Havana Bay (16 page)

 
 
"What is it?" he asked her.

"Fighting rum." Her eyes took in the tape on his
head.» You need it, no?"

Arkady had expected that by now he would be safely tucked away in the embassy basement with maybe a cup
of tea. This was only a minor detour. He drank and
coughed.

"What's
in
it?"

"Rum, chilies, garlic, turtle testicles."

More people arrived every minute, as many white
as black. Arkady was used to the hushed assembly of
the Russian Orthodox Church. Cubans pushed into the
yard as if they were joining a party, a few with the
somber devotion of worshipers, most with the bright
anticipation of theatergoers. The only arrival without
any expression was a pale, black-haired girl in jeans and a shirt that said "Tournee de Ballet." She was
followed by a light-brown Cuban man with blue eyes,
hair silver at the temples, in a formal, short-sleeved
shirt.

"George Washington Walls," Erasmo introduced
him.» Arkady."
 

Not Cuban. In fact, an American name that rang a
bell. Behind Walls came a tourist with a maple-leaf pin and the last man Arkady wanted to see, Sergeant Luna.
This was nightlife Luna, a splendid Luna in linen pants,
white shoes and tank shirt that showed off the slabbed
muscles of a triangular upper body. Arkady felt himself automatically cringe.

"My good friend, my very good friend, I didn't know
you were feeling so good." Luna put one bare arm
around Arkady and the other around a girl whose skin
and mass of hair were the same amber color. She
dazzled
in spandex pants, halter, scarlet fingernails, and
squirmed so much in Luna's grip Arkady wouldn't have
been surprised if a ruby popped from her navel.» Hedy.
Mujer mia."
The sergeant leaned confidentially on
Arkady's shoulder.» I want to tell you something."

"Please."

"There's no Zoshchenko at the Russian embassy."

"I lied. I'm sorry."

"But you did lie and you left the apartment, where
I told you to stay, understand? Now you have a good
time tonight. I don't want to see you spoil anybody's
fun. Then you and I will have a talk about how you're
going to the airport." Luna scratched his chin with a
short ice pick. Arkady understood the sergeant's
dilemma. Half of Luna wanted to be a good host, half of him wanted to plunge the ice pick into someone's
face.

"I don't mind walking," Arkady said.

Hedy laughed as if Arkady had said something clever,
which Luna didn't like, and he said something to her in Spanish that chased the color from her cheeks before turning his attention back to Arkady. Luna had a smile
with broad white teeth and lots of pink gums.

"You don't mind walking?"

"No. I've seen so little of Cuba."

"You want to see more?"

"It seems a beautiful island."

 
 
"You're crazy."

"That could be."

The girl in the Tournee de Ballet shirt was named
Isabel and she spoke excellent Russian. She asked
Arkady whether it was true he was staying in Pribluda's
apartment.» I live above him. Sergei was receiving a
letter for me from Moscow. Did it come?"

Arkady was so disconcerted by Luna it took him a
second to respond.» Not that I know of."

The sergeant seemed to have other duties. After
consulting with Luna, Walls told his friend with the
maple-leaf pin, "The real thing starts in a minute."

"I wish I spoke Spanish."

"You're Canadian, you don't need to. Investors don't
need to," Walls assured him.» And all the investors are
coming here. Canadians, Italians, Spanish, Germans,
Swedes, even Mexicans. Everyone but Americans. This
is the next big economic explosion on earth. Healthy,
well-educated people. Technological base. Latin is hot.
Get in while you can."

"He's been selling me for two days," the Canadian
said.

"He sounds persuasive," Arkady said.

"Tonight," said Walls, "we've organized something
folkloric for my friend from Toronto."

"I detest this," Isabel told Arkady.

"Isabel, we're speaking English for our friend now," Walls pleaded in the good-natured way of a man who
actually means it.» I gave you English lessons. Even
Luna can speak English. Can you speak a little English?"

"He says he'll take me to America," Isabel said.» He
can't even take himself back to America."

"I think the show's about to begin." Walls ushered
people back into the house as drumming hit a new
intensity.» Arkady, I missed something. What are you
doing here?"

"Just trying to fit in."

"Good job." Walls gave him a thumbs-up.

Each drum was different—a tall
tumba,
hourglass
bata,
twin congas—and each called to a different spirit of
Santeria or Abakua, a
tnaraca
to rouse Change, a bronze
bell for Oshun, it was all mixed up, like mixing drinks,
a little dangerous, yes, Erasmo asked even as he
explained. Mongo, eyes shining from wells of perspira
tion, beat on his blade, his call in a language that was
not Spanish answered simultaneously by the drummers
and their drums, as if each man possessed two voices.
Everyone had crowded into the room and pressed
against the walls. Erasmo rocked in his chair as if he could lift it up by the sheer power of his arms to tell
Arkady this was the wealth of Cuba, its history of
Spanish
bolero
and French
quadrille
colliding with the
whole continent of Africa, creating a tectonic explosion.
The boxes on which they sat and drummed proved the
Cuban genius. In Africa the secretive Abakua had "talk
ing drums," Erasmo said. When they arrived in chains
to work on the docks of Havana and the slave masters here took their drums away, they simply beat on boxes,
and presto! Havana was full of drums. The Cuban
musician, like the Cuban fisherman, could not be
stopped! All Arkady knew was that in Moscow he had
heard a little Cuban music on tape; this was the differ
ence between seeing a picture of the sea and standing
knee-deep in the water. As Mongo's deep voice called
in a language that was not Spanish, the rest of the room
swayed and answered, congas carrying the rhythm,
hands on boxes syncopating off the beat. Luna smiled
and nodded, arms folded by the door. Arkady tried to
plot an escape route to slither through, but Luna was
always between him and the exit.

