by Jose Latour
The third strength that Victoria Valiente had in portentous magnitude was ambition.
She had mapped out her progression. Director general and brigadier general first, minister of interior and division general three or four years later, member of the Central Committee, member of the Politburo, member of the Council of State, the sky was the limit. Victoria realized she was resigning herself to side with the losers, but all things considered, she had no choice. She was well aware that she had passed the point of no return years ago. For having a finger in every pie, she would never be allowed to travel abroad. On the positive side, sudden death notwithstanding, the Chief might be able to hold the country together for eight or ten more years. What she had to do, Victoria reasoned, was to become indispensable, steer clear of internal rivalries, never question the Chief’s orders, and, after his death, avoid siding with a faction. Everyone should see in her a top-class specialist willing to serve those in charge, not the overly ambitious woman she in fact was. These guiding principles never left the innermost recesses of her brain.
Nonetheless, as time went on, Victoria’s concerns increased substantially. Whenever the Chief ranted on television for hours on end, he made serious mistakes. He insulted any Latin American president who asked him to respect the human rights of dissenters, made rather barbed comments concerning European politicians who said that such a benevolent step would be most welcome, and termed traitors the Western European leftists who disagreed with his strategy and tactics.
Many of his half million viewers watched in dismay as he foamed at the mouth, wet his fingers in saliva to turn pages, then went on with the old litany.
He would proclaim over and over again that most Latin American governments were lackeys of U.S. imperialism, Cuba was the finest democracy the world had ever known, the Revolution had the best human rights record on the planet. Victoria and many other well-informed government officials, civil servants, and party bureaucrats watching him from their homes closed their eyes and slapped their foreheads in desperation. Had the man taken leave of his senses? Who was he trying to fool?
Around this same time, the Chief’s closest associates began to perceive, with mounting preoccupation, his gradual slide down the road of senescence. With complete disregard for the diversity of the nation’s opinions, he set forth his weirdest propositions and most extreme views with the expressions “Cuba believes,” “Cuba considers,” and “Cuba thinks.”
Knowing how grave her country’s financial difficulties were, how weak the economy was after many years of colossal mismanagement, Victoria couldn’t believe her ears whenever the Commander criticized the policies being pursued in other Third World countries. He would recite statistics on their high levels of unemployment, on the number of people living below the poverty line, and on the large external debt of these nations without ever referring to similar data for his country.
For Cuba, he invariably prophesied a golden future. The island was a beacon of hope for the rest of the world. In three or four years, watching the educational TV channel he had ordered built in record time, his people would become the most cultured on the planet. Cuban athletes, physicians, teachers, scientists, and musicians were the best, its soldiers the bravest, its workers and farmers the most patriotic. All were willing to die before returning to capitalism, the man always proclaimed at the end of his tirade. Including the several million whom you know want to emigrate, Commander in Chief? Victoria addressed the silent question to the screen of the set, turned it off, and started surfing the Internet for senescence, senility, and Alzheimer’s.
She gave it up after a few hours. This was a whole body of knowledge that would have taken years to master, and what was the use? The Chief had worrying symptoms: irritability, believing in a reality that did not exist, a tendency to recount younger years. On the other hand, his memory loss was negligible, he frequently joked and had fun, and never appeared disoriented. The most capable specialists cared for him and had unlimited access, from anywhere in the world with no expense spared, to cutting-edge medications for retarding the aging process. The man delivered three-hour-long speeches standing at a podium, pausing just to take a sip of water. Being a formidable actress herself, she wondered if the Chief realized that he had failed miserably on all counts and was just putting on an act for the many millions of misinformed compatriots. Admitting failure was out of the question; it would imply relinquishing power, and everybody knew that the Commander would rather die than take the backseat.
