Havana Best Friends

by Jose Latour

  “Okay, Doctor, they’re all yours now,” Pena said to Dr. Bárbara Valverde at 5:41.

  The Spaniard was still giving Major Torriente a hard time at 5:41.

  At 5:42 the airplane had reached three thousand feet and was climbing. Through misty eyes, Elena Miranda observed the flake of sunlight that heralded daybreak.

  Major Oscar Torriente handed the photocopy of the fax to the officer in booth five at 5:58. The lieutenant who fifty-two minutes earlier had stamped the fugitives’ passports read the names, then consulted her records.

  “Are you ready for this?” she asked the major with a sidelong glance.

  And Torriente realized he was in a shitload of trouble.

  Epilogue

  As they are at most small, minimum-security prisons for former bigwigs who screw up, visiting hours are flexible at Tinguaro. If the visitor is acting in an official capacity, he can question a prisoner any time between, say, 6:00 a.m. and 10:00 p.m., so the prison officer on duty didn’t raise any objections when Major Pena from the DTI asked for yet another interview with inmate fourteen, Manuel Miranda, a.k.a. General, around 7:00 p.m. on Wednesday, November 29, 2000.

  Prison records showed that the same police officer and Captain Félix Trujillo had interrogated this inmate five or six times in the last two months, but nobody knew about what. Prison officials knew better than to ask the cops, or the prisoner. Other inmates were willing to hear what a guy felt like sharing with them, but never asked questions, and Miranda volunteered nothing. Since the Cuban media never reports local crime, nobody had the slightest idea what the problem was. Inmates, like the general population, were familiar with shootouts in American cities, the latest high-school student killed by a classmate, or any other gory story happening “in the Empire,” but not a word had been said or printed about the two corpses found in the servant’s bedroom of a Miramar apartment.

  This time the DTI major came alone. He waited in the office of the “political instructor” – prison parlance for rehabilitation officer – which doubled as an interrogation room when, infrequently, it was believed that an inmate could provide information on someone or some past event. It had a desk with a chair, a filing cabinet, two folding chairs, an oscillating fan on a stand, a phone, and an ashtray. A forty-watt fluorescent tube provided light. A louvred window to the right let in fresh air. Outside, the chirping of crickets and the smell of grass were intense.

  “Any news?” Miranda anxiously asked when the guard ushered him into the room.

  Pena waited until the guard left and closed the door behind him. “It depends,” he said.

  Miranda stared at him in surprise, then said, “Ay, cojones,” and raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if seeking divine intervention.

  Pena forced a grin, lowered his gaze to the coarse cement floor, and shook his head. The I-can’t-believe-this-guy body language frequently used by Cubans when confronted with some ingenious character.

  “Listen, Pena. I’ve told you a thousand times. I know nothing. I left around noon with Elena and this friend of hers, Marina you said her name was. The only thing I want from you is news about my daughter. So don’t give me this ‘it depends’ shit. You’ve got news about Elena, don’t you?”

  “Sit down. Over there –” Pena said, pointing to the desk’s chair.

  Miranda knew the limit. At the first interview the cops half-asked, half-ordered him to sit in this same seat. He assumed it was because they were two and there were two folding chairs, but today Pena was alone. Some fucking psychological trick, he reckoned. To make it appear as if he were in charge. Fuck him, Miranda thought. It had been cat and mouse from day one. “How’s Trujillo?” he asked.

  “He’s okay.”

  Miranda nodded. Why hadn’t the younger cop come? It was unusual. A witness was always required. “You said, ‘It depends.’ What kind of an answer is that to a simple question poised by a worried father?”

  “I said ‘It depends’ because I have news on your daughter, plus other news. Things I figure you might want to learn.”

  Miranda mulled this over while Pena lit a cigarette, then left the packet of Populares and the matchbox on the desktop. “Now you say, ‘I might.’ Cut the double talk, Pena. What’s the catch?”

  “The catch is,” and Pena blew smoke through his nostrils, “that I haven’t asked for authorization to tell you this news. So, unless you promise this conversation never took place, I clam up. You blab about this, I get sent to prison. And not this little club you’ve got here. The real thing.”

