‘And the connection?’ Hartmann asked.
‘The connection, as you so call it, Mr Hartmann, is that everything you could ever wish to know about me, about why I am here, about what has happened to Catherine Ducane and why I chose you to come home to New Orleans and listen to my story . . . all of the answers can be found in the words of William Shakespeare. Now pour us some coffee and we shall talk, yes?’
Hartmann paused for a moment and then he looked directly at Perez. He had been right. There was not the slightest spark of humanity in the man’s eyes. He was a killer, nothing more nor less than a killer. Hartmann reminded himself of what had been done to Gerard McCahill; he remembered Cipliano’s words, It’s hard to tell on the blows as well. So many, and all coming at different angles, like whoever did this was walking around the guy in circles while he whacked him. He pictured Ernesto Perez doing just that: walking around a bound and gagged man, hammer in his hand, raining blow after merciless blow down on the defenseless victim until shock and blood loss brought his life to an end.
Inside he shuddered.
‘You’re not going to give us anything, are you, Mr Perez?’ he asked.
Perez smiled. ‘On the contrary, Mr Hartmann, I am going to give you everything.’
‘About the girl though,’ Hartmann said. ‘You’re not going to give us anything about the girl.’
‘All in good time,’ Perez replied.
‘And you can assure us she is safe and well, and that no harm will come to her?’
Perez looked away towards the corner of the room. His face was implacable, and Hartmann believed a man such as this must have spent the greater part of his life withholding as much as he could from everyone around him. A man like this would stand on a subway platform, in a queue at a coffee shop, biding his time patiently as he waited in line at a supermarket checkout, and no-one would have had an inkling of who he was.
‘I can guarantee nothing, Mr Hartmann. Even as we speak Catherine Ducane might be choking to death on the ropes that have been used to tie her. She may have attempted to work herself free and be suffocating even as we speak. She does not have a lot of time, and thus any time you spend attempting to solicit information from me is indirectly contributing to her demise. It’s the rule of threes, Mr Hartmann—’
‘The what?’
‘The rule of threes. Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. Catherine Ducane has already been in my possession since Wednesday the twentieth . . . that’s the better part of a week and a half already.’
In his possession, Hartmann thought. That’s the way he thinks of her, that she is in his possession. Hartmann closed his eyes for a moment. He tried not to think of her. He tried not to comprehend the combined frustration of every federal operative that was now directly, and indirectly, involved in this situation. He tried to focus his mind, tried so hard to focus, but no matter how hard he concentrated he could not pull away from the image of a starved and frightened young woman tied somewhere to a chair, all the while believing that this man would return only to kill her.
‘So we should waste no more time, Mr Hartmann,’ Perez said matter-of-factly. ‘We should talk, should we not?’
‘Yes,’ Hartmann said. ‘Yes, we should talk.’
He poured the coffee. He set the cups on the table along with an ashtray and, as Ernesto Cabrera Perez began to speak once more, Ray Hartmann leaned to his left and gently closed the office door.
ELEVEN
¡Lo Cubana – está aquí! – The real Cuba – it’s here!
Havana.
Stalinism and palm trees.
The crumbling façade of Spanish colonialism.
Barrio di Colón, the tattered remnants of the red light district from Batista’s dictatorship.
San Isidro, once beautiful, stately, awe-inspiring, now ramshackle and desperate, hunkering around Havana’s railway district like a dirty and discarded coat.
Later, much later, there was a boy who would become as close to me as a brother, and we would remember this time.
‘You remember January of ’59?’ he would say. ‘When there was a strike of all the working people, and Havana came to a standstill. Batista was president then, and his secret police were fighting with the rebels in the streets. It was then that Castro’s guerrillas came from the mountains, and they ran through the streets and took this city. There was no-one left to fight them, no-one at all. You remember that time, Ernesto?’
The boy would smile, and in that smile was a memory of something that would forever remain a part of our lives.