In February 1996, after the Cuban air force shot down two U.S. civilian planes, Victoria drove her neurons mercilessly before reaching four conclusions. First: The system was falling to pieces in slow mo. Second: Considering his genetic background and the medical care he got, the Chief had probably ten or more years to live and would most likely die of natural causes. Third: He would remain in power until the last day because those who could end his rule overnight would not move a finger. They feared (a) losing their privileges and (b) retaliation for having executed or sent anticommunists to prison. Fourth: Her husband was 100 percent right. Therefore, Ms. Victoria Valiente decided to have one more heart-to-heart talk with him that evening, and then suck him cross-eyed.
…
A pure Maya? was the first thing that came to Elliot Steil’s mind while he shook hands with the widow and turned his I’m-a-good-guy smile on. In Miami Beach, the city of glamour, very deep tans are as common as flashy cars and dental-floss bikinis, but this lady’s skin was an intense auburn, a color not easily found in people outside Central America. However, she was the racial opposite of a Maya woman in everything else: tall and willowy, emerald green eyes, Slavic cheekbones, upturned nose, thin lips. Why hadn’t he noticed her skin color at the funeral? The answer came to him in a flash: She had been wearing black—hat, veil, gloves, and pantyhose included.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Scheindlin,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Elliot. Welcome. Come in, please. Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks.”
“Let’s dispense with formalities. Call me Maria. Can you do that?”
“Sure” was his reply as he released her hand and crossed the doorframe.
“I ask because Ruben complained he never got you to call him by his first name.”
Steil raised his eyebrows and gave her a wry smile. “Well, it’s different. I owed him big time. My life, in fact. That made him very special to me.”
“I understand. Follow me, please.”
Three steps led down into a large, well-appointed living room with the kind of top-quality furniture and decor that seems standard and is not, Steil thought as he scanned the room. A huge sofa and two club chairs upholstered in striped satin, two loveseats in pearl gray leather, porcelain figurines and knickknacks atop the coffee tables and side tables made from cherry wood, beautiful floor lamps, sconces on the walls. A European-looking still life showing fruit in a bowl graced one wall. Two huge Armenian, Iranian, or Turkish rugs draped the opposite wall; a third carpet was spread underneath the striped-satin set, the only spot where the highly polished hardwood floor was not visible. Fresh-cut flowers adorned a corner. The staircase that led to the upper floor also had steps made from hardwood, banisters carved from rosewood. The smell of wax polish combined with the aromas of jasmine, rose musk, and vanilla that some expensive air freshener issued.
With long strides, the widow whisked him to a sliding glass door that looked out over a huge courtyard and a swimming pool that glistened in the sun. She slid the door open and went outside, then turned to Steil.
“I’m very much an outdoor person. I find air conditioning pleasant in bedrooms, at night. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Steil said, trying to pin down her slight accent. European for sure, maybe German. She had a soft voice, though.
“Oh, my God,” Maria muttered under her breath after shooting a glance at the pool.
Steil followed her gaze and registered a second surprise. A butt naked, suntanned
younger woman lay supine on a blue air mattress that floated in the center of the amoeba-shaped pool. Her breasts were almost the same reddish brown of her nipples; her scarce pubic hair looked sun-streaked as well. Steil would have considered her scrawny had she weighed ten pounds more. Her eyes were closed and she wore a peach-colored rubber bathing cap. She looked utterly sexless to Steil.
As though slightly miffed, the widow shut the door and turned. She strolled along a gray granite path flanked by manicured lawn. It led to a cemented area with metallic furniture beneath a canvas striped in green and white. She waved her guest to a white armchair that had thick, plastic-covered cushions, then eased herself onto an identical piece separated from Steil’s by a brass-and-glass cocktail table.
“Jenny, we’ve got a visitor,” Maria singsonged. “My daughter,” she added in a normal tone, “loves to sun herself. I set the bad example.”
“It looks great on you.”
“Thank you.”
Jenny lifted her head a little, placed her hand over her eyebrows, shot a glance at Steil, then paddled the air mattress around until the headrest concealed most of her body.
“But you don’t seem to get much sun, Elliot,” Maria said as she reclined on the armchair.
“Well, I work in the daytime.”
