Havana Best Friends
José Latour

I dedicate this novel to all special needs teachers, whose enthusiasm and self-sacrifice should be a guiding light for the rest of mankind.

Epigraph

There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it

EDITH WHARTON

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Epigraph

Part One

1

2

3

Part Two

4

5

6

7

Part Three

8

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Part One

1

One of the most remarkable sights of the Parque de la Quinta, in Havana’s posh Miramar suburb, are the full-grown, sixty-foot ficus trees. Their numerous hanging vines reach the public park’s red clay, dig into it, grow roots, and form supplementary trunks around the main one. Nature-loving tourists coasting by along Fifth Avenue in their rentals frequently slow down to gape at them, risk a traffic ticket by parking alongside the kerb, then get out to photograph or videotape themselves next to the vegetal giants.

When that happens, the police officer standing under a metallic sunshade by the gleaming white residence of the Belgian ambassador to Cuba, a restored mansion on the corner of Fifth and 24th Street, usually says into the transceiver mounted on his left shoulder something like, ‘41 to 04. A 314 on Fifth between 24th and 26th. Plate T-00357,’ then waits to see whether a squad car will slap a fine on the violator. But on the morning of Friday, 26 May 2000, the young cop on duty had been ogling the woman jogging around the park and didn’t report the black Hyundai that had illegally pulled over on Fifth and discharged a tall overweight man.

The jogger’s blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail that reached below her shoulders and swayed gracefully. A light-green sweatshirt covered a skimpy bra in which were nestled small breasts; black Lycra leggings hugged ample round hips and well-proportioned thighs; cotton socks and sneakers completed her apparel. The cop wasn’t paying attention to her long eyebrows, honey-coloured eyes, straight nose, or thin lips; he was focusing on her behind – not as hefty as he preferred. ‘Nice temba,’ he said, using the Cuban slang for an attractive woman in her late thirties or early forties.

Her rangy escort, a few yards behind, had the appearance of a middle-aged scholar who had decided to exercise on a regular basis only after intellectualizing the benefits involved. This impression was enhanced by innocent-looking blue eyes and a clean-shaven face. Six or seven inches taller than her five feet four, he had copper-coloured short hair partially hidden by a white cotton braided bandanna. A purple sweatshirt covered his flat chest and belly; under his blue baggy shorts, hairy legs showed. His feet, shod with Reeboks and lacking socks, revealed bony ankles.

The joggers turned on the corner of 24th and continued their fourth lap on the sidewalk along Fifth. Perspiration glistened on their faces, darkened the cloth under their armpits. Their skin, where visible, was quite rosy.

And this distinctive colour made the cop assume the joggers were 611s, the code for aliens. In Havana, among white people, at a glance and from a distance, what frequently sets locals apart from foreigners is a suntan. Particularly in Miramar, where embassies and the offices of multinationals are often flanked by private dwellings, the margin for error is wide when trying to surmise who isn’t a native.

Clothing is not an infallible clue. Despite the fact that most Cubans dress modestly, the number of those in fashionable sportswear and flashy running shoes – the attire favoured by many tourists – grows steadfastly as remittances from Cubans living abroad increase year after year. Redness or rosiness, as opposed to a natural, everyday tan, is therefore a more reliable indication.

Few of the sun’s rays filtered through the park’s dense foliage canopy and reached the soil where spots of lawn survived precariously alongside fine gravel. Dead leaves were being raked by a gardener. The scent of dew and plants was overpowered by the exhaust fumes from the steady stream of vehicles speeding along. Sparrows and grackles pecking close to the sinuous walkways returned to the safety of branches and twigs when pedestrians got too close. A thirty-foot pergola was being swept clean by an old woman who resembled Warty the witch, minus cat and hat.

The couple went past a bust of General Prado, the nineteenth-century Peruvian president who favoured the independence of Cuba, and rounded the sidewalk at the corner of 26th. They had grown familiar with the neighbourhood after exercising at this same place for three consecutive days from 7.45 to 8.15 a.m., give or take a couple of minutes. Across the street, the Catholic church of Santa Rita de Casia already had its doors open to parishioners and visitors alike.

The joggers rounded the corner of 26th on to Third A, a curved street. The tall overweight man who was contemplating a monument to Mahatma Ghandi behind the pergola, and three young men shooting the breeze on Third A and 26th, eyed the couple curiously when the man slowed down, stopped, bent over and grabbed both knees. With a puzzled frown, the woman glanced over her shoulder, reduced her speed, and came to a halt. He hunkered down. She retraced several steps, solicitously rested her left hand on his back, then addressed him with a look of concern.

The man nodded before straightening up. Both were trying to get their breathing back to normal. She said something, looking at a three-storey apartment building across the street. He shook his head, but then grabbed her shoulder, as if for balance. She steered him towards the apartment building, eyebrows knitted in a frown.

The concrete-and-block cube numbered 2406 was a six-unit – three facing the street, three at the back – built in the 1950s. Painted light grey, about sixty yards long, twenty yards wide, fifteen yards high, it was flanked by a lot where the foundations for a new building were being dug, and by a private house with a red-tile roof. It seemed somewhat out of place in a neighbourhood where older architectural styles prevailed. Three balconies with French windows, one on each floor, faced the street.

The couple followed a cemented footpath alongside a driveway to a small covered foyer and went in. They faced a main door with a number one in brass nailed to it; a marble stairway to the upper floors stood to their right. She pressed the buzzer alongside the door. Nearly a minute went by before it was opened by a tall, good-looking woman wearing a white short-sleeved blouse, a dark-green, knee-length skirt, and high heels.

‘Yes?’ the surprised resident asked in Spanish, her left eyebrow arched.

‘I’m so sorry to inconvenience you,’ the female jogger said in the same language. ‘My name’s Marina. This is my husband, Sean. We were jogging in the park and…his vision blurred, he felt dizzy. From the heat, you know. Canadians are not accustomed to this temperature. Could you offer him a glass of water, please? We forgot to bring some with us.’

For an instant the woman stared at the man. He seemed exhausted, an embarrassed flicker of a smile on his lips. ‘Sure, come on in,’ she said, stepping back and pulling the door wide open.

Marina and Sean entered a spacious living room in a deplorable condition. A Chesterfield with overstuffed arms and two matching club chairs, all three pieces upholstered in what, fifty years earlier, had been an excellent brocade, were now badly frayed with dark stains of human grease and dirt on their arms and backs. At some point the nice cedar coffee table had lost its glass top and now showed multiple rings from glasses; on it stood an ashtray full of reeking butts. The folds of cloth which framed the French window to the balcony, like the shades of two floor lamps, were also soiled. A solitary light bulb hung from the ceiling and the cream-coloured vinyl paint on the walls was beginning to flake off.

‘Take a seat, please,’ the hostess said. ‘I’ll bring the water.’

She disappeared into a hallway, her heels clicking on the granite floor. Realizing that a few extra drops of sweat wouldn’t worsen the Chesterfield’s present condition very much, the joggers eased themselves down on to its edge and took in a beautiful still-life in a baroque frame hanging to their left, two mismatched chairs, a TV set facing them. From somewhere inside a man bellowed: ‘Who the fuck was it, Elena?’ The couple swapped a curious glance. A refrigerator door slamming shut was the only response.

The woman returned to the living room with two glasses of cold water on a tray which she placed on the coffee table.

‘There you are. Let me know if you want some more.’

The man reached for a glass and drank avidly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every gulp. Having returned the glass to the tray, he leaned back on the sofa, and closed his eyes.

‘The family doctor is two blocks away. I can fetch him, if you want,’ the hostess suggested, a dash of solicitude in her tone, as she slid into a club chair.

‘Let’s give him a minute,’ Marina said, still frowning at her companion. ‘Nothing like this has ever happened to him. It may just be sunstroke.’

‘I asked who the f—’ a short bald man bellowed from the entrance to the hallway. He was barefoot, wearing only his boxer shorts, and part of his pubic hair could be seen through the opening at the front. With a surprised expression he checked himself, turned and fled to put on something more. Long hair at the back of his head flopped ludicrously.

Repressing a snicker, Marina took a sip from her glass, then drained it. Sean had opened his eyes at the man’s voice. ‘Thanks, ma’am,’ he whispered in English before sliding forward on the seat and extending his right hand. ‘Sean,’ he added, apparently recovered.

‘Elena,’ the hostess said with a firm handshake. She stood up to reach Marina and shook hands with her too.

‘Feeling better?’ Elena asked of the man as she returned to her seat.

Marina interpreted for her husband. ‘He doesn’t speak Spanish,’ she explained.

‘Much better, thank you,’ said Sean, beaming and resting an ankle on the other knee.

‘He says much better, thank you.’

‘Well, my English is lousy, fifty words maybe, but that I can understand. Would you like some espresso? Coffee is a great stimulant, you know. And here in Cuba we brew it pretty strong; a sip might do him good.’

‘We don’t want to trouble you.’

‘No problem. Ask him.’

Sean yielded at Elena’s insistence. She went back to the kitchen and the joggers exchanged grins, then waited in silence. A few minutes later the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of angry whispering wafted into the living room. The joggers exchanged a questioning glance.

Another minute went by. Elena returned with two demitasses on tiny saucers. She was followed by the short bald man, now in a blue guayabera, white chinos, and three-inch Cordovan boots. The dark hair either side of his bald crown was brushed straight back to combine with the long hair at his nape in a meagre ponytail. Before handing the cups to the visitors, Elena made the introductions.

‘Meet my brother Pablo,’ she said with a neutral expression.

Pablo shook hands with a grin. ‘How do you do?’ he said in English with a heavy accent. Elena rolled her eyes. Marina wondered how siblings could be so physically different. Elena was perhaps four inches taller than his five feet three or four, a fit, big-boned woman with dark eyes, supple lips, and nice curves in all the right places. Pablo had green irises, thin lips, an unhealthy pallor, narrow shoulders and skinny arms that made him seem frail. Perhaps that was why he looked younger than his sister. Only one parent in common? Maybe. But she had said ‘brother’ not ‘half-brother’. Little love lost between them, from the look of things.

‘Good you come. This –’ a sweep of the arm – ‘your home,’ Pablo added, his grin seeming rather forced.

‘Pablo,’ said Elena through clenched teeth.

‘Oh, yeah, my sister, she don’t understand English.’

Elena scowled, shook her head, and pursed her lips in disapproval.

Pablo slid into the remaining club chair and impatiently waited for Marina to finish her espresso, then started questioning her in Spanish. What had happened? Did her husband feel better now? Was she from Argentina? Yeah, he had guessed it, had identified the accent. From Buenos Aires? Ah, ‘Mi Buenos Aires querido,’ he sang, the only line he knew from the most famous of all tangos, while his eyes stole a lascivious glance at her thighs. And her husband? Oh…how nice. What city? Toronto? So, she lived in Toronto now, right? And when did they arrive in Cuba? Where were they staying?

As his wife answered all kinds of questions, Sean sipped his coffee slowly, eyes moving from the brother to the sister, appraising them coolly. Elena seemed okay; Pablo a trifle garrulous for his taste. He emptied the demitasse and put it on the tray, then reached for Marina’s and did the same. Elena rose and took the tray back to the kitchen. When she returned to her club chair they were all laughing about something. Her brother lit a cigarette and blew smoke to the ceiling.

‘This is a nice apartment,’ Marina commented, her gaze shifting around the living room. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘All our lives,’ Pablo answered. ‘We were born here. Our parents…’

‘How is Sean feeling?’ Elena asked, interrupting her brother, who frowned.

Marina interpreted. Sean admitted he was fine now.

‘Well, then you’ll have to excuse me. I mustn’t be late for work.’

Pablo widened his eyes. ‘Elena, that’s very rude of you.’

‘Listen, Pablo…’ said Elena in a testy way, trying not to get into an argument with her brother in the presence of strangers.

‘But of course,’ Marina butted in, jumping to her feet. Sean, seemingly surprised, uncoiled himself from the Chesterfield. ‘You’ve been very kind. Would you allow us to reciprocate in some way? Take you to dinner maybe?’

‘No, thanks, this is nothing…’

‘We’d be delighted,’ Pablo said, leaping at the offer with a fresh grin.

‘Pablo! No, Marina. We just…’

‘But I insist. We would enjoy your company enormously. We don’t know anybody here. It would be great to take you guys out tonight. Learn from you about a nice place, somewhere off the beaten track. In fact, you’d be doing us another favour.’

‘I would gladly take you to wherever you want to go,’ Pablo said, also in Spanish, shaking his head and lifting his hands, palms up. The body language was meant to emphasize that he was the most friendly and helpful of habaneros. ‘There’s this nice private restaurant. It would have to be after five, you know. That’s when I leave the office.’

Marina interpreted for Sean.

‘By all means,’ he said when his wife had finished speaking. ‘I won’t take no for an answer.’

‘Sean says he would consider it an honour to take both of you to dinner tonight. It has to be tonight because we are leaving tomorrow. We rented a car, so we can pick you up.’ And turning to Elena. ‘Please, Elena, you admitted two complete strangers into your home. That’s real hospitality. Don’t turn us down. Please?’

Elena shook her head and forced a smile.

‘C’mon, sis,’ Pablo said in a false pleading tone.

Elena considered it. ‘Okay, tonight. At eight.’

‘Eight’s perfect,’ Marina said.

Once they had bid fond farewells, the joggers left the apartment building, reached the corner of 24th, turned left, and disappeared from view. Unaware that he had got away with a traffic violation, the tall overweight man shot a last admiring glance at the big trees before climbing back into his rental and speeding off.

Late afternoon was turning into dusk, birds had settled in their nests in the ficus, and bats were beginning to swoop when Marina rang the buzzer. The door was immediately swung open by a perky Pablo in a garish shirt, a pair of jeans, and pigskin loafers with two-inch heels.

‘Come in, my friends, come in,’ he said in English as he stretched out his hand to the woman first, then to Sean. ‘And how is my…’ he frantically searched for the words, didn’t find them, and reverted to Spanish ‘…mareado amigo?’

