I walked the fields and facilities with Francisco Gomez, the “blender” from my cigar operation. He sniffed at dirt, the growing tobacco, at the stuff hung up to dry, the mounds fermenting, and even the water before we checked out the rolling operation.
“As you know, señor, if you plant tobacco in two fields with slightly different soil composition, it will affect the flavor of the tobacco. Tobacco acts like a child in his first year at school—it catches everything around it. The soil, fertilizers, water, air, the amount of sunshine, it all goes into developing the flavor. Even in a country the size of ours, there are only a few places where the filler, binder and wrapper can all be grown. What is interesting is that this area can produce a good quality puro by itself, perhaps not as good as the Vuelta Abajo valley in Cuba, but better than most here in our country.”
I did know, but I let him ramble on. A puro was a cigar made from a filler, binder and wrapper all grown in the same country. I wasn’t sure I was that interested in the operation. I wondered what would happen if I bought the place at fire-sale prices and the Deputy Minister came back into favor next week. For economic reasons he would probably come gunning for me.
Francisco smelled and tasted a piece of bitter green tobacco as we walked toward the drying sheds. He said, “I have heard that the finest wrapper in the world is not Cuban, but one that is grown in the United States. Is that true, señor?”
“There’s a Connecticut shade-grown leaf that is the best.” I knew that because I occasionally made claim on some of my cigars that the wrapper, the tobacco leaf that is wrapped around the filler and binder, was Connecticut grown. Like the heady world of fine wines, there are a few people who can tell the difference between good and superior, and a lot of people who can be fooled because they believe what they’ve been told.
We had begun at the farm’s nursery where seeds were planted and pampered for six weeks. After they sprouted, they went into the ground, in straight rows the same as sugarcane, although the cane plants were much larger. Some of the plants were selected for shade-cultivation. These were protected under mesh. As the plants were growing, they were primed to remove leaves that would go into cigar making, with the lower leaves having the mildest flavor, and the upper ones the strongest.
Once the leaves were picked, they were sized and graded and hung in curing barns from several weeks to several months, depending on the weather and what the operator wanted to get out of the leaves. After this, bundles of leaves were piled into burros, mounds five or six feet high. Tight packing in the mounds kept out air and permitted the tobacco to ferment, a process known in the trade as “sweating” the tobacco over a period of months. The mounds heated up, and the leaves inside released nicotine, ammonia and other elements. It was at this point that the tobacco progressed from plants to what people smoked.
When it came out of the warehouse, the tobacco was brittle. It was graded again for filler, binder and wrapper, and turned over to a blender. Guys like Francisco were not unlike the blenders who selected various whiskeys or rums to blend into a finished product. Blending was an art, and a good blender was worth his weight in gold. I made sure I got the best when I stole Francisco away from another operation.
After the blender selected the tobaccos, in a hand-made operation like this one, the leaves were turned over to a roller who cut and rolled the tobacco until it was in the familiar cylindrical rolls that men suck and puff on.
We were coming out of the rolling room when a car drove up. The man in it was Ramos, someone I employed for “special” assignments. He was a low-life I used to dig into the backgrounds of business people I dealt with. It was good to know the motives of people who were selling—you never knew when a messy divorce or legal problems could drive the price down. And that’s what I had Ramos for, to gather the dirt that drove down prices. With a beer belly bulging way over his belt, a shaggy mustache and two-day old beard, and baggy clothes with sweat stains under both arms, he looked like a caricature of a bandido. I couldn’t stand the man, his methods or his smell.
One of the most painful things I’d ever done in my life was turn him loose on Luz.
Things had changed between us. Over the past few months we’d grown more and more distant, pulling apart even as I frantically tried to keep my hands on her.
Yeah, I was busy buying and selling the world, but we had lived that way for a couple years, each busy with our own lives. Something had happened, I wasn’t sure what, but it was a no-brainer that things were different. We hardly made love anymore. Hardly had dinners together. There was always something, some reason why we couldn’t get together. When I tried to talk to her about it, she became evasive and tense, once bursting into anger and storming out. The real killer was when she stayed out one night, telling me she had to stay with a sick friend, a woman who taught at the university.
Finally, I told Ramos to follow her. I felt like a shit for doing it. I knew a real man wouldn’t have stooped so low. But I couldn’t face her with accusations, couldn’t make threats or demands on her. Luz had a hold on me that no one else on earth had—and the fear of losing her was petrifying to me. I had lost my mother and father and had carefully avoided romantic attachments that would make me sweat emotionally.
When I fell for Luz, when we moved in together and in essence became a family, I had made a commitment that wouldn’t be easy for me to break. She was a part of me, just as my parents had been. And I couldn’t stand the thought of losing her.
“Hola, señor, cóme está?”
“Bien, gracias. What did you find out?”
His shifty eyes darted around a little before they floated back to me. “You asked what she is doing with her time. She goes to the university, spends most of the day there.”
“I know that. What else?”
He shrugged. “It is a difficult task you give me. I cannot run around the university looking through keyholes.”
