Cuba Straits

by Randy Wayne White

  “Do you have keys to that room?”

  “The storage room? Can’t you hear? I live there, for christ’s sake.”

  “Is there a back way out?”

  “Not if I don’t invite you in, there isn’t.”

  “Then there is. I just thought of something. If the Russian stays in the baño more than a minute or two, that means he’s in one of the stalls. I want to borrow this.”

  “My cane? You’ve been helpful, but I’m not giving you my goddamn cane.”

  “How much do you think it’s worth? The Russian might agree to pay for repairs. No guarantees, but there’s a chance.”

  “Hah. If you ask him nicely, I suppose.”

  “I didn’t say anything about being nice.”

  “Force him to pay? You don’t know much about Russians.”

  Ford, looking at the old man, said, “Patrón, you know less about me. Rude men need to be taught manners. Your own words.”

  Lázaro focused on Ford’s face for the first time. “You’re not drunk, I would smell it. Who are you?”

  “Wait inside,” Ford told him, “and watch for me when I come back. I might be in a hurry.”

  • • •

  IN THE LAST STALL, visible beneath the door, slacks piled on size-fifteen loafers proved his timing was just about right. Not perfect, but close; only a couple of guys standing at a steel trough along the wall that served as a communal urinal. Posh by Cuban standards. Anyplace tourists weren’t herded, there would be a hole in a cement slab, possibly an indentation for the feet, but nothing for support but fear of what lay below.

  Ford entered the adjacent stall carefully so that Kostikov wouldn’t see his shoes. No toilet seat, no toilet paper. He left, found a newspaper in the trash, soaked it under a faucet, and crumpled it into a heavy ball. By the time he’d returned, the room was empty but for a bald guy who, Ford guessed, had a bad case of stadium bladder.

  He bolted the door, bent to confirm the Russian’s pants were around his ankles, then waited, but the place had the acoustics of a locker room. Too much crowd noise outside to hear anyone leave or arriving, so Ford thought What the hell, and made his move. He got to his knees, flushed the toilet, and, in Spanish, hollered, “Keep your head down!” Then he lobbed the wad of paper over the wall into the next stall.

  Kostikov would look up—a brief window of opportunity. Ford used the cane, hooked the man’s pants near the crotch, and heaved mightily as if gaffing a fish. The Russian’s butt banged hard on the floor and his legs wedged under the metal divider. The man was so stunned, Ford had ripped off one shoe and was leveraging the other when the violent kicking began.

  Control a man’s legs, you control the man—it was the wrestling mantra of a great high school wrestling coach, Gary Freis. Ford had lived that sport five days a week for years. In this case, ankles, not legs, which was better because Kostikov couldn’t see who had attacked him, or even the hands that stripped his pants off while he bellowed and dented the partition with his fists.

  A final touch: Kostikov’s own belt looped around one ankle, then knotted to his other ankle with a quick half hitch.

  Ford exited the stall with pants and cane tucked under his arm like a football. Didn’t run, although the bald guy with a bladder problem was now washing his hands—no clue that he would soon be confronted by a naked Russian giant.

  Outside, Ford slipped into the flow of milling fans and kept moving while he searched Kostikov’s pockets. He kept a fat leather billfold, an odd little pistol with Soviet markings, and a satellite phone. Underwear, cigars, lighter, loose change, then his own green baseball cap, went into separate trash cans, all jettisoned discreetly. After some thought, he also dumped the satellite phone. Too risky because of the GPS.

  Ford didn’t look back until the old man, Lázaro Junco, ushered him into the storage room, saying, “Hurry—are they after you?” Then saw what Ford carried under his arm. “Jesus Christ . . . you stole the man’s pants?”

  Near the food vendors, military cops in green uniforms were rushing through a gate, a half dozen, who turned toward the HOMBRES sign far down the corridor.

  “You stole Meyer Lansky’s umbrella,” Ford replied. “My advice is to lock the door.”

  When Sabina sprayed Vernum Quick with mace, he was blinded but managed not to scream. Arms wide, he lunged for her . . . Lunged again at a blurry shape that was, in fact, a tree. He hit face-first, a collision that jarred air from his lungs and put him on the ground.

