“How may I help you, sir?” she asked, swinging her hair so that it landed just in front of her shoulders.
“Delivery,” I said in my best Greek accent. “Guest Achille Demarais. D-e-m-a-r-a-i-s. Room?”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot give out room numbers. I’ll be happy to take it.” She leaned over the desk looking for a package and frowned when she saw I had nothing in my hands.
“Jewelry,” I said. “Personal delivery only.” I made a hand gesture indicating I needed a signature. Shit, it was going to be harder to get by without speaking Spanish than I thought.
“No,” she said, her expression going sour. “Call the guest or leave it here.” I thought about flirting or offering her money for the information, but perhaps the risk was too great. Something about the way her mood had turned so quickly gave me pause, so I thanked her politely and crossed back through reception to the bar.
The bright, airy space of the Hall of Fame was far more pleasant than the reception area with its dusky mosaic tile and heavy coffered ceilings. I took the last empty seat at the cherry wood bar and surveyed the various framed photographs of celebrities and other assorted knick-knacks that cluttered the wall opposite me until the bartender made his way over. Now that it was happy hour, guests began to pour in to the small bar and raise the noise level, making it quite easy to blend in, but I almost slipped up and asked for a Mayabe, the cheap beer most locals drank, but luckily, I caught myself in time and ordered the overpriced and watery Cristal like every other tourist. However, the two hundred percent tip I gave the bartender instantly made him very attentive, and out of the corner of my eye I saw him watch me with a little more interest. I hoped it was just because he wanted more big tips, but just in case I made a note to be a little cheaper. Even though I wanted to pass out as much of the cash to the locals as I could, it couldn’t be at the expense of what I was here to do.
Turning on my stool I sipped the beer and looked around, taking in the crowd of mostly well-dressed travelers and hotel employees. It was easy to identify the always casual Americans in their brightly colored running shoes and jogging pants, while the more formally dressed Europeans were socializing and drinking just a bit more. On the outside I appeared to be just like anyone else, a tourist enjoying the atmosphere, but just beneath the surface I was a panicked mess, keeping track of time as if the eternal ticking of Radio Reloj lived inside my head. I pushed away horrible thoughts of Amada underneath Achille, struggling and calling out for help. If I didn’t figure this out soon, I’d have no choice but to call security and have them search the hotel for her, then accept my fate.
“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind. It was the bartender, leaning in so close I could smell his aftershave. I turned around and saw that he had a room key under the palm of his hand, ready to slide it across the bar toward me. “I have a very nice amiga,” he said in Spanish, but slowly, as one speaks to foreigners. “Would you like to meet her?”
“OK,” I answered, setting my beer down with interest. Access to the rooms upstairs was far better than sitting down here doing nothing.
“Two hundred.” Having the bartender approach the guests was perfect. Who better to talk to people when they were most likely to be relaxed and have their guard down? He could easily watch them a while and determine if it was safe to make an offer or not, and the passing of cash back and forth across the bar top would raise no suspicion at all. Brilliant.
“Bonita?” I asked, pulling the cash out of my pocket. Pretty?
“Long, dark hair, beautiful body,” he said, making an OK sign. I counted out the money and pushed it over, but I must not have seemed excited enough to him. “You want something different?” he asked. I took the room key and shrugged my shoulders, then pointed to a woman sitting three stools over with platinum blond hair. He understood, then took the key and the cash and gestured for me to wait a minute. I saw him walk to a house phone at the back of the bar and make a call, all the while never taking his eyes off me. Maybe if he didn’t have a blond at the ready, he’d be more willing to trade information for the cash I’d already handed over.
“You’re in luck,” he said, placing a different room key under a cocktail napkin. My heart sank, but I kept my game face on.
“Bonita?” I asked again.
“A little older, but blond. OK?”
I took the key, happy to at least be able to go to the upper floors without a hassle. I tried to be careful about getting too close to the clerk I’d already spoken to, but to my relief I saw she had her hands full dealing with an irate guest, so with renewed confidence I pushed the button and stepped between the brass elevator doors, ready to meet the blond in room 404.