“I know. I guess in all the years we lived here, Ruben relaxed less than fifty hours in this courtyard. Work, work, work, always work. Can I offer you anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks” resting the back of his right knee against his left kneecap.
“Rum? Beer? Whiskey? A margarita perhaps?”
“Orange juice would be good.”
“Sure. I won’t be a jiffy.”
Curiosity stirred inside Steil as he watched her amble over to the sliding door. In the eight years that he had worked for Ruben Scheindlin, the old man had mentioned his wife maybe three or four times, always in passing. Short sentences like “These new shoes are killing me; present from the wife,” or “Have to be home by seven; wife’s having friends for dinner,” so Steil had never devoted a minute to try to imagine the woman until the day of the funeral. That sad morning, though, as he slipped into the jacket of his brand-new, off-the-rack black suit, he had pictured a grief-stricken little old lady crying her eyes out. To his complete surprise, Sam Plotzher, IMLATINEX’s co-owner, had introduced him to a very poised woman at least four inches taller than the deceased. As he had expressed his condolences, her proud demeanor and firm handshake led him to believe that she was considerably younger than Scheindlin’s seventy-eight. Well, what do you know? he had thought at the time, and exchanged a meaningful look with Tony Soto, who was also at the funeral. The Miami policeman and Steil belonged to that portion of humankind deeply distrustful of couples whose age difference is remarkable.
But this afternoon, six weeks later, there were no signs of mourning in her ensemble. She wore a white halter-neck top, loose ivory-colored slacks, and sandals. Her hair, cut shoulder-length, was held in place by silver strips. She had gold studs in her earlobes, an expensive watch on her left wrist, and appeared stylish in a quiet way. Maria slid the door open, went into the living room, shut the door. Mid-fifties, Steil guessed.
It was amazing to find out that Scheindlin had married a much younger woman. Was Maria his second wife? Had he divorced the first to marry her? Well, Steil reasoned, concerning women, some very bright, shrewd, and experienced men have been known to fuck up badly. Many of the less talented bring disgrace on themselves and their families on account of pussy. As a young dude he had twice dropped the good girl for hot, sexy babes who had dumped him after a few months. Nevertheless, it provided consolation to recall that the women who had made him act like a complete fool had great bodies. Maria had bony arms and legs, a can flat as a board, lemon-sized breasts, and narrow hips. Maybe Scheindlin had had a weakness for skinny broads. Or perhaps Maria was a decent, faithful wife whose lone extramarital love affair had been carried on with the sun. In which case he was just a narrow-minded, shallow, and backward male chauvinist who favored chicks à la Salma Hayek.
The two years during which Scheindlin had smuggled chlorofluorocarbons into South Florida sprang to mind. Maybe he had tried to persuade his wife and daughter that excessive exposure to ultraviolet rays was risky and failed. Then the old man probably concluded that if he did not seize the opportunity, others would. Scheindlin had made a lot of money with CFCs, the visitor remembered.
Inspecting the back of the house, Steil took in the top-floor terraces that probably belonged to bedrooms, a huge bay window, the red Roman-tile roof, what appeared to be a duplex cabana to one side of the pool. The well-tended lawn had several round flower beds where beautiful plants whose names he did not know thrived. He identified, however, the purple bougainvillea that hid from view the Cyclone fence that enclosed the lot. The courtyard smelled fertile, humid, and earthy.
Coming in five minutes earlier, past the sliding gate and from the driveway, he had admired the landscaped garden, the colonnaded entry, the overhanging balcony with its wooden balustrade, the slate path leading to the impressive front door carved from oak. To the right, set back from the house, a three-car garage stood. Steil guessed that the mansion had been built in the late forties or early fifties, when real estate values in the west island of Bay Harbor Islands were affordable. In every likelihood the first proprietor paid less than two hundred thousand dollars for the one-acre tract, the architect’s fees, and the construction costs. At present the widow could sell it for anything between three and four million, the guest estimated.