  The girl pursued him like a hornet, used the mace again, chiding, “When my gringo friend hears this, he will steal your money and drown you in the river. Marion does whatever I tell him.” Only then did she run.

  Or did she? Maybe the little mocosa—“the brat”—was waiting for him to open his eyes.

  Vernum couldn’t see but knew the river was downhill. He covered his face and rolled into the weeds where the hill sloped abruptly. Kept rolling faster, thinking, Marion? Who’s Marion? and soon collided with another tree.

  “¡Puta la madre, puta la hija!” he yelled, a profane version of “Like mother, like daughter.”

  He listened for a moment, stood and clawed at his eyes, then got smart and removed his linen shirt, folding and refolding it to wipe the spray away. Soon, he could see from one eye, but, damn, that stuff burned. His skin, the lacerations on his face, were on fire.

  At the river, he threw himself in. Water helped. So did the mud he washed himself with, but he didn’t waste time. Marta couldn’t call for help—no telephone. If he hurried, he might intercept them before they got away. He scrambled up the hill to the road, confirmed it was empty, then angled toward a dirt lane that led to the house. No one there either, and Marta’s bicycle was by the cistern, where he’d last seen it.

  Had they fled on foot?

  I’ll find them. When I do, that damn little wasp bitch will suffer first and be the last to die.

  Rage. It flooded his head and darkened the sky. He fixated on specifics, what he would do to Marta while her daughters watched. Delicious, when he visualized details, nuances of whimpering and skin color of a woman crazed with fear. He drew on past experience, a catalog of images stored away for nights when he was alone and hunger-driven. Never, though, had he been favored with an opportunity like this.

  Run, chicas, run until you collapse. I love the taste of a woman’s sweat.

  At the edge of the yard, Vernum stopped and focused his hearing. My god . . . the fools, they were still inside.

  From the house came the garbled chimes of girls arguing, their voices interrupted by the bell notes of a woman who was getting impatient. Marta Esteban . . . the woman who had snubbed him for years.

  A quick prayer to Changó: I’ll buy you the best damn bottle of rum and light a box of candles. Anything, man, if you let this happen.

  Vernum’s head swiveled. No one around. He sprinted to a tamarind tree only a few meters from what he guessed to be the kitchen window, the window open, sweet with the scent of beans. He crouched and turned sideways. The trunk of the tree shielded him while he sorted out three distinct voices, the most piercing of which was that vicious little girl wasp.

  “I didn’t start this, you brat. No one in this house believes a word I say. Perhaps I will go live with the nuns. They’ll shave my head. Probably beat me and force me to eat fish until I die of starvation. No one in this house gives a damn.”

  “Sabina! Do you want me to soap your mouth?”

  “Didn’t I tell you, Mama? She swears constantly and makes up stories to scare me. Sometimes I believe she is possessed by demons, I truly do—”

  “Shut up, Maribel. Let the zombie cut your throat. That’s what he threatened to do to me. And he would have cut my throat if I hadn’t knocked him down—”

  “You? Hit a zombie? Mama, she’s lying again.”

  “I didn’t say that! I’m
the only one in this house not afraid of her own shadow. That’s why you hate me. Even my own mother sent me to live with fascists.”

  “Enough, Sabina. My darling”—Marta’s voice softened—“there is no such thing as a zombie. At least admit that part of your story is, well, not a lie, exactly—”

  “I’m not lying! His lips were sewn, one of his eyes was sewn, he was ugly and bawled like a pig when I squirted his face. If that’s not a zombie, I don’t know what the hell is.”

  The older sister taunted, “Such language!” while Vernum winced and thought, Lying little puta. He was back in control of the situation, though, and continued to listen, but not as closely. He’d already made up his mind. Take the axe he’d seen in the woodpile, break down the door if Marta wouldn’t let him in. The older girl, Maribel, had to be the one who had escaped from the cane field. With her, he would . . .

  Do what?