The fourth floor hallway was nothing like the public areas downstairs, designed to impress and evoke a sense of nostalgia. Upstairs it simply looked old, probably much like it had looked in the 1950s, and any impression formed downstairs of the hotel as a world class property quickly faded on the way to the rooms. The vanilla-colored paint on the walls looked fresh, but the ceilings were so low and the walkway so narrow one immediately felt a sense of confinement, the ubiquitous blue shag carpet contributing in great part to the overall dinginess. I moved quickly down the corridor, keeping an eye on the room numbers, 418, 416, 414, until I passed a friendly-looking housekeeper about to enter 410. I was about to say hello and see if she’d talk to me, but before I could say anything she glanced at the room key in my hand and turned away, as if to hide her face. Apparently, room 404 was well-known among the employees. In fact, I’d have to be careful because the blond in 404 might be a hotel employee herself.
I slipped the key into the lock and waited for the click, then stepped inside. It was then I thought about the fact I was expected to have sex with this woman, so we’d probably have to do something. In the half-second between entering and shutting the door behind me, I decided if it came to that, I’d ask her to put on a show for me, give her a normal tip and leave. Prepared for my encounter, I rounded the corner into the main space of the room and let my eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. Barely able to make out the female silhouette on the bed, I squinted and took a couple of steps closer.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice broke the silence in broken English. “You like blondes?”
“Sí, rubias,” I answered in what I hoped was terrible Spanish with a heavy Greek accent.
With that, the curvy woman leaned forward and turned on the lamp beside the bed. It was perhaps a twenty-five-watt bulb, just bright enough to see each other, but still a warm, yellow light that was easy on the eyes. It could have been romantic in practically any other setting but this one. Still able to see just the side of her face in shadow, I dropped the key on the dresser and came around to her side of the bed, and when I put my hand out and she took it, surprised that I only wanted to greet her. It was then that we got a good look at each other’s faces.
“Rafa!” she exclaimed, her mouth falling open in shock. Just as surprised as she was, I clasped her hand tighter and stared back. It had been twenty years since I’d last seen her, but I was certain the woman was Patrizia, a girl I’d gone to high school with here in Havana. We’d run with the same crowd, and Patrizia had relentlessly pursued me for years to no avail. The very last time I’d seen her my friends and I had been in her apartment, all of us falling down drunk. Her sister Jacinta had shamelessly fucked my friend Samuel in front of all of us, while I had the unpleasant task of keeping Patrizia, who had similar ideas, at bay. She’d been the angriest that last time, insulting me on the way out by insinuating I’d prefer to masturbate than be with her, which was probably true, though I’d never say so. She’d also made one last desperate attempt by asking if I’d be interested if she became a blond. I didn’t give her an answer, but apparently, she didn’t need one. She’d changed her hair anyway, but I was sorry to say it didn’t suit her, nor had the years been kind. Patrizia was in her thirties like me, but looked like a woman in her fifties, with deep lines on her face and sad e
yes.
“Patrizia?” I pulled her up off the bed and hugged her, so very happy to see her. She embraced me with the same intensity, and when I heard a sniffle somewhere behind my ear I knew that we had both teared up. Amazing what twenty years and a little perspective can do to an immature relationship like ours. As an arrogant young man all I wanted was to evade her advances, and now twenty years later I could kick myself for having treated her so poorly. Her greatest sin had been to have a crush on me, and at the very least I could have been a little kinder. I took a step back and searched her soft, dark eyes, searching for the girl I once knew. She was there.
“Rafa,” she said, dabbing at the corner of her eyes, “what the hell are you doing here?”
“No, what are you doing here?” I countered, dropping the Greek tourist routine and tugging at her elbow so that she’d sit down on the edge of the bed with me. “Is this what you’ve been doing for twenty years?” The rapport with her just as strong, as if not a moment had truly passed. My eyes traveled down to her unbuttoned shirt, only a couple of inches away from exposing her entire breast.
