Havana Best Friends

by Jose Latour

  On her hands and knees, Marina reached the duffel bag and frantically rummaged through it looking for her purse. She found it and opened it. Her passport, plus those of Elena and Pablo, were there. The plane tickets too. She also found twenty one-hundred-dollar bills that were not hers. What nerve the cocksucker had! What did she need the money for? The plane ticket was already paid for. The hotel, any emergency that might arise? Son of a fucking bitch!

  Marina returned to the bathroom and washed. After a couple of minutes she shuffled back to the room abstractedly dabbing at her face with the towel, trying to work out what to do next. The only person she knew in Cuba was Elena Miranda. Moreover, Elena was the only one who would believe her story, who could lend a hand. But what could the Cuban teacher do? Nothing.

  What she ought to do right now was hurry to the airport, Marina decided. See whether she could intercept the bastard before he boarded a plane, hang on to him as if he were a life jacket. In public he couldn’t harm her, or pretend he didn’t know her. She would approach him and whisper in his ear, “You want me to start screaming my lungs out, scumbag? You want me to tell those cops over there what you are trying to smuggle out in that fucking cane?” Marina could actually see him grin and shake his head. “What took you so long?” he would ask. “I thought it would be best if I came earlier to grease some palms and get us seats on the next plane out.” He would say something like that.

  Marina changed into a pair of jeans and a white linen blouse, grabbed the duffel bag and her carry-on, and left the room. In the lobby she felt a pang of hunger and hurried into the dining room.

  “I’ll have a glass of orange juice,” she said to a young waitress in Spanish.

  “Of course, madam. Will you please choose a table?”

  “No table. I’m in a hurry. Just give me a glass of orange juice.”

  “But, madam, I can’t serve you standing up.”

  “Give me a fucking glass of orange juice.”

  The waitress hurried behind the counter and poured from a pitcher. Marina seized the glass and drank the juice in four gulps. From her purse she produced two dollars and handed them to the waitress.

  “Thanks. Keep the change.”

  As she turned to leave, Marina spotted the Dutchman. He was at a table by a huge window, gazing at the sea, calmly sipping from a cup. She looked around. Could it be that …? She strode past tables where other guests were having breakfast.

  “Good morning.” She flashed a smile that tried to be seductive and failed miserably.

  “Oh, good morning,” the expert said, rising to his feet. “Would you care to join me?”

  “No, thanks. Have you seen my husband?”

  Lines appeared on Scherjon’s forehead. “Your husband?”

  He’s not in the know, Marina realized. “Never mind,” she said before turning round and leaving the dining room.

  The day-shift desk clerk hurried toward her. “Excuse me, ma’am. Are you leaving?”

  “Yes,” she snapped.

  “And your room number?”

  It dawned on her what the problem was. “Room 321,” she said.

  “Just a minute, please,” the guy said, turning on his heels.

  Marina followed him back to the desk, and waited impatiently to hand in her card key. Had the sonofabitch left the bill unpaid? It wouldn’t surprise her. The clerk was tapping the keyboard and observing the screen. “Okay,” he said finally with a forced grin. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

  With long strides she reached the hotel entrance. The Hyundai was not in the hotel parking lot either. She signalled the parking valet.

  “Get me a taxi.”

  The man nodded, turned, lifted an arm. Almost immediately a yellow four-door Peugeot glided slowly on to the driveway. The valet opened the door for her.

  “Take me to the airport,” she said to the driver.

  “Which terminal?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where are you flying to?”

  “Canada.”

  “That’s Terminal 3.”

  “Get me there as fast as you can. I’ll pay you twice what the meter reads.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the driver said, suppressing the desire to rub his hands together.

  It was 7:36 on Sunday morning when Elena Miranda awoke. She stretched and yawned prodigiously. Recalling the events of the previous evening made her laugh for a few moments. It was not the loud, childlike, silly laugh she had let out at the paladar. It was a throaty, sexy, knowing laughter seldom enjoyed by others because it only emerged when something really gratifying happened to her, like an exalted orgasm or an unexpected gift. She turned and smiled at the heap of diamonds on her bedside table. Yeah, those little things would change her life.