  Miranda pursed his lips, thinking fast. “Why are you doing this?”

  Pena shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you got a pretty raw deal, General. You fought the bloodiest battles, risked your life a thousand times, fucked up once, and have had to spend many years in prison. Now, in less than three months you’ve lost your son and your daughter has disappeared. You’re older than me, one of these days you’ll kick the bucket, and I wouldn’t want to have on my conscience that I could’ve eased your suffering in some way and didn’t.”

  Miranda smiled widely. “You could kick the bucket sooner than me with all that smoking.”

  “Yeah, I know. You want to hear the news or not?”

  “Might as well.”

  “What did we talk about today?”

  Miranda pondered this for a moment. “You thought that, in private, without Trujillo present, I might reveal something new. I didn’t.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Pena dragged on his cigarette. “Security has a few slow-speed video cameras in Varadero’s new airport. Surveillance videos they call them. On the bottom of the screen you see the date and time. And we got a cassette from them that proves that your daughter and Marina Leucci sat there for close to five hours in the small hours of Monday, August 7.”

  Miranda remained impassive, his eyes half-closed. In his imagination, Elena and Marina had taken off from Havana’s international airport. Having chosen Varadero was brilliant. The Argentinian was good, very good.

  “We also have proof that a charter company, Sunlines, sold a ticket to a limping, deaf-mute Canadian woman around 5:00 a.m. that Monday.”

  “Deaf-mute?” Miranda asked, trying to look puzzled. He was a lousy actor.

  Pena nodded as he flicked his cigarette over the ashtray. “The ticket was for a flight to Nassau, Bahamas. The deaf-mute’s passport identified her as Christine Abernathy. But this lady wasn’t Canadian and wasn’t a deaf-mute. She was your daughter. Must’ve sprained an ankle after midday on August 7, because the neighbour who saw the three of you leaving at that time says she wasn’t limping then.”

  “No, she wasn’t,” Miranda admitted.

  “Marina Leucci paid for the airline tickets,” added Pena.

  “So, she’s okay,” said Miranda, genuine relief spreading across his face.

  Pena nodded. “A few Cubans work in Nassau’s airport. Airline people, a Customs liaison officer. They’ve made friends there, so we were able to find out that Christine Abernathy and Marina Leucci arrived safely in Nassau on the morning of August 7 and departed that same day at 3:55 p.m. aboard an Air Canada flight bound for Toronto. We know your daughter was okay then. Her present whereabouts are unknown.”

  Pena stubbed out his cigarette. The ex-general raised his eyes to Pena’s. “Thanks, Major.”

  “There’s more.”

  Miranda frowned.

  “According to the Canadian embassy, the two dead men, Abercorn and Cummings, weren’t Canadians. They had authentic Canadian passports, though. So, at our suggestion, Ottawa sent their prints to Washington. They were Americans all right. The big guy’s surname was Truman, the other one was Lawson.”

  “What were they doing in Cuba?”

  Pena eyed Miranda. “If you can’t shed light on that, nobody can.”

  “I don’t know what they were doing here!” protested Miranda.

  Pena took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s move on. Experts say Truman broke Lawson’s neck
; a few of Lawson’s hairs were found on Truman’s forearms, right where Lawson’s head may have rubbed against him, had Truman broken his neck from behind. You know – well, maybe you don’t know – but these people from the LCC, they take photos, collect evidence, measure angles, examine bloodstains, when they finish they can figure pretty accurately what actually happened. Their theory is supported by the fact that the gun found on the scene belonged to a cop whose neck was broken a few hours earlier. So, Truman killed a cop. But Lawson didn’t bash Truman’s head in, some third person did. It might have been your daughter, or her mysterious Argentinian friend, or you …”

  “Pena, please … I’ve told you …”

  “Okay, okay, somebody else then. But Lawson didn’t kill Truman.”

  Miranda kept trying to look offended.

