Carbon Copy

by Ian McKercher

  “Manuel was arrogant even as a youth. He disdained them, especially when the twins garnered so much attention — wonderfully mischievous with downy cheeks and laughing eyes.

  “The twins were educated at prestigious private schools in Havana. Carlos in the care of the Jesuit brothers, and Carlota at the Convent of the Sacred Heart. Even this separation chafed and they rejoiced to be reunited every afternoon.

  “In Cuba, every year at Mardi Gras there is a big costume party. People go to elaborate ends to conceal their identities. The twins, who were about twelve, had this clever idea to disguise themselves as each other. They practised each other’s mannerisms. Carlos is left-handed and often tugged his left ear in thought. Carlota copied this. She is . . . was right-handed and brushed her hair from her eyes with her right hand. Carlos mastered this gesture.

  “Out they came together, in identical Zorro costumes with face masks covering their eyes. A paper question mark was pinned to the back of one, an exclamation mark to the other. Guests were invited to wager on the mystery, winnings to be split with the orphanage. They even disguised their voices. ‘Am I Carlos? Am I not? Think you know? Then bet a lot!’ they sang in unison as they circulated through the guests. I was nine years older, the trusted cousin. I held the bets. It was a clever skit, and they commanded the attention of the party.

  “When all the wagers were in, they jumped up on a table and took off their hats. Carlota’s dark hair cascaded down, and everyone laughed at the trickery. The twins bowed and disappeared for fifteen minutes, to reappear in flamenco dancers’ costumes. This time one was wearing a wig under a scarf, but they truly looked identical except for the question mark and the exclamation mark. Again, the parade through the party, singing a little duet in perfect harmony, ‘Am I Lottie? Want the proof? Bet your money to learn the truth!’ The bets grew as people were well into their cups. The twins stole the show, which was not lost on Manuel, who came dressed as a matador hoping to win the attention of the young señoritas. ‘I know my own brother!’ he said and bet fifty pesos on the question mark. Three times as much money was bet on the second round before they leapt up on a table, and Carlos pulled off his wig to wild applause, except from Manuel, who lost his bet.

  “This disguise game became part of their lives, not just at Mardi Gras. When Carlota developed breasts and hips she would wear a corset to hide her body shape. Costumed as angels, or devils, or conquistadors, or nuns, or friars, or washerwomen, or musicians, they revelled in their ability to deceive. They could even fool their own parents. This private joke was their revenge on a harsh world and they never tired of playing. Right up to Tuesday night.”

  “If they were tied so closely, why did Señor Orinoco enter the diplomatic service?” asked Frances.

  “Politics.”

  “He was ambitious?”

  “Oh no. He was politically naïve. In university he rebelled against his family and their conservative aristocracy. He hung out on the periphery of young democracy advocates. In Cuba, such activity is dangerous. The Batista regime brooks no challenges. Some of this group ended up in jail. Some disappeared. Carlos’s father felt compelled to get him out of the country. A diplomatic trade posting seemed a respectable escape, camouflaged as an attempt to find new markets for the family tobacco business, which had fallen on hard times.

  “They both underestimated the reach of Batista’s henchmen. On Tuesday morning, a man named Rodriguez phoned requesting an immediate appointment with Señor Hernandez. The name meant nothing to me, but when the consul arrived at work and I passed along the request, he turned pale. He couldn’t accommodate Rodriguez because he’d accepted an invitation to Rideau Hall from the governor general. He’d invited me to accompany him so I’d arrived at work dressed for the reception.

  “Señor Hernandez apologized for the change of plans, but he wanted me to take Rodriguez to the Royal Ottawa Golf Club for lunch. He told me to spare no expense — a surprising directive from a man so frugal with the office budget.

  “That was the morning you and Inspector Hollingsworth dropped in with the Montecristo cigar band. Shortly after you two left, Señor Rodriguez and another man arrived. Rodriguez was suave, with slicked-back hair. His companion — and I do not exaggerate — looked like a gorilla in a suit. He had massive shoulders and a small round head with beady eyes. He may have been a mute as he said nothing, only nodding or shaking his head when addressed. Rodriguez introduced him as Mr. Mofongo.

