“Perfect!” I said, reaching impatiently for the key. Now that I had the room number there was not a second to waste, but she had other ideas and wasn’t afraid to play hardball to get what she wanted.
“Hell no,” she said pushing it deep down into her cleavage. “I’m not missing this. Either take it out yourself or I go with you.”
“God dammit!” I stared at her, suddenly infuriated. “You’re still at it, huh? If I have to feel you up to get that key, just say so, but it better be quick. I don’t have time to mess around.”
“It’s a win-win,” she smirked, adjusting a practiced stance intended to make every one of her curves as alluring as possible, but then her grin dissolved into a sincere plea. “Please? I want to see her.” Ah, that was it. Pure female curiosity.
“Fuck it,” I said, opening the door for her. It was already 6:15 and we were cutting it dangerously close. “After you.”
In the corridor I started in the direction of the lift but Patrizia led me in the opposite direction to the stairwell. “It’s only one floor down. Those old elevators take forever.” I followed her, and by the way Patrizia was almost skipping down the hallway it was obvious she was having quite a bit of fun. Of course she had no idea just how precarious my own situation was, so for her it was just one big soap opera-like adventure to catch my cheating fiancée in bed with another man.
Once Patrizia heard the heavy door shut behind us, she took a quick look around and stopped me by putting a hand on my arm. Making a “shh” gesture with her lips, she faked a cough, turned toward the wall, reached into her bag and pulled out a tissue, but after she’d made a made a show of wiping her nose, presumably for the camera she knew was in here somewhere, she grabbed my hand as if we were a couple and used the opportunity to pass me something cold and hard. I didn’t have to look at it to know it was a switchblade, similar to the one I’d carried around Havana myself when times were tough. In fact, we’d all kept one on us, even the girls, but unlike me, Patrizia had never been able to get rid of hers.
“Are you going to kill him?” she whispered. Cubans were notorious for their crimes of passion, and according to my mother, even my own father had died at the hand of his lover’s husband.
“I’m getting her back no matter what, so if that’s what it takes, I will. I’d rather do it another time, though.” I put the switchblade in my pocket and held the heavy steel door at the bottom of the stairs open for her.
“Homicides in this hotel are very high profile. Avoid it if you can. Maybe just leave a scar on his face instead.” Patrizia made sure I heard her, then started counting room numbers until we reached 310. The hallway was virtually identical to the floor above it, with the same blue shag carpet and vanilla-colored louver doors. “This is it.”
“Key,” I said, my eyes narrowing. “Don’t start that shit again.”
“Hold on,” she said, digging deep into her blouse. Producing it with a flourish, before I had a chance to object she slipped it into the door at the same time she knocked loudly and called out. “Housekeeping!”
Without the least bit of hesitation she strode into the room as if she belonged there, and I heard her voice boom from inside the room, with the confidence of a person who has nothing to fear. “Necesitan toallas?” she asked. Do you need any towels? How the hell did she think she would pull this off, as she wasn’t even wearing a uniform or pushing a cart. Still, I waited in the corridor, so anxious I was able to hear my own heart beat in my head.
“No!” came a chorus of voices from inside the room. “Lady, just go, will you?” said a haggard sounding Englishman. “Actually, be a love and bring us up some more rum, any kind,” he said. “Here, that should be enough.” After a pause, Patrizia stepped back out with several bills in her hand and motioned for me to take a peek.
“Están tomando drogas,” she said. They’re doing drugs. “They won’t notice. There’s two men and three women, and they’re all sitting around a coffee table covered in white powder.”
“Any of the women blond?” I asked.
“No, all brunettes,” she said.
“Close the door,” I said, shaking my head. “She’s got to be in the other room.”
“I knew you had a thing for blondes! I don’t know why you refused to admi—”
Before she could finish I pulled her down in the direction of the other room and in fewer than thirty seconds we had rounded the corner and made our way all the way down to room 340.
“Do the same thing,” I said, breathing heavily as I reached into my pocket.