“Yes,” she said, not elaborating. She did up the buttons on her without even looking down, as if she’d done it a million times before. “I heard you became a doctor after all.” She smiled sweetly, with obvious pride. “No one believed you, but you did it. Samuel said you work in Haiti.”
“Samuel?” I smiled, eager to hear news of one my closest friends growing up. We’d done almost everything together, especially chase girls and get in fights. “Do you know what he’s doing now?”
“He’s been my brother in law since graduation. Jacinta got pregnant that night, and now they have five kids together. You remember the last time we saw each other, don’t you?”
“Wow, five kids!” I couldn’t imagine Samuel as a father. “Of course I remember, you told me to have fun jerking off by myself.” We both laughed, remembering the simple, direct way young people could speak to each other. She slapped my knee in delight.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still grinning.
“God, there’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m sorry for being an asshole. I don’t know why I wasn’t nicer to you.”
“The other boys made you that way,” she said, sitting back against the headboard. “They were so mean, so jealous. It affected you. The same thing happened to one of my sons, and I thought of you often over the years because of it.” Patrizia regarded me with the kindest eyes I’d seen in a long time. “You can’t be here to have sex with a prostitute.”
“I’m not. It’s complicated.”
She reached out and touched my hand. “Come to my house, meet my kids and grandchild, and you can see Samuel when he gets home tonight. They live in the apartment next door. Tell me all about your life, and I’ll tell you about mine.” I shook my head, but she misunderstood. “It’s not like that anymore,” she said. “I just want to catch up. I also want you to tell me about that,” she said, pointing to the necklace under my shirt. Someone with less understanding might have reached out to touch it, but she knew better.
“No, that’s not what I mean, Patrizia. I’d love to come over and visit with everyone, but I can’t.” I took a second to consider how much information to share with her. I felt I could trust her, but it had been twenty years. For all I knew, she and the bartender could be government agents. My instinct told me it would be alright, but since we were short on time I decided to keep it simple and skip the part about having escaped to the United States for now.
“My fiancée is here in this hotel with another man, and I have to find her before something bad happens, but I can’t make a scene. I have to do it discreetly. Can you help me figure out what room she’s in?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said squeezing my arm. “Of course I can, but are you sure she’s worth it? Any woman who would cheat on you—”
“She’s worth it, Patrizia, and I’ll explain everything later, but I have to find her now. Please.”
Patrizia called someone on the phone and told them to come to the room. I shot her an anxious glance, but she nodded and held her hand up as if to say calm down. “My aunt will be here in a minute. She’s a housekeeper.”
“Don’t introduce me to anyone,” I said, moving to the wing chair in the corner. “I’ll meet them all next time, when I’m not in a bad situation like this.”
“I understand,” she said waiting by the door. “You probably have a social circle now. No one’s going to find out who you are.” Patrizia opened the door a crack to check for her aunt, who was standing in the hall just about to knock. I caught a glimpse and recognized her right away, but unlike Patrizia she’d aged well, and now they looked more like sisters. Housekeeping was apparently far less stressful than Patrizia’s chosen profession.
“What’s her name?” Patrizia asked in a loud whisper.
“Check under his. Achille Demarais.”
“Como?” she asked, making a face. What? That’s right, she’d always had a terrible time with foreign names.
“Como siempre,” I sighed. Like always. Pulling down my baseball cap, I came a few steps closer and spelled his name, as she repeated it, letter by letter, to the elderly woman on the other side of the door.
“Two minutes.” Patrizia closed the door, adjusted her clothes and sat back down by the phone on the bed, presumably waiting for a call. “What should we do until then?” she asked devilishly.
“I’d like to know why you’re doing this,” I said, ignoring her attempt at a joke. “You just told me you’re a grandmother.”