  “What a shock! Every child in Cuba knew the name ‘Mr. Mofongo’ — the bogeyman who punished children who didn’t go to bed on time or finish eating their vegetables. I didn’t know he was a real person until that very moment.

  “Rodriguez was piqued that the consul wasn’t there to meet them. He insisted on seeing Señor Orinoco, and I explained he was in Montreal. Rodriguez brought up Señor Orinoco’s past involvement with subversive elements in Cuba and asked if he still supported the democracy movement. I claimed to know nothing about Señor Orinoco’s political activities. Rodriguez did not believe me. ‘You are cousins, are you not? If you locate him for us, that unfortunate connection might be overlooked.’ They searched Señor Orinoco’s office, but it was such a mess, I don’t think they found anything significant. In parting, Señor Rodriguez said, ‘Tread carefully, Señorita Gonzalez. In a dispute between President Batista and Vice-Consul Orinoco, who do you think will win? And when Señor Orinoco loses, others may well be dragged down with him.’ Mr. Mofongo started at me like a rattlesnake eyeing his prey. I was petrified. Thankfully, they declined the invitation to lunch.”

  Señorita Gonzalez lit another cigarette and drew smoke deep into her lungs. “Where was I? Oh, yes, Carlota. Once Carlota reached puberty, she was never allowed to leave the casa unchaperoned, not for five minutes. Her mother was a moral martinet. She wanted Carlota chaste for the marriage she had planned for her to the scion of a wealthy sugar family. Hence the problem.”

  “The problem?”

  “Just after her eighteenth birthday party, Carlota discovered she was pregnant.”

  -14-

  Carlota

  “Pregnant?” Frances thought she misheard. “A woman that never left the house without a family chaperone?”

  A sad smile transfixed Señorita Gonzalez’s face. “All chaperones were family members, but not all chaperones were female. A family member must have been responsible. Carlota complained of sore breasts, then nausea. Her mother’s class of woman did not discuss bodily functions and dismissed the symptoms as flu. After a week of no improvement, the doctor was summoned. The truth produced a crisis on many fronts. Family disgraced. Virgin bride dowry down the toilet. Viper hidden among us.”

  “Carlota didn’t identify the guilty party?”

  “No. She was frightened and confused. Carlota had been raised by a pious mother in a strict Catholic household. She attended a convent school ruled by nuns. No one in that mix would have introduced her to sex or procreation. They believed innocence was protection. Carlota believed that the stork brought babies. When her mother demanded to know who had done this evil to her, Carlota didn’t understand what ‘had done’ meant. In tears, she claimed no one had been evil to her.

  “Now her mother was incapable — I mean completely incapable — of asking Carlota, ‘What man has put his penis inside your body?’ Failing to address the question precisely, she failed to get a satisfactory answer. But the crisis was upon us. Carlota had missed two periods and would soon begin to show.

  “Only the doctor and the immediate family knew the situation, and all were sworn to secrecy. Because Carlota had demonstrated an artistic flair in her watercolour class, a plan was hatched to send her to Colombia to study with a gifted painter, the abbess at the Convento de la Popa in Cartagena. It was put out in Havana that this abbess, Maria Teresa, had seen Carlota’s work and had offered to take her on as a student for two years.

  “Carlota was given no alternative. She wasn’t even consulted. Once the doctor confirmed her c
ondition, she was forbidden to return to her convent school or to see any friends. She was locked in her room, released only for meals and mass.

  “I was recruited to chaperone Carlota’s trip to Cartagena. A little late — but it kept up appearances. We left by the next ship south and I delivered her into the hands of Maria Teresa. Carlota was miserable. Morning sickness laid her low. She was grief-stricken to be separated from Carlos. She pined for the familiarity of Havana.

  “All Carlota’s tear-stained letters home were opened by her mother, searching for clues to the despoiler. As most letters were addressed to Carlos, he was furious at this invasion of privacy.”

