Havana Best Friends

by Jose Latour

  “Oh my God,” Marina said.

  Beaming, Sean stepped out of the bathtub.

  “You’ve got a dining table?” he asked. Marina interpreted.

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Some black cloth?”

  Elena thought for a moment. “A skirt.”

  “Bring it to the kitchen.”

  There were only two chairs and Marina remained standing. Sean untied the cord fastened around the bag and inserted two fingers in the opening, pulled, then emptied its contents on to the black skirt.

  They just gawked, open-mouthed.

  “Holy Mother of God,” the stupefied Marina finally said in Spanish. She hadn’t been to church in the last twenty years.

  Zoila Pérez wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and dialled the number written on a piece of paper. After two rings, a brusque male voice growled, “At your service.”

  “Good evening, comrade,” Zoila said.

  “Good evening.”

  “Could I have a word with Captain Félix Trujillo?”

  “Just a minute.”

  The background noise was instantly muffled. Zoila imagined a big hairy hand covering the mouthpiece. Then she pictured it moving away.

  “Captain Trujillo is not on duty, comrade,” the gruff voice said.

  “Ahh … is there any way I could reach him? You have his home number?”

  “Is it urgent?” the man asked with a touch of curiosity.

  “Well, he said I ought to call him if I noticed something unusual.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Zoila Pérez. I’m the President of CDR number 45, Zone 6, municipality of Playa.”

  There was a pause. Zoila visualized the hairy hand jotting down what she had just said.

  “I’m the duty officer, comrade. You tell me what’s the unusual thing you want to report and I decide whether I should call Captain Trujillo. Okay?”

  “Well, these two foreigners, a man and a woman, are paying a visit to my downstairs neighbour, Elena. She’s a teacher, my neighbour I mean, a really nice woman. I saw them coming in around eight tonight. Their rental is parked in front of our building … and there’s been … weird hammering noises in Elena’s apartment.”

  Zoila felt a little embarrassed when she heard the sigh of resignation on the other end of the line. “This noise, it’s like what, a sledgehammer tearing down a wall?” the voice asked.

  “No, no, it’s barely audible, as if … hammering tacks into a wall.”

  “Any fights, screams?”

  “No.”

  “You saw these tourists go in, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Your neighbour was with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she seem threatened, frightened, coerced into letting them in?”

  “No. Actually she was talking animatedly to the woman.”

  “And you wrote down the rental’s plate number?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe your downstairs neighbour is at risk?”

  “No.”

  “And why do you want to report this to Captain Trujillo?”

  “Well, two or three months ago, the brother of my neighbour was murdered in Guanabo. Pablo Miranda was his name. Captain Trujillo is in charge of the investigation and he asked me to report anything suspicious I might stumble upon.”

  “You calling from your home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me your number.”

  Zoila complied.

  “Okay, comrade. Tell you what. Jot down the rental’s plate number. I’ll give your message to Captain Trujillo and he’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks for calling.”

  “It’s my revolutionary duty.”

  “Yes, it is. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, comrade.”

  Lieutenant Mauro Blázquez returned the receiver to its cradle and stared at it. Trujillo’s phone number and those of all other officers were listed on a computer printout kept in the desk’s top right drawer. He had seen the captain leave the building less than half an hour earlier, blowing his nose into a crumpled handkerchief, his eyes watery, struck down with a cold. A couple of tourists visiting a friend who was tacking something to a wall, probably a poster, were no valid reason to wake up a feverish, overworked cop. He tore off the top page of a notepad. It read, “Zoila Pérez, CDR 45, Zone 6, Playa, phone 24–5576, called at 20:55. Miranda murder case.” Then he stood up and slipped the note into Trujillo’s pigeonhole.

  Adrenalin flowed, hearts pumped wildly. Greed, perhaps the strongest, most vilified of human emotions, was unchecked. Like a five-year-old, the wide-eyed Marina started hopping up and down, pressing the palms of her hands over her mouth to suppress a whoop of joy. Elena stared at the diamonds, grinning widely, before glancing first at Marina, then Sean. Was it true, were they rich? her eyes asked. The man, as though thanking some deity, face lifted to the ceiling, waved his clenched fists in the air, and mouthed, “Yes, yes.”