The day before, out of the blue, the widow had called him at the office and asked him over for drinks and a friendly chat. He told her he was honored by the invitation and would most surely attend. Then, after hanging up, he had asked Sam Plotzher whether he had any notion what Mrs. Scheindlin might want from him. Plotzher said he had met the widow at her home two weeks earlier. It appeared that she wanted to learn as much as she could concerning a company of which she and her daughter had inherited 79 percent of the shares. Sort of a test-the-waters meeting.
Steil uncrossed his legs and jumped to his feet. In the living room, supporting a tray with paper napkins and two glasses full of orange juice on the palm of her left hand, Maria was struggling with the door handle. The lady was rich but had no live-in maid; so very Jewish, he thought as he hurried to the sliding door. He opened it; she thanked him, then came back into the courtyard. Steil slid the door shut and both returned to their seats. The guest waited for Maria to place the tray atop the cocktail table and make herself comfortable in her armchair before sitting down.
She wrapped a napkin around the bottom of a glass and presented it to Steil. “Please,” she said. He reached for it, nodded, waited. She enwrapped the other glass and raised it in midair.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
She sipped once, slowly; he took two quick sips. Freshly squeezed, pulpy, not too sweet. Good.
Maria returned the glass to the table and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Tell me, Elliot. When did you meet Ruben?”
“In 1994.”
“So, you were with him for eight years.”
“Exactly.”
“Now, if I ask you to rate my husband’s reserve, or secrecy, or whatever you call it, on a zero to ten scale, how secretive would you say he was?”
Steil took a third sip, touched his lips with the napkin, shifted his gaze to the bougainvillea, then back to the widow. “I suppose it depended, Mrs. Scheindlin.”
“Maria.”
“Sorry. Most of the time he held his cards very close to his chest. With strangers I would say he was very reserved. With a lifelong friend like Samuel, or with you, I suppose he had no secrets.”
Maria nodded thoughtfully, glancing at the pool. “He probably kept nothing of a business nature from Sam, nothing of a personal nature from me. But concerning the business, he told me very few things, and vaguely, as though he didn’t want to bring home his
problems. And I respected that.”
“Of course.”
“As a result, I find myself in the dark regarding a company of which me and my daughter are majority shareholders. I know practically nothing about the company or the staff. Jenny knows even less. For instance, all I know about you is that you are a Cuban to whom Ruben lent a hand when you confronted problems whose nature I don’t know, that you became his personal assistant after Uri was killed, own 1 percent of company stock, and drive the old car parked on the driveway.”
“That sums it up pretty well,” Steil said, smiling again.
“Cutting to the chase,” Maria continued, “I’ve asked you here today because I would like to find out more about you, Elliot. About your past and your present.”
“I understand.”
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t, so allow me to be more specific. Thanks to my late husband, that naked young woman over there,” Maria tilted her head to the pool, “and I are rich. If I live to a hundred spending a thousand dollars a day, Jenny would still inherit a few million from me. I could sell IMLATINEX now and live without a care in the world. But I don’t want to.”
Maria paused and raised an eyebrow. Steil interpreted the facial expression as indication that he should ask why she was disinclined to live leisurely, but he limited his reaction to cocking his left eyebrow and crossing his ankles.
“So far my life lacks significant achievements,” the widow added. “I was the wife, the mother, the cook. I wrote checks to pay house bills. I’ve spent a small fortune on sunblocks, and hand and face creams. I occasionally watch a movie on TV. I also read a couple of books a year. And that’s all. I have no artistic vocation, no hobbies. Now that my daughter is a woman perfectly capable of fending for herself, now that I’ve lost Ruben, the ennui of widowhood seems to be affecting me. I intend to give a purpose to my life, do something that’s interesting, worthwhile, and a little risky too, why not? Risk is the spice of life, or so adventurers claim. It’s a flavor I haven’t tasted. The only thing I can think of that could give me all that is perpetuating and expanding Ruben’s business. Does that make sense to you?”
