Authors: Greg Dinallo
“So,” Scotto says a little too brightly, pulling me out of it. “How are you doing, Katkov?”
“After three piña coladas? Hey, this has been great fun. Thanks. How about you?”
“I’m doing . . . okay.” She lowers her eyes and draws circles in some bread crumbs with a fingertip. “I called my husband last night. Invited him down for a couple of days.”
“Good for you.”
“Well, not really. He . . . he declined. Made up some excuse about having to be away on business. He’s an architect, and—aggghhh—what’s the point?”
“I’m sorry, Scotto.”
“Yeah, well, I sort of figured he might, but . . .” She sighs wistfully and works the crumbs to the edge of the table, then sweeps them to the floor with the back of her hand.
“Maybe we should skip the pie?” I suggest in deference to her mood.
She nods and thanks me with a sad smile, then leads the way through the crowd. I resist the temptation to look back over my shoulder. We’re nearing the exit when I catch sight of the bar in one of the faded mirrors. The man is gone.
35
W
e’re at a sidewalk stand on Calle Ocha, Little Havana’s main shopping street. Scotto is looking at sunglasses. Mirrored, polarized, photo-sensitive. I’m looking over my shoulder for the man at the bar. She has me try on damn near every pair before deciding on the “Vuarnet knockoffs”— heavy black plastic frame, dark wine-colored lenses; then, pitting her Italian against the vendor’s Spanish, she has a ball haggling over the price. It does wonders for her spirits, and we spend the next hour or so on a mini shopping spree amid the carts and stalls, then take a cab back to the hotel with our booty.
The next morning, I’m dutifully attired in my new swim trunks—fully committed to putting in time around the pool to work on my tourist disguise—when Scotto knocks on the door that connects our rooms. She’s wrapped in one of the hotel’s terry-cloth robes. Thigh length, tied at the waist, it accentuates her hourglass figure and shows off her long, bronze legs to advantage. I’m sweeping my eyes over them when she recoils with a gasp. “What? What is it?” I wonder, baffled. “You look rather like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
“I have,” she replies, sweeping her eyes over
me
. “That body looks like it hasn’t seen sun since Castro took Havana.”
“Moscow isn’t exactly on the equator, you know.”
“Tell me about it. You’ll be burned to a crisp in ten minutes.”
“I thought that was the idea.”
“The idea is to get a tan, not sun poisoning. She takes a tube of lotion from a pocket, then turns me around, squeezes some out across my shoulders, and begins working it in. The scent is heavy and sweet.
“What is that stuff?”
“Italian cocoa butter,” she jokes. “It’s made from olive oil and garlic. You turn brown and ward off the evil spirits at the same time.”
Her hands are expert and strong. Her fingertips glide over my skin, awakening every pore. Her bare legs brush gently against mine. Pleasurable sensations begin radiating from deep inside me. Is she aware of it? Does she know exactly what she’s doing? Or is this another one of my fantasies?
Only in your dreams, Katkov. Only in your dreams
. But this time I’m not dreaming. The choreography is fluid and subtle, and soon we’re face to face, gazing into each other’s eyes. There’s a gentleness in hers that I haven’t seen before.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask in a whisper, our lips dangerously close. “I mean . . . your husband . . . you’re certain that you—” She puts a finger to my lips to silence me. I nibble at it. She pulls it back with a sexy giggle. “I just want you to be sure.”
“Are you?”
“Me?”
“Uh-huh. You talked to Vera since you left?”
I shake my head no.
“Well?”
I shrug. “I don’t seem to be sure of anything, anymore. Your turn.”
“I’m sure it would be very nice, but that’s all I’m sure of.”
“Do you love him?”
She smiles demurely and whispers, “Yes, I do.”
“Then I’d say it’s time for a cold, refreshing swim, wouldn’t you?”
She nods, then forces a laugh and tosses me the tube of suntan lotion. “I missed a few spots.”
We spend the weekend languishing about the pool in bone-
warming sun, reading trashy paperbacks from the hotel shop, and dining in beachfront restaurants. On Monday afternoon a courier delivers a prepaid ticket for my passage on the
Halifax
.
Sailing time 6:30
P.M.
tonight.
A crescent moon hangs in the twilight as Scotto and I cross the pier in the Customs van with Inspector Aguilar. It proceeds through the security gate to a boarding ramp near the freighter’s stern, where the superstructure that houses the bridge, crew quarters, and passenger cabins is located. The
Halifax
sits low in the water now, her hold filled with containers. They’re secured in an impressive jungle gym of steel racks and extend three levels above the deck.
Aguilar handles the paperwork with the first mate.
I go about unloading my things from the van.
Scotto’s eyes dart to my typewriter. She latches onto the handle possessively. “This one stays with me,” she says, taking me aside.
“Why?”
“It’s not exactly tourist gear, is it?”
“Never occurred to me,” I reply, a little unsettled.
“That’s okay. You’ve got fourteen hours to get in the right frame of mind. Don’t waste them.”
“I won’t. Make sure you bring that when you come to Moscow.”
“That’s a promise.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on.”
“Don’t wait that long.”
I smile.
“I want to know you’re all right, Katkov. I do.” She grabs my shoulders, thinks about it for a moment, then hugs me.
“Take care of yourself.” A foghorn beckons, then again. I disengage, grab my bags, and hurry up the ramp onto the deck. Longshoremen are wrestling with hawsers. A husky tugboat nudges the vessel away from the pier. I’m standing at the rail, watching Scotto recede into the darkness. She’s waving with one hand and hanging on to my typewriter with the other. I wave back until she’s gone, then light a cigarette. The flashy gold script on the matchbook spells out Versailles. It plunges me into a world of smoky mirrors and shimmering reflections. I stare at it for a long moment, thinking about the
other night, about the man I noticed sitting at the bar, the familiar looking one who was there and gone. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but the hazy image has stayed with me, and now, as it slowly sharpens, I’ve no doubt that I’ve seen him before, no doubt whatsoever that he was the same man who frisked me in the elevator on the way up to Rubineau’s apartment.
