A tall, slender, coffee-colored man with short, tightly curled gray hair opened the door of the apartment. He was well into his sixties, but his face was spread into a smile that made him seem far younger, a smile so genuine that Devlin had the inexplicable feeling they had known each other for years.
The man bubbled forth in perfect, if somewhat formal English. “I am José Tamayo. Welcome. Welcome. I am honored to have you visit my home.”
Over Tamayo’s shoulder Devlin glimpsed a small, sparsely furnished apartment. There was a main room, consisting of four dinette-type chairs covered in plastic, set in a line before an old black-and-white television set. A small table sat next to one of the chairs, holding only a telephone and a single ashtray in which a large cigar smoldered. Off that room was a galley kitchen, giving off a rich aroma of Cuban coffee, and a long, narrow terrace overlooking an in terior courtyard. Two open louvered doors on the terrace led to small, cramped bedrooms. Martínez had told them that Tamayo’s son and daughter-in-law lived there as well, but that both were now at work.
Tamayo ushered them into the main room and seated them on the dinette chairs with all the formality of someone offering the comfort of a plushly furnished room. He then hurried to the kitchen, returning with steaming cups of coffee. When Adrianna presented the battered book they had purchased, his face again burst into youthful radiance, and he quickly signed it with the exuberance of a child opening gifts on Christmas morning.
As he handed back the book, Tamayo’s expressive face filled with unabashed regret. “My wife, who is away working this morning, asked me to add her condolences to my own,” he said. He reached out and took Adrianna’s hand. “Your aunt was a great woman, and a great hero of our revolution, and my wife and I were greatly honored by her friendship.”
For the first time since she learned of her aunt’s death, Devlin saw tears form in Adrianna’s eyes. He leaned forward, drawing the writer’s attention.
“The major tells me you once worked with the political police,” he said. “We are hoping you can use your knowledge to help us find the body of María Méndez.”
Tamayo nodded, then made a small wave with one hand, as if brushing aside his past activities.
“I was merely a propagandist, señor. My job was to put forth my government’s views on political matters.” He wagged his head from side to side. “Sometimes they were accurate expressions, sometimes merely views my government wished others to share. So, my police abilities, I’m afraid, are really limited to my fictional writings.” He leaned forward, his face filling with more sincerity than Devlin had ever seen crammed in the face of one man.
He nodded toward Martínez. “Arnaldo has explained, however, that Palo Monte may be involved. In this I can help you. I have written extensively about Palo Monte in my fiction, and I am also a believer in its powers.”
Martínez interrupted, explaining what they had discovered at the funeral home. He handed Tamayo the black feather the ancient security guard had given them.
Tamayo held the feather up to the light and nodded. “There is no question this is from the aura tinosa.” He looked at Devlin. “This is the scavenger bird we call mayimbe, very sacred to the Palo Monte, and very integral to their rituals.”
“We are also under surveillance by two Abakua,” Martínez added.
Tamayo’s eyes hardened into a look of true hatred. He turned to Adrianna. “First, I must tell you that I have grave doubts that your aunt’s death was the result of any accident.”
Adrianna’s eyes widened and she seemed ready to speak, but Tamayo hurried on. “I have no proof of this.” He brought his hand to his chest. “But from here I believe this is true.”
“What makes you believe it?” Devlin asked.
Tamayo shook his head, his eyes still severe. “Something sinister is going on in my country, Señor Devlin. I do not know what it is, but I do know that two people high in our government also held this belief. And now both are dead.” He looked back at Adrianna. “Regrettably, one of those people was your beloved aunt.”
“Who was the other?” Adrianna asked.
Tamayo drew a deep breath. “Are you familiar with the name Manuel Pineiro?”
Adrianna shook her head. Tamayo turned to Devlin and received the same response.
Tamayo picked up his cigar, noted that it had gone out, and returned it to the ashtray. “Manuel Pineiro was known as Barba Roja to the people—or Red Beard. For twenty years he was the head of our intelligence apparatus, our spymaster as my fellow novelist John le Carré would say, and someone equally as respected in the intelligence community as the famous East German Markus Wolf, who le Carré used as the model for his great villain. In short, he was very good at his job—a man who knew all the secrets.”
“And he was also killed?” Devlin asked.
Tamayo nodded. “Also in a car crash earlier this year.”
“Was his body stolen?”
“No,” Tamayo said. “But there were reports that several men dressed all in white were seen near the site of the crash. I believe they were members of a particular sect of the Abakua.”
Devlin turned to Martínez.
“This is true.” Martínez glanced at Adrianna, his eyes filled with regret. “Police also saw these Abakua near the scene of your aunt’s accident. The Abakua fled when they arrived, and I am ashamed to say the police did not pursue them. There were only two police officers, and at least five Abakua. As I explained, they are much feared by the people.” He hesitated, then added: “And some of our less courageous police.”
“And it is known that these Abakua—the ones who dress in white—are often the tools of State Security,” Tamayo added.
Devlin sat back and digested what he had been told. He let out a long breath. “Tell me how Palo Monte fits into this.”
