The Santero

by Kim Rodriguez

  “We also have a G650, but my father’s using it right now,” said James. “China, I think. You should ring me up next month when I take it to Rio.”

  “Can’t,” said Emily, stretching out her long legs. Even without a stitch of makeup she looked like she belonged on the cover of Seventeen magazine. “Milan fashion week.”

  “What about you Ash?” asked James. “Fancy a trip down for Carnival?”

  “Hm, I could be persuaded,” said Ashley. Just as pretty as her cousin, Ashley had also pursued modeling but with a lesser degree of success.

  “Yep, she’s free as a bird that week,” snarked Emily. “No jobs at all.”

  “Shut up, bitch,” snarled Ashley. “It’s not even the same week this year.”

  While James made his way down to the back of the plane, closer to the girls, Chip and Charlotte paired off to nap under a blanket. For two people who claimed not to be interested in each other romantically, they certainly seemed comfortable enough around one another.

  I checked my phone again and saw nothing but a few Instagram notifications, reminding me it had been a couple of days since I’d posted a photo for Kieran. I raised the camera and took a rather silly selfie, captioning it, “Pit stop in Bermuda, then home.”

  “Have a drink with me?” asked Achille, pouring himself a rum and coke from across the aisle. He couldn’t hide his amusement, presumably from watching a grown woman use social media far too much on one trip.

  “No, I shouldn’t,” I said, tucking my phone back into the bag.

  “And why not?” He smiled and relaxed back in his seat. “You’re over twenty-one, on vacation and you aren’t driving.”

  “Haven’t had a taste for it lately,” I said. It was true. I hadn’t thought about it much at all. I’d been too happy.

  “Because he told you not to,” he said. Achille’s face settled into its natural state, a flawlessly symmetrical, unreadable visage of perfect bone structure and classical features. Combined with his height and physique, not to mention formidable intellect, Achille could undoubtedly have any woman he wanted.

  “What is this rivalry between you two?” I asked. Finally, the moment where I might get a straight answer, and the irony was that it wouldn’t be from Rafa. “It can’t be about me.”

  “Oh, it most certainly could, but it isn’t. At least not at first. He hasn’t told you?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “No.”

  “He treats you like a child.” Achille sat forward in the buttery leather seat, the tumbler of alcohol nestled in his large hands. “It’s very simple. He interferes with my business because he looks down on me. He’s above the quest for money and power, you see, but I’m not.” Achille’s voice was hard now, with an unmistakable edge. “Rafa De Leon, gutter rat that he is, is an idealist, arrogant enough to think he’s in a position to pass judgement on me. I mean, yesterday he was worth about five dollars, and today he’s telling me what to do? Laughable.”

  “Actually, up until the other day he was in your country, Achille, helping the sick. Doesn’t that make a difference to you?” I winced at his derogatory term for Rafa, but again, his expression remained unchanged. He was quite practiced in using his good looks as a mask.

  “No. I have long-term business dealings in Cuba—in fact I have to go there right after we drop you in Miami—and he’s made it his mission, like all Miami Cubans, to insert himself into things that are none of his concern, all in the name of some political vendetta. Not to mention that Cuban men are the most sexually possessive, jealous creatures I’ve ever known. He went crazy when he saw me talking to you that night. You’re a very wealthy woman, Amanda, a well-traveled Ph.D., yet you apparently are not qualified, in his eyes, to choose with whom you speak. How dare he decide such things for you?”

  “All that doesn’t matter now,” I said. In spite of his rabid dislike of Rafa, I appreciated his honesty, which in many ways was more than Rafa had ever shared with me with regard to his business. “So the bottom line is he doesn’t like you because you do business in Cuba, and he tries to interfere with your dealings on moral grounds?”

  “Correct. He also thinks I want you, which normally I would say is a manifestation of his delusional machismo.” He sat back and finished his drink, the beaded necklace peeking out again from under his collar. “But in this case, it happens to be true. I need you by my side.”