  Señorita Gonzalez sighed. “What good would come from revelation? One family member was already a calamity. Why make it two? The circle of candidates was small. Her father? Her brothers? Our two older cousins? Her uncle — my father? It could only have been one of them. Either the accused confesses and is cast out, or the accused indignantly disputes the claim, the family takes sides and there is civil war. Who wins?”

  “This abbess was complicit in the scheme?”

  “Oh, yes. Not only was Maria Teresa a gifted artist, she had a mind for business. Carlota was not the first despoiled virgin to wash ashore at her convent. Patrons of this trade paid serious money for secrecy and service. The abbess had an aesthetic sense in things both temporal and spiritual. She understood compassion and the fragility of the human vessel.

  “There were complications with the pregnancy. In her sixth month, Carlota began to bleed heavily. After a week of torment, the doctor felt he had to induce her delivery to save her life. I don’t know if the doctor was incompetent, but it was a second tragedy. The baby was lost. Carlota’s insides were destroyed. A hysterectomy was necessary, and she almost bled to death. She was in the infirmary for two months and given the last rites three times.

  “Her mother’s anger was replaced by remorse and she travelled to Cartagena. Carlos wanted desperately to accompany her, but this was forbidden. He grew to hate his mother and all she stood for. That’s when he began to consort with dissidents at the university.

  “Instead of being brought back to Havana to convalesce, Carlota was sent to Europe ‘to study the old masters firsthand.’ An elderly priest and maiden aunt were sent along to keep a strict watch over her.

  “Such banishment would have broken the spirit of a lesser person.” Senorita Gonzalez paused to light another cigarette. “Carlota was not broken, but she was irrevocably changed. Her value as a virgin had been destroyed, along with her ability to have children. Her marriage prospects evaporated. She believed God had abandoned her. So she abandoned God, the church and respectability. Overnight she became an absolute libertine.

  “Remember, she was quite attractive and not without guile from years of dressing in disguises. She told me later that she had no trouble giving her doddering chaperones the slip, sneaking off for liaisons in Rome and Paris and Madrid. She sought any sexual indulgence. When she eventually returned to Havana, she shared much more than I wanted to hear.”

  “But she didn’t name her debaucher?”

  “I didn’t ask. I was afraid to know. Jesus said, ‘The truth will set you free.’ But the truth can chain you to a terrible burden.

  “An exhibition of Carlota’s art was held at a Havana gallery to justify her absence. She did have a modest skill with the paint brush, so it wasn’t a complete embarrassment, like her promiscuity. She became notorious in no time, dubbed ‘the harlot of Havana,’ which was unfair for someone who shared her favours freely. ‘I am like Jesus with the loaves and fishes,’ she said of her wanton behaviour. ‘My body feeds the needy.’ Her mother retreated into the dark seclusion of rosary and confessional. Carlota was again sent off, this time to Mexico City. Her father provided a remittance as long as she stayed away from Cuba. Carlos visited her when he could as the separation distressed them both.

  “Then Carlos’s political activity began to draw the attention of the authorities. He was not a leader, but it was a serious misadventure to consort with those who openly opposed the government. Señor Orinoco called in favours to get Carlos posted to Ottawa as vice-consul, out of harm’s way. Ostensibly, Carlos was here to expand the market for Cuban cigars, but progress was slow. Just yesterday, Señor Hernandez finally obtained an interview on the issue with C.D. Howe, Minister of Trade. Apparently, it went well. The tariff on Cuban tobacco is ‘to be reconsidered.’

  “Carlota begged Carlos to let her come to Ottawa. He secretly sent for her and set her up in the apartment he had rented in the Balmoral Arms while he took a cheaper place in the market area. Carlota wrote her father that she was leaving Mexico, giving no forwarding address. The stipend stopped. They were both happy to be reunited, but she had tastes that Carlos could not support on his vice-consul’s salary. He was already quietly funding the democracy movement in Cuba.”

  “What did he do?”

  Señorita Gonzalez hesitated. “He never told me in so many words, but I believe he took advantage of his frequent trips to New York and Boston to — shall we say — engage in trade? There are benefits to a diplomatic passport and I believe he used it to convey goods across the border.”

