by Maria Duenas
Twenty minutes and a few polished shots later, a burst of applause signaled the end of the game. Both men were showered with praise, while La Chucha and the faithful Horacio, hitherto rapt in their ringside seats, ejected the invading crowd from the turquoise room. Zayas’s friends congratulated Larrea even though he had lost; the whores gathered around him. He winked at Santos Huesos, still on guard at the rear, and shot a knowing look at Calafat. Good work, my boy, the old man seemed to be saying beneath his bushy whiskers. For his part, Larrea raised his hand to his chest and lowered his head solemnly in a display of gratitude.
Then he approached one of the balcony windows, greedily inhaling the last of the night air. The rain had ceased, and the storm had moved on toward Florida or the Bahamian Cays, leaving behind the prelude to a clear dawn. Soon the cannon at the naval station would sound the break of day and the city gates would open. People living outside would enter to pursue their business, along with carts on their way to market. The port would become a hive of activity, stores would open for trade, traps and carriages would appear in the streets. A new day would break in Havana, and once more he would be staring into the abyss.
Gazing down from the balcony at the mud-choked paths, he watched the last patrons of the brothel disappear amid the shadows. He thought he should follow their example, take Calafat’s carriage back to his lodgings, go to bed and rest. Or perhaps he could remain, ending up in bed with one of La Chucha’s whores instead. Now freed from the tension of the game, he noticed some that were extremely enticing, with their plunging cleavages and wasp waists encased in tight corsets.
Either of those two options would undoubtedly have been the most sensible way to end that feverish night: sleeping alone in his room on Calle Mercaderes, or wrapped around a woman’s warm body. Nonetheless, neither was to happen.
Turning his gaze back to the room, he could see Zayas still holding his cue as his friends circled around him chattering and laughing. Carola Gorostiza’s husband gave the impression of someone fully engaged in the scene: responding to their flattery, occasionally joining in with the general laughter, or replying when posed a question. But Mauro Larrea knew that Zayas hadn’t digested this defeat dressed up as victory, for a stake had been driven through the man’s heart. And he also knew how to prize it out.
Approaching Zayas, he extended his hand.
“My congratulations and compliments. You’ve shown yourself to be an excellent opponent as well as a first-class player.”
Zayas mumbled a few brief words of thanks.
“I concede that the matter between us has been resolved,” Mauro added in hushed tones. “Please convey my respects to your wife.”
He perceived Zayas’s silent rage in the set grimace of his mouth.
“Unless, that is . . .”
Before finishing his sentence, he knew that Zayas would accept.
“Unless, that is, you wish to settle the score and play a real game.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Everyone except Calafat was surprised by the announcement of a fresh contest. Lose, put him off his stroke, and then ask him for the chance to get even, the banker had suggested that very afternoon in his office. And when the opportunity arose, he thought to himself, Why not?
“Go and fetch La Chucha,” he asked one of the girls, who had a child’s face and a fleshy body.
Within the blink of an eye, the madam had come back.
“Señor Zayas and I have agreed to play another game,” Mauro announced impassively. As if, after the five-hour onslaught their bodies had just withstood, this was the most normal thing in the world.
“Why, of course, gentlemen.”
Her gold tooth shone like the El Morro lighthouse as she doled out orders to her charges. Drinks for the guests, water and chunks of ice, flasks of liquor. Sweep the floor, brush the baize, fetch more talcum powder and clean white towels. Tidy up this mess, for the love of the goddess Oshun.
“And if either of you gentlemen would like to freshen up before you start, please follow me.”
Mauro was shown into a bathroom with a large tub in the center surrounded by a series of bawdy frescoes: jolly shepherdesses with hiked-up skirts; unusually well-hung huntsmen; Peeping Toms behind trees, breeches down around their ankles; pretty maidens being penetrated by handsome youths; and other similar scenes captured by a painter with a clumsy hand and a lewd imagination.
“Good Lord, how outrageous . . .” he murmured sarcastically as he stood over a basin, naked from the waist up. The soap smelled of whores and violets: he used it to wash his hands, armpits, face, neck, and chin, which at that hour was in need of a good shave. He swilled out his mouth and spat vigorously, then ran his wet fingers through his hair in an effort to tame his unruly locks.
The water did him good, removing the grimy layer of sweat, talcum powder, smoke, and chalk from his skin. He felt refreshed. As he was rubbing his chest dry with a towel he heard a rap on the door.
“Do you fancy a little relaxation, Señor?” a beautiful mulatta inquired sweetly, gazing at his bare chest. The answer was no.
Over by the window, he shook out his wrinkled shirt streaked with stains, which hours before had been pristine white and stiff with starch. He was about to slip it on again, when there was another knock at the door. After he had given his permission, it opened to reveal not another of La Chucha’s whores come to offer her charms, nor Horacio checking he had everything he needed.
“I need to speak to you.”
It was Zayas, looking dapper again, a businesslike tone to his voice, and no pretense at cordiality. Larrea responded simply by gesturing for him to enter.