‘Dizzy friend,’ Marina interpreted.

‘Much better, Pablo, ready for a wild night out, if you know what I mean,’ Sean said with a conspiratorial wink and a mischievous snicker.

‘Good! Good!’ Pablo exclaimed, but then cast a slightly worried glance at Marina. ‘I want to…offer you mojitos. You know what a mojito is?’

Sean and Marina nodded.

‘Okay. You sit down on the sofa. I go prepare mojitos. My sister is getting dressed. Women, always late. One minute.’

Marina noticed that the living room had been tidied up. The marks on the coffee table were barely visible, the ashtray was empty and clean, the floor had been mopped. The black-and-white TV set was turned on, its volume low. From the kitchen came the sounds of tinkling ice cubes, the opening and closing of cupboards, a metal spoon stirring the drinks.

Anticipating that Elena’s wardrobe probably lacked evening gowns and ersatz gems, Marina had opted for a pink, short-sleeved blouse, an ivory-coloured mid-calf skirt, leather sandals, and a purse. Her make-up was very light, her blonde hair was gathered at the back of her head in a bun, her only piece of jewellery a gold wedding band; she looked stylish in a quiet way. Sean wore a maroon and white fine-striped dress shirt, its cuffs folded up to his elbows, khakis, and cordovan loafers. They glanced at each other and Sean pulled a face at Marina. She grinned and crossed her legs.

Pablo returned to the living room carrying a tray with three tumblers filled to the brim with the cocktail. He placed the tray on the coffee table, handed the drinks to his guests, then with his glass clinked theirs before easing himself into a club chair.

‘Salud.’

‘Salud,’ concurred Marina and Sean. He didn’t mix one for Elena, Marina observed as she extracted a sprig of mint before sipping.

‘Great,’ a wide-eyed Sean said, lifting his eyebrows in admiration.

‘You like it?’ Pablo asked, obviously pleased.

‘Best I’ve ever had,’ Sean responded with a satisfied nod.

‘And you, Mrs…’

‘Marina, please. It’s superb.’

‘I’m glad you like it. Now, I tell you about this place I’m taking you to. Would you please interpret for Sean, Marina?’

‘But you don’t need it. Your English is very good.’

‘You think so? Not very good, I know. But it’ll improve with time. I’m studying hard.’

From the TV set’s speaker came a fanfare of trumpets.

‘Oh, the news. Ugh!’ Pablo fumed. ‘Always the same. Send Elián back, everything in Cuba is perfect, the rest of the world is a mess. Just a moment.’

Marina translated the bald man’s blanket contempt of the Cuban newscast as he turned the TV set off and returned to his seat. Sean seemed amused.

‘Please, Marina, interpret for your husband. For many years, the government didn’t allow private businesses in Cuba. Now, some are allowed. They are heavily taxed, can’t expand beyond a certain point, have to comply with many regulations. It’s why some are…clandestine. In fact, all the best are clandestine. I’m taking you to what Cubans call a paladar, a private restaurant. How would you translate paladar, Marina?’

‘Sense of taste?’

‘I’ll remember that. Now, few foreigners dine at a clandestine paladar. You need a sponsor to get in, someone whom the management trusts and can make a reservation. We’ll be the only customers there tonight. The food is excellent, the service great, fine entertainment…’

‘Good evening,’ Elena said with a pleased smile on entering the living room. Sean stood up. She shook hands with him, bent to kiss Marina’s cheek, overlooked her brother, then eased herself on to the edge of the remaining club chair. Fresh out of the shower, with just a touch of make-up around her eyes and on her lips, she was even more attractive than twelve hours earlier, Sean observed. The thick, long, dark-blonde hair fell past her shoulders gracefully. She appeared to be wearing the same skirt and shoes, but her black, long-sleeved silk blouse embroidered with multicoloured butterflies would have won approving looks at the most exclusive of fashion shows.

‘What a beautiful blouse!’ Marina said with sincere admiration.

‘You like it? It belonged to my grandmother, my mother inherited it, then she gave it to me a few years ago, arguing she was too old to wear it.’

‘It’s lovely. Your brother mixes excellent mojitos. Would you like one?’

‘Yes, I would.’

Pablo was nonplussed for a moment, but he recovered fast. ‘Sure,’ he said, before getting to his feet and marching into the kitchen. Marina zeroed in on Elena and girl talk prevailed for a couple of minutes. Pablo returned with the cocktail and handed it to his sister. ‘Drink it quickly,’ he snapped. ‘We are late because you were late.’

‘I wouldn’t have been had my dear brother helped me to tidy up a little,’ Elena remarked wryly to Marina. ‘But he never does, you know, never.’

‘Oh, it’s only 8.09,’ Marina said, after glancing at her watch, pretending not to notice the intense antagonism. ‘And these mojitos merit slow appreciation. Tell me more about your grandmother’s Spanish fans…’

After a minute of feathers and sticks inlaid with mother-of-pearl, when the topic became so esoteric that the men were effectively excluded, Pablo tried to communicate with Sean. He moved closer to Sean by sliding his bottom to the edge of the seat and resting both elbows on his knees. ‘You said “wild night” and, in this paladar, two girls, beautiful, incredible, one black, the other blonde,’ he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, ‘but you are with wife…’

‘I’ve got to pee,’ Marina mouthed to Elena as Sean considered his reply.

‘Excuse us for a moment,’ Elena announced, rising to her feet. They left their cocktails on the tray and disappeared from view in the hallway.

Pablo sighed with relief and lit up before seizing at the opportunity. ‘I want you have good time. I don’t know if you can…send wife back to hotel?’

Sean shook his head. ‘No, Pablo, I can’t,’ articulating slowly, making it easier for the bald man. ‘Marina has this fiery Latin temperament. She’d get pretty mad if I did that to her in public. When I said “wild” I meant, you know, a nice meal, drinks, driving around, maybe going to a nightclub. I might return soon – alone – then you can take me to the best places to refine my “sense of taste”. Okay?’

From the toilet seat, Marina examined the fairly clean bathroom. The usual plus a bidet. An old plastic shower curtain frayed at the bottom, a circular swing window by the bathtub. Two gaping holes by the sink indicated where a towel rack had been. Marina wondered what purpose a plastic bucket full of water served. No toilet paper was in sight and she fished for a Kleenex in her handbag.

After zipping her skirt up, Marina closely inspected the ceramic soap dishes coated in white enamel recessed in the walls alongside the bathtub, by the sink – where a sliver of soap survived – and next to the bidet. Then she turned to the toilet-paper holder. The four pieces were level with the light-blue glazed tiles on the wall. In all probability they had been there since the tiles were installed.

Marina flushed the toilet. Aside from a little gurgling, nothing happened. So that was what the bucket was there for. She poured half its contents into the toilet bowl, closed the lid, looked around. She filled a glass jar by the sink with water and washed her hands. She was inspecting her face in the medicine-cabinet mirror, shaking the drops off her hands to pull out a fresh Kleenex, when there was a knock on the bathroom door. Marina said ‘Come in,’ and Elena turned the knob and handed her a towel.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there weren’t any in here.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘We have running water from five to seven p.m. only. It’s when I shower and fill up all the buckets and pans in the house.’

‘And why is that?’ Marina asked as she wiped her hands dry.

‘For two reasons, according to the President of the Council of Neighbours,’ Elena said, watching Marina’s manicured hands with envy. ‘The system of pipes supplying water to the city is in ruins; half of what’s pumped into it is lost underground. So, the cistern never has water for more than three or four hours of normal consumption. Secondly, the electric water pump that fills the tanks on the roof of the building is too old and breaks down frequently, so the neighbour who tends to it turns it on two hours a day only.’

Marina returned the towel to Elena. ‘Such a nuisance. It seems to me that life here is fraught with problems.’ Feeling her way.

‘It is, it is. Inconveniences, nothing tragic, but you may have to wait two hours for a bus, two months for a beef steak, save for two years to buy a decent pair of shoes.’

‘And to live in a place like this?’ Marina asked as she produced a lipstick from her purse and turned to the mirror.

‘Well, maybe two centuries,’ Elena said with a wide grin. ‘Apartment buildings like this are a thing of the past. This one was completed in 1957. It’s ugly, looks like a big box, but back then we had professional construction workers and those guys knew their business, they built to last.’

‘It’s a great apartment,’ Marina said, once she’d pressed her lips together and capped the lipstick. ‘The rent on a place like this in Manhattan? No less than five thousand dollars a month; as much as eight thousand in a nice area.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. This could use some refurbishing, though. You haven’t made any repairs, have you?’

‘Never. But it’s in good shape. No cracks or fractured pipes. Paint is what it needs, badly. But it’s sixteen dollars a gallon.’

‘That’s not too exorbitant.’

‘No, not for you. Probably you make as much in an hour.’

‘A little more,’ Marina admitted.

‘You know what my monthly pay-cheque is? Fifteen dollars.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I’m not.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a special needs teacher.’ Elena stole a glance at her watch. ‘I teach disabled children in their homes. Let’s go back to the men before they accuse us of babbling the night away.’

It was dark and crickets were chirping happily in the Parque de la Quinta by the time the two couples got into the rented Nissan. Pablo and Elena sat in the back of the car. At the wheel, Sean followed the directions given by the bald man. They had been heading west along Fifth Avenue for two minutes, the Cubans pointing out the sights, when Marina turned round, wanting to learn more about Elena’s job.

‘Well, there are children so seriously incapacitated they can’t attend the special education schools,’ Elena began.

‘Oh, my God,’ Pablo moaned in English. ‘Not tonight.’

‘Some are disabled from birth, some suffered an accident,’ Elena, ignoring him, went on. ‘They are hooked up to some life-support system that’s difficult to carry around, or are quadriplegic. There’s a team of teachers to teach them at their homes. I’m one of them.’

‘Isn’t your job…a little depressing?’ Marina asked, after interpreting for Sean.

‘Not to Mother Theresa,’ Pablo butted in. ‘Turn right at the next light, Sean.’

‘Okay. But let me hear how your sister makes a living, please?’ Sean said in a dry tone.

Marina shot a quick glance at Sean. Pablo sulked. Elena had trouble suppressing her smile. She didn’t understand the words, but the tone spoke volumes.

‘Contrary to what almost everyone believes, it’s rewarding,’ the teacher went on. ‘These kids are the happiest kids on earth. They act as if nearly everything that happens around them happens for their personal delight. They see you come in, it’s like a fairy godmother came in to wave her magic wand over them. And being in daily contact with them, seeing their parents trying to conceal their suffering, makes you realize how much we healthy people take for granted, how petty most of our problems are.’

‘How many children do you teach?’ Marina asked.

‘Two. A nine-year-old boy in the mornings, an eleven-year-old girl in the afternoons.’

‘All the subjects?’

‘All except for physical education.’

‘Who pays for it?’ Sean wanted to know.

‘The Ministry of Education, of course.’

Sean was staring at the red light, his foot on the brake pedal. ‘She makes fifteen dollars a month,’ Marina told him.

‘What?’

Elena smiled mirthlessly. ‘Low salaries make many things possible. If Cuban teachers and doctors made half the money their colleagues make in Mexico, Jamaica, or any other Latin American country, the government wouldn’t be able to provide the healthcare and education it does.’

‘Green light,’ Pablo said. ‘Take a right on the second corner.’

Marina finished the translation after Sean rounded the corner.

The two-storey mansion surrounded by a cyclone fence appeared to be in perfect condition, no mean feat considering that its backyard fronted on to the sea. In its covered front porch there were four wooden rocking chairs, several flower pots, and an iron-and-glass lamp hanging from the ceiling. From the roof, spotlights flooded a small, well-tended garden. An old man standing by the driveway entrance swung back the gate to a garage and waved them in. After pulling the garage door closed, he silently welcomed the foursome with a series of nods and a smile, then pointed to a small door.

Pablo went in first and found his way to the dining area of a vast space, but he kept strutting – the others in tow – until he reached the lounge section. An overweight, bejewelled and perfumed white woman in her sixties uncoiled herself from a chair and embraced him warmly.

Thick make-up failed to conceal her deep wrinkles and the dark pouches that sagged under her eyes. They touched cheeks and exchanged air-kisses before the short man turned and made the introductions.

‘Meet the best restaurateur in Havana: Señora Roselia. This couple, Roselia, are friends of mine: Sean and Marina. Sean is Canadian, Marina is Argentinian.’

‘It’s a pleasure,’ Roselia said in Spanish, extending her hand. ‘I hope you’ll be satisfied with our service.’

Marina turned to Elena, saw the embarrassment in her eyes. ‘You know Elena, señora?’

‘Oh, sorry,’ Pablo muttered.

‘I don’t have the pleasure,’ Roselia admitted.

‘Elena is Pablo’s sister,’ Marina elaborated, thinking it was difficult not to dislike the asshole.

Shaking Roselia’s hand, Elena forced a grin that almost became a grimace.

Pablo rubbed his hands in eager anticipation. ‘Now, what would you like to do? A drink first?’ The longer customers were made to linger, the more they spent, the higher his commission.

They took their seats in the lounge, ordered mojitos, then studied the menu. Elena looked around admiringly. Recently painted walls, comfortable modern furniture, beautiful drapes, an exquisite full-length mirror, fine porcelain and glass ornaments on side tables, two air conditioners blasting away, the lamps, the paintings, the spotless marble floor. She hadn’t been in a place like this in all her life. Songs from the Buenavista Social Club CD flowed from hidden speakers.

The drinks and a bowl of peanuts arrived in the hands of a smiling long-legged blonde waitress in her late teens or early twenties. She wore a black mini-uniform, complete with little cap and a tiny apron in white. Bending over to serve the ladies first, her undersized skirt exposed a round, suntanned behind to the men. Sean couldn’t tell whether she had nothing on or if a dental-floss bikini bottom reposed in the crack of her buttocks. Pablo noticed Sean’s reaction, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Elena and Marina got to see the same sight when the waitress turned to serve Sean. Marina appeared to be unfazed and having fun, Elena gawked. What the women didn’t see were the seductive smile and wink the waitress bestowed on Sean.

