by Jose Latour
“Certainly,” Steil said, thinking that Maria sounded well educated.
“To do that I need, first, to bone up on the company; second, hang on to two partners that my late husband considered trustworthy, knowledgeable, and efficient. I figure you guys want to see the company grow. Ruben trusted Sam implicitly, but he is sixty-eight and … who knows? He could be active many years more, and I most certainly hope so; or he may retire, develop an illness, or die as unexpectedly as Ruben died. Do I explain myself?”
“You do, yes.”
“Ruben trusted you, Sam speaks highly of you, too. But I’m a different individual. I want to begin to know you personally.”
Looking as though she was through with the introduction, Maria sipped orange juice. Steil imitated her, suspecting that the woman possessed an extremely sharp mind, perhaps some congenital business acumen as well. Housewife, mother; sure. Nonetheless, he couldn’t rule out the possibility that the widow knew a lot more about the trading company than she was willing to admit. Maybe Scheindlin had updated her on all important aspects on a regular basis and now she was playing possum to see whether her partners would take advantage of her. As the Cuban saying goes: Pretend to be dead to see what kind of burial you will get.
Both glasses returned to the table simultaneously.
“I see your point, Mrs.—Maria. Ahh, let me see. My father was American. He and my mother met while he was working at a sugar refinery in Cuba, fell in love, got married. I was nine years old when he abandoned us. He returned here, remarried, had another son, made money, came to be the major stockholder of a sugar refinery in New Iberia, Louisiana. An uncle of mine, pretending to be a friend of my father’s, sailed to Havana in 1994 and offered to smuggle me out. Tired of communism, I said yes. Then he pushed me overboard in the middle of the ocean.”
“He what?” gaping at him.
“Left me to drown in the Florida Straits. The reason was my father had bequeathed half his estate to my mother and me. Bad conscience, I guess; he didn’t know Mom had died years before him. The problem was, his second wife and her son wanted me dead, too, so they could inherit everything. They offered my uncle a hundred thousand dollars to kill me. But I got two lucky breaks. A family fleeing Cuba on a raft rescued me, and I met Mr. Scheindlin. Here in Miami, my half brother tried to snuff me twice. Your husband learned about it, wanted to know what was going on, so I confided in him and he footed the bill to find out who was after me and why. Next he introduced me to a lawyer, David Sadow.”
“I know him. We are his clients, too. What happened to this uncle of yours?”
“He was murdered, by my half brother probably, whom I suspect had planted the letter bomb that killed Uri.”
The wide-eyed widow, staring at Steil, shook her head in wonder. “Well, I had no idea. Ruben … kept this to himself.”
The guest thought it reasonable to probe a little. “And how did he explain Uri’s murder to you?”
“He said some guys were trying to scare him out of a line of business. Nothing else.”
“Well, to cut a long story short, David Sadow took my case. My half brother was blown to pieces by a letter bomb …”
“What?”
“Yes, someone murdered him.”
The widow stared at her guest again, so intently this time that Steil waited for her to renew the conversation. “Would it be wrong to infer that you are a very vindictive man, Elliot?”
“Yes, it would. I had nothing to do with it. I’ve never killed anyone.”
“Oh well, forgive me. It’s none of my business anyway. Go on, please.”
“The whole probate process lasted two and a half years, but after deducting legal fees, taxes, the money that your husband advanced me, and other expenses, I netted one million six hundred thirteen thousand dollars.”
The widow peered at Steil, perhaps a little suspiciously, before saying: “I would very much like to know why you invested one million in the firm.”
Steil clicked his tongue, forced a smile, and shook his head sadly before giving her a sidelong glance. “There were three reasons for it, Maria. The most important is that Mr. Scheindlin asked me to; my ten thousand shares came from his 80 percent of company stock. In the second place, I concluded that after all the things your husband had done for me, I would’ve been the most ungrateful of bastards if I had said no, taken my money, and ran. And last, because it is a good investment.”
