Havana Best Friends (24 page)

“You have to make a decision.”

“I know. I know. It’s just that … right now.”

“Okay, listen to me. We have four seats reserved on a flight that departs next Tuesday. But we hope to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. Tomorrow, or the day after, we’ll go straight to the airport, say our son had an accident and we must go back immediately, buy new tickets on the first available flight. If it’s to Canada, perfect. But we’ll board a plane for any other country that’s close: Mexico, Bahamas, Jamaica, wherever. I understand this is tourism’s low season here. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find available seats.”

“Probably not,” Elena agreed with a nod.

“So you have to make a decision by tomorrow.”

Elena bit her lower lip and again lowered her gaze to the floor. “Ask him this” – she locked eyes with Marina after a brief hesitation – “when you go back to Canada, will you give a press conference? Reveal this to the world?”

“Of course not,” Marina said before interpreting.

“We will never do such a thing, Elena,” Sean confirmed.

“What about this Carlos?” Elena asked.

Marina smiled and shook her head. “I can vouch for him, Elena. He won’t.” Then she translated.

“It’s not in his best interest, Elena,” Sean added, looking Elena straight in the eye. “There are other things to consider besides your personal safety. The reaction of the Cuban government and taxes, to mention only two. I’m sure your government would make a fuss, demand restitution. But even so, Carlos won’t say a word to anyone when we explain that it would jeopardize your freedom or your well-being.”

When Marina completed the translation, Elena nodded. “What happens if someone, at the airline counter or the Immigration booth, asks me something in English or French?”

Appearing as intrigued as Elena, Marina interpreted. She hadn’t thought about
that
.

Obviously enjoying himself, Sean smiled. “You’re a deaf-mute.”

“What?” Marina asked.

“She’s a deaf-mute. As simple as that.” His tone oozed confidence.

“What do you …?”

“Translation, please.”

Marina obliged.

“Would you elaborate?” Elena said after thinking about it for a few seconds.

“Sure. You two stay behind. I’ll be the one at the counter, with the three passports and tickets. The macho man, taking care of everything. We’ll try to do the same thing at the Immigration booth. But if someone wants to ask you something, Marina turns to you and starts making signs with her hands really fast, mouths words, acting as interpreter. You answer in the same manner. The guy asks what’s the matter. Marina explains you’re a deaf-mute. You’re a friend of ours. You came with us on this trip.”

Elena seemed doubtful. “You think that might work?”

“Elena, listen to me,” Sean elaborated. “First, you are travel-ling with an authentic passport that has your photograph. Two, there’s no reason for anyone to ask you anything, because I’ll be acting as spokesman for the three of us. Airline people are accustomed to this because when families or friends travel together
one person usually grabs all the passports and tickets and takes care of everything. Actually, they like that, makes things easier for them. Immigration people are a little more fussy: they want to compare your face to the photo on the passport, maybe ask a question or two. But if for some reason you’re asked something, you’re a deaf-mute. That inspires compassion; the guy will accept whatever Marina says and wave you in.”

Marina completed the translation and stared at Elena. “He’s right. It might work,” she added in Spanish.

Elena inhaled deeply and thought things through for a minute. “Thanks, guys, but I’ll stay.”

Marina interpreted.

“Is that your last word, Elena?” Sean asked.

“It is.”

It’s out of my hands now
, Sean said to himself.
I did all I could. It’s not on the cards
. “Okay. We’ll drop by some time in the morning to say goodbye.” Wrapping things up. “We really appreciate your collaboration and wish you the best of luck.” And turning to Marina, “Honey?”

They returned to the living room. Sean grabbed his cane; Marina reached for the duffel bag, then turned to Elena.

“I like you, Elena. I really do. Tomorrow I’ll write down my address and phone number for you so you can contact me … us, I mean, should you need anything. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

“Thanks, Marina. I like you too.”

“See you in the morning,” Sean said, approaching the front door.

“Looking forward to it,” Elena said, as she opened the door.

Elena saw them off from the foyer. Once inside the rental, Marina waved goodbye and Elena waved back. The car departed and the teacher re-entered her apartment and closed the door. For several minutes all was quiet in the foyer. Then Ernest Truman emerged from underneath the stairs at the entranceway to the second floor. For almost four hours, about as invisible as the spider’s web in his hideout, he had patiently waited. He had heard the faint, repeated sound made by the tools and figured that Lawson was breaking off something hard and trying to suppress the noise as much as possible. Around eleven o’clock, when nobody had used the stairs for more than half an hour, he risked pressing his ear against the front door and listened to incomprehensible exchanges. It was nearly one o’clock when voices from within the apartment grew closer and he assumed Lawson and his broad would be leaving. He overheard Lawson promising they would visit the Cuban woman in the morning.

Truman let five more minutes slip by before peeking out at the street from the entranceway and listening intently. All he could hear was the chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves as a soft breeze caressed the ficus. Reasonably certain that the block was deserted, he left the apartment building. Five minutes later and four blocks away, Truman turned the Mitsubishi’s ignition. He had to find out what had happened in the Cuban woman’s apartment.

Lying on her back in bed, left eyelid closed, squinting with her other eye at the diamond she held between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, Elena became philosophical. The ultimate
concentration of wealth, this little piece of rock whose only practical value was in cutting hard things. How foolish could the human race be? Well, some people – like this Consuegra – bought diamonds simply as an investment, or to store and carry great values in small containers to circumvent monetary controls, or taxes, or something.