  Damn that brat. It was impossible to think with her incessant talking. He tried to tune the girl out until he heard her say, “The gringo fascist will believe me. He promised he would be back . . . Probably on his way right now. You’ll see who is the brave one in this family.”

  That grabbed Vernum’s attention. He searched the yard and refocused while the girl chattered on. “Do you really think I would waste my canister of pepper juice? It fit so nicely on my blouse, a gift from him, yet I chose to protect my coward sister.”

  Marta spoke: “It is true, she used most of her spray. Maribel . . . don’t walk away until we decide. What did the man look like?”

  “I told you, he was a monster, not a man. Do I have to repeat every word? The rich gringo gave us money for a hotel. That’s where we should be, a place that’s safe and has a swimming pool—”

  “We don’t accept money from strangers. Now, stop your whining. How would we get there? Ride bicycles all the way to Havana?”

  “Sabina wants to stay in a hotel, Mama. That’s what this is about.”

  “You’re the liar! When my friend Marion hears I have run away to live with nuns who beat me, he’ll come. He’ll buy me something . . . something nice—and drown that ugly bastard.”

  Mother of God, now the little mocosa was crying.

  “Make sure the doors are locked, Maribel. Where is the machete? And the axe . . . Oh my god, the axe is outside. Sabina, are you sure the Americano said he would come this afternoon?”

  “What does it matter what I say? You won’t believe me.”

  “Darling, calm yourself. Check all the windows. I’ll be right back.”

  Vernum stiffened for a moment, then peeked around the tree into the kitchen.

  Shit. Staring back at him was that vicious little wasp of a girl. He ducked, then sprinted for cover, expecting to hear a scream, but the girl didn’t scream.

  Why not? She had seen him. He was certain.

  Possessed by demons, the older girl had claimed. Perhaps it was true.

  From the bushes, Vernum watched Marta cross the yard to the woodpile, her eyes darting this way and that, until she had the axe in her hand. Still nervous, she took a last look from the porch and closed the door.

  Marion. Earlier, the brat had used that name as a threat. But it was a name for women, not men. Was the girl possessed or just crazy?

  Either way, Vernum felt his confidence draining. He pictured himself inside the house, facing Marta, who was holding an axe—worse, that devil brat with a machete in her hand. Another scenario: a gringo with a woman’s name—a CIA agent, according to old Oleg, the war hero—who might attack him from behind.

  Better to wait here until dark, Vernum decided. Do it right, enjoy myself.

  Stay positive. That was important in Santería. As everyone knew, the gods were fickle. They were prone to heap misery on the miserable more quickly than shower the confident with good fortune. He tried to make himself comfortable while mosquitoes whined and his mind wandered.

  The devil brat. Why didn’t she call for help, or scream, or do . . . something?

  That bothered him. It was spooky. He had confronted girls who were older—a dozen, perhaps—and they had all surrendered, some in tears, most frozen by fear, but not one had fought back, let alone chased him to ground.

  She’s crazy. More likely, she didn’t see me from the window.

  Vernum couldn’t let it go. Demons existed; they roamed the island in search of humans to inhabit. That was also part of Santería teachings. He himself had performed several exorcisms. Usually on hysterical women and men who had boiled their brains with cheap aguardiente. Only one, however, for a girl, but her madness was caused by her first menstruation. The devil child was no more than eleven.

  Fool—she is four feet tall and, at most, weighs fifty pounds. You’re afraid of a tiny girl?

  No, Vernum feared the demon inside the child, until he remembered The demon in me will eat her alive.

  • • •

  DARKNESS DRIFTED UP from the river before the sun was gone. Soon, frogs, screaming insects, overwhelmed the sky’s last light and coaxed a slow assemblage of stars—bedtime in the countryside of western Cuba.

  Inside the house, Marta appeared at her bedroom window, lit a kerosene lamp, pulled the curtains, and began to undress. The ripeness of her body cast a nippled silhouette. Two windows away, a candle floated, carried by a girl in a thin gown.

  Vernum wet his lips.