  Elena went to the bathroom and while washing noticed that her left cheek still bore wrinkle marks from the sheet. She stared at the tools and the flashlight, promised herself she would pick them up later and put them away somewhere. Back in her bedroom she made her bed, donned the same cut-offs and orange sweatshirt of the day before, then marched into the kitchen to make some espresso. She sipped from a cup thinking she should go to the store, get her daily ration of eighty grams of white bread, scramble an egg, and eat it with the bread and a second cup of espresso. A fresh chuckle. Thirty-eight diamonds, but no milk, butter, jam, nothing.

  She returned to the bedroom, took her sweatshirt off, put on a bra, then slipped the sweatshirt back on. Elena had been very embarrassed the day she forgot she wasn’t wearing a bra under a white cotton pullover and men had ogled her breasts and nipples as she walked to the pharmacy to buy something. For some obscure reason she didn’t find annoying the admiring glances her thighs, legs, and backside drew.

  She picked up her ration card, a five-cent coin, and her keys. In the hallway as she headed for the front door, her buzzer rang. Elena frowned, reached the door, unlatched it.

  “Dad!”

  He stepped in and they embraced tightly before kissing cheeks. Since Pablo’s death, during each of his forty-eight-hour weekend passes, Manuel Miranda had spent a couple of hours with his daughter, always on Sunday mornings. He didn’t think of it as a paternal duty; he actually wanted to make up for all the lost years, provide what little support and protection he could, make Elena feel he would be there for her no matter what. Due to the previous evening’s excitement, Elena had forgotten he would visit this morning.

  Manuel Miranda believed that, so far, his daughter’s life had been less than enjoyable. And he had made important contributions to her unhappiness with his almost permanent absence from home during her childhood, his divorcing her mother, then murdering his second wife and her lover, the subsequent scandal, his prison sentence. The incurable illness and death of her son had been devastating; being in daily contact with very sick children couldn’t be much fun either. As if all this weren’t enough, she had lost her mother to her aging grandparents hundreds of miles away. The antagonism between her and Pablo was a constant source of friction. And then her brother had been murdered. How she could remain so gracious after so many misfortunes remained a mystery to him. Neither could he understand her unstinting devotion to sick children.

  “How are you?” he asked before noticing something new in her eyes.

  “Oh, Daddy, in your whole life you haven’t arrived anywhere at a more opportune moment,” said a beaming Elena, holding her father at arm’s length.

  “Really?”

  “Dad, can you keep a secret?” It was a rhetorical question and she knew it.

  Miranda grinned, blinked repeatedly, cocked his head as though he would prefer not to say what he was about to say. “Elena, if I had a penny for every secret I’ve kept, I’d be a millionaire.”

  “I know, Dad, I know. But it’s a long story. Let’s go and buy some bread. Then we’ll have breakfast together,” she said, gently pushing him out of the apartment and closing the door after her. She took his arm. “In late May, as I was getting ready for work one mo
rning, a couple of tourists came to our door …”

  She was a good storyteller and it took her nearly an hour to finish. They were sitting at the kitchen table, elbows on the table-top, two plates with the remains of scrambled eggs in the sink, empty cups of espresso close at hand. Miranda had seen a lot in his time, but he was astonished and looked it.

  Elena reached across the table and poked him in the ribs. “Well, say something. You think I’m joking?”

  “Show me,” he said.

  Grinning widely, she led the way to the bathroom first. Miranda took in the tools on the floor before peering at the cavity where the diamonds had lain undisturbed for forty-odd years. Next she took him into her bedroom and pointed to the bedside table. Miranda approached the piece of furniture and stared reverently at the stones for almost a minute before choosing one, turning on the lamp, and examining it under the light. It was the first brilliant-cut, in fact the first gem, he had seen in his life. He returned the diamond to the pile, turned off the lamp, and faced Elena.