‘When Castro made Manuel Urrutia the president after Batista fled, and he swore in the new government at Oriente University in Santiago de Cuba, yes? They made Castro Delegate of the President for the Armed Forces and Jose Rubido as Chief of the Army. And Castro? He drove like a conquering Caesar along the length of the island towards Havana! We celebrated everywhere he went, and that evening we heard that those who’d stood against Castro in Las Villas Province, Colonel Lumpay and Major Mirabel, had been executed.’
The boy had smiled again. ‘I saw them executed, Ernesto . . . I saw them plead for their lives, but Castro was like a king returned to his homeland and he allowed no mercy. He put Che Guevara in charge of Havana itself, and we went through the streets, thousands of us, and we burned flags and we set buildings on fire, and there were men drinking wine and singing and fucking women in the street. Down Calzada de Zapata we went, our voices raised, and out along Avenida Salvador Allende and through Coppelia Park to the Cristobal Colón Cemetery . . .’
I laughed with him. I remembered these things. I had been there too. Ernesto Cabrera Perez. We were amongst them, me and my ghost of a father, caught in the whirlwind of revolution and passion and gunfire.
My father was all of forty-six years old, but he carried himself as if he were sixty or seventy. The Havana Hurricane had come home, back to a place whose name he had used with self-aggrandized pride, but in the face of everything, the age and history and significance of this place, he was nothing more than what he truly was: a fighter, a whiskey-fueled brawler, a bare-knuckle madman possessing neither sufficient sense nor sanity to work a trade alongside his Friday night thunderings. And yet he was even less than that – weaker and more broken and less substantial than I had ever believed, and he carried inside of him a guilt so burdensome and weighty that the strength remaining in his bones and frame could not have borne it for long. He had killed his own wife. In a fit of insatiable sexual fury he had broken his own wife’s neck as he forced her against the wall. That was what he was, and that was all he was, and that was all he ever would be: a stupid old man, old before his time, who in some moment of drunken madness had killed the only person who’d ever really loved him. Loved him not for what he was, but loved him for what she believed he might become. In the end she was wrong, for he became nothing, and I walked with that nothing, the shell of a man that was my father, through the streets of Old Havana, down along Calle Obispo to the Plaza de Armas, and as he walked he whispered in his hoarse and fatigued voice, No es fácil . . . no es fácil . . . It’s not easy . . . it’s not easy.
‘I know, Father, I know,’ I would reply, and though my words bore the face of sympathetic understanding, they carried behind their backs the grim steel of vengeance.
The Sicilians – years, so many years later – would tell me of vengeance. ‘Quando fai i piani per la vendetta, scava due tombe – una per la tua vittima e una per te stesso,’ they would say. You head out for vengeance, you dig two graves . . . one for your victim and one for yourself. And then they would smile with their mouth but not with their eyes, and in that expression you could see a thousand years of understanding about the darker elements of man and the shadows that he carried.
But during those first few weeks, as we found our feet, as I discovered the land of my father, as Cuba gave birth to something inside of me that made me believe that wherever I might have been born, wherever I might hav
e been raised, this place – this impassioned, heated, sweating, writhing confusion of humanity and inhumanity, sprawling out from west to east, a punctuation mark between the Atlantic and the Caribbean, the Gulf of Mexico, the Florida Straits, the Windward Passage – was so much more than I had ever believed or imagined.
Such romance, such fiction! Names such as Sancti Spiritus, Santiago de Cuba, a stone’s throw from Haiti and Jamaica, from Puerto Rico and the Bahamas; St James the Apostle Carnival, the African-Catholic faith of Santeria, and rumba and salsa and cha-cha-cha, and lazy island days out of Cayo Largo, and here is where Hemingway would live at Papa’s Place, Finca la Vigia, and after his death his family would give his home to the people of Cuba for carrying the dreams of their son for the better part of twenty years.