  Forgotten were the blind Vietnam veteran – and the patient who needed a heart and lung transplant – the murdered brother, the uncertainties ahead. It was one of those moments that etch themselves on the brain, begetting dreams and nightmares for a lifetime. Gradually they came to their senses. Marina stopped jumping but kept her mouth covered, Elena sighed deeply, Sean closed his eyes for a moment, bowed his head, and then stared at the stones.

  “Somebody get me a glass of water,” he said.

  They all drank. Sean asked for a refill and downed it in three gulps. Marina hurried to the living room, hauled back a chair, and set it by the table.

  “The first thing we’ve got to do is wash them with warm water and a little detergent, then count them,” Sean said.

  There was still water in the tap. Elena warmed some, filled a plastic bucket, added detergent, and one by one 114 round brilliant-cuts were washed, rinsed, then dried with cotton wool. While doing all this they jumped from one topic to the other, from the set of circumstances that lead a man to hide such a treasure, to wondering about the construction worker who performed the task and then kept the secret. Had Consuegra killed him? Marina wondered. Just as pirates killed those who dug the holes where they hid their treasure? Sean thought this likely, but he refrained from voicing his opinion.

  “Let’s sort them into three groups,” he suggested. “Those bigger than this one” – setting aside a medium-sized gem –“those smaller, and those approximately the same size.”

  It took them almost an hour because medium-sized stones prompted much debate. “Is this one large or medium?” “Is this one small or medium?” The final decision was taken by a vote. There were twenty-nine big ones, forty-one medium-sized, and forty-four smaller gems.

  “You got pen and paper, Elena?”

  The teacher opened a cupboard and found a notebook and a pencil. Sean made the calculations.

  “Okay. We’re going to split it three ways. One for you, Elena; one for Carlos; one for Marina and myself. There are twenty-nine large stones, so I suggest we make three piles, ten, ten, and nine. The one with nine gets the biggest gem of them all. How does that sound to you?”

  Marina interpreted, then shot a questioning glance at the teacher. “Seems fair to me,” Elena said.

  “Yeah, but we should also make sure each pile gets assorted stones,” Marina said, first in Spanish, then in English.

  “What do you mean?” Sean wanted to know.

  “Among the biggest gems some are larger. Let’s make sure each pile has the same amount of the larger, the medium-sized, and the smaller gems. You understand what I’m saying?” As she translated for Elena, Sean seemed to be reflecting on her demand.

  “Okay, we’ll do it your way,” Sean said when she’d finished. “But this is not dollars and cents, we’ll never make an even split. You know anything about diamonds?”

  “Nothing, except they’re a girl’s best friend.”

 
“I’ve been doing some reading on the subject. The price of a stone –”

  “Translation, please.” Elena wanted to know what was going on.

  “Sure, I agree to Marina’s suggestion,” Sean said, “but we’ll never achieve an even split. The price of a gem depends not only on its size, which means weight. Colour, clarity, and the proportions of the cut are factors too. So, a small stone may be worth more than another that’s bigger. But we are not experts. The best we can do is grade them by size, so Marina’s idea seems okay to me, but doesn’t guarantee an even split. Let’s get to it.”

  Reclassification was an arduous, time-consuming task with frequent deliberations. It was close to midnight when nine separate piles of diamonds shone on the black skirt. Numbers one, two, and three had ten, ten, and nine of the bigger gems. Numbers four, five, and six grouped fourteen, fourteen, and thirteen of the medium-sized. Numbers seven, eight, and nine held fourteen, fifteen, and fifteen of the smaller gems.

  Marina excused herself and went to the toilet. Sean went to relieve himself after Marina returned. Elena’s bladder was full, but she thought it prudent to keep her eyes on the diamonds until she was in possession of her share.