Having found out from the proprietress that a paella would take over an hour to prepare, they settled for green salad, lobster cocktail, red porgy basted in olive oil, and mashed potatoes. Pablo asked for a steak on the side. Once she finished thoughtfully studying the wine list, Marina favoured a white Concha y Toro. Sean shrugged his lukewarm agreement, Elena assented in total ignorance, Pablo opted for Heineken.

The second round of drinks was served by a petite, beautiful black woman. Her uniform was white, its cap and apron in black. Her bottom was rounder and larger, the dental floss – if any – invisible, the smile she gave Sean blatantly provocative. Elena seemed uncomfortable. Sean popped two peanuts into his mouth, sipped from his fresh mojito, put the glass on the side table, then turned to Pablo, who was eyeing him with a pleased, take-your-pick expression.

‘What’s your trade, Pablo?’

Marina sighed, interpreted, then shared with Elena a boys-will-be-boys glance.

‘I’m the office manager of a Cuban-Italian joint venture,’ the short man began, pleased by the Canadian’s curiosity. ‘We import clothing, shoes, perfumes, cosmetics, kitchenware, a zillion things.’

‘Really? How many outlets do you have?’

Pablo shook his head and grinned. ‘No outlets, we only have warehouses.’

‘And where do shoppers buy these articles?’

‘Well, you see, retail trade is a state monopoly. We sell wholesale to several state-owned chains that sell retail to the public.’

Sean nodded. ‘I see. And excuse me for asking, but I’m still amazed by what Elena makes as a teacher. How much do you get paid?’

‘Three hundred and forty pesos a month.’

‘How much is that in dollars?’

‘The present rate is twenty-one pesos to the dollar. So, it’s around sixteen dollars.’

‘That’s all? No overtime, no bonus?’

‘No.’

All of a sudden, Elena roared with laughter. She covered her mouth with her right hand, but her laughter was so childlike and irrepressible that Marina and Sean exchanged an amused glance. Pablo, visibly angry, glared at his sister. The teacher made an effort to control herself, failed, but after a moment succeeded. Apparently, she was getting a glow from the mojitos.

‘Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself so much,’ said Marina, still smiling.

‘Oh, yes. It’s the drinks, you know? They loosen me up.’

‘And what do you people do for a living?’ Pablo enquired.

Marina said she was a computer programmer and Sean a mortgage broker. Neither Pablo nor Elena knew what a mortgage was, let alone a broker, and Marina spent a few minutes interpreting for Sean. When she was through, Señora Roselia announced that dinner was ready.

‘Just a second,’ Marina said as she fumbled for something in her purse. ‘Let me take a snapshot of you guys, so friends back home can see you.’

With a small but powerful Olympia she took five: one showed the siblings sitting side by side on the sofa, two had Elena standing by a wall, the fourth and fifth caught a beaming Pablo alongside a curtain. Then they all moved to the dining room.

An exquisitely crocheted white tablecloth covered the glass top of a six-seat cedar dining table where four tall candles burned in a gold-plated candelabra. The china was gold-rimmed, the cutlery in heavy silver, the goblets of fine crystal. Elena choked on a sip of water when she realized the waitresses were now topless, but Marina and Sean behaved so naturally that she tried to act blasé.

The food was good, the wine heady. Conversation threw an interesting light on what had happened to Sean that morning, the professions of all four diners, Cuban food and drinks, places of interest in Havana, and other subjects.

For the pièce de résistance the waitresses served a strong espresso wearing only dental-floss bikini bottoms and sandals. Elena was aghast, Sean remained unimpressed, making Pablo feel let down. Were Canadians as cold as their country or was this guy gay? He suspected that Marina was a victim of sexual starvation. Then, as if to confirm this impression, Roselia came out from the swinging door to the kitchen and Marina, tongue in cheek, asked her whether she and Elena wouldn’t get to see the chef in his briefs. The teacher giggled and Sean asked for a translation, following which he chuckled throatily; Pablo’s grin seemed forced. The proprietress countered by saying she felt sure the ladies wouldn’t find a five-foot-six, forty-nine-year-old, 265-pound pansy in boxer shorts attractive. More silly laughter ensued.

‘Would you like something else?’ Sean asked of nobody in particular when only smiles remained.

Heads were shaken. ‘Then could you bring me the bill, please?’ the Canadian asked of Roselia.

The bill read eighty-five dollars. Sean gave a ten-dollar tip to each waitress and they all returned to the living room, where a liqueur was served. Elena, to all appearances a little woozy, declined.

‘Well, where would you like to go next?’ Pablo asked. ‘We can catch the show at Tropicana or at the Havana Café, go to a nightclub, maybe visit a santero, have him throw the shells for you.’

Marina looked at Sean, who pulled down the corners of his mouth and lifted his eyebrows to reveal his hesitancy. Then she turned to Elena. ‘What do you suggest, Elena?’

‘I…wouldn’t know. I seldom go out. Pablo is the expert. But whatever you decide, I ask you to excuse me. I’m feeling a little queasy.’

‘What’s the matter?’ Marina asked, a touch of concern in her tone.

‘I’m afraid I had too much to drink. You can drop me off at home, then go wherever you feel like. I’m sorry, Marina.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ Marina said before translating for Sean.

An uncomfortable silence followed. ‘You know what?’ Sean said. ‘We have an early flight. So what about calling it a night?’

Pablo filed away the grin he’d been flashing. He was hoping for one of the best nightclubs, Chivas Regal, an exquisite Cohiba Lancero, ten statuesque mulatas in dental-floss bikinis wiggling their asses to salsa music.

‘Oh, no. Don’t let me spoil your evening,’ Elena objected, her words sounding a little slurred. She was clearly embarrassed.

‘You’re right, darling.’ Marina addressed Sean, disinclined to endure the company of Pablo without the neutralizing influence of his sister. ‘Would you mind if we take a rain check on the rest of the evening, Pablo?’

‘Suit yourself. My only regret is that my sister is to blame for it,’ grunted the short man, glad of the opportunity to express his reproach.

‘I’m not feeling well, okay?’ Elena retorted.

‘It’s not her fault, Pablo. Can we leave now?’

‘If you can find your way back to my place, I think I’ll stay here for a little while,’ Pablo said, eyeing the black waitress, who stood by the swinging door to the kitchen, between Roselia and the blonde woman. She beamed and winked at him.

‘Cool,’ Marina said before rising. ‘Do you need help, Elena?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Elena replied, getting to her feet.

Roselia and Pablo escorted them to the car. The tourists formally thanked Elena’s brother for all his trouble, promised they would touch base the minute they came back to Havana, and assured Roselia they had had a wonderful time at her paladar. From the garage door, smiling and waving, the restaurateur and Pablo watched the car speed away. The same old man closed the gate and marched tiredly into the garage.

Nearly half an hour later, as she drove along Fifth Avenue heading east, Marina stole a glance at her escort in the passenger seat. Not a word had been said since they left Elena at her apartment, making sure she was all right. Sean appeared to be deep in thought, nibbling at his lower lip, indifferent to the vehicles ahead, the deserted sidewalks, the moonlight and tail lights playing across the artful horticulture on the wide central walkway. She returned her eyes to the road, then took a deep breath before entering a tunnel under a river.

At Malecón and the base of Línea Avenue she took O Street and two blocks along turned into the entrance of the Hotel Nacional. They left the rental in the parking lot and ambled over to the lobby. Sean approached the swinging doors giving access to a roofed porch and a courtyard, pulling one open for his companion to go through. A pleasant breeze caressed Marina delicately. She would have loved to be lulled into sleep by it, lounging around in one of the cast-iron cushioned armchairs in the wide U-shaped porch, but she was well aware that Sean was eager to discuss the day’s events.

Holding her hand, Sean steered her around a tiled Moorish fountain. A long-haired guitarist gently strummed his instrument for a group sitting on limestone benches in the courtyard. They traversed an expanse of lawn and shade trees under the gaze of people chatting, drinking, and having a good time beneath the wide portals. Some thought them middle-aged honeymooners; her second probably, his third maybe. They came to a halt by the edge of a small cliff. Despite empty wooden benches to their right, they remained standing.

Two mammoth coast artillery pieces, remnants of what had been a Spanish gun emplacement until 1898, still aimed at where their last target – the USS Montgomery – had sailed 102 years earlier. Marina took in the serene vastness of the Florida Straits, the tiny lights from fishermen’s small boats on the water, the star-sprinkled sky. She realized that all man-made objects – Morro Castle and its lighthouse, the streetlamps extending along the coastline like a string of giant pearls as far as the eye could see, the sea wall, the buildings and cars – seemed insignificant when compared to the works of Nature.

She freed her hand from Sean’s to scratch her nose. ‘The original soap dishes are still there. And the toilet-paper holder,’ she said.

‘Tell me something I don’t know. You wouldn’t have looked so elated when you came out of the bathroom, would you?’

‘I guess not.’

Silence presided for a few moments.

‘She said the building was completed in 1957.’

Sean stared at her, apparently satisfied. ‘You know, you’re a much better actress than I assumed. You were pretty slick this evening.’

‘Thanks.’

Another, shorter pause.

‘Sean?’

‘Yes.’

‘The job’s done. It’s been done right, far as I can tell. We’ve found out all we needed to know. I’ve given it my best shot; as have you. So maybe I can ask you a question, okay?’

Sean locked gazes with Marina. She didn’t like his suppressed smile, the twinkle in his eyes. ‘Okay.’

‘You said, “Don’t take anything for granted, don’t talk about our business in the rental and the hotel room; there may be hidden cameras and bugging devices.” Well, I very much doubt these people want to, or can, get on tape every couple that comes here to spend a week, but since you were calling the shots I followed instructions. What really pisses me off is this driving around like frigging tourists, buying souvenirs, playing out this ludicrous honeymoon act, pawing each other in public. Why? Who’s going to suspect us? Why the fuck should anyone suspect us? We’ve been here for a week and haven’t even driven through a red light, for Christ’s sake! In this bankrupt banana republic the tourist is king.’

His gaze lost in the dark sea, Sean nodded. ‘So, you think I’ve been overcautious?’

‘Well, to be honest, yes, I do.’

‘Okay, you’re entitled to your opinion. I won’t argue with you. The important thing is you did as you were told. Let’s move on. Tell me what you think of these guys.’

Marina clenched her jaw, annoyed that her concerns had been dismissed so lightly, but her tone remained controlled. ‘The freak’s a complete bastard. Never loses an opportunity to embarrass and belittle his own sister. It’s appalling how he looks down on her!’

Sean nodded, paused, then added, his gaze abstractedly scanning the blue-black horizon, ‘But she’s used to it.’

Marina glanced at the monument to the victims of the battleship Maine. To its left, right in front of the US Interests Section, stood the recently completed square where the rallies for the return of Elián González took place. ‘Elena seems pretty decent, don’t you think? A reasonable person, not difficult at all,’ she said.

‘I agree,’ Sean said, and let a few seconds slip by. Then, as an afterthought: ‘But he believes himself to be the smartest, smoothest, most manipulative con-artist on earth. That’s probably why Elena hates his guts. And why we should expect trouble from him.’

‘Such intense hostility,’ Marina observed. ‘There’s a lot of bad blood between those two.’

‘And he’s on coke.’

Marina turned to stare at Sean. ‘How can you tell?’

‘I can tell.’

She faced the sea again. ‘What did you make of Elena sniggering when her brother said he made sixteen dollars a month?’

‘That he’s making a lot more than that.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I figured too.’

‘But for some reason he didn’t want us to know. And she’s so ethical she didn’t squeal on a sonofabitch who humiliates her on a daily basis for the fun of it.’

They fell silent. Marina looked across the wide avenue at the metre-high sea wall extending miles into the distance. On it, keeping respectful distances from each other, fishermen held lines. The lighthouse beam swept across the sea with the same boring exactitude of all beacons.

‘He certainly doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would take his cut quietly and count his blessings,’ she said, more to herself than to her companion.

Sean released the promise of a smile, shifted his gaze from a speeding car. ‘Lady, the word insidious was coined for guys like him.’ And pointing with his chin towards the ocean, he added, ‘He would drown his own mother right there to grab it all.’

‘What about her? Would she agree to split it?’

‘I don’t know. That woman is…’ he paused, searching for the right word.

‘Unpredictable?’ she prompted.

‘No. Not at all. But I can’t predict how she would react to our proposition. We don’t know her views on a million things. She’s…weird, difficult to pigeonhole. Special needs teacher. What kind of a fucking profession is that? Makes me suspect she’s one of those principled, nose-in-the-air spinsters. Know what I mean? Living with her brother, no husband, no kids.’

‘Maybe she married and divorced.’

‘Why didn’t you ask her?’

‘Didn’t want to give the impression I was prying.’

‘Maybe you did right.’

Marina lowered her eyes to the grass and studied the straps of her sandals. ‘He said they’ve lived there all their lives. How old would you say she is?’

‘Late thirties?’ Sean surmised.

‘Yeah, something like that, certainly not older than forty. And the freak?’

‘I’d say thirty-five, thirty-six. He was fascinated by your thighs this morning.’

‘I noticed. Horny little rat can’t keep his hands off women. You saw how he eyed the black waitress? She probably pukes after having sex with him.’

‘You never know. Maybe he’s seven feet tall in bed.’

The only indication of her surprise was a raised eyebrow. The kind of comment you don’t expect from a man. So true, though: You never know. She remembered a shy, unassuming, scrawny and slightly cross-eyed guy who had led her to the heights of pleasure. Only one of the few hunks she had bedded had taken her there, and he was blind. She wondered whether behind the amazing remark lurked a phenomenal lover or a bit of a philosopher.

