-she didn't mind. He said, "At first, it sounded like a great assignment. Spend every other month in Havana making contacts, setting up joint ventureships. That's my specialty. You know, laying the groundwork for when the Cuban economy switches to the free market. It has to happen, right? That's when Havana's gonna boom. The first people in, the ones who've done their homework, we're going to make a mountain of money." His tone was confident but his expression was boyish, vulnerable, as if he'd just about reached the end of his endurance but couldn't let himself quit. He said, "I believed that eighteen months ago and I still think it's true. But, man, my time in Havana goes slower and slower and the months I spend at home just fly by. I've got a fiancee up home." He looked at Dewey again-he'd already told her about his girl. "We're supposed to get married in June. Big wedding, catered with an orchestra, the whole works. So I about go nuts missing her, but with this shitty phone system we only talk maybe once a week and most of the time the phone patch doesn't work. Nothing against Cubans, ay? I like the Cubans a lot. But living in Havana is like living on another planet."
I listened to the rounded French vowels and the way he said, "ay?" as if it were an automatic question mark. I said, "You're the one who helped Tomlinson telephone me."
He was nodding. "He needed to call somebody, yeah. I met him out in front of the Hotel Nacional. Took one look at him and knew he was either Canadian or American- the difference might mean a lot in Quebec or Detroit, but not a darn thing down here. I liked him right away. He's an… unusual kind of guy, but nice. He told me about his trouble with the boat and I tried to do what I could." Geis's tone was fraternal-we North Americans have to stick together, right?
Noted the way he said "Quebec"-K-beck. Noted the nearly new Rolex Submariner watch on his left wrist. No rings but a necklace with a thin gold cross around his neck. Religious, perhaps; he was drinking pineapple juice while we sipped beers. I said, "Do you know where Tomlinson is?"
"Wish I did but I don't, sorry. He went somewhere but wouldn't tell me."
"Left Havana, you mean."
"That's what I couldn't figure out. Not many other places in Cuba for an outsider to go. Varadero Beach, maybe. They've got hotels there but very expensive. Pinar del Rio or maybe the Isle of Pines. Anyplace but a tourist area, Tomlinson and his girl wouldn't even be able to get food, because it's all rationed. There's not enough beans and rice for the Cubans. I told him that, but he still wouldn't say."
"Didn't tell you, or wouldn't?"
Geis said, "He wouldn't, so I didn't press it. Truth is, it was none of my business."
"Maybe he took the girl and went and stayed on his boat."
"No-o-o-o, I doubt that. The boats they impound, they keep them under guard out west of the city; this big harbor where they can keep an eye on them. No… he went somewhere, but it wasn't to his boat. Like I said, I tried to talk him out of it."
"But he went anyway, knowing you thought it was a mistake."
Geis smiled, trying to lighten things up. "I'm beginning to think it's a mistake for anyone to come to this island."
He was joking, but his eyes-weary and a little frantic- said he meant it.
Geis told me he was surprised that Tomlinson had left because he and the girl had planned to check in at the Havana Libre. I sat at the table knee-to-knee with Dewey and listened to him say, "Two days ago-yeah, it was Saturday- he came around asking if I could talk to the manager, maybe get him a special rate. Spaniards run this place"- he was talking about the hotel-"so at least it's clean even if the restaurant can't offer much of a menu. The manager works a monthly deal for me; he's become a buddy of mine, so he gave Tomlinson a pretty good discount and I thought everything was set. But early yesterday morning I was in the bar eating breakfast and your friend shows up looking very nervous, like he hadn't slept and maybe was a little hungover. He told me that he had to split. That's what he said, 'split.' And that he needed some money. In the way he talks, like a hippie. I gave him a couple hundred U.S. Figured sooner or later he was good for it."
I asked, "Was the girl with him?"
Geis said, "Julia? No. But I got the impression she had something to do with it. The thing that was upsetting him, why he had to go."
"Tomlinson told you that?"
/> "Uh-uh." Geis was thinking about it, apparently not sure himself. "When I asked what'd happened-I asked a couple of times-he put me off. Finally, he said, 'Turns out God has assigned me to help Rita,' which didn't make sense to me. Still doesn't, unless Rita's a nickname for Julia." He looked at Dewey. "Is it?"
I told Lenny Geis, "We've never met Julia," wondering what had motivated the woman to tell Tomlinson her real name, Rita Santoya. Watched Geis lift an eyebrow, cock his head-a visual comment: he'd met her but would remain noncommittal unless asked. So I asked.
"She seemed… okay, fairly nice," Geis said. Being diplomatic about it. "Much younger than him and attractive in an… in a plain sort of way. No makeup, very short hair. That type. Always stayed in the background, didn't say much. Was always on the go; didn't hang around with your friend much. I only saw her twice."
"I get the feeling you didn't like her, Lenny."
His smile was an attempt at deflection. "After a month in Havana, I like anybody who's from the States."
"Okay, you liked her but didn't trust her much."
Geis shrugged.
I said, "Lenny… Tomlinson's one of my oldest friends. Maybe you couldn't tell but he's not in the best of health. I'm not asking you to judge the woman, I'm just trying to get a sense of what's going on."
Geis thought about that for a little bit before he said, "Like I mentioned, I didn't talk to her much. I know what it is you're after… yeah, worried about an old friend, but…" He was wrestling with it. Finally, he put his elbows on the table and leaned toward me. "Know what it was? They didn't seem to fit together. Simple as that. You know how certain couples fit? Like my fiancee and me. We fit. You and Dewey, you two fit. But they didn't. It wasn't just her age. It was, well… Tomlinson is so open and outgoing, and she was so… silent. But she didn't miss anything. Always very alert, but it was more than that. Like she was always on her guard. I got the impression that she let Tomlinson do all the talking but, when they got back to the room, she's the one who made the decisions."
North of Havana df-5 Page 9