  He heard the devil brat’s shrill voice: “Where’s the water bucket? How am I supposed to flush if there is no water bucket?”

  Marta untied her hair and fanned it over her shoulders. “Maribel? Did you hear your sister?”

  “Mama, she used it last.”

  “I did not!”

  “You did. You were too busy making up stories and left it outside.”

  Marta’s hands moved to her face. “Don’t leave this house. Sabina . . . Don’t you dare leave this house. Do you hear me?”

  “But what about—”

  “You can flush in the morning. It’s not important. In fact, I want you girls to sleep with me tonight. Sabina . . . have you gone deaf?”

  “All right! But don’t blame me if we all die in our sleep and strangers come and see we don’t bother to flush.”

  A smile tightened the stitches in Vernum’s lips, a joyous pain. He had gone to his car and returned wearing a dark shirt and carrying a coil of wire, tape, matches, and a knife. He opened the knife now.

  “Mama, she’s trying to scare me.”

  “Talk louder. The zombie’s probably outside right now, listening.”

  “Mama!”

  “Come to bed, Maribel. Sabina? Sabina. You, too.”

  “I’m not finished yet! I needed the water bucket for when I am done, but I’m not done. And what if the gringo arrives and sees no lights? That’s very rude.”

  “Five minutes, young lady. Do you hear?”

  More bickering. Marta extended her arms toward the ceiling, a baggy gown cascaded down to veil her body, emphasizing the slope of her breasts, the angle of her chin.

  Sometimes—not often—Vernum preferred women to girls.

  • • •

  SABINA KNEW her mother’s weaknesses and strengths. Books were a weakness. A request to read by candlelight was seldom denied.

  “As long as you sit in the chair outside my door—and just a chapter. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “And no more sad poetry. It gives you dreams.”

  “Promise, Mother. I’ll choose a book with pictures. Is that okay?”

  Pictures—hah! Sabina hated idiotic children’s stories. Instead, she sat in the hall near a window with a book of poems by Dulce María Borrero. It was a thin volume beyond her understanding, or so a teacher had warned. Being told she could not do something only guaranteed Sabina would do it anyway, and she had fallen in love with Señorita Borrero�
��s melancholy verse, although it was true she didn’t always understand. The poems were short, though, seldom more than three lines, but it was a photo of the writer, who had brooding, dark eyes, that spoke to the girl. Those eyes told of pain and loss and injustices suffered by all Cuban woman before Fidel—and after.

  In the gardens of silence, sister,

  I will plant roses of harmony

  And fertilize them with my cold sorrow

  Those words thumped at Sabina’s chest like hammers.

  My cold sorrow . . .

  She knew exactly how Señorita Borrero had felt. Same with poems about an unfaithful husband, which is why Sabina had vowed never to marry, and about celibacy and death, and one about the Cuban flag, which ended “Our parents are stained.”

  Try living with my mother, Sabina thought. Yours, at least, didn’t put you on a raft to Gringolandia. My next visit to Havana, I will put flowers on your grave in my favorite cemetery and we will weep together. And if the fascist gringo didn’t lie to me, perhaps stay in a nice hotel with a swimming pool.

  She turned a page, aware that Maribel had been partly right about selfish motives. Sabina liked Havana, but truly loved Colon Cemetery, which was a few kilometers west of the grand baseball stadium. Acres of ornate mausoleums, a forest of marble with statues so lovely it pained her heart to leave. She had seen The Wizard of Oz, but the majesty of the Emerald City did not compare to the mystery and magic of Cuba’s greatest cemetery. Of course she wanted to go—especially if the trip was paid for by a wealthy gringo. When would such an opportunity ever come again?

  In a woman’s life

  All is fragile, all is brief

  As the moon’s reflection

  That was never truer than today.

  Señorita Borrero, I want to be buried next to you. When my mother and cowardly sister visit us with flowers, perhaps then they’ll understand the pain of being ignored.

  Sniffling, the girl closed the book, reached to snuff out the candle and realized her mother was asleep. Maribel—nothing woke her. You could pound on the bathroom door for hours, that brat wouldn’t notice.