‘Doesn’t look it to me,’ she said. ‘What will we do with him?’

‘Do with him?’

‘You said we should expect trouble from him.’

‘Sure. But is there something we can do?’

Marina considered it. ‘Forget it.’

‘Fine.’

Sean seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. Then he raised his eyes to the hotel’s top floors. ‘I’ll rest my arm on your shoulders now, you circle my waist. Let’s go and have a nightcap.’

They sauntered back to the portals and plopped down on a sofa. A waiter learned that Sean felt like Black Label on the rocks; Marina remained faithful to the local taste by ordering a mojito. Forty or fifty people relaxed on couches and armchairs, laughed at jokes, seemed to be enjoying themselves. Once their drinks arrived and they had taken a sip, a tall overweight man sitting alone to their left pulled himself up and marched to the restroom.

‘Excuse me, honey, I’ve got to take a leak,’ Sean said and rose.

Marina wanted to say ‘Me too’ but decided to wait until her escort returned.

Sean unzipped his fly facing the urinal next to the one in which the tall overweight man was relieving himself. He was sure the attendant standing by the door was out of earshot. ‘The short, bald guy lives there. He speaks a little English and is a money-grabbing bastard on coke,’ he said.

Without so much as a nod, the tall overweight man shook his penis, buttoned up, and washed his hands in a sink. The attendant handed him paper towels. Before leaving the restroom the man dropped a quarter into the inescapable dish for tips by the doorway. In a slightly expansive mood, Sean left a dollar.

The following morning, at a quarter to nine, just as Marina and Sean hopped on a DC-10 bound for Toronto from Havana Airport’s Terminal 3, the tall overweight man left the church of Santa Rita de Casia through the side entrance that faces 26th. He crossed the street and, holding his hands behind his back, head tilted backwards, stared at the ficus trees in the Parque de la Quinta. He appeared to be in his forties and had the powerful forearms and wrists of a dock worker. His brown eyes were lively, his thick moustache coffee-coloured, his lips full. After a few minutes circling the trees in awestruck contemplation, the hulking man slid behind the wheel of a black Hyundai and sped away.

The gardener and the sweeper who tended the park became intrigued when the fat man repeated the same routine two days in a row. Their curiosity, however, was not stirred by his arriving before eight and going into the church the minute it opened its doors. Several Cuban Catholics did the same and, occasionally, curious visitors explored the interior of the small modern church. Some diplomats and executives of foreign companies – accompanied by their wives and children – also attended Mass on Sundays. What was strange about the tall overweight man was his fixation with the ficus. The park attendants were accustomed to seeing tourists stop by, but few returned, and those that did usually came back to show the mammoth trees to some other traveller. They wondered whether this guy was a botanist or an ecology freak.

The labourers would have been even more puzzled had they seen the tall overweight man in the church. He invariably sat in the same pew, one from where he could keep an eye on 26th, paid no attention to the act of worship, didn’t kneel or pretend to pray. His behaviour had drawn the attention of an overly anti-communist layman who reported to the parish priest that a State Security official was using his church to stake someone out.

On the morning of Tuesday, 30 May, as he rounded the trunk of the ficus nearest to the bust of General Prado, the tall overweight man spotted a bald short guy in a white guayabera leaving the light-grey apartment building that faced on to the park and darting down Third A toward 26th. Strolling leisurely, his eyes on the tree, the stalker returned to the sidewalk, and waited until his prey was within a couple of yards.

‘You speak English?’ he asked with a pleasant smile.

‘Sure,’ Pablo responded, trying to look intelligent and knowledgeable. He had always envied huge men and this bull-necked guy was at least six foot five, weighing over 250 pounds.

‘Thank heaven. You know the name of these trees?’ the man asked, with a sweep of the hand that included all the ficus in the park.

‘Ficus.’

‘What?’

‘Ficus.’

‘Can you spell it out for me?’

Pablo said ‘F’ and paused. One of his frequent, inexplicable confusions in English was to pronounce the ‘i’ as an ‘e’ and vice versa. He produced a small notebook and a ballpoint from a pocket of his guayabera, wrote down the name, then tore out the page.

‘Well, thanks,’ the tall overweight man said as he took it. Then, staring at the five letters, he added: ‘Most amazing trees I’ve seen in this country.’

‘Is that so?’ Pablo was taking in the stranger, his mental wheels turning fast. The big bastard wore a navy-blue polo shirt, khaki shorts, white cotton socks, and sneakers.

‘I hadn’t been able to learn their name. Not many people here speak English.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And what’s the name of this park?’

‘Parque de la Quinta.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Well…’ Pablo scratched his bald head, looked around, then shrugged his shoulders as if picking his brain for the right translation. ‘Quinta in Spanish is…like a country house, know what I’m saying? Like a villa.’

‘So, it’s the Park of the Country House.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, thanks for the information,’ the big man said. ‘Wait a minute,’ he added, fishing for his wallet and producing a twenty-dollar bill. ‘Here you are. Thanks.’

Pablo pounced on the bill thinking it was a fiver. When he saw the Jackson portrait he was dumbfounded. Twenty bucks for the name of a tree and a park? What would this huge asshole fork out for being taken around town?

‘Well, sir, this is very…’ Pablo groped for ‘generous’ unsuccessfully as he thrust the bill into a pants pocket ‘…very good of you. If I can help…in any other way…?’

His eyes on Pablo, head cocked, a budding grin on his lips, the tourist seemed to ponder the offer.

‘Maybe you could. This is my first trip here, I don’t know my way around, and I was hoping for a good time, catch my drift?’

Pablo grinned. ‘You mean fun, girls?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

‘I think…no, I thought so. But now, it’s morning. In the mornings, beautiful girls sleep. In the evenings they have fun. We meet in the evening, I take you to the most beautiful girls in Havana.’

A bunch of lies, the big guy figured. ‘Tell you what. You take me to the most beautiful girls in Havana, I’ll pay you a hundred bucks. You take me to the most beautiful girl in Havana, I’ll pay you two hundred. How’s that?’

‘That’s excellent, Mr…?’

‘Splittoesser.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Just call me John.’

‘Okay, John. So, where do we meet?’

‘Let’s see…’ John pretended to reflect. ‘There’s this bar-restaurant where I had dinner last night, La Zaragua…something.’

‘Spanish food? In Old Havana?’

‘That’s it.’

‘La Zaragozana.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘John, I’ve been to all the right places in Havana.’

The tall overweight man considered this for a moment. ‘Swell. At eight then?’ he said.

‘Eight’s fine with me.’

‘Can I drop you somewhere?’ John asked.

‘No, thanks. My office is right across the street.’

‘See you then,’ John said and extended his right hand. Pablo’s hand got lost in the man’s paw. The Cuban marched along, occasionally craning his neck, watching the tourist unlock his car. John waved him good-bye; Pablo did the same before crossing Fifth Avenue. Is this a lucky break or is this a lucky break? he was thinking.

John Splittoesser spent the afternoon completing the reconnaissance he had initiated three evenings earlier, driving around Santa Maria del Mar and Guanabo, two adjoining beach resorts fifteen miles to the east of Havana.

After dinner at La Zaragozana, Pablo suggested a leisurely stroll into Old Havana. Leaving the rental in the custody of the restaurant’s parking valet, they took Obispo, a street turned pedestrian mall. Passers-by stared at the strange pair: some recalled Twins, the movie starring Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

The temperature had dropped considerably as a consequence of a late-afternoon heavy shower. Lighting from the shop windows of well-stocked, dollars-only stores reflected on the wet asphalt. Insubstantial dialogue from a Brazilian soap opera and various pop songs blared out from radios, CD players, and television sets, producing an ear-splitting cacophony.

There were policemen on every corner, most of them alert young men fresh from the countryside, still in awe of city slickers: the pickpockets, whores, pimps, drag queens, sodomites, shoplifters, drug pushers, and black marketeers that trained eyes can detect along the Havana tourist trail.

A handful of veteran cops in their thirties could also be spotted. With bored expressions and cynical grins they whispered advice to the rookies. Guys who have stayed in the force and the neighbourhood long enough to know who they can let get away with petty crime because he or she won’t mug a tourist, deal coke, or hold up a truck delivering products from the warehouse. Cops who survive by recognizing the limit of permissible corruption: yes to a three-dollar sandwich, no to a one-dollar bill; yes to a hooker’s free ride, no to a pair of jeans presented by her pimp; yes to a packet of cigarettes, no to a box of fake Cohibas.

Pablo and John turned left on to Havana Street and after three blocks took a right on to the seedier Emped-rado Street. Watching them walk side by side, two candidates for the priesthood returning to the San Carlos and San Ambrosio Seminary were reminded of the David and Goliath story. A dark-skinned black youngster and a white teenager, both insufficiently versed in the Old Testament, approached the strange pair.

‘Mister, mister, cigars, guitars, girls…’ they accosted John in English.

‘I’m with him,’ Pablo said in Spanish, glaring at them.

They weren’t impressed by the news and ignored the short man with the stumpy ponytail. ‘Girls, beautiful. Cohibas, forty dollars. Fine guitars, eighty dollars.’

‘No,’ said John.

‘Coke? Marijuana?’

‘No.’

‘I’m taking him to Angelito’s,’ said Pablo, again in Spanish, trying to act nonchalant.

That stopped the hustlers cold. Apparently miffed, they turned their backs and disappeared into a doorway. John stared at the narrowest sidewalk he had seen in his life; not more than twenty inches wide.

‘Now, look up, at the…balcón? You say balcón in English?’

John frowned in incomprehension.

‘The balcón of the house on the next corner,’ Pablo said, extending his arm and pointing.

Four young women leaned on the wooden railing of a wrought-iron balcony projecting from the top floor of a two-storey house built in the 1850s. Light from a nearby streetlamp made it possible to see that two of the whores sported shorts, a third had a miniskirt on, the fourth a French-cut bikini bottom. All wore halter-neck tops and from their necks hung chains and medals. Gazing down at the street below, they were sharing a laugh prompted by an amusing comment made by the one in the miniskirt.

‘Interested?’ Pablo asked.

‘Let’s take a closer look.’

They climbed a marble stairway with handrails in the same material. On the way up Pablo said this place was La Casa de Angelito, Angelito’s house, according to his translation. Greeted warmly on the landing by a white, effeminate bodybuilder in green Lycra shorts and a pink tank top, they were showed into a dim living room with four loveseats, a CD player, a minibar, and side tables for drinks and ashtrays. Three French windows opened on to the balcony where the women remained, unaware that potential clients had arrived. The body-sculpting fanatic clapped his hands and ordered, ‘Girls, saloon.’

One of the hookers upstaged the others completely, John realized. She belonged to the precious few women from all walks of life who try to de-emphasize their devastating sex appeal and fail miserably. The blessing or curse of her breed – depending on the final outcome – is as indefinable as inexorable; impossible to disguise or accentuate with clothing, jewellery or perfumes. A gorgeous American actress worth maybe a hundred million who had the seductiveness of a refrigerator sprang to mind. And here in Havana, in a tumbledown whorehouse, he was facing a two-bit hooker capable of driving tycoons and presidents and kings nuts, and him too, truth be told.

No older than twenty, she had a lovely face framed by long chestnut-coloured hair. Something of a child’s sweetness and innocence survived in her dark pupils and gentle smile. Her naked body had to be a sight for sore eyes, he was sure, and he felt tempted to ask her to undress and pace up and down the living room until he remembered that he had an assignment to carry out.

‘Is this the best you can do?’ he asked Pablo, apparently unimpressed.

The Cuban was taken aback. ‘You don’t like?’

‘Can we shop around some more?’

Pablo marched John to Marinita, three blocks east, where they had a beer; then to Tongolele, five blocks south. Everywhere the short bald Cuban was greeted with affection. John noticed his guide was somewhat hyped up when they left Tongolele. The next stop was La Reina del Ganado, in San Isidro, translated by Pablo as ‘The Queen of Cattle’. The tourist learned that the name was derived from a Brazilian soap opera, El rey del ganado – ‘The King of Cattle’ – whose main character owned hundreds of thousands of cattle. The brothel proprietress’s herd, comprising some twenty women, were displayed posing naked in a snapshot album. She only showed it to foreigners who were not attracted to any of those immediately available at her house. John peered at each photograph, carefully considered three promising candidates, finished a Cuba Libre, then turned to Pablo.

‘Tell you what. This guy at the hotel gave me an address in Guanabo, claims there are fine chicks there. Let’s go get the car and drive over. If I don’t find a broad I really like, we’ll come back to the first place you took me to and I’ll settle for the brunette.’

Pablo didn’t like the idea, but he had decided to humour John all the way. He found it strange that after exiting the tunnel under Havana Bay, John didn’t ask for directions. Well, maybe he had been to the beach on his own, the Cuban figured. The tourist remained silent, eyes on the road, observing the 100-kilometre speed limit, air conditioner on, windows closed.

The Cuban didn’t feel like making small talk either. He had been very upbeat all day at the office, overjoyed at the prospect of making in one night what many Cubans don’t earn in a year of hard work. He had even sniffed a line at Tongolele’s and bought four more fixes in premature celebration. But now he was feeling uptight. Pablo admitted to himself that the motherfucker was hard to please; he could kiss one of the two Cs good-bye.

What if the bastard found a woman to his taste in Guanabo? Then he wouldn’t make a penny, since it wouldn’t be as a result of his procuring. But should the asshole return to Angelito’s for the brunette he had eyed so hungrily, Pablo would make a hundred for guiding the sleazeball to the girl he finally picked. He had to concoct a story the sucker might swallow. Maybe if he said that AIDS had struck down hundreds of people in Guanabo? He lit a cigarette and mulled over alternatives for most of the twenty-minute ride.

It was quarter past twelve when John took a left at the crossing of Via Blanca and 462nd, coasted down to the town’s main thoroughfare, then glided along until he confidently turned off the boulevard and, heading inland, followed a street for three blocks before taking a left, killing the lights, and pulling over.

