Hard Currency

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  The man had clearly not dressed to impress his visitor. He was wearing a pair of frayed blue denim pants and a sleeveless undershirt. From the corner of his mouth a seemingly lifeless cigarette drooped. The man, whose hair was cut short and was steely white, looked older than he had on the platform of the restaurant. He was barefoot.

  Rostnikov stepped forward toward the seated man and handed him the bottle of rum, as he had been told to do by George. The babalau nodded almost imperceptibly as he watched Rostnikov’s eyes. Javier stepped forward and took the bottle. A young woman, a beautiful light-skinned woman in an African-style dress of yellow and brown, her head turbaned, entered through a maroon drape in the far corner of the room. The rum bottle was passed to her and she exited quickly and gracefully.

  The babalau said, “Siéntese, por favor.” He held out his right hand, palm up, toward the bench nearest the door through which Rostnikov had entered. Rostnikov sat, his left leg extended, and George sat next to him.

  Javier went through the maroon drapes and the babalau began to speak in Spanish.

  “He says,” George translated, “you should consider moving to Cuba before the earth shakes and the men who have ruled for the blink of Chango’s left eye are gone. After they are gone, it will be difficult for a Russian to move here.”

  “Why should I move to Cuba?” Rostnikov asked, and Manuel began to speak before George translated.

  “He says your leg, your wife, and your children,” George translated.

  “I have only one child,” Rostnikov said.

  Manuel spoke again and George translated.

  “You have two girls in your house.”

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov.

  Manuel spoke again.

  “The babalau has many children. His wife has been fruitful.”

  The beautiful girl in the yellow-and-brown dress came back through the maroon curtain carrying a metal tray with two glasses and the bottle of rum Rostnikov had brought. The glasses were common kitchen glasses much like the ones in his hotel room in the El Presidente Hotel. They were filled with rum. The girl with the tray bowed before the babalau, who took one glass; then she moved to Rostnikov, who took the other. Both men drank deeply. Although Rostnikov was not particularly fond of rum, this was good rum and the setting felt appropriate for its thick amber strength.

  The curtain parted and people filed in. Rostnikov was aware of girls in African dresses and turbans, and shirtless young men with lean powerful bodies, including the young man Rostnikov had seen through the window playing with the baby. Two of the young women were carrying babies. A boy and a girl of five or six came in holding hands and sat together near the curtain. Javier entered and stood behind his father’s chair, his arms folded. He had changed his clothes and wore a loose-fitting red shirt. Finally, an ancient woman came through the curtain, her dress a mad rainbow of colors. The young people parted and the woman moved to a bench in the corner. The woman with the bowl had stopped mashing her mixture and was wiping her hands on a towel a girl had handed her.

  The babalau spoke again, and George said, “These are his children and the wives and husbands of his married children and these are some of his grandchildren. Behind his wife is his mother, who has powers of the eye and mind.”

  Rostnikov watched as the ancient woman scooped up a child who had waddled across the floor into her arms.

  “They are beautiful,” said Rostnikov, holding up his glass of rum.

  The babalau smiled and also held up his glass as George translated. Both men drank and Rostnikov understood this part of the ritual. If either man drank, the other was obliged to do the same. The bottle was still nearly full and there was no knowing how much longer the night would be.

  The babalau spoke. George and most of the people in the room nodded.

  “You have missed a god’s day by one day,” George said. “Yesterday was the feast of Santa Barbara, who is the shadow face of Chango, our god of war. You would have been welcome. Our religion has been secret for two hundred years because of the intolerance of the Catholic Spanish and the atheist Marxists. Only now can we begin to show our ways.”

  The babalau spoke and the congregation nodded.

  “Santería is open to all who embrace its truth,” George translated as Manuel held up his glass, and he and Rostnikov finished what was left. “White and black. A Catholic can be a Santería; even a Hindu or a Jew can be a Santería.”

