Havana Best Friends (38 page)

“Okay, you can go in.”

In a bigger and wider lounge they faced two X-ray machines manned by Customs officials wearing ugly, mustard-coloured uniforms. Marina approached the closest contraption confidently, placed her bag on the conveyor belt, then went through the metal detector at its side. A Customs woman watched the screen with infinite boredom. Three years doing the same job and she had never caught someone trying to sneak in a weapon or an explosive. She turned her head and distractedly eyed the next passenger: a limping woman who laid her handbag on the belt and then tried to lay down her cane as well.

“No, no hace falta,” the operator said.

In a reflex response Elena lifted her eyes to her, then realized she shouldn’t have. For a tenth of a second she wondered what to do. She was supposed to be deaf, so she deposited the cane on the belt and turned to go through the metal detector. Perceiving movement out of the corner of her eye, she turned. The attendant jumped from her stool, seized the cane before it disappeared completely into the machine, and extended it to Elena, who raised her eyebrows and shook her head as if she didn’t comprehend what was going on.

“She’s a deaf-mute,” Marina explained from the other side, a hysterical edge to her voice.

“Oh,” said the operator, slightly surprised at the news. “Well, tell her to keep the cane. She could fall and injure herself.”

Marina performed her unique, incomprehensible sign language and mouthed something that Elena watched attentively. Then she nodded, gave a glorious smile to the Customs woman, and passed through the metal detector. It rang noisily; Elena pretended not to hear. The man in charge had witnessed the exchange and waved Elena in with a grin. She couldn’t believe she had to pee again. The operator of the X-ray machine realized she hadn’t watched the screen as the handbag passed through, but it didn’t matter. Likely there was nothing suspicious there, not in the handbag of a handicapped person. That cane was really heavy, though. She forgot the whole thing when a new passenger approached her machine.

In his office, the Immigration supervisor on duty, Major Oscar Torriente, consulted his watch: 5:02. Fifty-eight minutes and Major Pedro would relieve him. He was so sleepy. He needed a cup of steaming hot strong espresso. Adjusting his cap, he left the room. Two and a half minutes after he closed the door, his fax machine began churning out an urgent order to all ports and airports to keep on the lookout for three Canadian citizens: Sean Abercorn, Christine Abernathy, and Marina Leucci. They should be detained and handed over to police officers, who would receive orders from police headquarters.

At Gate 2, the last two passengers waiting in line to board a Boeing 777 bound for Nassau were still holding their passports, in the names of Christine Abernathy and Marina Leucci.

In Havana, three white Mercedes-Benz vans, one from the LCC, two from the IML, were parked on Third A’s only block. A second Lada station wagon from National Headquarters had joined the one from the DTI car pool that Pena was driving. A Peugeot sedan from Immigration was the last to arrive. The two young cops standing guard by the residence of the Belgian ambassador were reasonably sure that something big had happened, but they felt let down. No flashers were on, the engines and lights had been killed, no SWAT team in black was getting ready to crash into the apartment building; the scene lacked the drama of the American action movies they loved.

Hundreds of birds accustomed to spending a quiet night perched on the branches of the Parque de la Quinta’s ficus waited nervously for sunrise to fly away. Their concern was caused by five vultures that had arrived late that afternoon, attracted by the budding stench of death still undetectable to all other species, and now sat dozing on the highest branches. On the ground, some crickets, indifferent to vultures, birds, and humans alike, chirped away.

In the foyer to the apartment buildings, Pena and Trujillo were filling in the people from National Headquarters, the IML, and Immigration on what little they knew. In Apartment 1, experts from the LCC were gathering evidence. Not before they were through was anyone allowed to go in, and the place was a treasure trove of fingerprints and blood samples.

Sergeant Nivaldo Arenas, feeling out of place among so many captains, majors, lieutenant colonels, and one colonel, smoked alone on the sidewalk. He didn’t like corpses; they reminded him of his parents, whom he had dressed before taking them to the mortuary. Both had died of natural causes at advanced ages, but
still each death had been a shock, and seeing other dead people unnerved him. Perhaps he wasn’t needed any more. He was considering asking permission to get the hell out of there.

Once the scant information available had been shared, the nine officials formed three groups. The IML assistants stood together, the police officers and the Immigration guy chatted amiably, while Trujillo and Dr. Bárbara Valverde, the pathologist who had performed Pablo Miranda’s autopsy, stood on the cemented footpath between the foyer and the sidewalk. Valverde, on the graveyard shift that week, had been summoned for the removal of the bodies. They were glad to see each other and showed it.

