“Your mother is upset,” Shanker said, surprisingly calm. Stuart nodded dumbly, not sure what he would say to her. “Damn,” Shanker muttered. “How’d you get into this mess?” Stuart stared at the floor, searching for the right words. “Come on,” Shanker said, relenting. “Let’s go home for the weekend.”
“Can I go to Newport News?”
“Why not? That’s the address I gave them, and it is your home of record.” He led the way out the double doors and into the hall where Barbara Raye Wilson’s lawyer was waiting. “Fuck me in the heart,” Shanker snarled.
The lawyer looked at Shanker, worry etched on his face. “Mrs. Wilson is concerned about Eric’s welfare,” he said.
“Then let Jenny talk to Mike about it,” Shanker said. “Not the bitch queen of”—he paused, searching for the right words—“of permanently maimed lawyers.” He smiled wickedly, enjoying the confrontation. The lawyer jerked his head once and scurried away, glad to escape Shanker’s wrath. “Always know when to get out of Dodge,” Shanker called. The lawyer walked faster. “Fuckin’ commie,” Shanker said in a loud voice, using the worst name in his vocabulary. “What’s the bitch up to now?”
15
Havana, Cuba
The 1957 four-door Chevrolet sedan rattled and rumbled down Calzada de Infanta, its broken suspension groaning in protest. “Over half a million miles,” the driver said with a sigh. “A good car, but parts are so expensive now.” He gave a very Cuban shrug. “It’s time to end the embargo.”
Marsten agreed with him. Everywhere he could see the results of Castro’s revolución and the economic embargo imposed by the United States. It seemed the entire population of Havana was riding bicycles. Besides those he saw mainly trucks and buses. The vast majority of the buildings were in desperate need of repair, much like the Chevy he was riding in. Yet the people were full of life and the air was charged with a vibrancy that defied Castro’s failed Communist dream. Marsten kept looking out the window, wanting to experience the people, feel their pulse, take their measure. Then it came to him. Like the car, the city needed only a chance, and money, to renew itself. Until then both would keep running.
“All the tourists,” Marsten said, “that’s a good sign.”
The driver shrugged. “Turistas. They bring money, but it goes to the big hotels, the government, the jineteras, not the people.”
“¿Jineteras?” Marsten asked. His Spanish was good enough to know that was the word for female horse riders or jockeys.
The driver laughed. “Putas.” Whores. “Havana has the most beautiful and cleanest putas in the world.”
“Is prostitution a problem? I thought Castro had ended that.”
Again the shrug. “This is Cuba. Sex is a commodity for sale, like food. Besides, how else can a poor girl who only has her youth and her beauty support her family?” On cue he handed Marsten a card. “Very pretty girls.” He turned around in his seat and said in a low voice, his lips barely moving, “Your friend the jogger says to ask for Angelica.”
The car creaked to a stop in front of a large house near the luxury hotel Nacional and the Malecón, Havana’s famous waterfront boulevard. Like most of the houses, which hadn’t seen a paintbrush since Castro came to power, little remained of this one’s former glory. The tropical climate combined with the sea air was slowly destroying it. “Casa Salandro” the driver said. “A good choice. You will like it here.” He got out and opened the trunk to retrieve Marsten’s suitcase. “Don’t forget the card,” he whispered when Marsten paid him.
A handsome young man pushed open the rusty gate and rushed out to carry the bag. “This way, Señor Marsten,” the young man said, leading him inside. The gate slammed shut, and Marsten stepped through a time warp and into an open atrium. The decay and poverty of Havana were held at bay, and he was in a well-cared-for home, surrounded by flowers and quiet elegance. A beautiful fountain demanded his attention, and the sound of gently splashing water cast a net of tranquillity and grace over him.
“Beautiful,” Marsten breathed. “Absolutely beautiful.” The young man led him through one of the doors that opened onto the courtyard. The room was also a throwback to an earlier, more affluent age. A middle-aged couple stood to meet him, and the man extended his hand in friendship.