  “Daughter, the Special Period is over for you.”

  Elena laughed her throaty laugh and clapped her hands in delight, then checked herself. “Assuming they are the real thing.”

  “Oh, you can be sure they are,” Miranda said as he leaned against the dressing table. “You put two and two together and make four. The owner of this building built it with embezzled funds, lived in this apartment. When we moved here the tenant of apartment six – Tomas something, I don’t remember, he left in ’63 or ’64 – told me the man’s surname. Consuegra rings a bell. And, yes, I seem to recall this tenant said he had a son and a daughter. The rumour was he paid Batista two hundred thousand dollars to be appointed Treasury Undersecretary.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Dad,” Elena said, sitting down on the bed. “Spare me the propaganda.”

  “You don’t know. That was how things really worked. I’ll tell you a story, one I have reason to believe is true. There was a guy who paid three hundred thousand for the post of chief of the Havana Port customs. He was so brazen about taking bribes from importers, exporters, and professional smugglers that Batista himself fired him after three months. You know what his alleged comment was? ‘A little foot-dragging and I would have lost money.’ ”

  “Wow.”

  “According to this Tomas, Consuegra must have known how to swim and watch over his clothes, because he kept his post for nearly three years. I seem to recall he was an accountant by profession. Obviously he hid these diamonds here dreading confiscation. When he realized Batista was doomed, he probably sent most of the money he embezzled abroad. From the Treasury it must have been easy to manage it; just a few bank wires, I presume. But you can’t wire diamonds. Smuggling them out was too risky, so he hid them here figuring the Revolution wouldn’t last and he would recover his treasure.”

  Elena was now convinced that the diamonds were not fakes. But then another problem occurred to her and she raised her eyebrows. “But, Dad, how can I sell them? I mean, you know, I just can’t say, ‘Look what I found. I want to sell this.’ ”

  “Of course not. You find a treasure, any kind of treasure, you must turn it in to the government.”

  “That figures. So, what should I do?”

  “The first thing you’ve got to do is keep your mouth shut. Don’t mention this to anyone except me.”

  “And then?”

  “I don’t know. Make me some more coffee. Let’s try to work out how you should go about it.”

  “I had been thinking about sounding out a foreign businessman.”

  “Possibly. You know one?”

  “Who, me? No. The only foreigners I’ve met are Sean and Marina.”

  “Let’s go back to the kitchen. I need coffee. My brain works better with caffeine in my bloodstream.”

  The meter read $12.10. Marina gave the driver $25 and left the taxi. A porter pushing his cart approached her. She shook her head and entered the terminal. She went to the information counter first and learned that no plane bound for Canada had departed in the last twelve hours; the next one was scheduled for 3:15 p.m., a LACSA flight to Toronto. She thanked the woman, then looked around. The usual hubbub. Trying to appear unconcerned, Marina sashayed from one end of the terminal to the other without spotting Sean. She eased herself into a plastic chair close to the empty LACSA counter and braced herself for a long wait. Her watch read 9:32. She inhaled deeply and looked in all directions, an action she was to repeat regularly for the next hour and a half.

  Sitting in a pew close to a side door in Santa Rita de Casia, two feet away from his captor and pretending to be unconcerned, Sean let his gaze wander. He was unable to identify the richly adorned images on the high altar, except for Christ on the cross. Saints, he reckoned. Confessionals, candlesticks, the smell of burnt wax. Maybe thirty people alternately sitting, kneeling, and standing. No stained-glass windows, though. It was a modern, simple church; not one of those massive three-hundred-year-old cathedrals so common in Europe and Latin America.

