They took a table in a corner of the courtyard, Isabel inhaling fiercely, looking Arkady up and down. "Eighty degrees and you're still in your coat. That's class."
"It's a style. I noticed that you're very good."
"It doesn't matter. I will never be more than corps de ballet no matter how good I am. If I weren't the best I wouldn't be in the company at all."
Arkady was struck again by the melancholy of her voice and the long line of her neck, with its nape of feathery black curls on milk-white skin. Also by her fingernails, which were bitten to the quick. She drew on her cigarette hungrily, as if it served for food. "I like that you're thin."
"There's that." Arkady lit a cigarette himself, celebrating an attribute he had been unaware of.
"You can see the conditions in which we have to work," Isabel said.
"It doesn't seem to stop you. Dancers dance no matter what, don't they?"
"They dance to eat. The ballet feeds us better than most Cubans see. Then there's the chance some infatuated Spaniard from Bilbao will set us up in an apartment in Miramar, and all we have to do is drop our pants whenever he's in town. The rest of the girls would say, 'Oh, Gloria, you're so lucky.' I would slit my throat rather than live like that. The others at least get to travel from Cuba and be seen while I rot here. Sergei was going to help."
"A ballerina who defects to Russia?"
"You're laughing?"
"It's a change. I was never aware of Pribluda's interest in the ballet."
"He was interested in me."
"That's different," Arkady conceded. Her self-absorption was so complete she had yet to notice any scuff marks on him. "You were close?"
"On my part, strictly friends."
"He wanted to be closer?"
"I suppose so."
"Did he have any photographs of you?" Arkady thought of the frame in Pribluda's bureau, of Isabel's willowy pose in class.
"I believe so."
"Do you have any photographs of him?"
"No." She appeared to find the question ridiculous.
"Or the two of you together?"
"Please."
"Only asking."
"Sergei wanted a different relationship but he was so old, not the most handsome man in the world and not very cultured."
"He didn't know a plié from a... whatever?"
"Exactly."
"But he was doing something for you."
"Sergei was communicating with Moscow for me, I told you. You're sure there was no E-mail or letter?"
"About what?"
"Getting out of this wretched country."
Arkady had the sensation that he was talking to a fairy-tale princess imprisoned in a tower.
"When did you last see Sergei?"
"Two weeks ago. It was the day of the first night of Cinderella. One of the principal dancers was ill, I was filling in as one of the ugly stepsisters and there was a problem with my wig, because here in Cuba the ugly stepsisters are blonde. So it was a Friday."
"What time?"
"In the morning, maybe eight. I knocked on his door on the way down. He came to the door with Gordo."
"Gordo?"
"His turtle. I named him. It means 'fat boy.'"
Arkady could see Pribluda opening the door. Had the colonel imagined himself a knight errant rescuing Isabel from her island prison?
"You lived right above Pribluda," Arkady said, "did you ever notice who visited him?"
"Who would visit a Russian if they knew his home was watched?"
"Who is watching?"
She touched her chin as if such a delicate feature could sprout a beard. " He watches. He watches everything."
"The last time you saw Pribluda, did he mention what he was going to do that day?"
"No. He didn't boast like George, who always has big plans. But Sergei brought you."
"He didn't send for me, I just came." Arkady tried to get the conversation back on track. "Did you ever see Pribluda with a Sergeant Luna from the Ministry of the Interior?"
"I know who you mean. No." Isabel awarded him a smile. "You stood up to Luna last night. I saw you."
"In a feeble way." What Arkady remembered of the encounter was being saved by Detective Osorio's arrival.
"And you are going to save me." She placed her cool hand on his and said as if they'd reached an understanding, "When the letter comes from Moscow I will immediately need an invitation to Russia. Pues, that you must organize through some cultural entity, a dance company, a theater, anything. Do you see where Cubans are dancing now? New York, Paris, London. It doesn't have to be the Bolshoi at the start for me, if only I can get out."