  “Entonces casi la sua esposa,” said the babalau, holding out his glass to be refilled.

  Rostnikov too held out his glass for the young girl. He hoped they would offer him something to eat.

  Manuel leaned toward Porfiry Petrovich and spoke again.

  “Then even your wife could be a Santería,” George translated.

  The two men drank yet again.

  “Pregúntele,” said the babalau.

  “You have questions,” said George. “Ask.”

  “I have been told that Santería kill their enemies,” said Rostnikov. He was aware that he had begun to perspire.

  George translated without hesitation both Porfiry Petrovich’s question and Manuel’s answer.

  “There are many Santería, many babalau. There are those who take the path of the shadow and those who take the path of the light. The Abakua secret societies are sometimes confused with the Santería. The Abakua have been known to practice violence. We do not tell the others how to live their tradition. There is no right or wrong in your sense but there are more than one hundred secrets a babalau passes on to the one who will succeed him. Our babalau will be succeeded by his oldest son, Javier, and he is being taught the secrets.”

  “And,” said Rostnikov, trying not to look around at the crowd of smooth sculptured faces and firm bodies that surrounded him in the warm room, “what do you do when you are attacked? How do you protect your people? You have men watching the front of your house. They watch for something. When someone comes, what will they do? What will you do?”

  “Find a way within the paths given to us by our gods through tree, shell, and dream,” George translated the babalau’s answer. “You have more questions.”

  “Did Javier or any of the babalau’s family or congregation kill or participate in the killing of Maria Fernandez?” Rostnikov drank deeply from his second glass of rum and wondered if he could possibly stand.

  “No,” said the babalau, the cigarette bouncing in the corner of his mouth. Then he spoke very slowly, very softly, to the hum of his family.

  “He says, you now know who killed this woman, but you must have the courage to face the truth. The babalau believes you have this courage.”

  “And if I do not?” asked Rostnikov.

  The babalau shrugged and spoke, and George said, “We will survive and prosper. Now listen.”

  Manuel spoke again, slowly and clearly, and everyone around the room nodded as he spoke and as George translated.

  “He says that the Orishas, the gods of our people, spoke clearly to all the babalaus and told of the fall of Fidel. When the white dove landed on Fidel’s shoulder more than thirty years ago, the Orishas blessed him. Now there are new signs, and Fidel has severed the twins.”

  Manuel nodded his head and spoke quickly.

  “The twins are sacred, Jimaguas. Fidel ordered one of the LaGuardia twins executed, one of his closest advisers. He ordered the death of the general with the sacred name, Ochoa, Eight-A. Now, when the gods have spoken, Fidel wants to make peace with the Santería. He fears betrayal and seeks the blessing of those who first give him power—the poor, the Black, the ones who had been slaves.”

  Before Rostnikov could ask another question the babalau nodded his head slightly. Three of the sinewy young men produced drums of various sizes, each drum draped with beads and shells on strings.

  “These drums have been among us for thousands of years,” George whispered. “It takes a lifetime to learn to play them so others can hear them. Listen.”

  The three men began to beat the dr
ums gently, humming, chanting. The babalau motioned to one of the young women. She was very young, very beautiful, and very shy. Manuel gestured to her again and smiled. Those around her urged her forward.

  The babalau reached back and took the drum from the youngest of the three men. He put the drum in his lap, began tapping its head gently, and shook the drum once. The rattle of the beads and shells shivered through Rostnikov like the sound of half-remembered rain. He smelled his wife’s hair, Sarah’s hair, clearly, unmistakably.

  The babalau handed the drum back to the young man, who nodded in understanding, and the music rose as the young girl who had been summoned danced and the policeman and the priest drank their rum.

  All three drums were rattling, and the steady rumble of hide surged through Porfiry Petrovich. The girl turned, smiled, and glided to the music. For an instant, Rostnikov had the feeling that he was leaving his body. He was leaving his body and it was not frightening. The feeling passed and then the music stopped.

