by Jose Latour
Marina wanted to shout to the world her revulsion toward all things Cuban. This hot, humid, stinking island where nothing goes according to plan. Where people kill people with impunity, men undress you with their eyes, buses break down, and bats the size of model airplanes swoosh overhead. Oh, Holy Virgin Mary! You help me get out of this fucking Communist country with my diamonds, I promise you I will donate ten thousand dollars to the church of the Immaculate Conception.
Night fell. Elena lifted her eyes to the sky and became enthralled by the sight of millions of blinking stars. It was, she reflected, as though the heavens were mocking the speck of dust called Earth. Finally, the replacement bus arrived. Everyone heaved a collective sigh of relief, gave each other the thumbs-up, and scrambled on board. After Matanzas only the headlights of approaching vehicles intermittently lit up the interior of the bus. The nearest passengers were three seats in front of them, so, when Elena returned from the toilet, Marina assumed they could risk some whispering.
“Elena.”
“What?”
“I was wondering …”
“Hey! Didn’t you say we shouldn’t talk?”
“It’s okay if we whisper. It’s dark and that couple are four yards away. And this is important. Won’t it look odd if we get off the bus at the airport?”
“What do you mean ‘odd’?”
“Unusual, peculiar. People don’t drive all the way from Havana to this airport to board a plane. You board it in Havana. Now, you said this airport is halfway between Matanzas and Varadero, right?”
“Right.”
“So, if we get off there, the conductor and the driver will realize we just wanted to get to the airport, not go to the beach. Maybe some airport people will find it odd too.”
“Well …”
“What do you say we go all the way to the bus depot in Varadero, take a taxi to one of the hotels, eat something there, then take a second taxi to the airport? The first cabby would think we are checking in; the second would believe we just checked out. Any curious airport cop or porter would see us coming from the beach, which makes sense if we’ve just learned that my son’s had an accident and we need to catch the first plane out.”
Elena considered this for a moment. “I hadn’t thought about that. You may be right. In any case, it’s safer the way you say.”
“Okay. We’ll do that.”
When the bus left the main highway to take the road to the airport, they kept their eyes peeled for signs and people. By international standards the main building looked small and poorly lit. There were no huge neon signs advertising airlines, hotels, or restaurants. A couple left the bus at what appeared to be the only entrance for all airlines and gates and nobody seemed to care. Elena gave a comforting look to Marina to imply she shouldn’t regret being overly cautious. The bus closed its door and left the terminal.
“I think it’s better this way anyway,” Marina whispered when they were wrapped in shadows again.
“I think so too.”
Pena was scribbling frenziedly on a piece of paper and Trujillo figured that something significant had been unearthed. The major had said, “At your service,” into the phone, then covered the mouthpiece and mouthed, “Tourism” to the captain.
“Spell it out for me,” he said.
Trujillo stood and watched him write in capital letters CHRISTINE ABERNATHY. Above it were four short lines:
Hotel Deauville
Room 614
Marina Leucci
1:35.
“They what?” Pena barked at the phone. Then wrote 3:50.
“How come?” the major was saying. “Nobody asked them?”
He listened for a moment, then inhaled deeply. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, comrade. We’ll question the hotel staff. Thanks.”
Trujillo waited in silence until the major hung up and ran his hand over his head, a characteristic gesture when something had him baffled. “Let’s hit the road, Captain. Marina Leucci and a lady named Christine Abernathy checked in at the Deauville at 1:35, then checked out at 3:50. Central Desk knows nothing more. Let’s see what we can find out from the staff.”
Trujillo returned the chess pieces surrounding the board to their cigar box as Pena adjusted the webbed belt and gun around his waist.
“I had you fried,” the captain said, contemplating his white king, bishop, knight, and two pawns still confronting Pena’s black king, bishop, knight, and pawn.
“C’mon, let’s get moving,” the major said, putting on his cap.
Trujillo gathered the pieces on the chessboard, tossed them into the box, and followed Pena out the door.