“Welcome to our home, Señor Marsten. I’m Agosto Salandro. This is my wife, Amelia.”
Marsten gently took Amelia Salandro’s hand and instinctively raised it to his lips. She was a petite woman in her mid-forties. But the years and the hardships of revolutionary Cuba had been kind to her, and she was still beautiful. “My pleasure,” he murmured. For a moment he regretted his bachelor life and the family he never had. It was easy to envision a life with someone like Amelia.
Agosto Salandro smiled. Amelia did have that effect on people. “And you have met our son, Ernesto.” The young man who met his taxi nodded. “And may I present our daughter, Rosalinda.” A beautiful girl stood up, and Marsten wondered how he could possibly have missed her. She was definitely her mother’s daughter, a classic Spanish beauty with dark hair, deep brown eyes, and lips that reminded him of Sophia Loren’s. But there was more. The best of Cuba flowed in her bloodlines, and she moved with an inner grace that held the promise of the future. “Rosalinda will be your daytime guide while you’re in Havana,” Salandro said. “And Ernesto will escort you at night, should you care to go out.”
The Salandros led him into another room, and they sat for a few moments discussing his plans. The minutes rapidly turned into an hour, and Marsten soon felt like a member of the family. He was totally enchanted by the Salandros. Finally it was decided that Rosalinda would start his vacation by taking him on the Hemingway tour—first to the Hotel Ambos Mundos where the writer had lived for a time, followed by a walk to El Floridita, his favorite bar, and then by taxi to Finca Vigía, his estate outside Havana.
Later, and much to his surprise, Rosalinda escorted him to his suite on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. “If you need anything special,” she said in perfect English, “just ask Ernesto.” She studied him for a moment as if she were memorizing every nook and cranny of his face. “Until tomorrow,” she murmured.
The next two days flew by, bringing Marsten’s short vacation to an abrupt end, and thanks to Rosalinda and Ernesto he was beginning to understand the habañeros and their city. Now it was Sunday evening, and he had one last task to perform. As agreed, Ernesto was waiting for him by the fountain. “Have you decided what you would like to do for your last night in Havana?” the young man asked. Marsten handed him the card the cabdriver had given him. A knowing grin spread across Ernesto’s face.
“Is it open on a Sunday night?” Marsten asked.
“Of course,” Ernesto replied. “This is Havana. It’s a good choice for your last night here. You will not be disappointed. We can catch a cab on the Malecón.” He escorted Marsten outside for the short walk to the seaside promenade. Before they had taken ten steps, a woman burst from her home on the opposite side of the street and hustled toward them. “The commissar,” Ernesto said. “She’s the head of the street’s Committee for the Defense of the Revolution. She wants money.”
The woman walked with self-importance and blocked their way. “The Salandros have not been honoring the revolución,” she said. “Perhaps it is necessary to take a new census?”
“How much this time?” Ernesto asked.
The woman looked at Marsten. “Five hundred, U.S.”
“We are a poor family,” Ernesto pleaded.
“So poor that all your family lives under one roof?”
“We will try to find the money,” Ernesto said.
“Soon,” she replied. “Very soon.” She marched back into her house.
“Why do you have to bribe her?” Marsten asked.
“All the homes belong to the people, and we live in ours by the grace of the state and the commissar. Naturally we try to keep our families together, so everyone who lives under our roof is a Salandro. T
he commissar is responsible for the block census and certifies the members of a household and that the house is fully occupied.”
“I thought only your immediate family lives there.”
Ernesto grinned at him. “The Salandros who live with us are only ghosts.”
“I see,” Marsten replied. And he did. The Salandros kept their home by claiming that deceased relatives lived with them, and they bribed the commissar to go along with it.
Ernesto waved down a taxi. “It is the way things are done in Cuba,” he explained. “I must interact with many different people, all with different interests.” He spoke to the taxi driver, who spun the wheel of the car and headed into Old Havana. He snaked through the side streets and stopped in front of a nondescript house. “Tell the doorman when you want to go home. He will call me.”