“No, I’ll get him out of the room for you. Stay out of sight in that alcove where the ice machine is until you see us go down the hall together.”
“Patrizia, be careful, he’s dangerous. He’s a drug dealer.”
“Wouldn’t be my first, papi. I’ll be gone way before he realizes what happened.” She rolled her eyes as if to indicate she’d gotten herself out of far worse situations. “Believe me when I tell you I’ve done this many times before, and let’s leave it at that, alright?” At first, I thought she meant she was good at thinking on her feet, but then it dawned on me that she’d likely been part of a team practiced in visiting unoccupied hotel rooms. If she did get him out, I knew I wouldn’t see her again on this trip, so I decided to come mostly clean with her. There was no way this woman, so adept at fending for herself, worked for the government.
“Patrizia, I have to get her and leave right away. You can reach me at a restaurant in Little Havana called Madrina’s. Ask for Sandro. I want to help you out as much as possible. Are you interested in going to Miami?”
“Are you kidding?” Her eyes went wide. “I’ve been trying for the last ten years, but I can’t leave without my family.”
“I have connections. I’ll see what I can do.” After a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, she motioned for me to step back out of sight, then knocked on the door with complete authority. When there was no response, she shouted, “manager!” and banged even harder. Finally, the door opened a crack.
“Si?” came Achille’s voice.
“Sir,” said Patrizia, “we’ve had some problems with the occupants in the other room registered to you. We need you to explain to your guests that we can only look the other way to a certain point, and they’ve passed it.”
“Ah,” said Achille. “Give me a minute.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a minute,” continued Patrizia, putting her hand on the door before he could close it again all the way. “If we can’t get your assistance, I’ll have to call the local police. I hope you understand we’re in a very awkward position.” Then, her indication to me that Amada was in the room. “Buenas tardes, señora.”
“No, no,” he said, stepping into the hall. I couldn’t see him, but his voice was much clearer now. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you for coming to me first.”
It took every ounce of restraint not to attack him, and the only thing that kept me from knocking him to the ground and slitting his throat was the fact that doing away with him here would unleash a Pandora’s box of problems for everyone. I faced the ice machine as Achille and Patrizia walked past me back to 310, then made sure they had taken the left turn down the corridor back to the other room before I went to the door. Hoping there was no one else in there with her, I knocked lightly, wishing Patrizia had left the master key with me. She likely would have, except she probably needed it to facilitate her imminent disappearance.
“Amada, open the door. It’s me!” I said.
“Rafa!” came Amada’s voice from the other side. The door swung open and there she stood, in complete disbelief that I’d managed to find her. I was relieved that she appeared unharmed and, judging by her level of hysteria, not under the influence of any drug. Unable to control myself I grabbed her and gave her a quick, desperate kiss on the mouth, then tried to pull her out in the hallway, but she insisted on taking her purse with her before leaving.
“Shut the door,” I said. Out in the h
all Amada started to run, but I slowed down, urging her to walk. “We can’t attract any attention,” I said, clasping her hand. “We’ll talk on the plane. Eyes straight ahead.”
“You still love me?” she asked. By her voice I knew she was crying, so I stole a quick glance at her, shocked she could ask such a question. My god, did he knock her unconscious to take her?
“Did you get hit on the head?” I asked, completely serious, not breaking our stride.
“No,” she said, sniffing. “Your message—”
“You have to stop crying,” I said, yanking her a bit too harshly through the elevator doors. Standing behind her in the crowded space with my hands firmly around her waist, I leaned forward and spoke directly in her ear. “No more talking after this, but the answer is yes, forever, and more than you’ll ever know.” In response she fell back against my chest, but I knew the intimacy of it would attract curious eyes and I had no choice but to put a little space between us. I kept my hand on her lower back where it was out of sight, massaging her as best as I could so that she’d calm down, but this only made her sob more, so I put both hands in my pockets, and understanding, she took a tissue from her purse and mumbled something about allergies loud enough for everyone could hear. Good girl.