‘This is it?’ Pablo asked in a tone brimming with curiosity, struck by the strangeness of his surroundings. To their left, behind a barbed-wire fence, the back of a huge, one-storey warehouse stretched all the way along the block. On the other side of the street several modest private houses had the wooden slats of their front windows wide open. It could be assumed the residents were most likely in bed, electric fans turning at top speed to keep mosquitoes away and fight the heat, lights off. Somewhere close a dog barked unenthusiastically. Streetlight was provided by a low-wattage bulb on an electricity pole fifty yards away.

‘Yeah, let’s go.’

Doors were opened and shut. As John was locking the car, Pablo reached the sidewalk and stood by his side.

‘Listen, John, I don’t want to worry you,’ Pablo began, sounding concerned. ‘But last year, many people here in Guanabo have…’

Pablo didn’t know what happened to him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a swift, unexpected movement and started turning his head, but an instant after John’s fist brutally hit his temple all his systems collapsed and he keeled over.

The tall overweight man looked around as if he had all the time in the world. The dog kept barking. Lifting the limp body by the armpits, John manoeuvred Pablo into a sitting position and, crouching behind him, grasped the bald man’s chin with his right hand and the back of his head with his left, then in one swift motion he yanked up and around with all his might. Cervical vertebrae snapped.

Next, kneeling by the body, John savagely bit twice into the left side of his victim’s neck. He spat in disgust several times before producing a plain envelope containing four fifty-dollar bills folded in half. With the edge of his fingernails he removed the money and tucked it into a pocket of the dead man’s pants. Finally, he freed Pablo of his cheap watch, his wallet, and his shoes.

Panting, with beads of sweat on his forehead, he stood up, dusted his knees, and scrutinized both ends of the block. The dog kept barking, insistently now, goaded by death. John unlocked the driver’s door, slid behind the wheel, dropped Pablo’s personal possessions on the passenger seat and turned the ignition. The car crept away for two blocks, its lights off, before he took a left and returned to the town’s main street. He felt the repugnance of one who has just squashed a big bug under the sole of a shoe.

Once he’d dumped the Cuban’s belongings into a sewer in Old Havana, John considered whether he could go back to Angelito’s and screw the sexy whore. But after close to a minute grabbing the wheel with both hands and pursing his lips, he shook his head, sighed resignedly, and drove to the Hotel Nacional.

2

As is often the case, the crime scene had been contaminated by the time the Guanabo police, at the crack of dawn, answered a phone call made nine minutes earlier. Nobody had touched the corpse, but the truck driver who found it on his way to work, and the relatives and neighbours to whom he excitedly announced his discovery, had got near enough to raise doubts on any footprint, fibre, or hair that could be cast or retrieved. Tyre prints on the grit alongside the kerb had also been trampled.

The Guanabo police are not equipped to deal with a homicide and rarely see one, so they confined their participation to cordoning off the area, questioning people, stationing guards, then radioing the DTI,* the LCC** and the IML,⁺ all three of which have headquarters in the Cuban capital.

At 7.11 a.m., with dawn becoming early morning and the tide starting to turn, three LCC specialists and Captain Félix Trujillo from the DTI arrived in a Lada station wagon. They listened in silence to the lieutenant waiting for them. No neighbour had heard or seen anything unusual before or after going to bed, curious onlookers had ruined the corpse’s immediate surroundings, nobody there knew the dead man.

IML experts carry out the on-site inspection of the body, take it to the morgue, gather whatever evidence is on it, perform the autopsy, and assist in the identification process of unknown persons, so the LCC people just eyed the corpse from a distance before looking around for impressions, taking photographs, and measuring distances.

The white Mercedes Benz meat wagon reached its destination at 7.49. Three men and a woman in white smocks, olive-green trousers, and lace-up black boots got out, shook hands with the cops, exchanged a few words. Captain Trujillo seemed especially delighted to see Dr Bárbara Valverde, an attractive, thirty-three-year-old, dark-skinned black pathologist. She learned from him the few known facts, then pulled out an aluminium scene case from the back of the van, opened it, passed around latex gloves and plasticized paper booties to her assistants, slipped a pair of gloves on, donned a surgical mask and booties. She closed and lifted the scene case, approached the corpse, swatted away the flies, put the case down, and crouched by it. The body lay prone, face supported on the left cheek, both arms at the sides, legs slightly bent to the right. Down the street, senior citizens gaping behind the police line frowned and murmured in confusion. A woman examining a dead man? She a necrophiliac or what? Young and middle-aged voyeurs pooh-poohed them into silence.

The first thing the pathologist noticed was the lump at the base of the neck. She ran her index and middle fingers over it, feeling the dislocated vertebrae. Then she spotted the laceration on the right temple and her fingers detected comminuted fractures of the temporal bone. There were low-velocity stains of blood on the sidewalk, under the left corner of the mouth, probably coming from split lips and teeth loosened when the head hit the cement.

‘Let’s turn him over,’ Dr Valverde said.

Rigor mortis was almost complete. She held the head in her hands while her assistants turned the body. Bills folded in half fell from a pants pocket. One of the assistants whistled. The pathologist reopened the scene case and reached for a pair of tweezers, which she used to pick up the bills and drop them into a transparent plastic evidence bag.

Dr Valverde frowned when she noticed the curvilinear bite-marks on the neck. She studied them for a while under a magnifying glass.

‘Osvaldo, get on the radio and ask Graciela to call the odontologist and tell him to come to the Institute. There are indentations to cast here.’

The tallest assistant marched to the van. The other was measuring temperature and humidity.

She inspected the lacerated temple under the magnifying glass before swabbing nostrils, mouth, and ears, and depositing each swab into evidence bags which she labelled with a marker. She swabbed the blood on the sidewalk as well, then palpated the top of the head, the rib cage, thighs, legs, and ankles before closing the scene case and rising to her feet.

‘What have we got here, Dr Valverde?’ Captain Trujillo asked. He stood a few feet from her, legs spread apart, right elbow resting on his holster, a lighted cigarette held between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. The pathologist suspected he had catnapped in his uniform: his light grey, long-sleeved shirt and blue pants showed dozens of creases and wrinkles. She admitted to herself that he was attractive in an unprepossessing, rather virile way. He tried to establish a non-professional rapport every time they worked together, but Félix was too young for her – and married, on top of everything. She lifted the case and, followed by the captain, took it back to the van, then yanked her gloves off.

‘What we’ve got here is a broken neck, a severe blow to the right temple, lacerated lips and chin, loose teeth, bite marks on the neck.’

‘Time estimate?’

‘Preliminary. Between four and eight hours.’

‘You planning on doing the autopsy immediately?’

‘Yeah. I’m on the six-to-two shift.’

‘Then I’ll drop by, or send someone later on, to collect his things and take them to the LCC. If the identity card is missing, will you have a ten-print card ready for me?’

‘Lift him up, comrades,’ Dr Valverde told her assistants. The two men slid a stretcher out from the van. She followed them with her eyes.

‘Doctor?’ said Trujillo, realizing that she hadn’t been listening.

‘Sorry, Félix.’

‘Will you have a ten-print card ready for me if the stiff wasn’t carrying his identity card?’

‘Sure.’ After a pause she added, ‘Dollar bills fell from his pocket.’

‘So I noticed.’

‘The one on top looked like a fifty.’

‘Is that so?’

‘But when I palpated him I didn’t feel a wallet. And his left wrist has a pale band, like a watch strap, but there’s no watch.’

Captain Trujillo had a crush on Dr Valverde because she had a perfect body and her face was out of this world. But she was competent and bright too, and he liked that. ‘So, your reasoning is whoever kills for a watch, a wallet, and a pair of shoes searches all the pockets.’

‘Right.’

The captain took a puff on his cigarette and mulled this over as the stretcher was slid into the van. The driver turned the ignition, the attendants stripped off their gloves.

‘I’m thinking sex, sodomy maybe,’ the pathologist added. ‘That might explain the bites. I’ll check for evidence of intercourse. But if he didn’t have sex in the last twelve hours, you’ll have a tough nut to crack: a killer who bites without sexual motivation and steals valuables but leaves cash behind. Pretty weird, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah, I guess so. See you in a while, Doc.’

‘Not before noon, Félix. Not before noon.’

The Institute of Legal Medicine, on Boyeros between Cal-zada del Cerro and 26th Street, is a two-storey prefab building hidden from view by a psychiatric clinic and big laurel trees. Before its experts located, exhumed, and identified the remains of Ché Guevara and his men in Bolivia, it claimed the dubious distinction of being the least known of Havana’s public institutions.

Back at her place of work, Dr Valverde had a buttered bun and a glass of orange juice for breakfast, followed by a cup of espresso. Next she smoked a cigarette in the hallway, standing by one of several ugly aluminium ashtrays. She dropped the butt in it before marching to the locker room to step into a gown, don sleeve protectors, shoe covers, a surgical cap, a face shield, and three pairs of latex gloves.

The autopsy suite had four tables, an efficient air-conditioning and ventilation system, and the standard paraphernalia of Stryker saws, a source lamp with a fibre-optic attachment, multiband ultraviolet lamps, surgical and magnifying lamps, pans, clamps, forceps, scalpels, sinks, hoses, and buckets. On the tiled walls, cabinets and cupboards of all sizes, plus light boxes for X-rays. A steelworker would define it as a stainless steel palace, a chemist as the kingdom of formaldehyde, a pathologist as a place to make a living. This last definition is a troubling one for most people.

The body was on a gurney to the right side of table number three. Dr Valverde’s two assistants sat on the autopsy table, legs dangling, face shields lifted to avoid fogging them up while commenting on last night’s baseball game at the Latin American Stadium. On table number one, another team was doing a twenty-five-year-old woman who had died at home, possibly from a heart attack. Osvaldo handed Dr Valverde a mike which she clipped to her gown. René pressed the record button.

The assistants lifted the body on to the autopsy table as the pathologist steadied the gurney; next they broke the rigor mortis in the arms and legs. Hair and substances under the fingernails were collected first. The cadaver was then undressed and the pockets searched. Four cocaine fixes, a key ring with five keys, a half-full packet of cigarettes, a lighter, a handkerchief, and nine coins, were found and put into evidence bags. After dipping the dead man’s hands in a pan of warm water for a few minutes, Osvaldo dried them, then inked each finger, rolled them on to a ten-print card. All the evidence that had to be transferred to the Central Laboratory of Criminology was ready.

The body was measured and weighed, its temperature taken. René photographed the neck, temple, and bite-marks – with Osvaldo holding a ruler as a scale – as Dr Valverde inspected the injuries again, this time under a fluorescent magnifying lamp. The odontologist, a short, bearded man, arrived. He joked for a couple of minutes before taking the bite impressions.

When he was done, the pathologist carefully checked and swabbed the cadaver’s knees, elbows, the underside of the arms, penis, and testicles. She had it turned over and examined the back, buttocks, and anus, then swabbed the rectum for seminal fluid. Dr Valverde put on tinted glasses, ordered the lights turned off, and used the fibre-optic attachment of the source lamp to look for the fluorescence which semen, blood, saliva and urine display under the high-intensity beam.

An hour and a half had passed. Without a word, Dr Valverde unclipped the mike. René stopped the recorder and the team moved to a corner. Once they had yanked off their third pair of gloves they had a smoke while discussing the postmortem’s next stage. It was agreed that little of it would bear any relation to the cause of death, but it had to be done anyhow.

Seven minutes later, again wearing the mike, the pathologist ran her scalpel from the clavicles to the sternum, down to the pelvis, then removed the breastplate of ribs.

After thirty minutes of work the major organs had been extracted. All were within normal limits. The dead man’s lungs revealed that he had been a heavy smoker. Half-digested beef, plantains, rice, and red beans were identified in the stomach. Dr Valverde adjusted a surgical lamp to stare at the fractured vertebrae and the injured spinal cord. She sighed, asked for the Stryker saw to start working on the skull, then decided against it. An X-ray of the right temporal bone would be enough. The job was completed three hours and ten minutes after it began, as René tied a tag which said ‘Unknown man 4, 2000’ to the cadaver’s toe prior to wheeling him to a sliding drawer in the cold room.

Dr Valverde showered and changed in the locker room, then hurried to the nearly deserted cafeteria to have lunch. The menu for the day was rice, scrambled eggs, sweet potato, and boiled string beans. She chose one of the empty Formica-topped tables, pulled back a chair, sank on to it feeling tired. Then she spotted Captain Trujillo at the doorway, craning his neck in search of her. She waved at him. He came over.

‘You had lunch?’ she asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘Want to?’

Hesitatingly. ‘Can I? I assumed this was for IML people only.’

‘It is, but let’s see.’

She talked to the man in charge, Trujillo shelled out fifty cents, then advanced to the food counter. Dr Valverde was halfway through her lunch when he deposited his plastic tray on the table and shoved back the chair facing her.

‘Hey, thanks for speaking on my behalf. I’m famished,’ he said.

‘Least I could do. This is going begging anyway.’

‘Well, yeah, but something is better than nothing. When I get back to my mess hall there might be nothing left.’

‘Enjoy it then.’

Trujillo gobbled his food and they finished simultaneously. After leaving the two dirty trays and the cutlery by a serving hatch near the food counter, the captain joined the pathologist. She had been waiting for him on a granite bench in the hallway. She extended her packet of Populares, he reached for one, then clicked his lighter for her. Both inhaled deeply.

‘No ID, no sexual intercourse, was killed around midnight,’ she reported.

Trujillo tilted his head. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘What appears to be four fixes of cocaine,’ she replied between gusts of smoke.

Trujillo frowned and they smoked in silence for a minute or two. In the last seventy-two hours he had slept twelve, hadn’t had a change of clothes for the last two days, had been reprimanded by the colonel for skipping the last three Party-cell meetings, and was therefore in no mood to get involved in a complicated murder case. And he knew better than to suggest to Major Pena to pass the buck to someone else. The homicide had been reported during his shift, exactly thirty-seven minutes before he was to go off duty. Just his luck. If only it had been a crime of passion! One of those open-and-shut cases where the killer is found sobbing by the body, hanging by the neck in the vicinity, or hiding at his or her parents’.