And it would only be later, much later, years behind me once I had returned to the United States, that I would look back and believe that Cuba had always been in my heart and soul, that had I stayed there all the terrible things to come would perhaps never have happened. But by then it was too late, and by then I would be looking at my life with the mind and eyes of an older man, not the man I was then, the young man walking my father through those self-same streets, believing that here I had found nothing more than a sanctuary from the justice that my father would inevitably meet . . .
Though not the way I then believed.
And not from my own hand.
For now my hand did nothing more than lead the way for him, show him where he would lie down in the dark one-room hovel we rented for a single American dollar a week – the same hand that gripped the sill of the window as I looked out towards the lights of Florida while my mind believed that if I could only make it back there alone, if I could only find my way, there would be something waiting for me that would give everything else some sense.
But then it did not, and would not for a great many years to come. The New Year of 1959 I was nothing more than my father’s keeper, and as he lay on his mattress, as he mumbled unintelligible words interspersed with the sound of my mother’s name, as his mind slowly dissolved into the final darkness of guilt for who he was and what he had done, I knew I had to escape from this life any way I could.
My eyes were open, my heart was willing, and I had already long-since realized that the pathway to freedom was bought with dollars. Hard-earned or not, there was only one way out, and that way carried a price.
I’ll tell you something now: in the 1950s it was different. Seemed to me a man was a man and a girl was a girl. None of this free love, men holding hands with men in public kind of thing. Guy wanted to take it up the ass then he did it in the privacy of his own home, or maybe he rented a hotel room by the hour. At the time I figured people like that were crazy, not the Jesus told me to stay home and clean my guns crazy, but just a little short on whatever it took to make a hundred cents spend like a dollar. Maybe I don’t seem to be the truthful kind of person, but I’ll let you in on one other thing: I say something, well you can take it to the bank, and I’ll tell you what happened in 1959 with the old guys and the rent boys and the promise of a dollar.
The room I rented for me and my father was on the outskirts of Old Havana, La Habana Vieja, and back behind the Plaza de la Catedral there was a street called Empedrado. The house we inhabited was shared by the better part of six or seven families, some with kids no taller than my knee, and some with babies who would cry at night when the heat was fierce, or who would cry from hunger or from thirst, or from the croup when it came and infected them, all of them at once.
Met a boy there; seventeen he was, maybe eighteen or nineteen, but he smoked cigarettes like he’d been doing it for a thousand years. His family name was Cienfuegos, his given name Ruben, and Ruben Cienfuegos became as close to me as any other human being. It was with him that I spoke of the revolution, of Castro overthrowing Batista and taking Cuba back for the people. It was he who taught me how to smoke the cigarettes, he who showed me pictures of girls with wide mouths and wider legs that made me so horny I could’ve fucked a cracked plate given a little lubrication, and when he told me of his cousin, a sixteen-year-old called Sabina, when he told me she would do me for two American dollars, I went like a lamb to the slaughter. A narrow mattress in the corner of a darkened room, and Sabina – whose hair was longer than any girl’s I’d ever seen, whose eyes were wide and bright and eager, and yet somehow wary like a feral thing; a girl who pulled down my pants and massaged my cock until it was stiff and aching, who took me by the hand and laid me down, and then lifted her skirt and sat astride me, who then lowered herself onto me until I felt I would disappear completely between those muscled brown thighs, and who rolled over me like a wave of something terrible and magical and profound, and who later would take my two American dollars and tuck them into the waistband of her panties, and lean forward and kiss my face, and tell me that she could feel my warmth inside her, and then had laughed and told me that what had just happened was as necessary and vital as being christened by the Pope himself in the Vatican, and told me then that if I had left it any longer I might very well have drowned her. And then she showed me to the door and down the stairs to where Ruben stood smoking and smiling and satisfied . . . When Ruben Cienfuegos told me of these things, and then made his promise that it would happen, and then brought me to the place where it did happen, well Ruben became perhaps the most important person in my life.