“You’re not coming in with me?”
“It is not necessary,” Ernesto replied. “You will be perfectly safe here.”
The cabdriver opened the car door, and Marsten took three quick steps into the dark opening. Like the Salandros’ home, the outside of this house was a front concealing what was within. Once Marsten was inside, a well-dressed man escorted him to a private suite that reminded him of a luxury hotel. The man sat him in one of a cluster of low chairs in the center of the room and disappeared. An elegant woman in her mid-forties joined him and sat down. “Good evening, Señor Marsten.” She smiled at him. “This is terrible, but first we must take care of what you Americans call ‘business.’ Our basic price is eight hundred dollars. That includes this suite until noon tomorrow, food, drinks, and two girls. If you desire, other extras can be negotiated. We prefer U.S. dollars, but other currencies are acceptable. I’m sorry we do not have the banking facilities to use credit cards, but we soon will.”
Marsten handed her eight one-hundred-dollar bills, and she slipped the money into her pocket without counting it. A hard smile flickered across her mouth. “Would you like to meet some of our young ladies?” He nodded, and she raised her right hand, making a beckoning motion. Five girls immediately walked into the room and draped themselves over the chairs. They all wore attractive but revealing dresses that left little to the imagination, and all spoke excellent English. “All our girls speak three or four languages,” the woman explained. “Thank God they don’t have to speak Russian anymore. Such an ugly language.”
“So lovely,” he murmured, wondering what he should do next.
The woman spoke a few words in Spanish, and the girls slowly shed their clothes. They were all young, firm, and beautiful. Marsten said nothing, and the girls picked up their clothes and walked away, to be replaced by five more girls. Like the first group, they were young, beautiful, and wore expensive clothes. “If you would prefer to be with one at a time,” the woman murmured.
“A friend mentioned Angelica,” he said. The woman murmured something in Spanish, and the girls quickly left. Moments later another girl walked in, this time alone. Her hair fell to her shoulders, and her strapless gown was split dangerously high on the left side. He fought to catch his breath as she moved toward him and sat down.
She reached out and took his hand. “Good evening, Mr. Marsten,” Rosalinda said.
Marsten’s eyes were riveted on Rosalinda as she poured him another drink. They were alone in the suite, the lights were turned down low. “I—I don’t understand,” he stammered.
She gave a soft laugh. “Why I’m doing this? How else can a girl help her family survive?” She gave him a sad look. “Occasionally Ernesto works here. This is how we find the dollars to pay the bribes. But thanks to guests like you, soon my parents will no longer need the money I earn. Then I can save for my dowry and quit.”
“How long will that take?” he asked.
“Maybe another two years. Sooner if things change.” She sat next to him and held his hand as she spoke in a very low voice. “On Saturday when we were at the Plaza de Armas, I watched your face. And this morning, at the cathedral, I saw you pray. You’re a good man.” She dropped her voice even lower. “Do you want to help us?”
Marsten had made contact.
A chill swept through him, and for a moment he was back in Eritrea on the edge of a dangerous venture. His hands shook, and he felt the overpowering urge to relieve himself. It was still not too late to cut and run. But what would L.J. say? She would understand and forgive him. But could he fail her again? He knew what he had to do. “I want to help.”
She gave him a solemn look. “It is dangerous,” she murmured. “Very dangerous.”
“I understand.”
She touched his lips. “Speak very quietly,” she warned. “We must be very careful, and you must do exactly what I say. The secret police are everywhere.”
“Agreed.”
Rosalinda stood and walked to the door. She spoke to the man who had originally escorted Marsten inside. Then she returned and sat on his lap. “Act naturally,” she whispered. She wiggled in his lap as she kissed him, her lips warm and full. The door opened, and a young girl and man entered. He guessed her age at sixteen, the man’s at least thirty.
“You wanted a show?” the man said as they sat down.