“Well …” was Maria’s only comment. Then she released a deep sigh and rearranged herself in the armchair, her gaze floating around the courtyard. Steil drained the glass of juice, wiped his lips dry, glanced at the pool. The air mattress remained static; Jenny’s right hand caressed the surface of the water. A minute went by.
“What make’s your car?” Maria unexpectedly asked.
Steil frowned in confusion. “It’s a ’91 Chevy.”
“When did you buy it?”
“In 1995. February, I think.”
“Before you got your money.”
“Yes.”
“My manicurist owns a Lincoln, a ’99 model.”
“Great car.”
“Where do you live?”
This is getting a little strange, Steil thought. “I rent an apartment at Virginia Street, Coconut Grove.”
“Since when?”
“1995.”
Maria threw her head back and laughed aloud.
Steil knitted his brow. “I must admit that you are losing me, Maria.”
She turned to face him, still a trace of a smile on her lips. “Tell me, Elliot, please. How many South Florida millionaires would you say drive an eleven-year-old car? Or live where they lived when they were destitute?”
“Not many, I suppose.”
“Exactly. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to pry into your affairs, but like most women, I’m curious. The few Cubans I know are not so … how shall I put this … unassuming.”
Steil tilted his head left and right, hesitating for a few seconds as he carefully chose his words. “Well, I guess that’s one of the many important things I learned from Mr. Scheindlin. Keep a low profile. Don’t flaunt your wealth. Don’t draw people’s attention to yourself. For me, that is sound advice, not difficult to take at all. My apartment suits me. And to be honest with you, I have my eyes on a ‘pre-owned’”—he placed the quotation marks with his forefingers—“ ’98 Saab in excellent condition. But don’t tell anyone that I buy my shoes at Payless.”
“You don’t!” She gawked at his feet, shod in expensive, orthopedic brown loafers.
“Just kidding. I used to, though.”
There was a splash in the pool. In a reflex response, Steil’s gaze went there. The air mattress bobbed gently and Jenny, doing the breaststroke, was approaching a nickel-plated ladder. He tore his eyes away from the young woman and let them rest on her mother. Maria watched as her daughter climbed up the ladder, picked up a white terry robe from the tiled poolside floor, put it on, opened the left swing door to the cabana, and disappeared inside.
“But money is to indulge in your every whim, Elliot,” Maria said, still riding the same train of thought.
Unsure if the daughter was visible, he kept his eyes on the mother. “How true. But maybe because I was born poor and remained so until five years ago, I’m not … extravagant? Or better yet, profligate. But being rich makes me feel pretty sure of myself. I relish knowing I can do what I think best when I want to. It’s a great feeling.”
“I know what you mean,” the widow said, crossing her spindly legs. “I was born and raised dirt poor. In Poland. People born here? Even the poorest don’t realize how fortunate they are compared with their equals in many, many countries. Their peers in Latin America would consider most Miami homeless people rich if they could see what American indigents eat, what they wear. By the way, Sam mentioned you are planning a trip to Cuba soon.”
“I am, yes,” wondering whether she had completed the read.
“Business or pleasure?
”
“Neither. I want to visit friends who are probably having a hard time. See if there’s anything I can do for them.”
“Are we doing much business with Cuba, Elliot?”
Steil rested an ankle on the other knee. Yeah, she had probably finished reading him, was moving to business matters now. “Well, let me give you a piece of advice first: You shouldn’t mention to anyone that we are doing business with Cuba.”
“That much I know. The embargo, the Trading with the Enemy Act and all that. But Ruben began selling things to Cuba in the seventies, I think.”
Slip of the tongue flashed in Steil’s brain. “That’s my understanding, too,” he said. “Last year Trans-Caribbean Trading, our Panamanian subsidiary—on paper it is not ours—brokered sales to Cuban firms for a little over a hundred million, twenty million less than in 2000. Mostly used trucks and trailers bought here, five or six locomotives, some heavy machinery, two small Japanese turbogenerators for sugar mills. The only snag is in electronics and home appliances; sales of those dropped to less than half of what we sold them in 2001.”