  “Now, my suggestion is …” Sean paused and Marina translated. “We cut nine, same-size pieces of paper.” Pause. “We write on each piece of paper a number, from one to nine.” Pause. “We fold papers one, two, and three; put them on a cup, glass, whatever, shake it, then we each choose one.” Pause. “Elena will draw for herself, of course; you’ll draw for us, Marina; I’ll draw for Carlos.” Pause. “Whoever draws number one gets pile one …”

  “Okay.” Marina cut him short. Turning to Elena, she said, “We don’t need to have it spelled out for us, do we?”

  Elena smiled fleetingly. Sean’s jaws tensed. “Then we do the same with papers four, five and six,” he said.

  “Sean, we’re not stupid.”

  “Glad to know that.”

  “Translation, please.”

  “Nothing, Elena. You know men. He just wants to make sure we girls understand this extraordinarily complex lottery.”

  “I understand.”

  “That’s what I told him. Okay, let’s do it.”

  Sean drew papers two, five, and eight. Elena won prizes three, four, and nine. Marina got one, six, and seven. Elena picked up her thirty-eight stones one by one. When she had ten in the palm of her left hand, she dropped them into the pocket of the maroon slacks she wore. Her remaining diamonds were also pocketed a few moments later. As she did this, Marina strolled into the living room, searched her duffel bag, returned with a box of Kleenex. The blind man’s share and their own were wrapped in tissues and deposited in the duffel bag.

  “Do you have some old clothes you don’t need any more, Elena?” Sean asked.

  The fragments of the broken soap dish, Sean’s handkerchief, and the rubble were rolled up in one of Pablo’s shirts, then dumped in the trash can. The tools and other objects remained in the bathroom. Next, as Marina and Sean watched, Elena poured several cans of water into the bathtub and washed the dirt down the drain.

  “I’m tired,” the teacher said, running the back of her hand over her forehead.

  “So am I,” Marina agreed, sighing. “Why? I mean, we haven’t run the marathon or swum three miles.”

  “It’s the release of tension,” Sean said. “It’s been a long and frantic day. But we shouldn’t leave, Elena, before you make up your mind as to what you are going to do.”

  “Do?” she said, frowning.

  “Are you leaving Cuba with us or staying here?”

  Staring at the floor, Elena took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I don’t know,” she said finally, lifting her eyes to Sean. She definitely felt attracted to the guy, to those innocent-looking blue eyes so rare in Cuba.

  “You have to make a decision.”

  “I know. I know. It’s just that … right now.”

  “Okay, listen to me. We have four seats reserved on a flight that departs next Tuesday. But we hope to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. Tomorrow, or the day after, we’ll go straight to the airport, say our son had an accident and we must go back immediately, buy new tickets on the first available flight. If it’s to Canada, perfect. But we’ll board a plane for any other country that’s close: Mexico, Bahamas, Jamaica, wherever. I understand this is tourism’s low season here. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find available seats.”

  “Probably not,” Elena agreed with a nod.

  “So you have to make a decision by tomorrow.”

  Elena bit her lower lip and again lowered her gaze to the floor. “Ask him this” – she locked eyes with Marina after a brief hesitation – “when you go back to Canada, will you give a press conference? Reveal this to the world?”

  “Of course not,” Marina said before interpreting.

  “We will never do such a thing, Elena,” Sean confirmed.

  “What about this Carlos?” Elena asked.

  Marina smiled and shook her head. “I can vouch for him, Elena. He won’t.” Then she translated.

  “It’s not in his best interest, Elena,” Sean added, looking Elena straight in the eye. “There are other things to consider besides your personal safety. The reaction of the Cuban government and taxes, to mention only two. I’m sure your government would make a fuss, demand restitution. But even so, Carlos won’t say a word to anyone when we explain that it would jeopardize your freedom or your well-being.”

  When Marina completed the translation, Elena nodded. “What happens if someone, at the airline counter or the Immigration booth, asks me something in English or French?”