"You know that man?" Erasmo asked.

"We've met. He's a sergeant in the Ministry of the Interior. How can he be involved in a show like this?"

"Why not? Everybody does two things, they have to,
there's nothing unusual about that."

"Arranging Santeria?"

Erasmo shrugged.» That's Cuba today. Anyway, it's
not really Santeria, it's more Abakua. Abakua's different.
When my mother heard there were Abakua in the neighborhood, she'd pull me off the street because she thought they were collecting little white children to
sacrifice. Now she lives in Miami and she still thinks
so."

"But this is a
santero's
house, you said."

"You don't do Santeria at night," Erasmo said as if it
were self-evident, "that's when the dead are out."

"The dead are out right now?"

"It's a crowded island at night." Erasmo smiled at
the idea.» Anyway, Luna must have connections with
the Abakua. Everyone is into Santeria or Abakua or something."

"His friend, George Washington Walls. Why is that
name familiar?"

"He was famous once. The radical, the hijacker."

Very famous once, Arkady realized. He remembered
a newspaper picture of a young American in an Afro
and bell-bottom trousers burning a small flag at the top
of an airplane ramp.

"What kind of investments can Walls offer in Cuba?
When the dead aren't walking?"

"Good question."

Arkady had missed the point when the rhythm had
changed and Luna and his golden friend, Hedy, had
taken center stage, dancing not so much separately as
skin to skin, hips rolling, the sergeant's large hands
sliding around her back as she arched, eyes and lips
bright, slipping away only to invite him even closer.
Arkady did not know if this was religious or not; he did
know that if it took place in a Russian church the icons
would have fallen to the floor. As everyone else joined
in Walls maneuvered Hedy away from Luna and toward
the Canadian, who danced as if he were playing ice
hockey without a stick. Now it was even harder to reach
the door.

Erasmo pushed Arkady.» Get out there."

"I don't dance." He was doing well just standing,
Arkady thought.

"Everyone dances." The rum seemed to hit Erasmo
all at once. He rocked back and forth in his wheelchair
to the beat until he locked his chair, slid off the seat
and danced with Abuelita like a man wading energeti
cally through heavy surf. He said to Arkady, "No legs
and I still move better than you."

Embarrassing but true, Arkady thought. It was also true that, in his condition, Arkady found the drumming
and darkness and mixed smells of smoke, rum and
sweat as overwhelming as an overstoked fire. The drums
spoke together, apart, together again, breathless, synco
pated, off the beat. As Mongo shook the gourd the
shells strung across its belly rippled like a snake. The
chant went from call and response to Mongo in his
dark glasses, his voice volcanically deep. He swayed,
hands a blur. The rhythm spread, divided, split again
like rolling lava. Maybe it was the effect of fighting rum
on an empty stomach. Arkady slipped into the hall and
found that Isabel followed.

"I didn't study classical dance for this," she told
Arkady.

"It's not the Bolshoi, but I don't think the Bolshoi
does this sort of thing very well."

"Do you think I'm a whore?"

"No." He was taken aback. The girl looked more like a candlelit saint.

"I'm with Walls because he can help me, I admit. If
I were a real whore, though, I'd learn Italian. Russian is
no use at all."

"Maybe you're a little hard on yourself."

"If I were hard on myself, I'd cut my throat."

"Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"I've noticed that few people are good at cutting their
own throat."

"Interesting. A Cuban man would have said, 'Oh, but
it's such a pretty throat.' Everything with them leads to sex, even suicide. That's why I like Russians, because
with them suicide is suicide."

"Our talent."

Isabel looked thoughtfully aside. She had the emaci
ated allure of a Picasso, he thought. Blue Period. Wonderful, the two most depressed people in the house had
connected like magnets. He caught Walls's anxious
glances in their direction. At the same time he noticed
that Luna remained by the door.

"How long are you going to be in Havana?" Isabel
asked.

"A week, then back to Moscow."

"Is it snowing there now?" She rubbed her arms as if imagining them cool.

"I'm sure it is. Your Russian is extraordinarily
good."

"Yes? Well, in my family Moscow was like Rome to
Catholics, and, before the Special Period, to speak
Russian was useful. Are you a spy like Sergei?"

"It seems to have been a great secret. No."

"Claro,
he isn't a very good spy. He says if they
needed a good agent in Havana they never would have sent him. He was going to help me get to Moscow and
from there, of course, I could go anywhere. Maybe you
can help me." She scribbled an address on a piece of
paper and gave it to him.» We will talk tomorrow
morning. Can you come just at that time?"