With Elena lagging a couple of paces behind (to account for the cane), the two women strode into the lobby of the Meliá Varadero with squared shoulders and heads held high. It was the last piece of advice Marina had whispered on the darkened bus, once she’d finished outlining what she planned to do at the airport. “You are a deaf-mute, not shy and nervous. You march into places, you don’t sneak in. You own the ground where you stand. If people see you coming in timidly, as if you’re awed and frightened, as though you don’t belong, they’ll start asking you what you’re doing there, push you around, kick your ass.”
Elena, however, had to make a conscious effort to mask her admiration when a jet of water shot fifty or sixty feet into the air, then abated gradually, only to spout again a few seconds later. The fountain was in the middle of a pond in the centre of the lobby. Goldfish swam under its frothy surface, small turtles lazed on moss-covered rocks, and vines cascading from the hotel’s upper floors created a vegetal veil all around the pond. This, she thought, was the Cuba that Cubans never got to see, not even the precious few who could afford it. Brilliant objects, immaculate floors, dazzling lights, upmarket stores. Well-fed, carefree, fashionable couples from dozens of different countries joking and relaxing and having a great time.
They found the cafeteria, chose a table, parked their baggage near a jardinière, and scanned the menu. Both were famished. Elena hadn’t eaten anything since mid-morning, when she and her father had shared her meagre ration of bread and espresso while happily debating ways to sell the diamonds. Marina had gulped her glass of orange juice even earlier.
They ordered sandwiches with fries and onions on the side, a beer for Marina, a soda for Elena. Intrigued by the lady who ordered by pointing her finger at the menu, the waiter smiled a lot and was especially courteous to her. After they ate, Marina sipped a cup of tea; Elena chose espresso. Pure coffee! Not the usual mixture of peas and coffee beans.
While waiting for her change, Marina rummaged in her duffel bag, found a ballpoint, then wrote on a paper napkin: “Give me your wallet.” When Elena produced it from her handbag, Marina stuffed five one-hundred-dollar bills into it. A surprised Elena shook her head. Marina waved aside her objection, then left a three-dollar tip and mouthed: “Shall we go?” The teacher nodded. Marina dropped her own wallet, her ballpoint, and five or six paper napkins into the duffel bag before getting to her feet.
Pena and Trujillo arrived at the Deauville just before 11:00. The desk clerk on duty heard them out, then explained that his shift began at 3:00 p.m.; he didn’t check those guests in. It did seem odd to him, though, that they settled their bill after merely two hours, so he asked the lady who paid – in cash – if something was wrong. She grinned and said no, the room was fine. The problem was they had come to treat her friend’s knee condition at the Cira Garcia, but their flight was a day earlier than the agreed admission date. After renting the hotel room they had called the hospital, just to find out what time they would be admitted the following day, and the administrator had told them a patient had been discharged and their room was ready, they could move in immediately, which was what they were doing. It seemed odd to the clerk that the bill didn’t include a phone call charge, but he presumed they had called from a pay phone. No, no gentleman was with them. Descriptions? Well, they were good lookers, in their mid- to late thirties, the tallest had a slig
ht limp and used a cane. They might have taken a taxi, yes.
Trujillo left for the cab stand while Pena asked the name of the off-duty clerk who had checked them in, learned the man had a phone at home, then called him from the desk. Yes, the man admitted, he remembered the two Canadian ladies. They had left? Why? He explained they had been referred from the Sevilla, then described a very attractive deaf-mute.
“What do you mean deaf-mute?” Pena asked, knitting his brow. He had no clue what the man was talking about.
“Well, the tall one was deaf-mute. Her friend used sign language and mouthed words to communicate with her.”
Pena was nonplussed. “Did her friend limp?”
“Limp? No, neither of them limped.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
Inwardly Pena groaned. “Hold on,” he said, giving the receiver to the desk clerk on duty: “Make sure we are talking about the same people.”