But the ultimate reason for the enormous value of diamonds, what made them a judicious purchase for investors, tax evaders, and money launderers, was their scarcity. Wasn’t the longing to possess what very few had one more manifestation of human folly? Well, thanks to that nonsense, suddenly she was a rich woman. To think she had lived all her life an arm’s reach from an immense fortune; that she had showered daily inches away from it; that a few years earlier, in the darkest days of the so-called Special Period, she had gone to bed on an empty stomach as millions of dollars lay behind the damn soap dish.

Elena lowered her arm and stared at the ceiling. Could she consider herself a rich woman? Now that she had definitely decided to stay in Cuba (deaf and dumb indeed!), she needed to find a way to sell the stones. Maybe she should try to sell the smallest of all first. But to whom? And how should she go about it? She didn’t have the slightest idea about prices. She might get five hundred dollars for what was worth five thousand. Elena clucked her tongue and shook her head in dismay. Rich and all, she might still be facing several years of standing in line for the second turn of the dog.

A huge yawn surprised her. She rubbed the heel of her hand into her eye, then massaged her forehead. Realizing that she was utterly exhausted, she turned on her side and deposited the diamond on top of her bedside table, along with the other thirty-seven
gems. She switched the light off, sighed deeply, embraced her pillow, and glided down a well of unconsciousness.

In room 321 of the Copacabana hotel, sitting in an armchair by the TV set, Sean gave the handle of his aluminium cane a final turn and glanced at Marina. The one-and-a-half-inch-diameter tube with a black rubber tip at its end now stored seventy-four diamonds, which had been slid one at a time into a lead receptacle that fit exactly into the aluminium tube. Outwardly, the cane looked identical to the cheap ones sold all over the world to people who break a leg, and to the old, ill, and blind who can’t afford something fancier. No one would guess that Sean had paid two thousand dollars for the made-to-order gadget.

Sitting on her bed, Marina was peering at three brilliants, one small, one medium-sized, and one large, which she held in the palm of her hand. The biggest stone in particular fascinated her. It was the most beautiful gem she had ever seen; it seemed to radiate the mysterious internal light that so many uninformed people attribute to diamonds. She raised her head when she heard Sean stand and watched him approach the table between the beds, pick up the phone, tap in 415.

“My dear friend,” Sean said into the mouthpiece after a few moments. “We were having a nightcap, reading a wonderful book of poems, and my wife thought you might like to join us.”

“Now?” the voice at the other end asked.

“My wife always says, ‘The night is young; the night is a woman.’ ”

“Delighted to join you. But I don’t remember your room number.”

“321.”

“All right. I’ll be there in … fifteen minutes.”

“Bye.”

Sean returned the receiver to its cradle and sat on his bed. Marina put the diamonds down by the phone and walked over to the small refrigerator. She opened it and turned to Sean.

“Would you like something?”

“A Coke.”

She popped the tabs off cans of Diet Pepsi and Classic Coke, handed Sean his, sucked down part of her soda, then strode to the bathroom to pee and wash her hands and face. Afterwards she eased herself into a plastic armchair by the balcony’s sliding glass door to finish her Pepsi. She was completely drained, but suspense kept her alert. What would the expert’s verdict be? Sean entered the bathroom.

Marina reckoned that, should the expert pronounce the gems genuine, she could sleep non-stop for twelve hours. But she wouldn’t. Sean said they ought to check out around 10:00 a.m., say goodbye to Elena, then get themselves to the airport as soon as possible. She glanced at her watch. Ten to two. How long would a verdict take? Say, half an hour. They would go to bed around two-thirty, get up no later than 9:00 a.m. Six and a half hours’ sleep, not bad.

Why were men so ill mannered? Marina wondered. Sean had never left the bathroom door open before they had sex. After becoming intimate with a guy, a woman was compelled to hear him fart and pee and belch and cough and spit and shower and brush his teeth. There were some who left the bathroom door open when they took a crap as well. Twenty-first century cavemen. Not Carlos, though. The blind man always locked himself in, even
when they stayed at her place and he had to carefully grope his way to the john. He closed the door to shave, for Christ’s sake! She smiled briefly. What a guy. She drank some more Pepsi.

After washing his face and combing his hair, Sean was more alert. He finished his Coke sitting in his armchair by the TV set. At two minutes past two, there were three soft knocks on the door. Sean got up and opened the door.

Marc Scherjon entered with a circumspect smile. He wore the same white dress shirt, baggy trousers, and black loafers he had worn on the plane. He held the same strange briefcase.

“Welcome, dear friend,” Sean said, but the instant he closed the door he gave the expert a meaningful look as he pressed his forefinger to his lips.

“How are you doing?” Marina asked as she stood up and extended her hand.

“I’m doing fine, thank you,” Scherjon responded nonchalantly. “Pining to read good poetry.”

“We thought you were. Please, sit down.” Sean pulled a chair out from the black plastic table by the balcony door. “What can I get you to drink?”

“A beer will be fine.”

Marina went to get it. Sean reached for the three diamonds from the bedside table and placed them in front of the Dutchman, who stole a glimpse at them before opening his briefcase. After forty-two years appraising gems, Scherjon had developed a sixth sense. Gut instinct told him that these rocks were the real thing, but he needed scientific confirmation.