‘Well, Doc, I’ll collect the ten-print and his things now, take them to the LCC. Please send the autopsy report as soon as possible.’

‘Sure. I don’t envy you, Captain. This is a tricky one.’

‘As if I didn’t know. Thanks for everything. Changing the subject, I’m stressed out, you’re probably stressed out too, would you…catch a movie or have dinner with me one of these nights?’

The pathologist gave him a disapproving look. ‘Felix, are you coming on to me? What’s the matter with you guys?’

‘Take it easy. I just thought you might want to. Somebody said you’re divorced. Aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am. But you’re not. Give me a break, will you, Félix?’

Trujillo inclined his head and blushed slightly. How had she found out he was married? ‘Okay. I’m sorry. I apologize. Are you mad at me?’

‘No, I’m not. Got to make my watch report. Take care.’

At a quarter past two the inked fingerprint card was optically read by the LCC computer. The key features of the general pattern and local details provided a listing of candidates, ranked by a comparison algorithm. Online, the fingerprint examiner asked for seventy-two cards from the national registry and started the long screening process. At 7.50 p.m. he lifted his phone, dialled the DTI switchboard’s number, and asked for Trujillo. He had to wait six minutes while the captain left his bed in the communal dormitory for senior officers, relieved himself, splashed water on his face and, feeling reasonably alert at last, ambled to the phone on the duty officer’s desk.

‘Captain Trujillo, at your service.’

‘This is Captain Lorffe, from Fingerprints, LCC.’

‘Yes?’

‘You have a pen and paper?’

‘Just a minute.’

Trujillo searched his shirt pockets. He found a two-by-three-inch bus ticket and a ballpoint.

‘Okay.’

‘Pablo Carlos Miranda Garcés,’ Captain Lorffe dictated slowly. ‘A Cuban citizen. Born 17 August 1965, in Havana. The address on his identity record is 2406 Third A, between 24th and 26th Streets, Miramar, Playa.’

Trujillo copied everything down, then confirmed he’d got it right. ‘Okay. Thanks. Now, Captain, I mean no disrespect, but that ten-print was taken from a cadaver. I’ve got to notify the relatives. Any chance of mistaken identity?’

Trujillo heard Lorffe sigh. ‘The card I’ve got has the prints of Pablo Carlos Miranda Garcés. There are more corresponding simple ridge characteristics than I’ve got hairs on my head. Now, if someone at the Identity Card office in Playa fucked up and misfiled this guy’s original impressions; if you left the IML card on your desk and somebody changed it; if someone…’

‘I hope nothing like that happened,’ Trujillo cut in. ‘Thanks a lot, comrade.’

Back in the dormitory, the DTI captain grabbed his briefcase, pocketed the key ring found on the corpse, had supper in the mess hall, then asked for a Lada from the car pool, got a Ural Russian motorcycle with sidecar, and rode to Miramar. First he questioned the man in charge of surveillance in the CDR.* José Kuan lived around the block from Pablo Miranda, on 26th between Third and Third A.

Kuan was the son of Chinese immigrants and appeared to be in his late thirties, so Trujillo estimated he was probably in his early fifties. He had moved to the neighbourhood in 1992, to a third-floor apartment with his wife and two boys, both under ten, and was assistant manager at a state-owned enterprise that marketed handcrafts. Kuan’s children were watching TV in the living room, so he walked Trujillo to the couple’s bedroom. His wife brought the captain a cup of espresso which he accepted gratefully. Then she retired to the kitchen to do the dishes.

Yes, a man named Pablo Carlos Miranda Garcés lived around the block, Kuan admitted; he knew the guy: he was short, bald, worked at a joint venture two blocks away. Trujillo wrote down the name and address of the firm in his diary. No, he hadn’t seen him in the last few days. No, he wasn’t married, far as he could tell; lived with his sister. No, she wasn’t married either. Nobody else lived there.

Trujillo asked to see the Register of Addresses. Kuan opened a closet and produced an 81/2 x 13” file, with a page for each household in the area covered by the CDR. The one corresponding to the dead man’s apartment also had the name Elena Miranda Garcés inscribed, and gave the woman’s date of birth as 19 September 1962. The name Gladys Garcés Benítez, born in 1938, had been crossed off in red ink in 1987 just after she moved to Zulueta, Villa Clara. Her surname was identical to the siblings’ second surname. If she was still alive, Trujillo calculated, their mother would be sixty-two now.

‘What can you tell me about this Pablo Miranda?’ Trujillo asked once he’d finished jotting down names and ages.

The man fidgeted with the pages of the Register, his eyes evading the cop’s, pulling down the corners of his mouth. After eleven years in the force, Trujillo had seen this body language time and time again. Men and women who don’t want to rat on neighbours, stumped for a reply. Then why do they accept the position? he used to ask himself when he was a rookie. Now he knew the answer: it was for fear that declining might be considered a disinclination to fulfil revolutionary duties, something with adverse implications.

‘Well, actually I don’t know him very well, you know. He doesn’t mix much with the neighbourhood crowd. I guess he works a lot.’

‘You know the kind of company he keeps? People he goes out with?’

‘No. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.’

‘Does he have a car?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Goes out a lot?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘What about his sister?’

Relief spread across the man’s face. ‘She’s a very nice person.’

‘Different from her brother?’

‘No, no, that’s not what I meant.’ He looked flustered.

‘But she is sweet. Always polite, gentle, and beautiful, too.’

Trujillo nodded and repressed a smile. Was the man attracted to the sister? Well, he had a very pretty mulata all for himself. What more could a man hope for? Then he remembered that human aspirations are unlimited.

‘Well, Comrade Kuan, there’s something I should tell you. Pablo Miranda was found dead this morning in Guanabo.’

The news left the man speechless.

‘I have to notify his sister now and conduct a search of his apartment. As you know, witnesses from the CDR must be present. I need you to come with me, please. The president too, if possible.’

The President of the CDR, Zoila Pérez – a.k.a. ‘Day-and-Night’, after a TV series sponsored by the Ministry of Interior – was a fifty-eight-year-old bookstore saleswoman who had moved to the dead man’s building in 1988; she lived on the second-floor, front apartment. Zoila had earned her sobriquet and the position of CDR president in 1990, when she began trying to persuade neighbours that an American invasion was imminent. She never missed her citizen’s watch and was always willing to stand in for sick (or allegedly sick, or sick and tired) cederistas.

To Zoila, every stranger was a suspect, especially at night, and she would report enemy activity at the drop of a hat. In her wild imagination, couples necking in the Parque de la Quinta were transformed into pairs of camouflaged soldiers from the expeditionary force’s van-guard, so no less than two or three nights a week she picked up her phone and called the nearest police precinct. Desk sergeants familiar with her paranoia thanked her politely, hung up, then chuckled before bellowing to other cops in the squad room: ‘Hey, guys, that was Day-and-Night. Chick giving her boyfriend a handjob in the park is a marine getting ready to open mortar fire on her apartment building.’

But now, having learned what happened to Pablo, she was wringing her hands in desperation when Trujillo pressed the buzzer of Elena Miranda’s apartment. It was the kind of news Zoila hated, made her freak out. A full-scale imaginary invasion she could live with; the real murder of a neighbour was too unnerving. She wanted to walk away but knew she couldn’t.

Nearly a minute later, Elena opened the door in a robe and thongs. Wow, Trujillo thought. She processed the visual information instantly: a pained expression on Zoila’s face, an embarrassed Kuan, a poker-faced police officer. Bad news, she discerned. Skipping all the formalities, she asked, ‘What happened?’

‘Elena, this is Captain Trujillo, from the Department of Technical Investigations of the police,’ Zoila said.

‘What’s the problem, Captain?’

‘Can we come in, Comrade Elena?’ Trujillo, trying to sound casual, flashed his ID.

‘Sure, excuse me, come right in. Have a seat.’

Elena eased herself on to the edge of a club chair, Trujillo sat across from her, Kuan and Zoila on the Chesterfield.

‘I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Comrade Elena,’ Trujillo began. ‘Your brother, Pablo, was found dead this morning.’

Elena felt a shiver down her spine, a numbness, a sense of loss. Shock, for the third time in my life. Locking eyes with the police officer, she nodded reflectively, pursed her lips, interlaced her fingers on her lap, swallowed hard. ‘An accident?’ she wanted to know.

‘We’re not sure yet. He died from a broken neck and a head injury. He may have taken a fall, or he may have been murdered.’

‘You’re sure it’s my brother?’ She sounded unnerved.

‘We’re positive, comrade.’

‘Can I see him?’

‘Actually, if you are his only relative in Havana, you must identify him. His body is at the IML. Tomorrow morning…’

‘Where?’

‘The morgue. You can go there tomorrow morning. At eight. It’s on Boyeros and the Luminous Fountain. Are you his only relative?’

‘In Havana, yes. There’s our mother…and father.’

‘Can you notify them?’

‘Well, I can call my mother, but my father is in prison.’

To conceal his surprise, Trujillo unclasped his briefcase, opened his diary, drew out his ballpoint. Next he cast a baleful eye at the informers, but they were staring at Elena as if it were news to them too. Both had moved to the neighbourhood years after Elena’s father was sentenced and nobody had bothered to tell them the story.

‘Tell me his name and where he’s serving time. Maybe I can get him a special pass to attend the wake and the funeral.’

‘His name is Manuel Miranda and he is at Tinguaro.’

Trujillo took his time writing the three words. Tingu-aro was a small, special prison fifteen kilometres to the south of Havana for those who had occupied high-ranking positions in the Cuban party, government, or armed forces before having to serve time for some non-political crime. Men deserving special consideration because they had won battles, done heroic deeds, followed orders to the letter, been willing to die for the Revolution. Yes, the name Manuel Miranda definitely rang a tiny bell at the back of his mind.

‘I’ll see what I can do, comrade. Now, I’m conducting an investigation and as part of it I need to examine your brother’s personal belongings. His papers, clothing, anything that can shed light on what happened to him. Comrades Kuan and Zoila are here as witnesses. We would appreciate it if you could take us to his bedroom and any other room where he kept his things…’

Elena was shaking her head emphatically, two tears sliding down her cheeks. ‘I don’t have the key to his bedroom. We…well, Captain, he put a lock on the door to his room. I don’t have the key to it.’

Trujillo produced Pablo’s key ring. ‘Do you recognize this?’

Elena nodded. The last shadow of a doubt evaporated in her mind.

‘It was found in a pocket.’

‘Come with me, please.’

When Elena switched on the light, the visitors saw that Pablo’s bedroom was a mess. It hadn’t been cleaned in a long while and disorder reigned. Ten or fifteen cockroaches scurried in search of hiding places. Under a table supporting a colour TV and a VCR were a roll of tissue paper, old newspapers, and a broken CD player; a pile of soiled sheets and towels and underwear lay on top of the unmade bed; slippers under a writing table; three ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, several empty and crushed packets of Populares on the floor; shoes and socks all over. It reeked of human sweat and grease, and dirt.

As Trujillo professionally searched the bedroom and the embarrassed witnesses stared, Elena, leaning in the doorway, occasionally fighting back tears and biting her lip, wondered why she and her brother had become enemies, when the split had begun, what part of the blame was hers. Memories kept coming, the way waves wash over a beach, only to ebb away and be absorbed by the sand.

Elena couldn’t recall the rejection she must have felt right from the very beginning. She was three when what had been a big balloon of striated flesh all of a sudden deflated and transformed itself into a screaming, crying, red-faced newborn demanding her mother’s full attention. Had the little thing sensed that she probably hated him? Was it possible for a suckling infant to somehow intuit repulsion?

Her sources were family stories. Funny anecdotes told by Gladys of which she had no memory whatsoever. Like the morning when she found Elena sucking from the bottle she was supposed to be using to feed her brother. It was how their mother learned why the boy was always hungry so soon after having been fed by his improperly supervised sister. Or the day she covered his face with her excrement. Or the evening she fed him a quarter pound of raisins, which Pablo happily chomped away on, and nearly dehydrated from acute diarrhoea. As teenagers, when these and other stories were recounted, Elena and Pablo swapped cursory smiles, made jokes, but in her brother’s eyes there was a strange gleam, as if he were thinking: See, see how it was you who started it all?

According to her mother, Elena was amazed to discover Pablo’s penis. Why? What did he need it for? Once he learned to stand and walk, she had wanted to pee standing up, too. Family stories, however, excluded one which Elena remembered vividly. The day when, at age seven, she was found fondling her brother, aged four. Her mother spanked her like never before, so she figured she had done something terrible and for many years the memory hid at the back of her mind as some unspeakable atrocity she had to atone for. After the Professor of Child Psychology at the University of Havana expounded on sexual games among children, Elena experienced a huge spiritual relief. The feeling of guilt disappeared and her sexuality improved noticeably.

Perhaps as part of her atonement and to stave off their growing antagonism, but if so unconsciously, she tried hard to become her brother’s favourite playmate. The Parque de la Quinta was their playground. She learned to throw a baseball and skate and ride a bike as he learned to swing a bat, ride a scooter, then a tricycle. They were the object of undisguised envy by many other children in the neighbourhood, those who didn’t have fathers with the special connections required to obtain for their offspring what was unavailable for 99.9 per cent of Cuban children in the 1970s.

In practical terms, however, their childhood was fatherless. Manuel Miranda had been a major in the revolutionary army – the highest rank – since 1958, aged twenty-one. Promoted to the rank of lieutenant two months after joining the rebels in the Sierra Maestra, he was made captain four months later, then appointed major two weeks before Batista fled and the regular Army collapsed. By the time the rebels reached Havana he was a living legend: a hundred stories portrayed him as a fearless, highly adventurous young man who laughed uproariously in the face of death.