“Act like you’re negotiating the price,” Rosalinda whispered in Marsten’s ear. “The camera is hidden in the chandelier, but the microphone is too far away to hear us if we speak in a low voice.” She moved in Marsten’s lap and unzipped her dress. It fell away, and she sat naked as her arms wrapped around him, her lips on his neck. “This is for the cameras,” she murmured.
Marsten moved his hands down her bare back, hardly believing they were talking in such bizarre circumstances. Caution told him to go slowly and that he was talking to the negotiator who spoke for the rebels. “I want to see a new show,” he told the negotiator. “One that has not been seen in Cuba for years, one that your children can be proud of.”
“A free Cuba?”
Marsten gave a little nod.
“Tell me,” the negotiator demanded, “why are you so anxious to help us? What’s in it for you?”
“Before I answer that,” Marsten replied, “who am I dealing with?”
“Don’t ask,” Rosalinda whispered in his ear.
“Then there’s no deal,” Marsten said.
The negotiator stared at Marsten for a moment, making a decision. He whispered a few words in Spanish to Rosalinda, much too quickly for Marsten to catch. “We are the Guardians,” Rosalinda murmured in English. “We are going to build a new Cuba on the ashes of the old.” She nuzzled his ear for a few moments as she told him about the group, her words filled with the idealism of youth.
“Our people are everywhere,” the negotiator said, barely audibly. “But Castro is still too strong for us to act. Our time will come when he dies. Then we can capture the government. So for now we prepare. But when we rule Cuba, we will reward our friends and punish our enemies.”
“So how can we help?” Marsten asked.
“We need money. It is necessary to organize and survive.”
“How much?”
“We are not fools,” the negotiator replied. “Nothing is for free, not for you, certainly not for us. May I repeat myself? What’s in it for you?” They had come full circle, back to the key question.
Marsten hesitated before answering. “The concessions to develop any offshore oil in Cuba’s territorial waters.”
The look on the man’s face was a combination of surprise and total bewilderment. He spoke in Spanish to Rosalinda. “Does he understand our language?”
“He understands a few words,” she answered in Spanish. “But you must speak slowly.”
The negotiator’s words were machine-gun quick and low, almost a hiss. “I don’t believe him. He wants something else.”
“Why?” she replied.
“There’s no oil. He’s an oilman and must know that. The Russians explored every centimeter of Cuba and found nothing. I know, I’ve seen the reports.”
Rosalinda said, “Then give him
what he wants.”
The man thought for a few moments. “Mr. Marsten,” he said in formal English, “the concessions are yours for half a million dollars a month. If you discover oil, we split the gross ninety-ten. Ninety percent to the people.”
Marsten shook his head. “Fifty thousand, and we split forty-sixty.”
“Impossible,” the man said, loud enough for the bugs to record. Then, quietly, “A quarter of a million.”
“We know the Russians were very thorough,” Marsten said. “They were hoping Cuba was part of the Venezuela shelf. It wasn’t, of course. Seventy-five thousand a month, and fifty-fifty.”
The negotiator snorted. “Is this the new colonialism? A hundred seventy-five thousand, and eighty-twenty.”
“My last offer, señor. A hundred thousand a month, and seventy-thirty.” Marsten held his breath. He would have taken the last offer but felt duty bound to haggle, as he sensed a weakness.
The man was silent for what seemed an eternity. Then, “Agreed.”
“Please,” Marsten said, “don’t cross us on this. The people I represent are very powerful.” A heavy silence came down, and tension split the air.
“We know who you are,” Rosalinda replied, desperate to save the deal. The thought of a hundred thousand dollars coming in every month was beyond her imagination. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You already hold our lives hostage with what you know. We can only succeed if we trust each other.”
Instinctively Marsten knew he could trust them. “And we will succeed,” he murmured, sealing the deal.
“Our people will contact you in Miami,” the man said. The negotiations were over, and he reached for the young girl’s knee. He ran his hand up her dress. “Have the money ready.” He pulled the girl to the floor and they started to tear at each other’s clothes as they caressed.
The Trojan Sea Page 19