“That’s exactly why,” she said, crossing her legs. In spite of the years so plainly visible on her face, she still did have a very nice figure. “This is probably the highest paying job on the island, and you know it. I don’t care. All my kids live well, to hell with what anyone thinks.”
“I don’t judge you, Patrizia. You do what you have to do, and that’s it. All the employees here are in on it, right?”
“Of course! You don’t think I’d risk being arrested, do you? Everyone gets a cut.”
“How much do you get of the two hundred CUCs I gave that guy?”
“Twenty. Plus tip.”
“Unbelievable.” Disgusted, I reached into my pocket and threw the wad of cash down on the table, counting out double the cab fare I’d need back to the airport. I had no idea how much that left, but it was a lot. I pushed everything else toward her. “Take it.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up. “What if I can’t get the room number?”
“I’m giving it to you, not trading it for anything. Anyway, it’s getting late, and if you can’t get it soon, I’m fucked,” I said grimly, glancing at the clock. It was six, and if I wasn’t in a cab back to Esteban’s plane in half an hour, it was all over. Who knew if or how I could get back. “You’re my last chance. Go on, put it away. Give some to Samuel, too.” She snatched up the cash and put it in the pocketbook she’d slipped under the bed, likely to keep it out of the hands of any unscrupulous client.
“I’d say thanks, but you kind of owe me for crushing my dreams all those years.” She winked and snapped the pocketbook shut, then put it on crossbody style. “You have no idea. You’re handsome as ever, maybe more,” she said, her eyes scrutinizing me from top to bottom, “but one day soon you’re going to get old and ugly, remember that.” There was the old salty Patrizia, and I loved it.
“That’s when I’ll come crawling back to you,” I said, right on cue.
“Why would I want you then?” she said, hand on her hip.
“Because I’ll still be a stud in the sack.” I puffed up like a peacock and gave her my most playful smile. It was fun flirting with her again.
“Oh my god, shut up!” she laughed. “You’re exactly the same, you know that?” I laughed along with her, but nothing could take the horrible anxiety twisting the pit of my stomach. I had no choice but to wait, but I was dying inside. I glanced at my watch again. 6:10.
I took a peek out of t
he closed curtain, not surprised to find that the room had a very poor view, facing another set of windows on the front of the hotel. The desirable views were from the back, facing the Malecón and the ocean, and on my way up I’d caught a glimpse of the water from the back patio. It was hard to say what I missed most about home, but that might be it. The water was intense and deep, bluer than a sapphire, and not even Miami could compare. No wonder Delfina wanted her ashes scattered here. I wanted to tell Patrizia all about my new life, but I held back. When the time was right, I’d find a way to help her.
“Have you ever been hurt?” I kept my gaze out the window, fixed on the stream of cars and taxis down below.
“Don’t start, Rafa. You know the answer to that question, so don’t ask it. I made my choices.” Patrizia had become hard. I felt it. “Must be nice being a doctor. Pay is shit but at least you get some respect, eh?”
I thought about my camp duty of hosing down the feces on the cholera beds, and later the even more glamourous task of cleaning the grease traps in the ship’s kitchen. The best was probably the night a drunk passenger and her husband called me a boat rower and island trash because I wouldn’t go to bed with them for a hundred dollars.
“It’s alright,” I said.
I was just about to ask about her kids when there was a soft knock at the door. My heart started pounding furiously as Patrizia leaned in, exchanged a few words with her aunt, then closed it again. Dear god, it had to be good news. She sashayed triumphantly toward me, swaying her hips and turning on her heel as if on a catwalk.
“He has two rooms on the third floor. 310 and 340. Let’s hit it.”
I grabbed Patrizia and kissed her on the cheek, then raced to the door. “I can’t thank you enough, but you have to stay here,” I said, my hand on the knob.
“Wait,” she said, opening her hand to reveal a master housekeeping key. “If you want to be discreet, like you said, I think it would be better for you to walk in than beat down the door.” She was right. It would be far better to surprise him.
The Santero Page 18