  “What remains a total mystery,” Pena went on, eyes fixed on the prisoner, “is the motive for this. We don’t know why these two men died. There’s a hole in a bathroom wall, where a soap dish used to be, and there’s a cavity in the concrete, as if a small package had been embedded there. We found a flashlight and a brand-new chisel in the apartment too. Wrapped in cotton wool, can you believe it? Now, why would someone wrap a chisel in cotton wool? The flashlight had Lawson’s fingerprints on it. In the trash can we found a broken soap dish with partials of Lawson’s fingerprints also, and a badly frayed handkerchief. On this same guy, Lawson, sewn inside his jacket, we found two plane tickets that he bought in Toronto: one for a Varadero-Cayo Largo del Sur flight for the same day he was murdered; the other was a Cayo Largo charter flight for Toronto for the next day. Do you know anything about this?”

  “Frankly, no,” the ex-general said after a moment’s hesitation. “My daughter mentioned that the soap dish broke, she had it removed, asked me if I could buy a new one. I didn’t know that this Lawson had done the job.”

  “I presumed you wouldn’t be able to shed light on that either,” said Pena, dripping sarcasm. “And, finally, since Truman killed people in the same fashion that your son was killed, we took his bite impression. Are you aware that your son had a bite mark on his neck?”

  Miranda frowned and shook his head. He was telling the truth; nobody had told him.

  “The killer bit him on the neck to throw us off, make it appear like it was some sort of sex-related murder. Well, Truman killed your son, General. So whoever killed him avenged Pablo.”

  Miranda shook a cigarette from Pena’s packet of Populares and lit it with trembling hands. Pena felt like giving him a hug. The ex-general stared at the ceiling and let out a stream of smoke. “If you ever catch the killer, give him my compliments, Major.” His face was bright red. Blood pressure: probably 200 over 150, Pena thought.

  “I will, believe me. But you know something? I don’t think we’ll ever get the sonofabitch. Some incompetent cop inadvertently misplaced the only piece of evidence found in that little bedroom that didn’t belong to the stiffs or to your daughter: a hair. Apart from that, we only found fingerprints.”

  Manuel Miranda smiled sadly. “You are quite the man, Pena.”

  “Coming from you, that’s an honour,” the major said as he recovered his cigarettes and matches, then stood up.

  On December 2, as soon as Manuel Miranda arrived home on his weekend pass, his third wife, Angela, handed him a letter postmarked Montclair, New Jersey. The sender was N. Pérez, and Mr. or Mrs. Pérez’s address was given as 355 Main Street, Waldwick, New Jersey. In the bathroom, the ex-general memorized a phone number, tore up the letter and the envelope, then flushed them. Angela was a model of discretion and didn’t ask what had been in the letter. She had been interrogated by Pena and Trujillo immediately after the double murder occurred and knew about Elena’s disappearance, but her attempts at sharing her husband’s grief and to learn more had been received with an affectionate yet firm refusal.

  On December 31, Manuel Miranda stood among hundreds of shoppers waiting for the mall known to habaneros as Charlie III, on Avenue Salvador Allende, to open. Forming a semicircle, the crowd listened to a blind stand-up comedian telling jokes. Every minute or so an eruption of laughter drowned out the roar of traffic speeding along the eight-lane avenue. The temperature was around 18°C, but humidity and the wind factor made it feel like 10°C, freezing by Havana standards, and people were glad to put on the winter clothing they almost never got to wear. The overcast sky was a welcome break from the year-long blinding sunshine.

  The comedian was white, short, in his late thirties or early forties. He looked well-cared for: plump, with close-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. He wore a spotless grey bomber jacket over a white T-shirt, high-waisted grey khaki trousers, and gripped a white wooden cane in his left hand. He didn’t use the dark glasses that most blind people put on and kept his blue eyes wide open, staring into nothingness. Cynical bystanders wondered whether he actually suffered from impaired vision and deserved their compassion; he could be just a very good actor conning people out of some money. Miranda was reminded of another blind man, another cane, but couldn’t form a mental image of the unknown guy who was, supposedly, responsible for the death of three men. Was he real or had Marina invented him? If real, was he truly sightless or had he perfected an act that made it possible to manipulate others? He’d never know.