The clerk examined the records, gave the women’s names to his colleague, and when there wasn’t the shadow of a doubt, Pena confirmed that the clerk who had checked the women in didn’t know anything about a hobbling lady and was sure the tall woman was a deaf-mute, whereas the one on duty hadn’t heard the tallest lady utter a word, but had seen her limp and use a cane.
Pena slammed the phone down. The off-duty clerk cursed the fucking cop, slapped his pillow, and tried to get back to sleep. Trujillo came back from the taxi stand with the news that the three Panataxi cabbies who had worked the earlier shift had left and were probably home by now. He was dumbfounded when Pena described the limping deaf-mute.
“Has the room been made?” Trujillo asked the clerk.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. The chambermaids do the rooms in the mornings. We keep a couple of them after hours just for wild parties.”
“Okay. We want to check it out.”
The assistant manager accompanied them to room 614 and the old empty suitcase was eyed suspiciously and impounded. Back in the lobby, after Pena left the suitcase in the trunk of the Lada and thanked everybody for their co-operation, the two cops paused by a floor-to-ceiling window.
“I don’t like this, Chief,” Trujillo said.
“Neither do I.”
“I know this is going to sound crazy, but the description of the deaf-mute fits Elena Miranda like a glove.”
“C’mon,” Pena said, in a pleading, give-me-a-break tone.
“What about the suitcase?” asked Trujillo. “You were still wetting your diapers when that was made.”
“I’m not that old.”
“You think a Canadian tourist in her mid-thirties travels with luggage like that?”
“Let’s find a phone book and call the Cira Garcia.”
The man who answered the phone said that neither Christine Abernathy nor Marina Leucci had been admitted to the hospital. Should the major want to learn whether patients under those names had been treated in the past, or were scheduled to be admitted in the near future, he would have to call the hospital administrator in the morning.
Now Pena was getting as anxious as Trujillo. “We’ve got to find the taxi driver,” he said.
Trujillo sneezed three times. “Let me swallow another of those caplets first,” he said, wiping his nose.
Elena Miranda followed Marina into the terminal. Head held high, squared shoulders, long strides. Her legs were feeling a little wobbly and she was glad to have the cane and the wheeled carry-on for support. They stopped by a TV monitor that listed the next departures. Elena was trying to make sense of the columns, words, and numbers when Marina looked around, then hurried toward a row of airline counters. Hobbling awkwardly, Elena scurried to keep up, bracing herself for what was about to happen.
Marina approached a counter, sizing up the man behind it. Swarthy and balding, well-built, early forties, drooping moustache linked to a well-groomed goatee. His knowing smile, the way he eyed them, marked him as one whose favourite hobby was rescuing damsels in distress, the smart aleck who knows all the tricks, provides the greatest orgasms. In two words, the Latin macho, or in one word, the asshole they needed, Marina decided. His plastic name tag read Eusebio.
“You with Sunlines?” she asked in Spanish.
“Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?” He was clearly relieved at not having to resort to his insufficient English.
“Your Nassau flight departs at 5:30 a.m.?”
“Exactly. Are you ladies with the tour?”
“No. We … I …”
Marina’s lips quivered. She seemed to be trying to compose herself as she took a deep breath, her gaze roving about the wall behind him. And just as two tears started streaming down her cheeks, she focused her eyes on the check-in clerk to let him know her fate was in his hands. The guy was transfixed.
“Is something the matter?” he asked.
Elena, looking distraught and close to tears herself, produced a handkerchief and tried to hand it to Marina, who shook her head.
“Is she okay?” Eusebio addressed Elena.
The teacher responded with a guttural “Ug, ug” as she also shook her head. The man was beside himself. “What?” he said.
Marina lifted her head, the strong woman now, overcoming grief. “I’m okay. Forgive me.” She mouthed, “I’m okay” to Elena and patted her hand. “My friend is deaf-mute,” she explained to the attendant.