“I should like to make a wager with you.”
Larrea slipped his right arm into the shirtsleeve.
“I thought as much,” he replied.
“However, I wish to explain that at present I am short of ready cash.”
And you think I’m not? he thought.
“In that case I suggest we cancel the game,” said Larrea, pulling on the other empty sleeve. “No hard feelings; we just call it quits and go home.”
“That isn’t my intention: I aim to do everything in my power to beat you.”
There was restraint in his voice, not swagger. Or at least that was Larrea’s impression as he tucked in his shirttails.
“We’ll have to see about that,” he murmured dryly, apparently focused on what he was doing.
“But first, as I said, I’d like to explain my situation to you.”
“Please go ahead.”
“I’m in no position to wager any money. But I have an alternative proposition.”
A cynical guffaw issued from Mauro Larrea’s throat.
“Do you know something, Zayas? I’m not used to gambling with men as complicated as you. Where I come from, you place whatever you have on the table. And if you have nothing, you withdraw honorably and no harm is done. So be a good fellow, would you, and stop fooling with me?”
“I propose to wager some properties.”
Larrea turned toward the mirror to straighten his necktie. No mistake about it, you’re a stubborn bastard.
“In the south of Spain,” Zayas went on. “What I am willing to put on the table is a house, a vineyard, and a completely equipped winery. In return I propose that you put up fifty thousand escudos. Needless to say, the total value of my properties far exceeds that sum.”
Mauro Larrea gave a faint laugh tinged with bitterness. Zayas was willing to gamble away his cousin’s entire legacy, the properties his wife had so proudly boasted of. You might be a damned Spaniard, my friend, he reflected, but the tropical air has made you lose your wits.
“A highly risky wager, wouldn’t you say?”
“Extremely. But that’s all I have,” replied Zayas coldly.
Larrea wheeled around, still adjusting his shirt collar.
“My offer stands.”
Larrea took a step forward. The roosters in El Manglar had begun crowing in their coops.
“Do you accept that I never had the slightest interest in taking your wife away from you?”
“Your determination not to win has convinced me of that.”
“Are you aware that she has the money you so desperately need? She inherited it from her mother’s estate. I brought it over myself from Mexico. Her brother is a close friend of mine. That’s the only connection between us.”
If Zayas was at all surprised by this avowal, he did not show it.
“I suspected as much. In any case, let us just say that my wife doesn’t enter into my immediate plans. And neither do her private assets.”
His words and tone of voice confirmed Calafat’s theory: this fellow wanted to get as far away as he could from Cuba, his wife, and his past. And to do so, he was prepared to stake everything. If he won, he would keep his properties and have enough money to pursue his plan. If he lost, he would be tied to a woman he clearly didn’t love for the rest of his life. Then Larrea recalled what Doña Caridad had said about Zayas’s troubled past. The family matters his cousin had come to Cuba to resolve. The other woman, who in the end never became his.
“You know what you’re doing . . .”
His shirt, although still somewhat wrinkled and soiled, looked halfway decent. Now he pulled up his suspenders.
“You wager fifty thousand escudos and I three properties. The first to reach a hundred caroms is the winner.”
Larrea stood arms akimbo, a posture he had adopted often during a certain period of his life. When bargaining hard over the price of his silver, when fighting tooth and nail over a mining deposit or seam. He stood that way unconsciously now: bold, defiant.
In the Andalusian’s eyes he contemplated the reflection of a pitiful slave ship; he saw Carola Gorostiza’s rebuttal; the nights he slept on the ground surrounded by coyotes and Chinaco soldiers on his way to Veracruz; Calafat’s respectable business proposition, lost to him forever now; and his aimless wanderings through the Havana streets mulling over his unease.
Larrea decided it was about time his accursed luck changed once and for all.
“How can I be sure your offer is genuine?”
A clamor of voices that had been awaiting his next move suddenly resounded in his head. Andrade, Úrsula, Mariana. How can you play this madman for fifty thousand escudos when your own assets don’t amount to even half that? his agent wailed. Surely you aren’t so rash as to use a slice of my capital in such a gigantic folly, are you? bawled the old countess, striking the wooden floor with her cane. For God’s sake, Father, think of Nico. Of what you once were. Of my unborn child, Mariana pleaded.
What if I win? he defied them.
What the hell would you do with those properties in Spain, however much they are worth? the three of them assailed him as one.
I’d sell them, of course, and use the money to return to Mexico. To my home, my life. To you all.
“If you don’t trust me, I suggest we find a witness.”
“I’d like Don Julián Calafat to act as intermediary, to attest to your wager in writing, and to be the sole witness.”
He spoke with absolute resolve, with the boldness that in the past had come naturally to him, at a time when he would have burst out laughing had anyone suggested he would end up gambling his future in a Cuban bordello.
Zayas went to speak with the old man, leaving him alone again, standing stock-still in the center of the washroom with the bawdy characters on the walls staring down at him entwined in their carnal pleasures. He knew then that there was no going back.