Tamayo took time to relight his cigar, sending a stream of thick smoke up toward the high ceiling. “Before you can grasp what I am about to tell you, you must first understand something about our Afro-Cuban religions.” He raised two fingers of one hand, then one of the other hand. “There are two of these religions, and one false religion. First is Regla de Osha, which is also known as Santeria. It is the most gentle of the religions in its divination rites, and it is very closely tied to Catholicism. It was brought to Cuba by highly educated African slaves from Nigeria. Next is Regla Mayombe, also known as Palo Monte. This is a much darker and more primitive religion, which performs its divinations through contact with the dead. It originates from very primitive Bantu slaves brought here from the Congo. And finally there is the Abakua, which is not a true religion, but rather a secret society that believes in solving all problems through violence. These Abakua originally came from West Africa’s Calabar River basin, where they were part of the leopard society of the Negbe people. Here in Cuba, they have formed their own sects, which are tied to Palo Monte through the use of corrupt paleros who seek to use the power of the Abakua.”
“And you think one of these corrupt paleros was behind the theft of María Mendez’s body?”
Tamayo nodded.
“Why?” Devlin asked.
“To make a nganga to the god BabaluAye.”
Devlin let out another long breath and held up his hands. “You are losing me again. First, I keep hearing about all this nganga business, but I can’t seem to find out what the hell it is.”
Tamayo smiled. “I will explain.” He turned to Adrianna and his face filled with regret. “Some of the things I will tell you will sound unreasonable, perhaps even cruel and barbaric. I ask you to be indulgent, and to remember that the followers of Palo Monte hold these beliefs as strongly as those who believe deeply in the teachings of Judaism or Christianity or any other religion.”
He turned back to Devlin. “The nganga is at the center of all Palo Monte ritual. It is basically a large pot”—he made a circle with his arms, indicating something two and a half to three feet in diameter—“into which various sacred items are placed. The nganga is d
edicated to one of the gods, but its purpose is to speak to the dead, and get the dead to answer questions about the future, and to perform certain acts for its owner—acts of both good and evil. But the main purpose of the nganga is to protect the owner from harm.
“Central to the nganga are the bones of a dead one—man or woman—with whom the owner can drive a bargain by feeding the nganga his own blood at least once each year. In addition, the owner must give the nganga whatever it asks for, which is usually money or some offering, but in some rare cases it has been known to involve the life of another—even someone very dear to the owner.
“So first we start with the bones of a dead one—the skull so it can think and speak; fingers so it can do what it must; feet so it can travel wherever necessary. There also may be the bones of other dead ones, but the first bones—the oldest—rule the nganga, and the other dead are there only to assist.”
Tamayo glanced at Adrianna to assure himself that his words were not causing her distress.
“The bones that are selected for the nganga determine the type of power it will possess. If, for example, the owner wants to do harm to his enemies, he will use the bones of a killer, or a person who was evil in life. If, on the other hand, he wishes to cure an illness, or protect against illness, he will choose the bones of a great healer.” Again he glanced at Adrianna.
“Where do they get these bones?” Devlin asked.
Tamayo gave him a somewhat sheepish half smile. “Usually, they are stolen from cemeteries.”
“Is this common?” Adrianna asked.
Another half smile. “Let us say it is more common than the government would like it to be known. Let me give an example. For some reason that I have never been able to understand, Palo Monte believes that the bones of a Chinese are very lucky, and can be used to bring good fortune.” He shrugged away his lack of understanding. “For this reason many Cubans have paleros make ngangas with Chinese bones, or have them include Chinese bones in ngangas made for other purposes.” He leaned forward. “Here in Cuba, the Chinese have their own cemeteries, and the theft of Chinese bodies is so prevalent that most of the graves in these cemeteries have been protected by alarms.”
“Burglar alarms?” Devlin sounded incredulous.
“I am afraid that is so,” Tamayo said. “To the Chinese, we are viewed as a nation of grave robbers.”
“What else goes into these ngangas?” Adrianna asked.
“Ah, many things. First there is earth from the four sides of the grave from which the body was taken, or where it was to be buried. Then there is the hide of a snake, which was the origin of the religion, and which consolidates the nganga‘s power. Then the skeleton of a dog to go and fetch things for the dead one. Also the skeleton and feathers of mayimbe—the scavenger bird I told you about. There will also be the bones and feathers of a night bird to allow the dead one to see in the dark. Then there are many sacred woods from the forest—palo monte actually means ‘sticks of the forest.’ These are woods that can do either good or evil. One of the most powerful of the sticks is from a tree called the jaquey. Another is from the rompezaraguey, a very evil forest wood. Then, of course, there are things needed by the dead one to perform his duties—herbs for healing, if that is the purpose. A knife or gun for killing, perhaps. And then there are the things needed by the god to whom the nganga is dedicated. If that god were BabaluAye, there would be items related to illness and death and healing. If it were to the great warrior Oggun, it would be filled with objects of metal, over which Oggun holds all power.”
“But once you have all these things, how does it work?” Adrianna asked.