  “Why is that? You could have anyone. Is it because I’m—I was his?” I asked, acutely aware that our discussion felt more like a professional transaction than flirtation. Yet he was so charming. I had to give him that. The French accent didn’t hurt, either.

  “No. I have political ambitions. When I know we’re a team, I’ll give you more details. Love will come later. Give me a chance.” He reached out and took my hand in his, a profound energy coursing from his body into mine. We locked eyes and soon I felt the same heaviness as the evening of Delfina’s funeral and later at my house. “Tired?”

  “A little,” I said, my eyes focusing on the beads around his neck.

  “You’re curious about my necklace. I practice Voodoo, Amanda, like my entire family has for many generations. He’s a santero, so he must wear them, too.”

  “He doesn’t,” I said. “Rafa does things differently.”

  “Of course he does,” laughed Achille. “He’s too egotistical to do things as they’ve always been done by his ancestors. He makes it up as he goes along. In fact, he must be the Jesus Christ of Santería. Tell me, what does he say about blood sacrifice?” He crossed one leg over the other expectantly, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it for his own amusement. Achille was more far interested in Rafa than I would have guessed, perhaps even jealous.

  “He thinks it’s no longer necessary.”

  Achille exploded with laughter, so much that Charlotte and Chip stirred under their blanket. I noticed that James and the girls, however, were gone, probably to the back bedroom. “My teacher Grégoire would say he’s too scared of real power to be of use to anyone. Better for me, really.”

  “So you believe in harming living things for so-called power?” I asked. “We’ll never be friends then, Achille.”

  “That’s the difference between me and him. I don’t believe in anything, I simply do what needs to be done and don’t concern myself with what others think.”

  “If nothing else, I do appreciate your honesty.” I peered out the small window into the sky above the clouds, noting the gentle hum of the engine. “I’ll take that drink now, please.”

  “Of course,” he said, turning to the bar beside him. To my surprise, he opened a bottle of my favorite vodka, Russian Standard Gold, and poured exactly three ounces, neat. Reading my mind, he smiled and handed me the small glass. “I asked Charlotte. No guilt, Amanda. Just have your drink and enjoy it.”

  “Thank you. No guilt,” I said, raising my glass.

  “As it should be.” He raised his glass in turn. “I don’t have to be your friend, by the way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want to marry you, not be your friend.”

  “Well,” I said, swallowing a sip of vodka before it came back out. “As enticing as that sounds—”

  “What I mean is that you can have a life you never dreamed possible, Amanda, but you don’t have to approve of me or my choices to enjoy the spoils. We’re two distinct people with our own free will. You’re responsible only for yourself.” He poured himself another drink, but this time didn’t bother with the soda. “You have wealth, but you’ve never experienced power beyond what money can buy. Watch,” he said pointing in the direction of our traveling companions. “If my spirits are willing, Chip will tell us who he’s in love with.”

  Achille set the glass down and sat back in the chair, hands folded in his lap, eyes closed. I let my eyes roam over every part of his body, studying his mouth, his hands, his legs. He was for all purposes frozen, unlike most people who, if you watched closely, could truly never be still. It was
interesting to watch him do what appeared to be nothing, until Chip let out a shriek from under the blanket and sat straight up.

  “Chip! What’s wrong?” asked Achille, his face full of mock concern.

  “Nothing,” he stammered. “I just had a crazy dream about Charlotte.”

  “Go back to sleep, mate, you’re fine,” said Achille. Still in a daze, Chip pulled the blanket back over his head and sank back down. Achille met my eyes, quite proud of himself.

  “Unbelievable,” I said. “How?”

  “I keep my spirits happy, and in return they help me. I just asked for Chip to dream of his true love, wake up, and reveal his or her name. I was obliged this time.”

  “Achille,” I said, things beginning to click, “did you send the black orchid to the house?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly.

  “Did it make us argue?” He paused a moment, rubbed his thigh, then gave me another honest answer.

  “Yes.”