  Miranda glanced at his watch: 9:48. The comedian was bringing to a close a performance that he delivered seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. The mall opened at 10:00 and he saved his best jests till 9:55, before wishing everybody a nice day. The blind man didn’t ask for contributions. He just stood there with a big smile, right hand extended.

  That morning, as every other morning, people started giving him coins, some notes too, wishing him a happy new year. He kept shouting, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” at the top of his voice. Benefiting from the magnanimous mood typical of New Year’s Eve, the comedian had pocketed three handfuls of money by the time Miranda gave him a one-peso coin.

  The doors opened at 10:00 a.m. sharp. Younger shoppers shoved each other to get in, older people fell back. The mall was packed by the time Miranda strolled in just after ten; it would have been extremely difficult to tail somebody in this crowd. He spent an hour window-shopping, going in and out of stores, admiring beautiful young women, wondering where people get so many dollars, and concluding that the Cuban diaspora sends tons of money home. The irony of it made him smile. Remittances from the reviled counter-revolutionaries, traitors and worms, the consummate consumerists seduced by capitalism, had become one of the most, if not the most, important revenue source for a government that preached the abolition of capitalism.

  He stopped by a window to glance at some ridiculous sports clothing and suddenly turned and took the stairs down, two at a time. On the second floor, at a phone-company stand, Miranda bought a twenty-dollar card – at two dollars a minute, enough for a ten-minute call to anywhere in the United States. He walked over to where three phone booths were, five metres from the stand. All were occupied and four people stood waiting in line. That August morning, in the highly charged atmosphere of his daughter’s apartment, he had forgotten that the number of long-distance calls sky-rocket on holidays. His intention had been to provide an easy-to-remember date for Elena. He’d just have to wait his turn.

  It was 11:19 when he closed the booth door, inserted the card, tapped out a number. There were a few clicks before a public phone rang in the lobby of the Pickwick Arms hotel, on 230 East 51st Street, Manhattan, New York.

  “Oigo,” said an eager female voice in Spanish.

  Miranda smiled. Just one word and he recognized her voice. “How are you, daughter?”

  “Daddy!”

  Miranda felt tears surfacing, his throat contracting. “Happy New Year,” he managed to say. Then shook his head, angry at himself. What was the matter with him? Becoming a softie?

  “Oh, Daddy. Happy New Year to you too. How are you? How’s Mom?”

  “I’m fine. But tell me, what the hell happened
? Where are you? Your mother is worried sick, and so am I.”

  “Well, what happened was that Marina – the friend of mine you met – offered me the opportunity to leave Cuba safely …” She was reading from a note. “And, to tell you the truth, Dad, I was sick and tired of the system. I knew you and Mom wouldn’t approve, so I decided not to tell you. I’m sorry. It was difficult for me, that last morning we spent together. Will you please forgive me?”

  “Yes, I do. But you could’ve told me. I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  “You know what happened in your apartment?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “Two dead tourists were found in the servant’s bedroom.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  Thinking she sounded too flippant, Miranda began a five-minute summary of what had happened after they parted. Elena didn’t interrupt once, didn’t even gasp. He hoped he was just being paranoid and the call wasn’t being recorded. “The police interviewed me on five occasions trying to find out if I knew something. Can you imagine? I suppose they’re finally persuaded I had nothing to do with it, but they would love to ask you how these men got into your place and what happened there. The police say one of them posed as Marina’s husband.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Marina’s never been married.”

  “It’s what the police said. You have any idea how these guys could get into the apartment?”

  “You know I don’t. We left together. Nobody was in the apartment. I had never given the key to anyone. I can’t imagine how those guys managed to get in. Who killed them?”

  Too unconcerned, too cool, Miranda was thinking. “The police don’t know, or if they do they’re not telling. Maybe it’s best if you don’t come to visit in the next few years, honey, or they’ll interrogate you.”

  “Well, I’ve got nothing to hide. But I guess you’re right. I mean, after emigrating illegally and all that.”