Map Drawn by a Spy, page 24
“Thank you very much,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” said Elsa.
“When can I see you again?”
Silvia gave him her home number.
“Why don’t you call me?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow or the next day. Whenever you want. I’m almost always home in the afternoon.”
“Fine. See you later.”
“Please do call me.”
“I will,” he said, and he went into El Carmelo and spoke with his trio of companions as if he had just come from the telephone.
“Franqui’s home. He’s waiting for us.”
“What took you so long?” Oscar Hurtado asked, or maybe it was Walterio Carbonell.
“Oh, I have a good reason. Do you remember the girl with the bracelet and her companion, who turns out to be her sister? They took me for a cup of coffee at the stand next to Las Vegas.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sarusky said. “I would have gone with you.”
He could not tell if Sarusky was saying he was interested in Elsa or in the coffee, since he had to drink coffee frequently to raise his very low blood pressure.
“It didn’t occur to me,” he said, since it really had not occurred to him.
“Ah, viejo,” Sarusky said, “you should have thought of it.”
In the car on the way to Franqui’s, Sarusky continued muttering. He poked fun at Sarusky, but the man was serious. Apparently, he had taken it to heart.
“You should have told me, compadre,” Sarusky said, still in a huff.
“I should also have told Walterio and Oscar,” he said. “We should have all gone with them, as a committee.”
At last, after the Miramar tunnel, Sarusky laughed.
“Next time don’t leave me out,” he said. “I promise.”
At Franqui’s house the downstairs lights were on. They rang the bell and Franqui let them in right away and took them to the second floor.
“Well, what’s up?” he said.
“Nothing,” Franqui responded, and indeed there was no news, and he did not know whether to be angry or grateful. In truth he ought to have felt grateful, since, had Franqui not called the meeting, he would not have gone to El Carmelo that night and would not have gone out the door to D Street at the moment he did, and therefore would never have met Silvia. Not that in the moment he gave it much importance, but in retrospect he now sees that is precisely how the devil works.
Franqui wanted them all to share their impressions. He felt isolated at home without any contacts in government, except for the few times Celia Sánchez would call, and if she felt like it talk to him about Fidel Castro. But none of the four knew much about what was going on. Perhaps the one best placed to know anything was Sarusky, since he hung around the Writers Union, the National Publishing House, and sometimes the Cultural Council. But Sarusky kept his mouth shut, because whenever he said anything about the government he had to mention Lisandro Otero, and he knew Franqui had had a fight with Lisandro and hated to hear his name spoken in his home. So in the hour or two they spent with Franqui, they just gossiped about things that were more or less known. Astutely, he made no mention of Alberto Mora’s efforts on his behalf; he does not think he would have even if he were alone with Franqui: he shared Franqui’s belief that the house was carpeted in microphones that transmitted every conversation directly to the Interior Ministry, either to the offices of Ramiro Valdés or to Barbaroja Piñeiro’s lair. Arriving home very late that night, he remembered that he had forgotten to tell Franqui what Bolaños had said about Pablo Armando being recalled; he would tell him on another occasion.
His grandmother woke him early in the morning, shortly after six, to say he had a telephone call. He asked who it could be, but his grandmother said the caller had not identified himself.
“Listen, I’m here already,” he heard, and immediately he recognized Pablo Armando’s voice.
“That’s great! When did you get in?”
“I just arrived.”
“When can I see you?”
“Pretty soon, I’ll head over.”
“Come right away.”
“No, first I have to get my hair cut. It’s really long and I don’t want to walk around like this, I could have problems.”
He realized Pablo Armando was right, better to get his hair cut and then come over. He told him so.
Pablo Armando arrived a little after nine, gave him a big hug, and hugged and kissed his grandmother, who nearly started crying, and then he kissed the girls.
“We have a lot to talk about,” Pablo Armando said, and it was true. He told the story of Luis Ricardo Alonso, someone they both called, not Ambassador or by his full name, but simply Luis Ricardo. Despite how close they were, Luis Ricardo had not said anything to Pablo about planning to resign, much less asking for asylum in England. He had waited until Pablo was out at a cultural event, then he called in Maruja, gave her all the keys to the embassy, and told her he was resigning. By the time Pablo Armando returned, Luis Ricardo was nowhere to be found, and Pablo had to inform the consul and the Cuban trade office in London that the ambassador had fled. That very night someone who had no diplomatic status was designated to take charge of the embassy, a post that by rights and ranking should have gone to Pablo Armando. That was the first irregularity. The second was when the new chargé d’affaires sent a flurry of cables to Havana. According to Pablo Armando, everyone suspected him of knowing about Luis Ricardo’s intentions, but Pablo Armando swore – and he believed him – that he was completely in the dark. Of course the dogmatists at the trade office and especially the chargé d’affaires thought he was lying. The usurping chargé must have been the one who sent the cable to Havana that got Pablo Armando in trouble. Naturally, he did not want to tell Pablo Armando what he had heard from Bolaños or even hint at the real reason he had been recalled. Pablo Armando said he had been brought back for consultations, but he must have known there was more to it.