“Why is that?”
“Cuba is buying those articles directly from Communist China. Six hundred thousand TV sets plus thousands of PCs, blenders, tape recorders, the whole nine yards. They don’t need us to trade with China; it’s a direct, government-to-government deal. Soft credit included.”
“I see. And what’s the perspective on our future trade with Cuba?”
Is this really what this woman wanted to question me about? Steil pondered. No, she also wanted to pump me. “Well, I’ll be as honest with you as I was with Mr. Scheindlin.”
He detected movement out of the corner of his eye. Wrapped in terry cloth, in flip-flops, her daughter was approaching them. Taller than Maria, she possessed an unusually beautiful face that compensated for her thinness. Wide forehead, big brown eyes, straight nose, perfectly delineated lips, a confident jawline, all framed in a lustrous, dark cranberry mane of hair that tumbled below her shoulders. The tan looked extremely becoming on her. Steil uncoiled himself from the seat thinking that should Jenny gain thirty pounds in the right places, she would drive men crazy.
“Meet Jenny, Elliot,” the widow said, her tone of voice approaching patience.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Steil said as he proffered his right hand.
“Hi.” The young woman gave him a weak squeeze.
“Elliot was your dad’s personal assistant. Now he’s managing for us.”
“Oh, great,” Jenny said, giving two quick nods and a flicker of a smile. Then, turning to Maria, “Mom, you using the Audi this evening?”
“I don’t think so. What happened to your car?”
“Nothing. I just feel like the Audi tonight.”
“Okay. Keys are in the ignition.”
“Thanks, Mom. See you, Mister.”
“Sure.”
Jenny followed the granite path to the sliding door; Steil returned to his armchair. “Beautiful woman,” he felt compelled to say.
“Yes, she is. Unfortunately she is anorexic.”
“Oh.”
“Doesn’t she look emaciated to you?”
Steil pulled the corners of his mouth down, as if in doubt. “She’s thin, yeah, but emaciated?” A walking skeleton was what he would have said were it not for the fact that hypocrisy had become the most encouraged form of social interaction.
“She’s a fashion model. Very attached to her father; so much so that she couldn’t attend his funeral. She was in denial, sedated, deeply affected. But you were about to give me your views on the company’s future regarding Cuba.”
“Yes, well. Mr. Scheindlin believed that as soon as the embargo ended, our business dealings with Cuba would triple. But I don’t see that, the end of the embargo I mean, happening anytime soon. Not in this administration, in any case. I’m not fooled by the immediate cash payments the Cuban government is making to American firms at present. You know? After the hurricane? When the United States offered to help?”
“Yes, I remember reading something in the paper.”
“That’s just public relations. Trying to prove to the American business community that they are responsible trading partners. Cuba is broke, Maria. Eventually Cuban firms pay, but it takes them a long time. As long as six months. It is rumored that to pay cash to U.S. firms, they are defaulting on European firms. Anyway, I don’t see Cuba turning richer anytime soon, not under communism, nor under a market economy. So even if the embargo ends, where will the money to pay for imports come from?”
Maria bit her upper lip and seemed to drift for a while. “What about foreign investment?” she asked. “Rich Cuban-Americans swear that, after Castro, they will invest heavily down there.”
Steil grunted, then smirked. “Let me put it this way. Politicians in the opposition make all sorts of promises. After taking control, though, they fulfill those that further their aim to hold on to power and renege on the others. It’s the golden rule of politics. Shrewd businessmen lead the Cuban American opposition in Miami, and they will invest, sure, but how much? Enough to turn the Cuban economy around? I have serious reservations about that. I don’t think they will sell their holdings here and rush back to invest in Cuba.”
“What about American companies?”