  “That redhead!” I shrieked in horror. “Did you make Rafa—”

  “I swear to you I had nothing to do with that.” He shook his head. “My abilities are something like hypnosis. Mind control is possible, as is possession, but the spirits will only do such things for priests, and I am not. Besides, it wouldn’t work on Rafa.”

  “Because he’s a . . . priest?” I asked, recalling some of his cryptic conversations.

  “Yes, a santero is a Santería priest. He really should have told you. There are certain risks that come along with such a vocation. It’s a secretive religion, but as his fiancée, you had a right to know.”

  “He did, somewhat. He talks about helping people, but I’m not sure what that means.”

  “From what I understand, he’s a powerful healer, guided by Babalú-Ayé, the Orisha of disease and sickness. It’s probably why he was drawn to medicine and his particular line of work. Accordingly, he also has the power to cause illness and suffering, but that would require greater sacrifices than he’s willing to make. In that respect he’s like a dog with no teeth. Impotent.” He smiled at the last word as if pleased to describe Rafa that way in front of me, but then another thought came to him. “Amanda, do you happen to know where Delfina is buried?” Intrigued, Achille stared right through me, the heavy feeling returning, but this time I was able to look away before he went in deep.

  “You’re doing it to me now, aren’t you?” I said. Thankfully I felt him withdraw his energy at once, but then I remembered something and brought my hand over my mouth in horror. “Oh no, did you read my mind the other day when—”

  “Of course. Chip and James would be thrilled, I assure you, or I could find more attractive men. What’s your type? I have a friend who runs a modeling agency.”

  My face burned with embarrassment. “Achille, stop invading my privacy, or there will be no chance at all.”

  “I won’t. You have my word.” Achille raised his hands and straightened in his seat. “But it’s nice to know there’s a chance. All things considered, Amanda, I sincerely hope my candor counts for something.”

  “It does,” I said, looking for something to fan myself with.

  ***

  Bermuda was supposed to be quick and uneventful, just a pit stop to refuel the plane and take a little break from the flying. The jet was a pleasure, and in many ways, it was even more comfortable than a hotel room, but after a few hours it was nice to stretch, get some fresh air and then continue on. The only real concern on a jet is privacy, and since James and the two models had taken over the bedroom, I’d remained in the main cabin with Chip, Charlotte and Achille, all of us using the time to sleep off our hangovers and recharge. It was lovely how all of the seats extended fully into almost queen size beds, and between the blankets, pillows and sleep masks offered on board, I slept almost the entire first leg of the trip. After Bermuda, there would only be another three hours to Miami.

  After Charlotte and I freshened up, we all headed to a casual restaurant on the water in St. George’s, where we ordered cocktails and an assortment of appetizers for the table, and because of the time difference we’d arrived at noon, the perfect time for an unequalled view of the ocean on an absolutely gorgeous day. Although the bar was packed to capacity, the atmosphere was relaxed and festive, and between the good food, lively conversation and spectacular weather, we were a little giddy by departure time.

  However, the flight home was bittersweet. I enjoyed it as if it were my last meal, because in the back of my mind there was nothing but a dread of the empty space I would find in my house and in my heart when I arrived and found Rafa gone. In fact, I’d probably turn into a stalker, going to the restaurant to secretly watch him when the longing became too much to bear. What a stupid, impulsive thing I’d done by leaving him without so much as a goodbye, and now that I’d cooled off, it was too late. He’d confessed his deepest fear, and the minute I doubted him, I used it to hurt him.

  “No more selfies, Amanda?” asked Achille over the music, interrupting my thoughts. The midday sun casting a long shadow from behind him across the table. “It’s quite picturesque.”

  “You have been doing that a lot lately,” said Charlotte, fixing her lipstick in a compact. Chip watched her dab her lips as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world, and now that I knew his true feelings for her, it was impossible not to notice all the little things between them, like the casual horseplay, the ridiculous exchange of insults, and the close proximity to each other at all times. It was adorable how Charlotte had no idea Chip was in love with her.