Over Isabel's shoulder Arkady saw George Washington Walls almost trip and recover as he entered the courtyard from the street. His light complexion was even lighter for a moment before he regained momentum, the street stroll of an American slowed to a Cuban pace and an actor's self-consciously casual style: pressed blue jeans and a fastidiously white pullover over brown biceps. The man had to be fifty, Arkady thought, and Walls could almost play himself as a young man if there was a movie. Why not? As Arkady remembered, there had been the war protests, the march on Washington, the plane. As he crossed the courtyard he distributed a pat on the shoulder here, a smile there. The only one impervious to his charm was Isabel, who recoiled from a kiss. He sat and told Arkady, "Oh, oh, I am on the outs. Arkady, you seem to be the new boy in town."
"Comemierda" she leaned across the table to say, then twisted out her cigarette and marched back to the rehearsal room.
"Do you want me to translate that?" Walls asked Arkady.
"No."
"Good. She is as mean as she is lovely and she is a lovely lady." Walls sat and gave Arkady his full attention. "Are you interested in ballet? I contribute to the cause here, but I'm actually more of a fight fan myself. I go all the time. You?"
"Not too much."
"But sometimes." Walls eyed the repair work on Arkady's head. "So, what happened to you anyway?"
"I think it was baseball."
"Some game. Look, I wanted to thank you for stopping Luna last night."
"I think you helped."
"No, you did it and it was the right thing. The sergeant was out of line. These things happen in Cuba. Do you know who I am?"
"George Washington Walls."
"Yeah, that says it all, doesn't it? Here I am like a kid checking out everyone Isabel talks to. You surprised me, I admit it. Last night I didn't come on too well, either. The problem is, I'm the elder statesman of radicals on the run in Cuba but I'm like a kid when it comes to Isabel."
"That's all right." Arkady changed the subject, "What was it like to be 'on the run'?"
"Not bad. In East Germany, the old Democratic Republic, the blonde Hildas and Uses used to line up to serve under the black commander. I thought I was a god. Here I am trying to wring one little smile from Isabel's lips."
"You've been here a while."
"I've been here forever. I don't know what the fuck I had in mind. The truth is, I always let my mouth get away from me. My mouth said, 'I'm not going to war, I'm not going to let you push around my black brothers in the South, I'm hijacking this fucking plane.' And the rest of me's going, 'Jesus Christ, I didn't mean that, please don't hit me again.' I didn't really think they'd take me to Havana. But my eyes were popping, I was totally dosed on speed and waving a big cowboy gun in the cockpit, they must've thought I was one fucking dangerous dude. I got out of the plane here and one of the stewardesses hands me a little American flag. What was going on in her head? I don't know. Fuck, I burned it. What else? That picture was everywhere. Drove the FBI straight up the wall. They made me a Most Wanted and, at the same time, a hero to half the world. So that's what I've been for twenty-five years, a hero. At least, they tried. They thought they had a hardened revolutionary and they sent me to camps with Palestinians, Irish, Khmer Rouge, the scariest men on earth, and it turned out that I was really just a loudmouthed boy from Athens, Ge
orgia, who could spout a lot of Mao and play a little ball and probably would have ended up with a Rhodes Scholarship at Oxford if I hadn't come to Cuba instead. Those guys were scary. Eat-the-snake scary. Know the type?"
"I'm trying to imagine."
"Don't. They finally gave up and brought me back to Havana and gave me a cushy job translating Spanish to English. It was a comedown, but I was still full of revolutionary zeal and I would translate thirty pages a day until my Cuban colleagues took me aside and said, 'Jorge, what the fuck is the matter with you? We're each translating three pages a day. You're upsetting the quota.' I think the day I heard those words I understood what Cuba was all about. The light dawned. Karl Marx had hit the beach and all the mother wanted was a cold daiquiri and a good cigar. You know, when the Soviet Union was paying, it was kind of a party here. The problem is, the party's over."
"Still..." Arkady tried to align the images of the world-shaker and investment hustler.