The elevator ride was excruciating because all I could think about was being alone with my Amada and holding her in my arms. I had a million questions about how Achille had found her and what he’d done, yet all we could do for the next half hour was hold hands and remain silent, speaking only with our eyes. I’d been prepared for the possibility of having to take her to a hospital before we left, which would certainly complicate things, but she looked good. I’d been assessing her as much as I could from a distance, and except for the ridiculous question about whether or not I still loved her, physically she appeared to be fine. Unless—no, I couldn’t even entertain the thought.
Amada glanced at me over her shoulder at me, her eyes still red from crying, then looked back ahead. Yes baby, I’m really here, I wanted to say. He’d been with her a couple of days, since Monaco, but things had probably taken a while to turn ugly. She looked tired and worn out, dressed in some old sweatpants I’d never seen before and not a stitch of makeup on. Amada could never be anything but beautiful, but it wasn’t like her to be so informal in public. I couldn’t stop staring at her, trying to figure out what had happened. I fixed my gaze on the back of her neck as a raucous group of drunk young men got on at the third floor, crowding us further into the back together. Her skin was so delicate, her body so fragile and vulnerable, and unable to control myself, I decided the rowdy group was loud enough for us to safely have a brief conversation. I whispered into her ear once more.
“What day of the week is it, sweetheart? Do you know where we are?”
She turned completely toward me this time, then standing up on her tiptoes, she whispered back. The group of five or six drunk men made a vulgar joke and erupted into ear splitting laugher, attracting every pair of eyes in the elevator. “It’s Friday,” said Amada. “We’re in the Hotel Nacional in Havana, Cuba,” she answered. Excellent.
“Did he—” I couldn’t say it. How many times had I callously barked the words sexual assault over a semi-conscious woman, completely disconnected from anything except a cold, scientific analysis of the traumatized body before me? A hundred, probably more. But here was my Amada, the person I loved most in the world, with whom I couldn’t even bring myself to ask the proper questions. I forced myself to articulate as best I could. “Did he . . . hurt you?”
“No, nothing like that,” she said, watching me carefully.
“You have to tell me,” I said, hearing my voice go thin. “There are certain things we have do right away.” I sighed, knowing how often a woman denied it out of fear or shame. Please baby, the truth. This time, sensing my panic, she didn’t mince words, using the explicit, specific language she usually avoided but knew I needed to hear. While several people got off and on the second floor, and the drunks in the elevator high fived each other over some inane conversation about soccer, Amada came in close and spoke purposefully, in a way that no one could possibly overhear.
“He didn’t lay a hand on me except when he pushed me down, once. I was not raped. I was not assaulted. My clothes did not come off. He didn’t even try to kiss me,” she said. “Do you hear me? He was going to, but you made it in time.”
I processed the words over and over until they sank in, unsure which of us was more upset at this point, but hearing it so clearly from her changed everything. It was as if someone had wiped a foggy windshield in front of me so that I could see again, and now that those horrible images could be filed away as pure fiction, my senses sharpened, and my brain refocused on the task of getting us on that plane.
“Yes, I hear you.” I choked out the words, allowing myself one split second of emotion, then pushing it out of my mind. When the elevator stopped and opened at ground level, I was clear-headed enough to forego any social graces and aggressively led us through the slow-moving rows of people ahead of us out to the busy lobby.
Amada stood beside me, concentrating on me just as much as the crowd. Catching a flash of the sour hotel clerk who’d denied me access, I pulled Amada in the opposite direction, around the perimeter toward the front door. “This way.”
I squeezed her hand and led her though the thick herd, weaving through at least fifty people who’d probably just all poured out of a tour bus. We were halfway around the dazed crowd of British tourists, taxi-cabs on the curb in sight, when I heard a voice call out over the crowd.