“I didn’t ask you to look through keyholes. Where does she go, other than the university?”
“I have not seen her with a man, if that is your question. Not, at least, in the way one might call a compromising situation.”
I knew the bastard was playing a game with me. He knew something. I saw it in his cocky walk and the little smirk on his face. He had something to tell me but wanted to take his time about it. He was an ankle-biter, a little pissant. I was the Big Boss and this was his time to gloat. Worry and jealousy over what Luz might be doing, who she might be seeing, whose arms she might be in, was building up a rage in me that I was finding hard to keep suppressed.
I spoke quietly, calmly. “Tell me exactly what you know. Don’t fuck around with me. Is she seeing someone?”
He took off his hat and examined the brim. “Señor, I can only tell you this. When you wonder where she is at, I believe that you will find she is safely at the estancia.”
“The estancia?” It was a type of ranch or farm. “What estancia?”
“La Fundacíon in San Cristóbal, the country estate of El Jefe.”
“El Jefe? Trujillo? The generalissimo?”
It suddenly dawned on me. “She’s seeing Ramfis, isn’t she.” I almost grabbed him and shook the truth out of him. She was seeing Trujillo’s son. It made sense. Ramfis was good looking, the second most powerful person in the country.
“No, señor, I have spoken to a cousin who works in the kitchen of the estancia. She is not going there to meet with Ramfis.”
I shook my head. “Okay, so maybe she’s going there on university business. The estancia is probably where El Jefe conducts government business when he’s not in town, right?”
“No, señor, she is not going there on university business. I have made certain of that.”
I was tired of playing games with the bastard. I grabbed him by his shirt and pushed him back against his car.
“Listen to me, you little dirt bag, spit out what you know or I’m going to kick your ass from here to hell. Why is she going to the estancia?”
“El Jefe.”
“El Jefe what?”
“She goes to see El Jefe.”
“You told me that already. What else?”
“She doesn’t go there on business, señor.”
I couldn’t comprehend what he was getting at. El Jefe ran the country, ran the people in it. He was about seventy, ugly as a turd, a stone-eyed killer who pretended to be a savior of the people—yeah, a humanitarian like Stalin and Hitler and Batista. No one said anything about him in public, but he was well-hated. Luz didn’t bad mouth him because she would have lost her job.
When Ramos finally told me what he had found out from his cousin who worked in the kitchen, I hit him. My right fist came around and caught him across the side of the head and banged him, and my left fist came around and hit him on the other side of the head before he went down. When he was on the ground I kicked him until he was bloody and toothless.
I staggered away, the words he had spoken earlier chasing me like a dog with sharp teeth yapping at my heels.
“She is fucking El Jefe,” he had gloated, “she goes to the estancia to service our chief’s cock.”
40
Generalissimo Rafael Leónidas Trujillo Molina, known to the people of the Dominican Republic as “El Jefe,” the Chief, rode in the backseat of his chauffeur-driven light blue 1957 Chevrolet sedan. The car was well-known in the city, not just for its color but for its twin fender horns.
The vehicle followed the city streets out of Ciudad Trujillo and went along the coastal highway that led west to the dictator’s estate in San Cristóbal.
It was evening, just after dark. There was no police escort. But other than his “subjects” waving or shouting their admiration as the car went by, no one would have thought of approaching the vehicle.
There was no police escort because of Trujillo’s contempt for his enemies and his refusal to show concern. He was one tough hombre. And he had a street fighter’s mentality that if you showed a weakness to the mob, they’d get up the courage to attack you.
As he grew older and developed prostate problems, he made up for his lessening male sexual power by resorting to younger females, and perversions.
He was a man of enormous political and economic power. Unlike the infamous producer’s couch in Hollywood where an actress—and sometimes an actor—could get the opportunity for stardom by taking their turn on the couch, it didn’t take any talent to be successful by way of El Jefe’s couch. It took a willingness. And as his tastes got more wicked, as did his appetite for younger girls, there was always a mother or father—and a daughter—who were willing to ensure the girl and the family’s well-being by taking a turn.
He preferred his assignations at his ranch rather than the palace he occupied in the city. He was an old-fashioned Latino male, very macho, very domineering toward “his women,” but respectful toward them as well. Although he was a man who had people tortured and murdered because they disagreed with his autocratic rule, he had enough good old-fashioned breeding not to fuck young girls under the same roof with his elderly wife and grown children.
Some people might consider such sentiment as hypocritical, but perhaps it would be something in his favor when he finally met his maker—wherever tyrants go after they have run out of violence and rage.
41
Anna-Maria was nervous. She fidgeted as she sat on a backless couch in a sitting room off the master bedroom in El Jefe’s San Cristóbal estate. She was dressed in white—“the color of purity and innocence,” her mother told her that morning, as she helped select her clothing for the girl’s trip to the ranch. The color went very well with her copper-tone skin color, large, round brown eyes and full red lips. There was both a little of the Latino and the country’s African heritage in her shape and looks.
Well-developed for her age, she had a tendency to be a bit fleshy and soft while in her mid-teens, probably looking forward to managing a weight problem after she had children.