  “What kind of goods?”

  “I didn’t ask, but what portable goods have value in such commerce? Drugs? Jewels? Currency? He hinted at dangers from ‘competition.’ I’m guessing that criminal organizations were involved in these practices as well. This is how he funded her lifestyle, including their continuing game of disguises, which demanded custom clothing and wigs.”

  Señorita Gonzalez sighed again. “This has been Carlos’s eternal dilemma — an innocent who stumbles unwittingly into the vortex of stronger forces. He is not a bad person, but too often he sinks below the depths of his own good judgement.

  “Carlos needed more money still. I keep blank Cuban passports locked in the safe at the consulate. We issue them to travellers whose documents are lost or stolen. These blanks began to disappear. I believe Carlos was selling passports or trading them with other poorly paid junior diplomats.

  “With the war on, he believed that classified information might carry value, so he manufactured official-looking documents that appeared to contain sensitive intelligence. He supported the Allied cause, of course, and did not believe his petty forgeries were a betrayal. This too was a dangerous game of deception. He suspected he was being followed — by gangsters or spies or the police — he didn’t know. He often used his gift for disguise and Carlota’s complicity as a decoy.”

  “Did Señor Hernandez suspect any of this?”

  A bemused laugh. “Señor Hernandez is an honest public servant. He works diligently to promote Cuban interests, but he is a man completely lacking in imagination. Takes everything at face value. He was none the wiser the several times Carlota came into the consulate dressed as Carlos. Sat at his desk, smoked cigars, took phone calls, did his paperwork.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  “Boredom. The thrill of the disguise game. To create an alibi for Carlos. She also cleaned up the mess in his office. In this trait they were not identical. Carlota enjoyed a riotous public life but her private life was fastidiously ordered. Carlos was the opposite — slovenly in his personal habits. He bathed and dressed neatly enough, but he left a trail of detritus wherever he went.”

  “You knew about their clandestine activities?”

  “What was I to do? I did not condone, but I could not betray my own cousins.” Señorita Gonzalez’s face twisted in pain. “Carlos was drawn into this quagmire to support an abandoned sister. Questionable behaviour, but honourable intentions. In Carlos’s eyes, Carlota’s life was in ruins. He saw it as his responsibility to nurture a desperate soul — a soul he loved. Would you have behaved differently, Miss McFadden?”

  “Not likely,” confessed Frances. “But why hasn’t Carlos come forward to claim Carlota’s body?”

  “Carlos was torn, but the death report was very suspicious. Was it real
ly an accident? Details in the papers were vague, and strangely, did not identify the victim as a woman. He believes that he may have been the target. He still may be the target, so, in a way, it is a gift for him to be considered dead. He feels terrible guilt hiding behind his sister’s death.

  “And what is he to do now? He can’t return to Cuba. He can’t stay here. He’s in limbo. He’s confused — I’m confused — as to why Carlota’s death was not reported.”

  “Señor Hernandez requested the truth be covered up so as not to embarrass Cuba or the mission here,” said Frances.

  “Ah.” Señorita Gonzalez nodded, then stared at Frances. “You are very well informed for a bank clerk.”

  “I was accused of selling secrets to the enemy. I was shown documents with my initials on them. I knew them to be fakes, but Canadian Military Intelligence didn’t believe me. I’ve been trying to trace the source of the forgeries.”

  “You think Carlos fabricated them?”

  “Yes.”

  “What led you to him?”

  “The Montecristo cigar band. It was recovered by the police with the forged documents.”

  “I don’t see the connection.”

  “Somebody broke into Carlos’s apartment, stole some things and emptied his cigar humidor. I suppose the letters were hidden in the bottom. The stolen goods were later recovered by the police.”

  “Who was buying the letters?”

  “I’d very much like to know. Did Carlota have enemies? Anyone who might want to do her harm?”

  “She was shameless in her philandering. Sex was just a game for her, like her disguises. She may have made some men jealous. Her wantonness may have seemed a betrayal of intimacy.”