Walls caught the look. "I know, I was somebody. Look, so was Eldridge Cleaver and Stokely Carmichael. Brother Cleaver crawled back to the States to do time, and Stokely ended up in Africa mad as a bedbug, dressed up in his uniform and gun in Kissidougou waiting for the revolution to come knocking on his door. So tell me, did Isabel ask you to get her out of Cuba?"
"Yes."
"Well, she obsesses on this, she obsesses on men she thinks can help. And she's right, they'll never let her be a prima ballerina here and they'll never let her out. Do you love her?"
"I just met her."
"But I saw you two together. Men fall in love with her very fast, especially when they see her dance. Sometimes they fall all over themselves to offer to help."
"I would help if I could."
"Ah, that means you have no idea of the situation."
"I'm sure of that," Arkady admitted. "Do you know Sergei Pribluda?"
"I did. I heard they found him in the bay. Are you a spy too?"
"Prosecutor's investigator."
"But Sergei's friend?"
"Yes."
"Let's talk outside." Walls led Arkady past the reception desk and through the fronds of a small yard to the street where a sleekly molded white American convertible with a red leather interior sat at the curb. On rounded tail fins were silver rings and on the lid of the trunk the mere suggestion of a spare tire. As if he were introducing a person, Walls said, "'57 Chrysler Imperial. Three hundred twenty-five horsepower V-8, TorqueFlite transmission, Torsion Aire suspension. Ernest Hemingway's car."
"You mean, like Hemingway's car?"
Walls caressed the fender. "No, I mean Hemingway's car. It was Papa Hemingway's, now it's mine. What I wanted to talk about is this letter coming from Russia for Isabel. Did she tell you about her family?"
"A little."
"Her father?"
"No."
Walls dropped his voice. "I love Cubans, but they do trim the truth. Look, these people bankrupted Russia. At a certain point Russia was bound to say, 'Let's get somebody sane in charge.'"
Why? Arkady wondered. Russia never had anyone sane in charge. Why pick on Cuba? "What are you talking about?"
"Lazaro Lindo was number two in the Cuban Party, posted in Moscow, a logical choice. It was supposed to be a quiet coup, just a swift transfer of power and a comfortable house arrest for Fidel. Lindo came back from Moscow on a black plane and all the way he was told about troops mobilizing and tanks revving. You can imagine the scene when the poor son of a bitch gets off the plane and there's Fidel waiting at the bottom of the ramp. The same night the embassy in Moscow bundles Mrs. Lindo and Isabel, who's two years old, onto another plane for Havana."
"Fidel knew?"
"From the start. He let the plot roll to see who'd sign on. There's a reason the Comandante has survived this long."
"What happened to Isabel?"
"Her mother went crazy and fell under a bus. Isabel was raised by her aunt under another name, which was the only reason she was picked for dance school. Cuban ballet is like Cuban sports, a miracle until you find out how it's done. They search the country for little prospects and she was a star at twelve. The uproar when they figured out she was Lazaro Lindo's little girl? Now, they point to her and say, 'See how we let the children of enemies of the people rejoin society.' What they're not going to do is promote the name Isabel Lindo on the bill as a prima ballerina, and they're never going to let her tour."
"Is her father still alive?"
"Died in jail. Somebody dropped a rock on him. What I'm saying is, this is no ordinary message Isabel wants from Russia. It might have all sorts of names and accusations and the messenger may be very sorry that he helped stir things up. She won't tell you that, but I will."
"I appreciate it."
"She's difficult, I know. You can help."
"How?"
"Don't get her hopes up."
"Did Pribluda get her hopes up?"
"Sergei was going to work for me."
"As what?"
"Security."
"Security? What kind of security can a Russian offer in Cuba? Is the Russian Mafia here?"
"Close. In Antigua, the Caymans, Miami. Not in Havana, not yet. Actually, what I worry about now is Luna. Have you seen the sergeant today?"
"Not yet. Luna said I would see him again, and I don't think he's a man of idle threats. I doubt Sergeant Luna knows what an idle threat is."