With a voice full of emotion, Pablo Armando said he was going right away to the cemetery to put flowers on Zoila’s tomb. But he was not so eager and said he would only accompany him as far as the gate, old Guillermo could take him to the grave. They bought flowers at 12th and 23rd and staring at the rickety flower stands Pablo Armando said, “My God! This looks like Alabama. What poverty, my God!” Pablo Armando must have been referring to the poorer parts of Alabama, perhaps the black neighborhoods he had visited many years before. He could only respond, “Really?” while also gazing at the misery that had descended on 12th and 23rd in only five years. After the cemetery he wanted Pablo Armando to come home for breakfast, but Pablo claimed he had already eaten, adding that they had enough milk at home. It was obvious he did not want to abuse his hospitality by drinking the tiny bit of milk in the house. When they were on the way back to the apartment, he noticed that Pablo’s hair was very short, the way he had worn it before.
“Who cut your hair?” he asked. “Pepe Pintado?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’ve got to get a haircut too,” he said, realizing he had not been to the barber in three months; it was not a good idea to walk around in newly bureaucratic Havana with hair too long or pants too tight, and indeed the pants from his Italian-cut suit were pushing it. (He wore them less and less, partly so they would last since he had noticed the seat was wearing thin.)
They spent the morning together, then when it was nearing lunchtime Pablo left, saying he had to visit Marcia and Lisandro, and also try to see Yeye, Haydée Santamaría. He understood Pablo did not want to stay for lunch, and mildful of Hildelisa’s culinary talents and the meager food supply, he did not take offense. Pablo Armando also wanted to meet up with Virgilio Piñera and Antón Arrufat, maybe at Pepe Rodríguez Feo’s house, since Virgilio lived next door, but he told him he had better leave that for later. Without his having to say anything else, Pablo Armando understood and agreed to visit them later on.
On Sunday, he and Pablo spent the afternoon at Franqui’s house. He accepted the shots of rum Franqui served and, since he had not eaten much, by midafternoon was fairly tipsy. Pablo and Franqui were no longer talking about problems at the embassy or at Minrex, rather about the hurricane heading toward Havana if the National Observatory could be believed, now that Corvette Captain Millás, who had gone into exile, was no longer in charge. He left them on the patio next to the garage (Franqui’s favorite spot for meetings, being outside and away from possible microphones) and went into the living room to call Silvia. He had not written the number down and he prayed to God he remembered it right. He did and she answered the phone. After trading a few half-jesting compliments, since she had a lovely voice on the telephone, he asked if he could see her that day. She said no, she was very sorry but she had a commitment: she was going with the Ghanean cultural attaché to an art exhibit and then home early. They agreed to meet the following evening at El Carmelo. Her goodbye was very sweet, even if all she said was see you later.
He remembers he arrived at El Carmelo early that Monday night and sat on the sidewalk patio that extended all the way to the corner, taking a table facing the windows of the restaurant, so he could keep an eye on both entrances. He saw her coming from Calzada, walking toward him across the patio, her hips swaying. She was alone and she greeted him with a pleasant smile. He stood and said good evening. She nodded in answer and sat down.
“How is it going?” he said.
“Just fine. What about you?”
“Fine, very well. What are you going to have?”
“What can you have?” she asked sarcastically.
He smiled. “They’ve got Coca-Cola and Coca-Cola.”
“I’ll take the first,” she said. They fell silent for a moment, then she said, “I told my sister…”
Nervous, he interrupted her. “How is she?”
“She’s fine. She’ll be by later to pick me up. I told her,” she insisted, “that you were very nice.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“But what I really told her was that you were lovable, somebody you could love.”
This declaration caught him totally by surprise, so much so that for a few seconds he said nothing. He could not think of a thing to say.
“Say something, please.”
He thought he ought to respond, but nothing came to him.
“Franks, I mean, thanks,” he said.
She laughed, although he was not trying to make a joke; his tongue really had mixed up the words. After she stopped laughing, she lowered her head and moved it from side to side in a gesture he soon would learn was typical of her.
“Okay,” she said, “the girl’s a little forward.”
She was speaking of herself, declaring herself to be what in Cuba people call pushy. He still had no idea what to say. He felt that all eyes in the restaurant and patio were on them, and he also felt something he had not felt chatting with Isabel the actress or when he picked up Lido in that very spot.
“Are we going to stay here all night?” he asked.
“No, why?”
“No reason, but why don’t we take a stroll?”
“Good idea,” she said. He called over the waiter, paid, and they left.
They walked down Calzada to Avenue of the Presidents and turned left, crossing the street and heading toward the Malecón. On the other side of that broad avenue once filled with cars, he saw five black boys playing on the wall, pushing one another and laughing, their shrieks reaching them across the street.
“You see?” she said. “Can you imagine what this country would be like without black people? It would be simply intolerable!”