“Oh.”
“I just learned that my son has had an accident. He’s in intensive care. I live in Toronto.” She took a deep breath. “I need to fly back as soon as possible and I want to know if you can sell us two tickets to Nassau. According to that monitor over there, there’s no flight to Canada soon. Yours is the next flight to a place where we can make a connection.”
Eusebio was new on the job. He stood behind the counter just to reassure rare early birds that the flight would leave on time. Later, he’d watch what the fully fledged check-in clerks did, and help them carry suitcases from the scales to the conveyor belt. He didn’t know if there were available seats on this particular flight and wouldn’t know before the real check-in clerks arrived at 3:00 a.m. But he knew that the company chartered all of its flights to Cuba to tour operators. Profit maximization was achieved not by overbooking but by choosing from its fleet the right-sized plane for each flight. Usually some seats remained vacant, the fewer the better, according to his boss.
“Well, I’m sorry. I hope he gets well. How old is he?”
“Eight.”
“What happened to him?”
“Hit-and-run driver. My son was riding his bike and …”
The anxious mother contained herself again; the attractive deaf-mute patted her hand. Eusebio gave them a look of commiseration. Their suffering had erased all sexual thoughts from his mind, he wanted to help, but in some dark corner of his brain avarice stirred. He could make a fine tip here.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’m sure he’ll get better. I’ll do all I can to get you on that plane. If there are two seats available, you’ll be in Nassau by six-thirty. Please, take a seat there. As soon as my people arrive I’ll check with them and let you know. But your Spanish is perfect. Are you Canadian?”
Marina gave him a wane smile. “I am Argentinian by birth, but I immigrated to Canada many years ago.”
“Oh, ‘Mi Buenos Aires querido …’ ”
Elena recalled Pablo crooning exactly the same line of the same song the morning when Sean and Marina first came into their apartment. Then she gasped.
“What’s the matter, honey?” Marina turned to her, fresh concern in her eyes. Eusebio realized he had fucked up. These women were not in the mood for songs.
Elena shook her head. Pablo’s neck had been broken, and the man her father killed had … broken Sean’s neck.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Eusebio.
Elena gathered her wits and did some sign language. Marina turned to Eusebio. “She just wants to go to the l
adies’ room. Where is it?”
“Over there –” Eusebio pointed to his left. “You can’t miss it.”
“Fine. When we come back we’ll wait for you … Over there, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, Eusebio, I won’t forget you if you get us two seats on that plane. I won’t forget you, or your boss, or your boss’s boss. Do you follow me, Eusebio?”
“That’s not necessary, ma’am.”
“I’m sure it’s not. But my gratitude will be felt.”
Marina gave him a worried-mother forced smile, turned, and found her way to the toilets with Elena behind her. Eusebio could almost see a portrait of Andrew Jackson lining his pocket.
The headquarters of Panataxi, the biggest Havana cab company, is three blocks away from the DTI, on Santa Ana Street. The two cops shook hands with the shift supervisor a couple of minutes after midnight. It was close to one before the cops learned which three drivers had been assigned the Deauville cab stand the previous afternoon. An all-points bulletin to all cabbies gave their names and addresses, and the three cabs who were nearest went for them. The first sleepy cabbie to arrive recalled the two women; they had been one of Mingolo’s fares. The second driver knew nothing and forced himself to remain calm instead of having a go at the fucking supervisor and the fucking cops for getting him out of bed, which was what he felt like doing. Mingolo was the last to get there. Yes, he remembered the fare. To the Vía Azul bus depot, why? What was the matter? Well, now that the major mentioned it, he didn’t recall hearing the woman with the cane utter a word. Yes, tall, dark-blond hair. They had two carry-ons and a duffel bag. No, they didn’t say what their destination was. From that depot they could go to Viñales, Trinidad, Varadero, or Cayo Coco. There were also a couple of daily departures to Santiago de Cuba, with stops in all provincial capitals.