  Rostnikov’s eyes met those of Javier, whose look seemed to say, “Now, do you see, do you understand?”

  “That was beautiful,” said Rostnikov. The babalau raised his glass and they drank once more.

  “What do you enjoy doing, Russian policeman?” a voice asked, and Rostnikov was sure the question had come in precise English from the babalau himself.

  “I like to lift weights, fix plumbing, read books, be near my wife and son and the girls who live with us, do my job, feel that I can rely on those with whom I work, and strive to be there so they can rely on me.”

  “Look,” said the babalau. Rostnikov, whose eyes were half shut, forced them open as a necklace of shells left the babalau’s, hand and clattered to the red floor.

  The necklace was twisted like a dead snake, the shells facing both up and down.

  Manuel leaned forward to look at the necklace and examine the shells.

  “Your wife has suffered but the suffering ends. You should go home to Russia as soon as you can.”

  This time Rostnikov was sure Manuel was speaking to him in English. Rostnikov did not speak.

  “Do you understand all that I say?”

  “Enough,” said Rostnikov. The roomful of people hummed with approval.

  “One more thing the shells say. When you face a bearded man, be careful to hide your gods as we have hidden ours.”

  “That,” said Rostnikov, “I do not understand.”

  “You will,” said the babalau.

  Rostnikov was not sure how he got to his feet, whether he had stood or been lifted. The next thing he knew he was standing outside next to the big gray tree that cracked the stone walkway to the babalau’s room.

  “We are here because this tree is here,” said Javier in English. “The mother of the babalau brought us to the giver of life. It is not buildings or monuments we worship, but the symbols of life we respect and draw strength from. We do not kill women for their bodies, for spite, for revenge. We do not kill. The son of a babalau who will himself be a babalau knows better than to let the animal that lives within us all out of the cage of our ribs. We do not ask you to believe as we do. We ask you to respect who we are. Our tradition will not fall when a government dies. Do you understand?”

  Rostnikov reached out and touched the tree, partly to steady himself and partly to reassure himself that he was awake. The tree felt cool and reassuring in the heat of the night.

  Then Rostnikov was in the back seat of the car.

  “The sun will be up soon,” said Javier.

  Rostnikov tried to shake off the taste of rum and the sound of imagined rain. He had something to say, but before he could say it he was on an elevator, one arm around George, the other around someone he vaguely remembered as a desk clerk at the hotel.

  Then he was in his bed. He was alone. As he looked at the stains on the ceiling, he sensed that the sun was coming gently through the closed blinds and that the ghost of Maria Fernandez, which haunted this room, was whispering something he could not quite understand.

  Something the babalau had said made him feel that he should take some action, but he also felt that it was too late and would be far too difficult.

  Porfiry Petrovich closed his eyes. There was an image of snow, the Moscow winter snow of his childhood, and the sound of his friends, Mikhail, Ilya, Feodor, calling across the park in a language he did not know.

  Later he would rise. Later he would face the killer of Maria Fernandez. Later when the snow of his dreams melted in the hot morning sun of the island.

  Two floors below the room in which Rostnikov was falling asleep, Elena Timofeyeva opened her eyes and turned to look at Sanchez, who was wide awake and staring at her.

  “Good morning,” he said in Russian.

  “Good morning,” Elena responded in Russian.

  “I must go,” he said, getting out of bed. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  Elena nodded and pulled the sheet up to cover her large breasts.

  Sanchez, as her fingers had confirmed the night before, was covered with scars. His back was scarred, he had said, from beatings by a street gang. Other scars, on his legs, stomach, neck, came from encounters with drunks, petty criminals, and a pair of women who didn’t like the fact that Sanchez had stepped into their quarrel. He had told her all these things in the night. He had observed after touching her that she was very young, that the smoothness of her skin attested to her inexperience as a police officer.