And she, she whose name I would never forget, and yet met only once, became something that existed only in my mind and my heart. In years to come I would think of her, Sabina, and make-believe that she was somewhere thinking also of me. In some way that moment with her was as meaningful as the moment I stood over the dead body of Carryl Chevron such a long time before. A defining moment. A moment that would stand as a testimony of my life, evidence that I had in fact walked the earth, that, at least once, perhaps twice, I had truly been someone.
I thought of her often, but never spoke her name, because to speak of her would have been to break the spell and let the world know something of who I was. Who I was belonged to no-one but me, and that was the way I wished it.
It was Ruben who told me of the Italians. He told me of the Hotel Nacional and how a black man called Nat King Cole – who was not a real king and did not possess a kingdom – had sung there for the Italians and yet could not stay in the hotel that night because he was negroid, and how the Italians had come here to Cuba when they had been forced out of Florida by the authorities, forced out because they had killed so many people and taken so much money, and how the law could do nothing to stop them. Cuba was their salvation, Cuba was their home from home, and in ten-thousand-dollar apartments they would drink Folger’s Coffee and smoke Cohibas and Montecristos and Bolivars and Partagases.
‘Up there,’ he told me, ‘near where they live, you will find the little birds.’
‘The little birds?’
Ruben smiled. ‘Yes, Ernesto, the little birds . . . the faggots, the queers, the homos, the young men who will take it up the ass for a dollar and a pack o’ smokes.’
I closed my eyes. I thought of that night as I waited for the tide to turn, as I buried my fingernails into the palms of my hands and paid the ferryman his price of passage. I knew what Ruben Cienfuegos was talking about, and with that knowledge came a sense of hatred and loathing for whosoever would support such a terrible trade.
‘The rich guys go down there, the ones with all the dollars, some of them Italians, some of them Cuban businessmen who have a taste for such things.’ Ruben smiled and winked and lit another cigarette. ‘And I have an idea, my little Ernesto,’ he said, even though I was older than him by a year or two, and then he smiled and winked again and told me of his plan.
Three nights later, dressed in a clean white shirt Ruben had borrowed from his cousin on his mother’s side, Araujo Limonta, with pressed pants made of thick cotton, with canvas shoes similar to those worn by the boatmen who haunted the bars along Avenida Carlos M. Céspedes, I stood with my
heart in my mouth and an American cigarette in my hand near the corner of Jesús Pergerino Street. I stood there patiently as the cars drove by, some of them slowing down as they cruised along the curb, and I waited for as long as I believed it possible to wait. Later Ruben told me it was no more than ten minutes before a car pulled to a stop ahead of me, as the window came down, as a greasy-haired man with a gold tooth like Carryl Chevron the salesman leaned out towards me and asked me how much.
‘Two dollars,’ I told him, for this is what Ruben Cienfuegos had directed me to say, and the man with the gold tooth and the greasy hair had smiled and nodded and reached his hand through the window and waved me over. I climbed into the car just as Ruben had said, my heart thundering enough to burst right there in my chest, my teeth gritted, sweat breaking free of my hairline and itching my skin. I sat silently as the man drove a half block further and slowed to a dead stop in a dark pool between the streetlights. Ruben said he would be waiting. Ruben said he knew where the men would take me, and as he told me these things he told me that I was to act naturally, to act as if I had done such things a thousand times before, for he would be there – my savior, my benefactor – and he would ensure no harm came to me.
The greasy-haired man placed his left hand on my knee.
I flinched, I could not help it.
The hand with its fat fingers, with its single gold ring with a blue stone set within, traced a line from my knee towards my crotch. I could feel the pressure against my leg, could feel the weight of sin that was intended, and I closed my eyes as that same hand reached between my legs and started rubbing me, just as Sabina had done, but this time different, this time with a motion that made me sick inside.
What Ruben hit the man with I do not know. But he hit him hard. I didn’t even see him coming, but through the open window on the other side of the car a dark shape came rocketing in towards us, and collided with the back of the man’s head.
R. J. Ellory Page 18