He was preparing to fasten his gray silk cravat when he paused. What the hell . . . he muttered between gritted teeth. In honor of his mining days, those endless games in filthy taverns where he had learned everything he knew about billiards, he unbuttoned his shirt collar and returned to the turquoise room.
Calafat and Zayas were conversing in hushed tones over by the balcony. Zayas’s cronies were enjoying the company of the few whores who remained awake, while La Chucha and Horacio walked around the room straightening the last of the paintings knocked askew by the crowd.
“I hope my improper dress won’t offend anyone.”
All eyes turned toward him. Remember it’s nearly six in the morning and this is a whorehouse, after all. And we’re about to play for our lives, he wanted to add.
The two adversaries approached the table as Calafat removed his eternal cigar from beneath his bushy mustache.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “The players have expressed the wish for this to be a private game. Only myself, the proprietress, and Horacio, who will act as an assistant, will remain, assuming that both parties concerned are in agreement.”
The two men nodded, while Zayas’s friends looked openly annoyed. However, accompanied by the girls, they soon left. Santos Huesos followed behind, not before exchanging a knowing glance with his patrón.
The splendid sabicú doors were closed and La Chucha filled their glasses with liquor.
“Is this a private match between the two of you, gentlemen, or may I place a bet?” she asked in a voice that was still alluring despite her age. The takings that night from her girls had been meager, and she was hoping to make something extra out of this impromptu development.
“I’ll cover your costs, Chucha,” Calafat replied. “Simply toss the coin when I say.”
Then, adopting a formal tone, the old man related the terms of the wager.
“Fifty thousand escudos on the part of Mauro Larrea de las Fuentes, and on the part of his opponent, Don Gustavo Zayas Montalvo, properties comprising a town house, winery, and vineyard located in the illustrious Spanish municipality of Jerez de la Frontera. Do both parties agree to play a game of one hundred caroms for the aforementioned stake, witnessed on this day by Doña María de Jesús Salazar?”
The two men muttered their acceptance while the old brothel keeper raised her dark bony hand to her heart, declaring “Yes, sir” in a clear voice before crossing herself. She had lost count of the number of similar acts of folly she had seen during her long years in the business.
The first light of dawn was starting to filter through the balcony windows when the Spanish queen flew into the air once more. Zayas won the toss this time, and so began the game that would change both men’s lives forever.
The tension of earlier that night turned to ferocity at dawn. The green baize was a battleground now, the game a brutal combat. Once again there were magnificent shots, hypnotic trajectories, impossible angles masterfully overcome, and sharp outbursts of fury.
During the first half of the game, the two men came out even. Larrea played with his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, displaying his scars and the muscles that no longer split rocks, nor extracted silver, but were nonetheless evident when he lined up his shots. Gustavo Zayas, despite his habitual composure, soon cast off his frock coat. The soft light of dawn had given way to the sun’s first harsh rays: both men were perspiring freely, pushing themselves to the limit. But that was the extent of what they had in common, so vast were the differences between them. Mauro Larrea remained impulsive, almost feral, in his boldness and tenacity. Zayas was once again full of precision, but without the earlier premeditated flourishes or elegance.
They went on making one feverish shot after the other, beneath the exhausted yet rapt gaze of Calafat. Horacio had closed the shutters and was fanning La Chucha, who was half-asleep in her armchair. And then, halfway through the contest, two hours after the madness
of the return game had commenced, a breach began to open. After his fiftieth carom, Mauro Larrea started to take the lead; the gap was small to begin with, then gradually started to grow, like a crack in a fine wineglass. Fifty-one to fifty-three, fifty-two to fifty-six. By the time Larrea reached sixty, Zayas was trailing by seven points.
Perhaps with a couple of hours’ sleep, a proper meal, or a few cups of coffee, the Andalusian might have been able to claw his way back. Or if his eyes weren’t stinging, his arms cramping, his stomach seized with nausea. But the fact was, for one reason or another, he lost control of the situation. And seeing himself falling behind, his nerves started to get the better of him for the second time. He made a few poor shots in too much haste, his mouth set in a grimace. Simple blunders gave way to worrying mistakes. The gap widened.
“Pour me another drink, Horacio.”
As though the liquor would somehow provide him with the necessary stimulus to increase his score.
“And one for you, Don Mauro?” asked the servant.
He had stopped fanning La Chucha now that she was fast asleep, her long black arms stretched by her sides, her head resting on a velvet cushion.
Larrea declined the drink, his eyes fixed on the tip of his cue. Zayas, on the other hand, gestured with his empty glass. The hunchback refilled it.
Perhaps he lacked the mental stamina, or was simply physically drained, but for some reason that Larrea would never understand, Gustavo Zayas started to drink heavily. In an attempt to incite himself to win, or so that he could blame the liquor for what was increasingly obvious would be his defeat. Three-quarters of an hour later, Zayas hurled his cue to the ground in rage. Placing his hands flat on the wall for support, his head sinking between his shoulders, he bent over and vomited into one of the brass spittoons.