Major Miranda had a few wild months in 1959 Havana. Only five feet four, his self-assurance, shoulder-length hair, and personal history made him the third most sought-after man in the Cuban capital (after Fidel Castro and Camilo Cienfüegos). Gladys Garcés, at the time one of the chorus girls of the world-renowned Tropicana, was two inches taller and two years older than the major, had a statuesque figure, and danced the way palm fronds sway in the afternoon breeze – with an almost magic sensu-ousness. They met, made love, and the country boy lost his heart for the first time. He didn’t want to wake up from the dream and persuaded the young woman to quit the cabaret and marry him in June. After four years of nightclub life and several dozen men, Gladys was too well versed in the vagaries of passion to fall madly in love with anyone, but she felt in her bones that marrying a swashbuckling hero considerably reduced the uncertainty of a future in which millionaires, business executives, and their bejewelled mistresses were threatened species.

Right then the struggle against American imperialism began. Miranda spent weeks, sometimes months, in a bunker somewhere waiting for the American invasion; in the Bay of Pigs, crushing Brigade 2506; in Algeria, fighting the Moroccans; hunting counter-revolutionaries in the mountains of Las Villas; training guerrillas to foster subversion in Latin America. Sometimes of an evening, taking time out from his action-packed life, Major Miranda would insert his key into the lock of the confiscated Miramar apartment he had been assigned by the Housing Institute in 1960, and his kids would spend a couple of days playing with Daddy.

Neither she nor Pablo were old enough to discern the reasons behind their parents’ divorce. It hadn’t been a normal home, but the break-up was still a shock because Gladys, who never talked much about her husband and didn’t seem to be particularly distraught by his prolonged absences, all of a sudden spent hours cursing the son of a bitch, a term that, like countless other expletives, she had learned in the dressing rooms of the Tropicana. She also blamed some nameless whore for her misfortune.

After Pablo completed second grade – or was it third? – school became an important dividing factor. The boy resented his sister’s tutoring, which Gladys forced Elena to give him at home. He also detested her dedication to school issues, and her being elected Head of the Detachment of Pioneers, the children’s communist organization. It was worse in junior high. Having inherited her mother’s genes, at twelve Elena was the most beautiful and popular girl from among 165 female students. Pablo at nine was an exact copy of his father: Short, lean, and bold to the point of having been nicknamed ‘El Loco’ – The Wacko.

In the following three or four years, the two personalities became the centre of contrasting groups. Pablo was the undisputed leader of five or six angry, frustrated, and rebellious teenagers, kids from one-parent homes most of them, who played hooky, roamed the streets, and flunked exams. Elena was his exact opposite. She became president of her school’s chapter of the Federation of High School Students at fifteen, valedictorian of her class at seventeen. They were living in a peculiar symbiosis: different species under the same roof, avoiding each other, always on a collision course.

Tragedy struck one evening in 1980, just after General Miranda returned unannounced from Angola only to find his second wife, an extremely beautiful brunette thirteen years younger than him, in his own bed with a next-door neighbour. The general drew his nine-millimetre Maka-rov and emptied its first clip into the two pleading lovers. Their legs and arms kept jerking spasmodically, so Miranda changed clips and made sure neither lived to tell the tale. Then he drove his Lada to the Ministry of the Revolutionary Armed Forces and turned himself in.

In the ensuing three or four months the lives of Elena and Pablo became kaleidoscopes of incomprehension, apprehension, and irritability that little by little evolved into indifference and insensitivity, then to some measure of euphoria and consolation when they learned the general had been sentenced to thirty years in prison, not the death penalty, which was what a much-hated prosecutor recommended.

Like most Cubans, Gladys was firmly convinced that lambasting the living is not as unacceptable as speaking ill of the dead. So, relieved that Elena and Pablo had been spared from further traumas, she would venomously repeat to them, eighteen and fifteen years old respectively, how men become assholes when they think with their little head instead of their bigger one. ‘You’ll regret this,’ she claimed to have warned her husband the day he packed his belongings and moved out, ‘when you catch the slut cheating on you and remember that you renounced the decent home and wife you once had.’

Since the mid-1960s, the Cuban media has been instructed to ignore all sorts of scandals involving top communist officials; the notion that all of them were paradigms of human perfection couldn’t be jeopardized. But the story was too juicy to put a lid on. Generals and colonels stationed in faraway lands considered it prudent to relate the tragic drama to their usually younger and beautiful wives and/or mistresses, who in turn told it to their friends and relatives. From the island’s easternmost town to its westernmost village, hundreds of thousands learned what had happened by tuning in to Radio Bemba – Lip Radio – among them a neighbour of Gladys and her kids who considered it his duty to inform a few discreet friends on the block. The news spread like wildfire.

Then a very curious phenomenon occurred. The teenagers who as children had learned the meaning of the word envy with Elena and Pablo – observing them ride in their father’s cars; staring at the olive-drab, tarpaulin-covered trucks which delivered heavy cartons in late December; ogling the toys, clothes, and shoes they wore; savouring the huge, exquisite birthday cakes and slurping as many bottles of soda as they wanted to on Pablo and Elena’s birthdays – those same teenagers split into two groups. A minority provided unwavering support and encouragement. The greater number turned their back on the Miranda family after gleefully expressing a complacency which reduced itself to a simple statement: At last those who had been born with a silver spoon in their mouths would learn what building socialism was really all about.

That same year Elena gained admittance to the University of Havana to do a BA in Education. She felt like Alice stepping into Wonderland. Nobody seemed to care whose daughter she was or where she came from. There followed the transition from high-school senior who gave the cold shoulder to juniors, to junior who got the same treatment; there was the professor in his early forties, the first mature man she felt attracted to; there were the huge buildings, the enormous library and stadium, the serious political rallies. At last she was able to shed the school uniform, ride a bus daily, have lunch wherever she felt like and her allowance permitted. She also had to study a lot harder.

The Wacko, however, remained in the same school and was demoted from rightful heir to a generalship to son of a murderer. His response was extremely violent: in the course of two months he had fist fights with two teachers and nine schoolmates, something that could not be overlooked. But before expelling the boy, the principal wrote a letter to the Minister of the Revolutionary Armed Forces. Thirty-five-year-old Major Domingo Rosas, from Army Counter-Intelligence and a psychologist by profession, was ordered to ‘look after’ the son and daughter of former general Manuel Miranda.

Major Rosas visited Gladys first. He explained that in consideration for the outstanding merits of her erstwhile husband, the ‘Direction of the Revolution’ – an expression generally meaning Number One in person, yet vague enough to shift the blame to Numbers Two, Three or Four should something go wrong – had instructed that a liaison officer for Elena, Pablo, and their father must be appointed. He would take them to visit ex-General Miranda in prison when and if they felt like it; he would also try to win their trust and provide counselling. Gladys should feel free to call him when any problem seriously affecting her son and daughter couldn’t be solved through regular channels.

Next, Major Rosas went to the high school and interviewed its principal and Pablo’s teachers. The information he gleaned convinced Rosas he’d be tackling a real deviant. He explained things to his commanding officer and was relieved of all his other assignments for a month, at the end of which he made a report and a prognosis. It was an excellent report and it had an optimistic prognosis; it omitted one very significant fact, though. In thirty days Major Rosas had fallen madly in love with Elena Miranda.

‘Comrade Elena, could you come over?’ Captain Trujillo asked from the door to Pablo’s closet, sounding intrigued.

Elena approached him. The DTI officer had taken a VHS-format video cassette from a huge carton containing many more. It was cryptically labelled thirty-five.

‘There must be forty or fifty videos in this box,’ Trujillo said. ‘Was your brother a big video fan?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Captain.’

‘Didn’t he show these to you?’

Elena sighed, crossed her arms over her chest, took a deep breath. ‘Listen, Captain, I think I ought to level with you from the start,’ she said gloomily. ‘As Pablo’s sister, with both of us living under the same roof, it’s perfectly natural for you to think I’m the ideal person to give you background information on my brother, what he did in his spare time, who he hung out with, if he was doing okay at his job, the sort of thing from which you can find out what happened to him. Unfortunately, my brother and I didn’t get along. He lived his life; I lived mine. We didn’t have mutual friends. We didn’t share our hopes and aspirations and problems. I cooked for myself, he cooked for himself. As you can see, he kept his room locked. My TV set is the old black-and-white in the living room, I don’t own a VCR. Pablo never showed me those videos. For many years we agreed on one issue only: swapping this apartment for two smaller units, so each of us could live alone. But we never found the right swap; either he didn’t like the apartment he’d move to or I disliked mine. So, I’m probably the least informed person about my brother.’

Trujillo lifted his eyes to the witnesses. Kuan remained impassive, but Zoila gave him a slight nod. The captain reinserted the cassette into its box, returned it to the carton, then produced another one. Its label read thirty-four.

‘Sorry to hear that, Comrade Elena. It slows down the investigation. Let’s see what’s here. Probably a movie.’

Elena shrugged her shoulders and returned to the doorway. Trujillo found the remote control under a shirt on top of the writing table. He inserted the cassette and pressed the play button.

Blue. White clouds on a clear sky, the camera gliding slowly down to the horizon, the sea, then panning gradually to a sandy beach. Two young women holding hands approach the camera, laughing and jumping over tame little waves which break and die under their feet. Both wear straw hats, dark glasses, and minimal two-piece bathing suits. Fade out. Same girls under a shower, naked, playfully splashing water on each other. The game loses momentum, with a lecherous stare the brunette gently caresses the blonde, they embrace and kiss hungrily…

Trujillo stopped the VCR and ejected the cassette. ‘I will take all these tapes with me to the Department,’ he said.

The captain resumed the search. Elena tore off another layer of forgetfulness from her mind. At what age had sex become the driving force in her brother’s life? She didn’t know. It had been early on, though. She recalled the disgusted looks of her high-school girlfriends when a drooling Pablo ogled them. One afternoon she caught him masturbating in the hall as an unsuspecting schoolmate, sitting on the living room’s Chesterfield in faded denim short shorts, legs tucked under her, concentrated on a list of questions for an upcoming exam. How old was he? Thirteen? Perhaps only twelve.

Elena shook her head in denial and clicked her tongue. This made Zoila steal a glance at her that went unnoticed.

Had her brother been bisexual? Judging by appearances alone, among the people who visited him at home there were as many gay men and lesbians as heterosexuals. But she suspected that Pablo, despite his promiscuity, had never been in love. Probably he belonged to those who, following a few days, weeks or months at the most, long for the delicious early stage of all relationships and must chase after someone new to fantasize about.

It seemed as though he was one of the increasing number of individuals capable of comprehending the meaning of infatuation, lust, sex, perhaps even romance, but not love. Men and women who try to conceal, under a veneer of sophistication or cynicism, their inability to involve themselves spiritually beyond a certain point, who believe that the absence of commitment is the greatest expression of individual freedom. Unmarried, generally childless people who profess to love their blood relations and friends, those socially stereotypical human bonds which hardly ever demand forgiveness and understanding and self-sacrifice on a daily basis.

Elena wondered whether she belonged to a disappearing breed that people like Pablo, if given the chance, feast on. She thought she had fallen in love, with varying intensity, on three occasions out of a total of eighteen men. She had never been casual, never gone to bed with a guy just for the hell of it, for what he could provide materially, or because she felt lonely or sad. Not once had she pushed aside feelings, a minimum of physical attraction, and yet…life had not rewarded her senti-mentalism, naïveté, foolishness, or whatever it was with the lasting, mature, intense, fulfilling relationship she had always dreamed of. Were people like Pablo the precursors to a new stage in what humans call love? Heirs to the characters so masterfully described over two centuries earlier by Pierre de Laclos in Les Liaisons Dangereuses? The kind of people the human race demands to counteract disappointment, infidelity, jealousy, the high divorce rates, the one-parent homes, and the population explosion?

As though prodded by death, Elena continued the second serious philosophical exploration of her life. Certainly the institution of marriage, probably the oldest social stereotype, seemed to be in intensive care. She had never married, but it appeared to her that forced cohabitation and self-repression based on moral obligations did not provide the foundation for extending love beyond the initial passion experienced by almost everybody. Contrary to what the famous song argued, love and marriage don’t go together like horse and carriage. Eventually people should? could? would? establish long-lasting love affairs built on affinities and feelings, not on a signed document.

Kuan gasped; Zoila covered her mouth with her hand; Elena returned to reality. Trujillo had found a thick manila envelope under the mattress and had extracted from it a wad of hundred– and fifty-dollar bills an inch thick.

‘Comrade Kuan, Comrade Zoila, would you please count this money?’ Trujillo requested.

The witnesses stared as if they had been asked to fly to the moon.

‘You have a problem with that, comrades?’

Kuan shook his head; Zoila said ‘No.’ They approached the captain, took the cash, and started counting it by the writing desk.

The search brought no further surprises. Trujillo sat on a chair, produced from his briefcase two sheets of semi-bond paper with the DTI’s letterhead, a sheet of carbon paper, and recorded in longhand the seizure of forty-three video cassettes and twenty-nine hundred US dollars in cash found in the bedroom of Pablo Carlos Miranda Garcés. The serial numbers of fifty-four bills followed. All four present signed, Elena was given the copy, and the captain and the neighbours left. Around a minute later, as she sat on the Chesterfield holding her head in her hands, elbows on her knees, the buzzer startled her. It was Trujillo, asking whether it would be possible for Elena to be at the IML at eight the following morning to identify the body. She limited her reply to a nod and closed the door.

Half an hour later, still angst-ridden, lying in bed on her right side with the night lamp on, Elena suddenly realized she was doing something she hadn’t done in the last thirty-one years – sucking her thumb. She pulled it out in disgust. What was the matter with her? Regressing to childhood? Totally freaked out? Next she turned the lamp off and tried to relax.