He liked her saying that, because he held the same opinion. He had often given thanks to Father Las Casas for having encouraged the importation of Africans, turning Cuba into what it was, instead of the insufferable island it would have been without their influence. He did not reply, but he smiled. She went on, saying she liked Havana a lot, she liked Cuba. He thought of asking her if she had been to other countries, but he was certain she had never been outside Cuba. In any case, he must have been no different before ever traveling. He let her go on talking because he liked her voice, he liked the very Cuban way she spoke, slightly mannish, not in its timbre, but in the words she chose to express herself and the cadence. In a way she reminded him of Norka, although she was not as vulgar. They walked for a long while side by side, then she said her sister must already be at El Carmelo, so they made their way slowly back to the restaurant.
It was true, Elsa was there waiting for them, sitting by herself.
“Hi,” he said.
“What’s up?” Elsa said pleasantly.
They sat down.
“Have you been waiting long?” asked Silvia.
“A little while.”
“We were taking a stroll,” he said, though no one had asked. Elsa smiled in response.
“Would you like anything?”
“No, thanks. I already had a Coke.”
“What about you?” he asked Silvia.
“No, nothing. I think we’ll be going. At least my sister wants to go, right?”
“I’ve got to get up early tomorrow to go to work.”
“My sister not only wants to go,” said Silvia, “she wants to make me feel bad because I don’t have to get up tomorrow, since I don’t work.”
Elsa gave her sister an unfriendly smile, then went right back to looking serious.
“My sister is so cute,” Silvia said, “isn’t she?”
“Incredibly cute,” Elsa said. “Can we go?”
“Let’s go.”
The two of them stood. He did too.
“Can we see each other tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” Silvia said. “Right here, same time.”
He said goodbye and nothing more, because it was clear Elsa did not like being her sister’s chaperone. The two of them walked toward Calzada and he remained on the patio for a few minutes. Since he saw no one he wanted to talk to, he too decamped and walked home. He felt like calling Silvia right away, but realized how late it was and left it for another time.
The next day he saw Rine Leal. He wanted to ask him for a loan and also for the keys to his apartment, certain that Rine would not refuse. He asked for a hundred pesos and Rine made a face, though nearly imperceptibly.
“Well, I can give it to you tomorrow after I go to the bank. When do you want the keys?”
“Today.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. A week or so. Is that a problem? I’ll only use it when you aren’t there.”
“No, it’s not a problem, but I want to know.”
He could tell that Rine, despite being his obliging friend, was not happy to lend him his apartment for more than a day, but he had no other solution. He could not take Silvia to a hotel as he had Lido. He decided not to worry about any possible conflicts with Rine and there weren’t any.
That night he went back to El Carmelo and found Silvia already waiting for him at a table.
“Hi, how are you?”
“Hi, lovable.”
He pretended not to hear, though it really pleased him that she called him that. It reminded him of the time he picked up his grandmother to take her to the doctor, before he moved to Belgium, and she said he was lovable. Aunt Felisa, who was visiting then, started to call him Lovable. He liked hearing the adjective converted into an affectionately familiar name. Now Silvia added a light erotic touch, and though it had put him off balance the night before, now he accepted it as a friendly greeting.
“Where’s Elsa?”
“She’ll be here later on. If she comes. My sister has romantic problems.”
“She does?”
“Yes, like me.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Just the way you’re hearing it.”
He did not ask about her romantic problems because he was certain they had to do with him, but soon, once they were out walking, he said:
“I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
“Yes. I think I’d better tell you once and for all so there’ll be no misunderstanding. I’m married. My wife is in Europe and I’m going back there to join her very soon.”
“Oh, golly!” she said. “What luck I have.”
“Why?”
“No, no reason. I have to tell you I have a boyfriend. He’s Hungarian and he’s in Hungary now. He’s married, but he’s going to get a divorce so he can marry me. Are we – ?”
“Even-steven,” he said, and he smiled. She had smiled only when she mentioned her luck. Now they walked on in silence. He did not know if he had done the right thing in telling her, and he realized he had said nothing to Lido or Leonora Soler. Why did he have to tell Silvia? Maybe because she was different or he wanted to be different with her. In any case, she was not very happy. Suddenly she turned to him:
“I said ‘what luck I have’ because the men that interest me always seem to be married. I’m telling you because I’m very frank.”
“I am too.”
“I can see that.”
They continued walking toward the Malecón. They could not hear the waves but they could smell the sea.
“How old are you?”
He thought she would say you’re never supposed to ask a woman that, but she said:
“Eighteen.”
“You know you could be my daughter.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I’m thirty-six.”
“Sandor, that’s his name, is also older, but not as old as you.”
“I’m practically an old man.”
“No, not at all, but you are a mature person.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and she smiled too.
They walked along the Malecón, then turned down C Street. They were going to go by Rine’s house and he touched the key in his pocket with his fingertips. They were across from number 69, the digits illuminated by a lightbulb.