  Elena had accepted Sanchez’s offer to drive her back to the hotel so that she could cover for Rostnikov. At least that was what she had told herself, and Sanchez, she was now sure, had let her get away with the illusion that he was being taken in.

  “He is probably in his room,” she had said. “But I would rather not wake him. He gets little sleep and when he does he sleeps soundly.”

  “Perhaps the desk clerk can confirm that he returned,” Sanchez had suggested.

  “I doubt it,” Elena had said. “He doesn’t check the key.”

  “Still,” Sanchez had said, as they parked in front of the hotel and he stepped out.

  “Does it really matter?” she asked.

  “I am concerned for the safety of Chief Inspector Rostnikov. He is under my protection. You are both under my protection. When I leave you at your door, I will have to make inquiries, perhaps knock at his door. I have no choice.”

  It was then that Elena had decided. When they arrived at her hotel room door she had stood for an instant, long enough to encourage him to lean over and kiss her. His kiss was soft and lingering, and his arms pulled her close to him. She had felt her breasts against his chest, his excitement between her legs.

  She had invited him in.

  He had been prepared, an American condom in his pocket, and he had been gentle and loving. Elena had told herself that she was doing it to protect Rostnikov, but she knew that it was also from her own desire, perhaps her own need.

  There had been none of the self-absorbed frenzy of the two Russians she had gone to bed with, and none of the false concern of the American she had slept with when she was a student in Boston. Sanchez was older than any of these and he made love slowly, enjoying her growing arousal and matching it to his own.

  In the middle of the night, he had awakened her for more with a hand between her legs. Or perhaps, if she wished to be honest, she had aroused him by rubbing against him as he faced away from her in sleep.

  Now, with the morning, he stood by the window, his body dark and strong, his face lined and handsome.

  She watched him as he dressed.

  “You have the best breasts I have ever seen or tasted,” he said, smiling at her as he buttoned his shirt.

  “Thank you,” she said. “What will you tell your wife?”

  “I had to work all night. I have to work many nights.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “We have hurt no one,” he said. “And we have given pleasure to both of us. We have also satisfied a curiosity which would ha
ve caused us an agonizing sense of lost opportunity.”

  He finished tying his shoes and stood to look down at her.

  “Elena Timofeyeva,” he said, “I know where your chief inspector went last night.”

  She said nothing. She wondered if he saw her as she saw herself—a puffy-faced creature with dull straight hair and a flat look on her face.

  “I doubt if we will be able to do this again without someone finding out,” said Sanchez. “I would like to, but it would probably be best for both of us if it did not happen. We will see. If you choose, the pleasure of this night will be forever sealed within my memory.”

  “Very poetic for a revolutionary,” she said, knowing her voice was a morning rasp and her accent in Spanish almost out of control.

  “I am a well-read revolutionary,” he said with a sigh, moving to the bed and leaning over to kiss her.

  Elena wanted to reach for him, pull him back to her, feel him beside her and then inside her. She wanted to lose herself in this man she did not know and who was almost certainly lying to her, but she did not.

  She returned his kiss and let the sheet slip from her breasts. He moved his mouth to one exposed breast, tasted her nipple with his lips, and quickly left the room.

  Alone, Elena felt neither guilt nor love. The moment of lust had passed and she wanted to get up and stand in the shower as long as the hot water was willing to trickle out of the corroded, ancient nozzle.

  She wondered if she would tell her aunt about this when she got back to Moscow and decided that she would not if she could possibly keep herself from doing it.

  As she got up she understood the feeling she did not want to face. She did not want Rostnikov to know what had happened. She did not want him to know because Rostnikov’s son, Iosef, was clearly in love with her and she felt that she might want to accept that love. If Rostnikov knew, even if he never spoke, it would be too much to bear. Her hope now was that Sanchez would be true to his vow of silence. It was a hope in which, as she stepped out of bed to the bright reality of this Havana morning, she had little faith.