Her unruly memory began replaying her greatest personal calamity, the one which had made her reflect philosophically for the first time about life, love, and God. Her angelic son, the most beautiful child in the whole world, in his white small coffin, eyelids closed, flowing golden locks framing his head. No! Death wouldn’t govern her thoughts any more tonight. No more wading through the saddest moments of her past, either. To divert her mind from all the problems assailing her, Elena turned the light back on. She would make espresso and read until daybreak, then call her mother.

Captain Felix Trujillo drove the Ural back to his outfit, on Marino Street between Tulipán and Conill, got receipts from the storeroom clerk for the video cassettes and the money, returned the motorcycle, then walked back home. He lived ten blocks away from DTI headquarters, in a one-storey wooden house with a red-tile roof at 453 Falgueras Street, municipality of Cerro.

No living soul could say for certain when the house was built, but late nineteenth century would be a good guess, just before most of the remaining dwellings on the block were erected. Over the years the twenty-foot structure had tilted to the right – by reason of the gradual sinking of the subsoil, the building inspector diagnosed – and now it leaned against a quite similar wooden house, as if tired after a century of sheltering people. This oddity, considered amusing by some passers-by, worried its residents and neighbours. Whenever a hurricane threatened Havana or torrential rains fell, Trujillo and his family were evacuated to the fire station on Calzada del Cerro.

When gas mains arrived in the neighbourhood in the 1920s, a meter and the incoming pipe were fixed to its front without any consideration for aesthetics, a sure sign that even then its owner was not a man of means. A two-foot-high grate embedded in bricks and cement separated the yard-wide portal from the sidewalk. What appeared to be three huge front doors were in fact one front door and two openings into the main room, glorified windows almost. The place where Trujillo, his parents, wife, son, and daughter lived, in addition to the main room, had a dining room, three small bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen. Refurbishing it inside and out would most likely have cost twenty times its original cost, an investment way beyond what a police captain could afford. In fact, Trujillo couldn’t even afford the coats of paint and the new roof and floor tiles that were urgently needed.

Trujillo slipped his key into the lock and went in at ten to twelve. Everybody was in bed, the kitchen light left on for him. There were rice, black beans, and a hard-boiled egg in a covered frying pan; a pot full of water for his bath – the perfect mother. He lit the range and as the water warmed the captain smoked a cigarette. In the bathroom he poured the hot water into an almost full bucket of water, then tiptoed into his bedroom where he found clean underwear and a fast asleep wife. Following his bath he felt hungry. He seldom had dinner twice, but ignoring what the following day had in store for him, he warmed and ate the food, made some espresso, then smoked a second cigarette.

As he was doing the dishes and placing them on the wire drainer, Trujillo resumed the line of reasoning he had started on his way home. If the whole batch of videos were porno, Pablo Miranda must have been one of three things: best client, salesman, or native producer. The money found in his bedroom might also be related to the videos, and his being able to meet and/or associate with foreigners at his workplace pointed in the same direction. A considerable percentage of Italian and Spanish tourists were single men who notoriously came to Cuba looking for cheap sex.

All this and the cocaine inclined the captain to believe that Pablo had engaged in something reprehensible, illegal, and sex-related. His murder had all the trappings of a typical settlement of accounts, very professionally carried out. The murderer might just have been following orders from someone who decreed Pablo Miranda’s execution. After finding the videos, it seemed crystal-clear to Trujillo that the contradictory indications – the bite-marks, the stolen wallet and watch, the two hundred dollars left in a pocket – were an attempt to send the police on a wild-goose chase after a sex maniac or a dumb thief. Had the short bald guy hatched a scheme to blackmail somebody? Had he demanded a bigger share of the profits? And what was his role in the scam? Cameraman? Editor? Talent scout?

Police knew that the production of Cuban porno films had become a new business venture in the last few years. Customs confiscated copies at the airport, officers raiding whorehouses and flophouses found some more, but so far no producer had been caught. At national police headquarters a special unit had been put together under a full colonel. Trujillo had listened to the complaints of his boss, Major Pena, one of the officers working on it in the Cuban capital. From among the ‘actors’ and ‘actresses’, three hookers and two male prostitutes had been identified, busted, and questioned. Each of them had repeated the same story.

A man they had never seen before or again talked them into it. He told them to wait for a blue van with tinted windows at an intersection. Once inside the vehicle they were blindfolded and driven around for half an hour before reaching the garage of a house. The cameraman, light tech, and sound tech had worn masks and spoken to each other in whispers. Once the shooting was over, they had been returned blindfolded to the pick-up point. No, they had no idea where the house was. No, they didn’t see the van’s plates. And the pay? A hundred dollars.

Describe the contact man, Pena had asked. The first hustler said he had brown eyes, the second swore they were green, the third didn’t notice. According to the two men he was clean shaven; one of the women said he had a moustache. Three of them described him as being in his forties, the other two said he was in his fifties. Not even on the man’s height and weight could the models reach agreement. Knowing that they were being spun a line, Major Pena and his subordinates wheedled and threatened, all to no avail. Finally the offenders were indicted, tried and sentenced; the women to one year in prison, the men to three. And the investigation stalled. Pena and his special unit could do nothing but wait for a fresh lead. They would be overjoyed at Trujillo’s break-through.

Returning to the bathroom, he washed his hands, then went to bed. He set the alarm clock on his bedside table for six a.m. With hands clasped in his lap, his mind moved to Elena Miranda.

It seemed as though the murdered man and his sister did not like each other at all. One more case of relatives who regard each other with suspicion bordering on out-right hostility. She seemed decent enough, clean-cut, self-effacing, sensible, still a very attractive woman. In her twenties she must have been stunning, Trujillo speculated. Pablo’s antithesis? It seemed so.

The lock on her brother’s bedroom proved what she had said: ‘He lived his life; I lived mine.’ His room was a mess; the rest of the house was neat. Well, the walls needed a lick of paint and the furniture new upholstery, but what Cuban home didn’t? Separate cooking, wanting to swap the nice apartment for two, it all indicated conflicting personalities. He had seen it many times among divorced couples and in-laws forced to keep living under the same roof because of the housing shortage; less frequently among parents and their offspring. Under this kind of forced cohabitation tempers get rather frayed, providing a recurring reason for police intervention;

situations included anything from aggravated battery to homicide.

Had Pablo Miranda been an underachiever? A kid spoiled by a powerful father who felt relegated after his well-connected daddy lost all his privileges? The tiny bell pealed again. Manuel Miranda. Trujillo tried to recall who the man had been. Certainly one of the few who years earlier held all the cards and wrote all the rules, considering where he was serving time. A former polit-buro member or general or minister, for sure. A sacred cow, even in jail. Early the following morning he would have to find out whose duty it was to call the General Directorate of Prisons, report the murder of an inmate’s son, and ask to notify the father. They would probably let him come to the wake, a few hours before burial time, with two escorts, no handcuffs, maybe wearing civilian clothes.

Suddenly, Trujillo sat up in bed. His wife stirred by his side. A politically motivated crime? Someone who had been screwed by the father and killed the son for revenge? Slowly, Trujillo lay back. Too far-fetched. No precedent as far as he knew. No, it couldn’t be. He yawned. It was the kind of case that wins kudos, back-slapping, and an instantaneous promotion for the officer who solves it. And to a lesser extent, the ill will of his equals. He decided that he would take a stab at it. But there was a lot of spadework to do.

As Captain Trujillo drifted off to sleep, Pablo’s killer was boarding a plane bound for Cancún, México.

‘If they’re all dirty movies, you’ve hit a fucking mine,’ was Major Pena’s exclamation when he learned, at 7.15 the next morning, that Captain Trujillo had deposited forty-three suspected pornographic videos in the storeroom. Trujillo explained his findings and what he had inferred before outlining his theories. The major was fifty-six, grey-haired, overweight, and most of the time had the frigid, uninterested gaze shared by those who pride themselves on their realism and who no longer believe in the theory of inherent human kindness. But he was respected and secretly admired by superiors and subordinates alike.

‘Tell me the receipt number.’ Major Pena beckoned Trujillo over with his right hand and left his uncomfortable wooden chair. ‘I want to start seeing them right now.’

‘You dirty old man,’ Captain Trujillo said as he dipped two fingers into the back pocket of his pants and drew out his wallet. He produced a pink slip and read out the number, 977.

‘Got it. See you later.’

‘Hold your horses,’ Trujillo cautioned as he returned the wallet to its pocket. ‘The victim’s name is Pablo Miranda, and his father, Manuel Miranda, is serving a prison sent—’

‘The father’s Manuel Miranda?’ the major cut in, eyes rounded in surprise, bushy eyebrows lifted.

Trujillo had never before seen Pena flabbergasted. In fact, the major bragged that nothing surprised him any more. Pena did a second extraordinary thing. He plopped on to his chair and stared vacantly at a wall. To top it all he said, ‘Oh my God.’

The captain arched an eyebrow and kept his smile in check. Before communist Europe went up in smoke, for Party members – state security and senior police officers in particular – religious terminology just didn’t exist. Then, all of a sudden pro-government believers were invited to join a political organization which denied the existence of God; cynics had a field day. Trujillo and Pena, in common with many Cubans, were not religious. But now they used expressions like ‘Praised be the Lord’ to mock the leadership’s sudden turnabout.

‘So you know the guy. C’mon, out with it. C’mon, Chief, c’mon. I have to be at the IML at eight.’

Pena snapped out of his reverie and lit a cigarette. ‘The stories I’ve heard about this guy…it’s like one of those incredible Hollywood movies. Only it’s no movie. The guy’s fucking crazy. I mean, no man in his right mind would do the things this guy is presumed to have done.’

‘Done where?’

‘Everywhere. You name a place where Cubans went into battle from – let me see…’58 to…what, ‘81? –he was there. A brigadier general calling names to the enemy from front-line trenches, letting them have it with all he’d got. Short guy, not an ounce over 130 pounds. Can you believe it? At the last count he had been wounded six or seven times, I don’t know exactly. The man is a born fighter.’

‘So, why is he at Tinguaro?’

Pena told the story in a sad tone. As it unfolded, the captain felt a certain amount of sympathy for the ex-general. In the last two years Trujillo had seen his suspicions that his own wife was cheating on him grow. There had been too many blanks in her explanations about why she was late, an ever increasing sexual indifference, frequent disagreements. Would he do what Miranda had done? No way. No woman was worth a day in prison. It was a problem he had postponed for too long; he would have to tackle it soon.

‘Well, you think you could call Prisons and explain things to them?’

‘Right away.’

‘I’m going to meet Miranda’s daughter at the IML in a little while. Once she IDs her brother we should let Prisons know where the wake is taking place so Miranda can attend.’

‘No problem. Even counter-revolutionaries are permitted to attend the wake of a close relative.’

‘Counters too? That a fact?’

‘You bet.’

‘That’s decent. See you in a while.’

‘Wait. You said the victim had shit on him?’

‘Four fixes.’

‘No chance the guy OD’d before he was killed?’

‘Barbara didn’t mention that.’

‘Oh, it’s Bárbara now,’ quipped the beaming major.

‘Quit busting my balls, Chief.’

‘Okay. Take it easy.’ Pena held up his hands, successfully fighting off a laugh. ‘Everybody knows you have a weakness for the Chocolate Queen.’

‘I’m getting outta here.’

‘When the LCC sends its report, let me know if it’s good or bad.’

‘Good or bad what?’

‘The shit, man, the shit. Go see her, go, go.’

The captain strolled leisurely along Boyeros, his diary under his left arm. The twelve-lane avenue was congested with heavy traffic in both directions, a fact which never ceased to amaze him. In a country where most people made less than twenty-five dollars a month and the cheapest gas cost three dollars a gallon, thousands of ancient, privately owned American gas-guzzlers congest the streets, the majority financed by unmentionable sources. He lifted his gaze to the sky. The cloudy, strangely cool morning made him feel certain it had rained heavily to the south of the city the night before.

Trujillo covered the nine blocks to the IML in twelve minutes. He sat on a granite bench in the foyer, then lit his second cigarette of the day. The captain felt clean and fresh in the uniform laundered and impeccably ironed by his mother. He had shaved carefully too. Just in case he bumped into Barbara (who had been curious enough to check up on him and find out he was married), and to lessen the impression of untidiness that Elena Miranda must have formed of him the night before, assuming she had registered such details when confronted with the news of her brother’s murder.

Elena arrived at 8.19 looking sad, exhausted, and frustrated by a ride in a jam-packed bus. Her face was sucked-in, with dark crescents under her eyes. The aftershock, Trujillo realized, then registered approvingly her beige blouse, black mid-calf skirt, black pumps, black purse. At wakes and burials he had seen weeping young women wearing Lycra shorts and boob-tubes. And he recalled a recent TV documentary on the remarkable mausoleums of the Colón Cemetery which had been presented by a curvaceous hostess wearing a see-through white dress and minuscule black underwear. Maybe the producer was trying to resurrect the dead, the captain’s father had wryly commented from his rocking chair.

‘Good morning,’ said Trujillo, getting to his feet, extending his hand, and dropping the ‘comrade’. He thought once again how inappropriate formal greetings can be on certain occasions.

‘Good morning.’

‘This way, please.’

At the desk they learned that Dr Valverde was off duty. An assistant led them to the cold room and Elena identified Pablo, then retched repeatedly and vomited nothing. Trujillo steered her back to the main entrance, his arm protectively around her shoulders, then made her sit on a bench. He lit up, inhaled, and blew out smoke.

‘We are notifying the General Directorate of Prisons, they will inform your father.’

Elena assented as she dabbed at her lips with a tiny handkerchief.

‘If he wants to attend the wake, they’ll probably give him a pass. A guard might accompany him.’

‘A guard?’

‘I believe it’s standard procedure.’

‘I see.’

‘The body will be sent to the funeral home on 70th and 29B before noon. They’ll make all the funeral arrangements. Did you call your mother?’

Elena sobbed, then repressed her desire to cry. ‘Yes, I did. Early this morning. She’s coming as soon as she can.’

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