“De Leon!” I stopped in my tracks, the hair on my arms standing straight up. There he was, Achille Demarais, shoving people aside to cut his way through the clueless mob in his way. “Policía!” he shouted. A few people looked in his direction, but those who did observed with cold detachment, as if watching a television show that could be switched off at any moment. Contrary to popular belief, most people cared very little for someone in distress. In the field, I’d seen crowds step over bodies a thousand times, preferring to catch their bus or finish their phone call, desensitized to all human suffering but their own. The lobby of an international hotel proved no different, and for now, not one person cared at all. Relieved that no one was paying the least bit of attention, I was going to simply keep walking when I noticed the expression of pure fear on Amada’s face, enraging me to a point that I could no longer contain my natural instinct to hurt him. I’d been on my own a long time, forced to fend for myself because no one else would, and unfortunately for him, it was this final bit of audacity that awoke the long dormant ugliness inside me.
“Take this and get a cab,” I said to Amada, reaching into my pocket. I put the entire wad of cash I had left in her hand. “Wait two minutes for me. If I’m not out by then, tell the driver to take you to the airport, terminal two. You’re on a charter to Miami with Congressman Esteban Ruiz. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“No, I’m not leaving you again,” she said, clutching my arm.
“Don’t argue!” I pushed her in the direction of the front door. “Go!”
I watched her head safely out the front, and when I felt his hand come down on my shoulder from behind, I pulled Patrizia’s switchblade out of my pocket and swung around, burying it deep Achille’s groin. I’d aimed as best as I could for the femoral artery, hoping for the pleasure of watching him bleed out in two minutes, right here in the lobby, consequences be damned. He yelped in pain when I pulled the blade out just as quickly, his tall, bulky frame crumbling to the ground in a heap, clutching his thigh, he began to weep, the blood stain rapidly seeping through his white linen pants. What a pampered little pussy he turned out to be, just as I expected. Deep downa , this rich asshole was nothing but another spoiled brat who’d be eaten alive on the streets without his money to protect him. I retracted the blade and put it back in my pants, then crouched down to enjoy his pain from up close. I doubted I’d been precise enough to hit the exact
spot, but it looked like it hurt a hell of a lot. I smiled as he tried to call for help through the pain.
“Is he alright?” asked an elderly passerby in broken Spanish. He and his wife looked down at Achille like a science experiment gone wrong.
“Heart attack,” I said, feigning concern. “Can you go tell a manager to call an ambulance? I’ll stay with him. Try not to draw a crowd.” Eager to be of assistance, they went off in the direction of the front desk. Estimating it would take them at least a couple of minutes to get back with help, I turned my attention back to Achille. Judging from the way he was moving, I knew he was adjusting to the pain and would start talking soon. Just to be sure he kept his mouth shut long enough for us to get on the plane without incident, I closed my eyes and recalled Babalú-Ayé offer of retribution.
His heart, Omnipotencia. His heart, I chanted to myself. His heart, his heart, his heart.
Then it happened. The benevolent Babalú-Ayé, Orisha of sickness and health, to whom I had sacrificed my earthly vocation for a spiritual one in exchange for our safe passage from Cuba, granted my request. At once Achille’s body seized up and curled around itself, his limbs wracked with pain. As the beads of sweat pooled on his forehead, now unable to speak, Achille stared up at me, frightened. It was the look of a person who thinks they’re dying, a wordless, pleading expression that always cut me to the bone, the one that haunted my dreams on nights when I lost a patient who deserved to live. Not this one. He clawed at me as if begging for help, but instead I twisted his wrist as far back as it would go until I felt it snap.
“Filthy rapist piece of shit.” I spat in his face. “If we weren’t in public, I’d cut your dick off to keep in a specimen jar on my desk,” I sneered. His eyes grew wide as I stood up and delivered one final warning. “If you don’t die here, you’re going to wish you had. Au revoir, fucker.”
Stepping over Demarais, I went outside and found my Amada, dutifully grasping the handle of an open taxi door, one foot on the floorboard and the other planted firmly on the curb.
The Santero Page 19