  “They’re just for Kieran and my brother in law, so they know I’m OK,” I said.

  “Oh, I see.” Achille wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed it on the table beside his plate. “Then you should post one more from here.”

  “Actually I haven’t talked to Ken in a while,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just call them now that we have a minute.” As I dug through my purse for my phone, James sauntered over from the bar and tossed a few hundred dollar bills on the table.

  “Alright, people, what are we doing then?” he asked, plopping down in a chair. “Em, Ash and I need to be in LA by the weekend. Where are those two anyway?” He glanced around and rolled his eyes when he spotted them at on the far side of the bar surrounded by admirers. “Achille, you’re off to Havana from here, Chip, Charlotte, you’re going commercial to New York from MIA, and Amanda, you need to rush home to Miami to cry in the dark over your ex, so you’re next. Misery first, I always say.”

  “Asshole!” hissed Charlotte, kicking his chair. “Be fucking nice.”

  “This is me being nice,” he said. I glared at James, a textbook rich kid whose emotional and social intelligence had been painfully stunted by his family’s billions. Suddenly I remembered why I didn’t have many friends, especially rich ones. Kieran would have easily cut him down with a patronizing remark and forgotten about it, but I never could get past the lack of empathy among the trust fund baby crowd.

  “Jamesie,” said Charlotte, sidling up to him, “take us to New York after we drop Amanda. Commercial is shit.”

  “Can’t do it love,” he said, running his hand through his disheveled mop of red hair. “I don’t do New York.”

  “What’s the issue?” shot Chip, annoyed at Charlotte’s physical proximity to James. “Outstanding warrant?”

  “Something like that,” mumbled James.

  “Too bad you’re not going to Havana with me, guys,” said Achille, without looking up from his phone. “I’ll be able to get you more of those cigars you like so much.”

  “Oh?” he said, looking up. For whatever reason, Achille’s comment was of great interest to Chip and James. “Are we out?”

  “Yes,” said Achille, slipping the phone in his pocket with a knowing smile, “but I have plenty there, if you’re interested.”

  “Since when does Chip smoke cigars, Charlotte?” I asked.

  “Hell if I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He has lots of questionable hab
its lately.”

  “Change of plans, people.” James clapped his hands together triumphantly, then waved Emily and Ashley over. “We’re dropping Achille off in Havana first, then we go to Miami.”

  Five minutes after we were in the air, James consulted with the pilot who confirmed that the change of itinerary would be no problem, other than the cost of a few extra dollars in visas and fees. Elated, James informed Emily and Ashley, who seemed just as happy about the detour.

  It had all happened so quickly that I’d barely had time to protest. At the table, the group had assured me that even as Americans it was perfectly legal for Emily, Ashley and I to fly into Havana from Bermuda. It only became complicated for travel directly from the US, but flights into Cuba from every other country in the world came and went freely every day. Furthermore, a British aircraft owned by a British citizen would be welcomed with open arms, as the lion’s share of tourists in Cuba came from the UK and Canada.

  “Amanda, don’t worry,” said Emily, sipping on more champagne. “We go all the time for work. And even if there were a problem, which there won’t be, all it takes is one call to my uncle.” Now that we were up in the air, fifteen minutes from landing in Havana, it was a little late to complain, but the whole last minute change of plans still felt strange.

  “Charlotte, are we really making an extra stop just to get cigars?” I’d noticed that James was practically foaming at the mouth, texting people left and right and laughing just a little too enthusiastically at everything.

  Charlotte draped a leg over Chip, who I realized was also busy texting someone, as were James and Achille. In fact, they were all making big plans of some kind.

  “Come on,” I said to Charlotte. “What’s going on?”

  “Well, babe,” she said. “Turns out—”

  “Don’t, Char.” Chip stopped thumb typing and blew me a kiss. “Love you, kitten, but you’re a bit of a square.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” I demanded, getting nervous.

  “They’re actually going for cocaine, not cigars,” said Charlotte. “But we have a rule about never bringing any on planes, so they’re going to do it there.”