  Sean considered his options. Truman would take him to Elena’s, threaten her with the gun, search her apartment, try to find out the truth. How would she react? When renting the room where he was searched Truman had said a few words in Spanish, not many, but enough to ask simple questions. What would her reaction be? Tell all? It was reasonable to assume that in the presence of this menacing stranger she would side with him. What about Marina? Perhaps she would think of searching for him at Elena’s, of confiding to the Cuban teacher the predicament she was in, the kind of bastard he was.

  Well, the Argentinian would change her mind when she realized he had been kidnapped, hate herself for having imagined he had betrayed her. That would make two backups should things take a turn for the worse. The women might help him overpower Truman. Or they might freeze. He could try to hit his captor on the head with some object, the cane if nothing heavier was available, then grab the gun and shoot him if he had to. He’d have to improvise. Maybe Elena would deny the find and they could persuade the cocksucker that there had been no diamonds behind the soap dish. Perhaps Truman would believe his version after inspecting the bathroom. And he wouldn’t kill them if he was convinced they hadn’t found the gems. Don’t count on it, Sean said to himself.

  He had to hand it to him: Truman was considerably shrewder, much more cunning than he had figured. He’d never know how the guy had found out when they were flying to Havana, the hotel where they would stay. Maybe he had kept watch the night before from this same church. The apartment building was not visible, but most of the park and a section of the sidewalks of 26th could be kept under observation without attracting attention. But how could he have overheard? Had he planted a bug? Sean realized he’d never know that either. Possibly he had stalked Pablo from here too. But, having missed the stones hidden in the cane, Truman might be persuaded that they hadn’t scored, that several people had been duped by the fantasy concocted by a dying old man. This psychological advantage was Sean’s secret weapon.

  Truman was also planning his next move. He was running out of time. As soon as Mass ended they would leave, mixing with the rest of the congregation, then stroll to the apartment building. A couple of tourists amazed at the ficus. Once in the apartment he would find out the truth if he had to pull her teeth out. He would bind and gag them – sheets, curtains, towels, whatever was available – and make a thorough search. Should he find nothing, he’d leave them tied up and take the first plane out; but if the diamonds were there he’d break two more necks. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.

  Truman chuckled. Sean stole a sidelong glance at his captor.

  Elena and her father were debating the best way to profit from the diamonds when the buzzer rang. Both frowned before Elena jumped up from her seat with a fresh grin. “It must be Marina and Sean. They said they would drop by in the morning to say goodbye. Come, I want you to meet them.”

  Miranda thought for a moment. “No, I’ll stay here. It�
�s best if they don’t see me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a convict. I’m not supposed to talk to foreigners or know what’s going on here.”

  “But they don’t know you’re a convict.”

  “Elena, believe me, it’s best if they don’t meet me.”

  The buzzer rang for the second time.

  “Okay.” Elena, sounding unconvinced, left the kitchen.

  She flung the main door open and faced Sean. His expression was different, troubled. She noticed he needed a shave. Behind him stood a tall, overweight man who hadn’t shaved in two or three days, his right hand buried in the pocket of his sports coat. Both had dark crescents under bloodshot eyes and looked as if they hadn’t slept the night before. Since day one Sean had inspired confidence; the man behind him wouldn’t inspire confidence in a lifetime.

  “Hi, Sean.”

  “Hi, Elena.”

  “Y Marina, ¿dónde está?” she asked as she stood on tiptoes to peer past them.

  Sean guessed what Elena was asking. She isn’t here, cross her name off, he thought. “Can we come in?” he said, giving Elena a fast, conspiratorial wink.

  “What?” Elena asked, in English.

  Sean shrugged and raised his eyebrows. The overweight man whispered something in his ear. “¿Podemos pasar?” Sean repeated with a lousy accent.

  “Sure,” Elena said, with a wave of her arm. Why were they drenched in sweat? Leaning on his cane, Sean limped in. The hulking man followed. An unnatural, indefinable aura also came in. Elena knitted her brow. What’s wrong? she asked herself as she closed the door. When she turned to face them, she spotted the gun the stranger now held in plain view and gasped.