She was a very precocious sixteen-year-old, in terms of her ability to deal with everyday situations, but this was not an everyday situation. She was reasonably well-liked at school, but had many more boys as friends than girlfriends. Girls tended to find her too competitive, especially when it came to their boyfriends. She was also well-liked by teachers, who found her ambitious enough to study hard and get good grades.
It had been a dance recital that brought her to the attention of El Jefe. The dance team at her high school had won a national competition to perform before the country’s ruler. They performed modern and classical dances. The high point of the performance was the merengue, a dance that originated in the Dominican Republic and Haiti and spread throughout Latin America. Danced by couples with a limping step in 4/4 time, the weight always on the same foot, it was the dictator’s favorite dance. After the merengue, the group did another classic, a bolero, not the lively Spanish step in 3/4 time but the Latin American version, a slow, romantic rumba with simple steps. Her own favorite dancing was swinging to rock-and-roll, especially the music of Elvis Presley, someone that oozed sex appeal to her.
A few days after the dance recital, Anna-Maria’s parents had received a call from one of Trujillo’s attachés, telling them how impressed the dictator had been with their young daughter. At first the parents thought that it had just been a courtesy call made to all the parents of girls who had performed, but they soon found out that they had been the only ones who had received a call.
The first call was soon followed by another. The attaché invited the parents and Anna-Maria to lunch at Trujillo’s palace. Trujillo himself could not attend, there were important matters of state that were demanding his attention, but the attaché was his surrogate in letting Anna-Maria and her parents know that El Jefe had been struck by her model Dominican Republic looks, that she was the epitome of what the chief considered to be the flower of young womanhood.
Anna-Maria was pleased and again surprised. She had not been singled out by Trujillo during the performance, not even when he placed a pink ribbon with a gold-colored medal on the end around each girl’s neck. She had merely curtsied and murmured, “Gracias, Excelencia,” as she had been told to do.
During the lunch, the conversation had come around to the father’s business. He was a former engineer who ran a small business importing machine parts for farm equipment. The downturn in the economy had been particularly bad for the business, increasing competition for fewer markets. Even worse, decreasing government revenues had resulted in higher import duties on the equipment he dealt in.
The attaché had listened sympathetically to the father’s woes, nodding his head. Nothing more had been said until the attaché was escorting the family to the exit and then, giving the father a warm handshake, the attaché mentioned that there might be something he could do about the financial predicament. He smiled graciously, mentioning again how pleased El Jefe had been with Anna-Maria’s classic looks. “Perhaps,” he said, “it might be arranged to have El Jefe meet with Anna-Maria again, this time in private so that our chief can have some quiet time to appreciate her great beauty and charm.”
Anna-Maria’s mother and father were silent as they drove home, but they had exchanged looks as they walked away from the attaché to get into their car. Neither of her parents were dummies, though it was her mother who was the sharpest when it came to life situations. It was she who convinced her husband that he had to be more ambitious than teaching an engineering class in college, and urged him to go into business. And she was the one who was shaping her daughter for a good marriage instead of a career. There was little opportunity for a woman in business or government, but she wanted a good education for Anna-Maria and the sort of social and business connections that would guarantee her a stunning marriage.
“Why does El Jefe want to see me alone?” Anna-Maria asked during the drive home.
It was a question her mother dreaded answering. She brushed aside the question and told her it was not their place to wonder abou
t what was in the mind of the leader of their country.
But Anna-Maria had an inquisitive mind, one that kept processing data even when it was told to shut down. She thought about the day the great man put the winner’s ribbon-medal around her neck, about his smile and the look in his dark eyes.
“Sexo!” she suddenly screamed.
Her father jerked on the steering wheel and went over the white line, pulling back just in time to avoid a head-on collision.
Her mother twisted in the seat of their car and said, “Be quiet! Don’t you ever speak like again.”
She was ready to challenge her when her father shouted, “Silence! You can’t ever say that. It could cost us our lives.”
Anna-Maria was no fool. She understood the fear that the generalissimo generated in the country.
And she was no fool when it came to men. She was a virgin; it was mandatory for young girls of her age and culture. Like her friends, she wasn’t a virgin by choice but by necessity—there was no sure birth-control method. There was talk of oral contraceptives that would prevent pregnancy, but in Anna-Maria’s country in 1961, as in most of the world, oral contraceptives were rumors, not reality.
Her dating experiences had been restricted to letting boys pet her breasts with her bra still on. Occasionally a boy would try to put his hand up her dress, but she would push it out. Only once did she let a boy cup her vagina with his hand and she remembered the tremendous sexual urge she felt, but her mother’s training and warnings kicked in and she had knocked the boy off the couch they were occupying as she shoved him aside.
Following lunch with the attaché, no word passed between Anna-Maria and her parents about the incident for a week. She knew, however, that her parents had been discussing the situation because they became silent when she came into hearing range. And she overheard a comment her father made to her mother about the attaché calling again at his work to discuss business problems.
The Betrayers Page 23