Walls went around to the passenger side and opened the dashboard. Nested on chamois cloth was a huge handgun with a slot trigger. "A Colt .45 automatic, a classic, Fidel's favorite. Luna has been useful. He has a lot of interesting connections. But you saw last night how he's just getting out of control. I have to disengage and it might be easier with someone watching my back. Maybe you'd be interested."
Arkady had to smile. Not much had amused him lately, but this offer did. "Right now I'm watching my own back."
"You don't look it. You have a 'fuck you' quality in an understated way. You could do general security, too."
"I don't speak Spanish."
"You'd learn."
"Actually, I prefer safer work."
"It's absolutely safe. The truth is, Arkady, I live in this tropical paradise on sufferance. There are people who would seize any opportunity, any embarrassment and say, 'Screw George Washington Walls, he's yesterday's news; if the Americans still want him, send him back.' In my situation, the quieter the better."
"Well, that's interesting, but I'm only in Cuba a few days."
"People say that. People say they're just coming through Havana, but you'd be surprised how often they stay. Someone comes around the world to a place like this, it's not pure chance. There's a reason."
Chapter Twelve
* * *
Arkady expected that any minute Luna would drop from a street sign or pop up from a manhole cover and make good on his promise to "fuck him up." Fucking up and killing were close but not the same. There was that added sexual charge, the suggestion of rough mating, as if a missing eye or ear were a reasonable token of intercourse. Killing was clean. Fucking up sounded messy.
Strangely enough, though, Arkady felt revitalized. Not exactly happy, but fueled by the search for the photograph and the small license it gave him to ask questions about Pribluda. Amused also, in a time of depression, by the implausible offer of employment providing security for an American radical like George Washington Walls. Perhaps because Havana was so unreal to him Arkady felt slightly invulnerable, like a man aware he is only having a nightmare. Luna was a nightmare figure. Luna was perfect.
When he got back to Pribluda's flat he propped the front door shut and carried a bottle of chilled water to the office, where he turned on the computer and, when the machine demanded a password, entered gordo. The machine chirped and the screen blinked and offered icons, programs, startup, accessories, main, printer. Twenty-five years in the KGB and an agent used a turtle's name as his password. Lenin wept.
Still interested in Pribluda's last day, Arkady wen
t through accessories to calendar. Hours, days, months rolled backward without appointments, but what curious comfort to take, he thought. He couldn't speak Spanish, but he could navigate the universal PC desktop. CUMIN was the Cuban Ministry of Sugar and charts, RUSMIN the Russian Ministry of Trade, SUG-FUT the futures prices of Cuban, Brazilian and Indian sugar as they competed in commodities pits. Meanwhile, a downstairs din of drums and maracas suggested that Erasmo the car mechanic was at work. Arkady intended to talk to Mongo and find a photograph of Pribluda, but first things first, while he had the inspiration.
He opened SUGHAB, which divided Havana into 150 sugar mills. The last file saved was COMCFUEG.
Commune Camilo Cienfuegos is the former Hershey sugar mill east of Havana. Visits to the field uncover poor Cuban maintenance of antiquated equipment. However, we must also frankly acknowledge that Russian ships carrying spare parts have failed to materialize, the latest being a freighter which was expected to make Havana by last week. It is suspected that the ship's captain has diverted it to another port along the South American coast and sold its cargo for a better price. Regrettably, this makes negotiations with the Ministry of Sugar more difficult.
Arkady supposed the Cubans would be testy about that. He started a search for the Havana Yacht Club. Nothing. Rufo Pinero. Nothing. Sergeant Luna and, for good measure, Captain Arcos. Nothing. Opened the E-mail outbox and inbox. Empty.
A document labeled AZUPANAMA caught his eye because Vice Consul Bugai had mentioned successful negotiations between Russia and Cuba thanks to a Panamanian sugar broker of that name, and Arkady thought it might be interesting to see what role the commercial attache Sergei Pribluda had played in that. He hit retrieve, and from its grave sprang a short, one-sided correspondence.
Havana Bay Page 13