“Some will, for sure. Hotel chains, McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried, the same companies that have invested all over Latin America. What has been the outcome in those nations? Mr. Scheindlin sent me on business trips to Panama, Mexico, El Salvador, and Guatemala. You see the golden arches everywhere, the Hiltons, the CNN bureaus. But once you leave the hub of major cities, you find considerable poverty and unemployment, barefoot people roaming the streets to see if they can eat one hot meal a day. An economy with 40 percent unemployment, owing the equivalent of two or three years of GDP to foreign banks, is far from prosperous.”
“What’s GDP?” Maria asked, furrowing her brow.
“Gross Domestic Product. I can’t get to first base in economics, but your husband defined it as the total value of all the goods and services a country produces over a certain period of time.”
“I see. What did you do in Cuba?”
“I was an English teacher.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ve got a BA in English Literature from the University of Havana.”
A Mona Lisa–like smile flickered across Maria’s face. She interlaced her fingers on her lap. “And when are you planning to go?”
“As soon as I get the visa from the Cuban Interests Section in Washington.”
“You need a visa to visit your country?”
For the second time Steil grunted, then smirked. “I do. They don’t call it a visa, though. It’s a ‘permission’ or some other term they use. Communist politicians master human languages. A defeat becomes ‘a setback’ that shall evolve into victory in the future; the 1968 invasion of Czechoslovakia was termed ‘generous assistance’ offered by troops from the Warsaw Pact. Hurling eggs at someone who wants to emigrate, pushing him around, is ‘an act of repudiation of the scumbags.’ And Cuban citizens living abroad don’t apply for a visa before visiting the island, it’s a permission, a mere formality.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Steil felt mild surprise. She had mentioned Poland, yes, but he had failed to make the connection because she added something significant concerning destitute people. “You lived in Communist Poland?”
“I did. But that’s a rather long and boring story, the sun is beginning to set, and I have taken up much of your time.” Maria rose to her feet and, followed by Steil, sauntered over to the sliding door. “Thank you very much for coming over, Elliot.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Maria.”
“I’m not a businesswoman. Perhaps conducting this sort of interview at home is not what a majority stockholder ought to do,” she said, a doubtful smile on her face as she opened the door.
“I wouldn’t kn
ow. I’m not a businessman, either, nor an expert in human relations. But I appreciate and value your invitation. It has the human touch,” Steil felt it proper to say as they crossed the living area.
“My aspiration is to forge a good relationship with Sam and you,” the widow said. “I want to get involved in the business—not the minutiae, of course, I’ll give you all the leeway you need to act effectively—but I want to know the market strategy we follow and why, the most recent developments, all important decisions. I will probably ask many questions at first, become a pain in the you-know-what, but I need you to help me out and provide advice on what you deem best for the company.”
She had her hand on the doorknob.
Market strategy. Important decisions, Steil thought. Standard housewife vocabulary? “You are entitled to ask as many questions as you wish,” he said. “It is my duty to answer them to the best of my knowledge and I look forward to collaborating with you. It’s what Mr. Scheindlin would have wanted me to do.”
“Thank you, Elliot. Drive carefully.” She extended her hand.
“I will, Maria. Bye now.”
“Bye bye.”
Cruising the Broad Causeway on his way home, Steil thought that the first thing to do when he got there would be to grab and squeeze Fidelia’s solid and slightly oversized behind.
At her swimming pool, floating on a white air mattress, her naked body soaking up the lambent glow of the late afternoon sun, Maria Scheindlin was reading, of all things, an article on the finer points of corporate governance in The Economist.
…
Born in 1950, Manuel Pardo began showing numerical precocity at the age of seven while attending the rural school two kilometers away from his father’s eleven-hectare plot of land in the province of Pinar del Río. After graduation from the Faculty of Mathematics at the University of Havana in 1973, he was assigned to the Center for Digital Research. In 1976 the Ministry of the Interior bought its first mainframe, and the counterintelligence officer that monitored Pardo’s workplace was asked to recommend the most capable young expert the ministry could enlist. The officer said Manuel Pardo was their man.