“Everything is based on the three principles of magic,” Tamayo said. He raised three fingers. “First, that the same produces the same. Next, that things that have been in contact influence each other. And, finally, that everything—man, animal, object—has a soul.” He folded his hands in front of him as if preparing to pray. His voice became solemn. “Using these principles, the palero questions the dead one—or asks its assistance in certain matters. He does this through prayers, chanted in a mixture of Bantu and Spanish, and by throwing the coconuts—special religious shells that the palero has made from pieces of the coconut shell, each about the size of a large coin. The dead one answers the questions and requests put to it by means of the shells. Let me show you.”
Tamayo left for a moment and returned with some paper and a pencil. He began drawing and writing rapidly.
“Now, the coconut shells have both a concave and convex side, and how they end up when they are thrown by the palero determines the answer of the dead one.” He pointed to the first drawing, which showed all the shells with the concave sides turned up. “This answer is Alafia. It means yes, good news, but is not conclusive. More questions need to be asked, or offerings made if it involved a request.
“Next is two shells up, two down. This is Eyife. It is a definite yes, a conclusive answer.”
He pointed to the third drawing—three shells with the convex side up and one down. “Here the answer is Otawe. This means that the answer could be yes, but there is an obstacle to overcome.
“Next is three shells down and one up—Ocana. This is a definite no to the question or request. It tells us that something is wrong, or has happened, or was done by some enemy. To overcome this there must be an Ebbo, an offering to the god of the nganga.
“And finally is Oyekun, which is all shells facing down. This means that the dead one wants to speak, and you must question him.”
Devlin stared at Tamayo. The man seemed sincere in all he had said, like a Christian explaining the equally unfathomable resurrection of Christ.
“And you believe all of this?” he asked. “You believe that it works?”
“I have seen it work, my friend.” He gave Devlin a small smile that seemed a mixture of patience and tolerance. “And tonight, at midnight, when you visit the great palero Plante Firme, I believe you also will see it work.” He turned to Adrianna. “And it will be you who will make this magic happen. Because tonight, with Plante Firme’s help, you will speak to the dead man.”
5
Ollie Pitts sat on the terrace that ran the entire length of the Inglaterra Hotel. It was ten-thirty in the evening. Devlin and Martínez had picked him up at José Martí Airport two hours before, and Pitts had simply dumped his bags in his room and retreated to the terrace to have the first of the many beers he planned to add to Devlin’s tab.
Martínez sat on the other side of the small tile-covered table, a cup of strong Cuban coffee before him. He had offered to keep Pitts company while Devlin returned to his room to give Adrianna whatever comfort he could before her meeting with the dead man, now only an hour and a half away.
Pitts had only rolled his eyes when told of their midnight séance with the Palo Monte witch doctor. Now those same cop’s eyes roamed the sidewalk, taking in the array of beautiful young prostitutes who strolled by, smiles flashing at the tourists who crowded the terrace. Pitts let out a small snort and brought his attention back to the sad-eyed major.
“So, listen, Martínez. We pull this thing off, and find this old broad’s body, I figure Fidel owes me a big one. Am I right?”
Martínez fought off a smile. “I am sure the Comandante will be very grateful.”
“Yeah, well, gratitude don’t quite cut it. You know what I mean?”
“What is it you would wish in payment for your services, Detective?”
Pitts smirked and again fixed his gaze on the young prostitutes parading along the sidewalk. “I want the Lycra concession for the whole island.” He let out a louder snort. “Hell, I’ll be a fucking millionaire overnight.” He shook his head and turned his gaze back on the major. “Where do these broads get their clothes, Martínez? You got a store down here called Whores ‘R’ Us?”
Martínez closed his eyes momentarily. “It is more simple than that, my friend. They see these clothes in American movies and on American television, and they think this
is how they must look to be desirable.”
Pitts was now staring at a young woman with dark hair and garish makeup. She was no more than eighteen, and she was wearing a jersey-style top, tight about her neck but with a hole cut in its center large enough to allow half of each breast to protrude lasciviously. “I must be seeing the wrong fucking movies,” Pitts said.
The young woman seemed to sense mat Pitts was speaking about her. She stopped at the row of plants that created a barrier between the terrace and the street. Slowly, she withdrew a cigarette from her purse and indicated she wanted Pitts to light it.
“You are being offered one of the few capitalist delights of Cuba,” Martínez said. There was a hint of regret in his voice.
“I’ve been here for two hours. It’s about fucking time,” Pitts said.
Pitts pushed himself up from the table. He was dressed in a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt over khaki slacks, but his feet were still clad in the black iron-toed cop brogans he had worn since his first day as a patrolman. He clomped over to the woman, grinning at the sizable breasts protruding from her blouse.
“You need a light, sweetheart?” Pitts raised his eyes, then glanced quickly over her shoulder toward the street.
The young woman gave him a coy look, drawing his eyes back, then placed the cigarette between suggestively puckered lips. When Pitts had applied flame from an oversized Zippo lighter, she tilted her head back and sent a stream of smoke into the air. Then she thanked him and rattled off a stream of Spanish in a soft, suggestive voice.
“You speakee the English?” Pitts asked.
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