  Appearing as intrigued as Elena, Marina interpreted. She hadn’t thought about that.

  Obviously enjoying himself, Sean smiled. “You’re a deaf-mute.”

  “What?” Marina asked.

  “She’s a deaf-mute. As simple as that.” His tone oozed confidence.

  “What do you …?”

  “Translation, please.”

  Marina obliged.

  “Would you elaborate?” Elena said after thinking about it for a few seconds.

  “Sure. You two stay behind. I’ll be the one at the counter, with the three passports and tickets. The macho man, taking care of everything. We’ll try to do the same thing at the Immigration booth. But if someone wants to ask you something, Marina turns to you and starts making signs with her hands really fast, mouths words, acting as interpreter. You answer in the same manner. The guy asks what’s the matter. Marina explains you’re a deaf-mute. You’re a friend of ours. You came with us on this trip.”

  Elena seemed doubtful. “You think that might work?”

  “Elena, listen to me,” Sean elaborated. “First, you are travel-ling with an authentic passport that has your photograph. Two, there’s no reason for anyone to ask you anything, because I’ll be acting as spokesman for the three of us. Airline people are accustomed to this because when families or friends travel together one person usually grabs all the passports and tickets and takes care of everything. Actually, they like that, makes things easier for them. Immigration people are a little more fussy: they want to compare your face to the photo on the passport, maybe ask a question or two. But if for some reason you’re asked something, you’re a deaf-mute. That inspires compassion; the guy will accept whatever Marina says and wave you in.”

  Marina completed the translation and stared at Elena. “He’s right. It might work,” she added in Spanish.

  Elena inhaled deeply and thought things through for a minute. “Thanks, guys, but I’ll stay.”

  Marina interpreted.

  “Is that your last word, Elena?” Sean asked.

  “It is.”

  It’s out of my hands now, Sean said to himself. I did all I could. It’s not on the cards. “Okay. We’ll drop by some time in the morning to say goodbye.” Wrapping things up. “We really appreciate your collaboration and wish you the best of luck.” And turning to Marina, �
�Honey?”

  They returned to the living room. Sean grabbed his cane; Marina reached for the duffel bag, then turned to Elena.

  “I like you, Elena. I really do. Tomorrow I’ll write down my address and phone number for you so you can contact me … us, I mean, should you need anything. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

  “Thanks, Marina. I like you too.”

  “See you in the morning,” Sean said, approaching the front door.

  “Looking forward to it,” Elena said, as she opened the door.

  Elena saw them off from the foyer. Once inside the rental, Marina waved goodbye and Elena waved back. The car departed and the teacher re-entered her apartment and closed the door. For several minutes all was quiet in the foyer. Then Ernest Truman emerged from underneath the stairs at the entranceway to the second floor. For almost four hours, about as invisible as the spider’s web in his hideout, he had patiently waited. He had heard the faint, repeated sound made by the tools and figured that Lawson was breaking off something hard and trying to suppress the noise as much as possible. Around eleven o’clock, when nobody had used the stairs for more than half an hour, he risked pressing his ear against the front door and listened to incomprehensible exchanges. It was nearly one o’clock when voices from within the apartment grew closer and he assumed Lawson and his broad would be leaving. He overheard Lawson promising they would visit the Cuban woman in the morning.

  Truman let five more minutes slip by before peeking out at the street from the entranceway and listening intently. All he could hear was the chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves as a soft breeze caressed the ficus. Reasonably certain that the block was deserted, he left the apartment building. Five minutes later and four blocks away, Truman turned the Mitsubishi’s ignition. He had to find out what had happened in the Cuban woman’s apartment.

  Lying on her back in bed, left eyelid closed, squinting with her other eye at the diamond she held between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, Elena became philosophical. The ultimate concentration of wealth, this little piece of rock whose only practical value was in cutting hard things. How foolish could the human race be? Well, some people – like this Consuegra – bought diamonds simply as an investment, or to store and carry great values in small containers to circumvent monetary controls, or taxes, or something.