“You’re looking great, Bárbara.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Félix. It’s too early.”

Trujillo cleared his throat. “Wonderful. Pre-dawn is the perfect moment to confess how attracted to you I am, that I’d like to get to know you on a personal basis, away from this gory business we’re in. What’s wrong with that? I know I’m no hunk, but am I so repugnant?”

“No.”

“White guys don’t turn you on?”

“Oh, c’mon. Race is not an issue here.”

“So?”

“You’re a married man, Félix. I don’t date marr –”

“I am not.”

“Now, don’t bullshit me. I know you are.”

“My divorce became final two weeks ago.”

“Oh.”

The pathologist looked over to the Parque de la Quinta, processing this new information. Great. She had been attracted to the guy from day one. “I’m sorry,” she lied. “What happened?”

“Don’t be and nothing happened.” The captain sneezed; luckily he had a clean handkerchief on him. “Don’t be, because it removes the obstacle to our getting to know each other better …” He wiped his nose, thinking how unromantic that was. “And I said ‘nothing happened’ because that was exactly what happened – nothing. We rarely saw each other. Most nights when I got home she was asleep; most mornings when she got up I was asleep or had already left. She argued that my profession and married life were at odds.”

Bárbara couldn’t help smiling. She had perfect teeth. “My ex complained about the same problem.”

“With reason?”

“Of course. People like you and me … I mean, look at us right now. You think normal people can endure this shitty life?”

“No, they can’t. Your ex, what was he?”

“What do you mean?”

“Professionally, I mean.”

“Bureaucrat. Finance. What about your ex-wife?”

“Secretary. See what I mean? Nine-to-fivers both. They couldn’t understand what we do, couldn’t adapt.”

He was wrong, Bárbara thought, but kept it to herself. What he was trying to say was that as a couple they would share the lunacy of being on call three hundred and sixty-five days a year, find it easy to endure the cynicism and frustration that sooner or later cops, doctors, nurses, and – rarest of breeds – trustworthy politicians suffer. Why was she attracted to astonishingly immature and romantic men who believed they could balance a demanding profession with love, marriage, kids, and distractions?

A few birds started warbling; the crickets began a slow retreat.

She had spent two years in Bolivia searching for the remains
of Ché and the
guerrilleros
who died with him. Her husband promised he would wait for her; yet she knew before boarding the plane that he wouldn’t. She went anyway because of the admiration she felt for the Argentinian revolutionary and because the mission would advance her career. It was also a matter of choice: profession versus family life. She would never marry again. Never.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Take me to the movies one of these days.”

“Okay. When?”

They looked at each other in total bewilderment for a second, then burst out laughing. The others turned their heads. Pena smiled.

“See what I mean?” Bárbara said, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. “We can’t even agree on a day and time when we can do something as simple as that. I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Trujillo jotted his home number on her packet of Populares.

Elena handed her boarding pass to Eusebio, now at the gate. He smiled, tore the stub, gave it to her. She smiled back (a flicker of a smile, Eusebio thought) and hurried after Marina, a few steps ahead. She was bursting! She just had to go. They boarded the plane. The senior flight attendant flashed a smile and said good morning, then glanced at her stub and added, pointing, “Right aisle.”

“She’s a deaf-mute,” Marina said to the flight attendant.

“Oh.”

“Baño,”
Elena mouthed to Marina.

Marina nodded. “She needs to use the toilet first.”

“Sure. Over there.”

Marina waited for her in the aisle. The turbines whined. A minute went by. The plane’s door was secured. Another sixty seconds elapsed. Other flight attendants closed overhead compartments and checked seat belts. The plane started to move.

“We can’t take off with your friend in there,” said the senior flight attendant, obviously worried. “Is she going to be long?”

The folding door opened and a blushing Elena came out.

“El bastón”
Marina mouthed with bulging eyes and fluttering hands.

Elena turned hastily and grabbed the cane. She apologized with a smile (a flicker of a smile, the senior flight attendant thought), and followed Marina along the aisle.

Major Oscar Torriente returned to the Immigration office at 5:19. He read the fax, approached the photocopier, and made eleven copies. As he was leaving the office the phone rang. Booth one was having trouble with a Spaniard who claimed he had lost his passport. He heaved a sigh of resignation and sauntered to booth one.