36
T
he
Halifax
slips between two islands that flank the narrow mouth of Miami Harbor. The steady throb of her engines courses through every compartment as she builds up steam and sweeps in a southwest arc along the Florida Keys to open sea. Her running lights glide through the darkness like tiny spaceships flying in precise formation.
The passenger cabins are below the bridge adjacent to the captain’s and first mate’s quarters. Mine is clean, comfortable, and almost free of the scent of diesel oil that permeates everything aboard. A pleasurable sense of escape comes over me as I get settled in, but my mind soon drifts to the fellow at the bar in the Versailles. He didn’t seem interested in me. I’m not i even sure he saw me. Furthermore, Rubineau has an affinity for Little Havana. It’s possible he’s hooked on the food and sent his errand boy to fetch a spicy order of
ropa vieja.
But it’s far more probable he’s hooked on me and assigned his thug to play watchdog—though I didn’t notice anyone following us to the pier tonight.
The
Halifax
’s captain is a loquatious fellow with a Scottish burr who jabbers on over dinner about Bosnia and the recent Truman biography he’s reading. He can’t recall the last time he had a passenger, can’t imagine why anyone would travel on a
container ship. I explain I’m not terribly keen on flying and avoid it whenever possible. The crewmen who join us are a friendly enough lot, and despite a mean-looking Puerto Rican who eats noisily and leaves without a word, they dispel the notion that all seamen are tattooed cretins.
It’s close to midnight when we break up. I spend a few minutes at the rail staring into magnificent star-studded darkness; then cross the deck still in search of my sea legs and wobble down the passageway toward my cabin.
The door is ajar.
I closed it when I left. At least I’m fairly certain I did. I can vaguely recall the sound of the latch engaging. I advance cautiously, then sense a presence in the passageway behind me. I whirl in time to glimpse a fleeting shadow, which turns the corner, and hurry after it. Muffled footsteps quickly fade. A rusty hinge creaks in protest. The intersecting passageway is empty. At the far end, an open hatch is swinging to and fro with the roll of the ship. It leads to an exterior landing that overlooks the stern.
There’s no one in sight.
No one is dashing down the companionway to the main deck; nor up the one that zigzags overhead to the bridge; and no one is hurrying in the gunnels toward the racks of containers stacked in the cargo hold; nor slinking along the catwalks that run between them. There’s no movement. No footsteps. No human sound whatsoever, only the muted throb of engines and whisper of the breeze that comes off the water.
Did I surprise a thief going through my things? One of the crewmen? The Puerto Rican? My cabin doesn’t appear at all disturbed when I return. Closer inspection confirms that nothing is missing. If not a thief, then what? An assassin? Rubi-neau’s thug keeping tabs on me? The captain or a member of the crew stopping by to rehash our dinner conversation? My mind playing tricks? My KGB-born paranoia coming back to haunt me again? I lock the door, climb into my bunk in an unsettled state, and sleep fitfully, if at all.
I’m on deck before sunrise, my head turned into a stiff wind I hope will clear it, when Havana’s lights begin winking in the distance like a swarm of fireflies floating just above the sea. I return to the cabin for the camera Scotto and I purchased in Miami. It’s a technological tour de force by Russian standards:
auto-load, -focus, -flash, -advance, and -rewind; 35- to 115-millimeter motorized zoom; push-button settings to compensate for backlighting, shooting through glass, and haze in distant landscapes; small enough to fit in a shirt pocket; and priced under two hundred dollars. I drop in a roll of film—DX-coded, thirty-six exposures, 400 ASA—then close the back, setting off a series of reassuring electronic sounds, and shift into tourist mode.
The sun is well above the horizon when the
Halifax
glides past the crumbling castle at the entrance to Havana Harbor. The brackish waters are alive with an armada of rusting freighters and weary, paint-encrusted ferries. The miles of battered seawall are lined with old tires. Indeed, on closer inspection the idyllic-looking island is in dire need of repair, the level of decay equaling, if not exceeding, Moscow’s.
After disembarking, I’m directed to a weathered, two-story building where a Customs official takes my passport. I speak no Spanish. He speaks neither Russian nor English. There’s no way we can communicate. “
Intérprete, intérprete
,” he mutters, escorting me to a room on the second floor. A few rickety chairs, a small table, a framed photograph of Fidel Castro, and a window that overlooks the pier. No
intérprete.
The Customs official forces a smile, insists I take a seat, and leaves. It’s going to be a long wait. I pass the time watching containers being unloaded from the freighter onto the flatbeds of eighteen-wheelers, keeping my eyes peeled for 95824.
Several hours later, still no sign of the
intérprete
or the container. Is it remaining aboard? Going elsewhere? I’m still wondering when the Customs official finally returns with the interpreter, a short, bony fellow with a thin mustache and jaundiced eyes that do little to ease my anxiety.
He apologizes for the delay and explains that though the
Halifax
radioed ahead, Russians never arrive on freighters from Miami—actually from anywhere lately, thanks to the ruble’s massive devaluation—and an interpreter wasn’t available at such an early hour. I sense “early hour” is the operative phrase here. After several exchanges in rapid-fire Spanish with the Customs officer, he turns to me and says, “He wants to know what you were doing in Miami, Mr. Katkov.”
“Sightseeing,” I reply, indicating my Disney World T-shirt. “I’m a tourist.”
The Customs official makes a notation on an official-looking form. More bursts of Spanish. The interpreter smirks. “He’s puzzled. He says you’re a Russian. An ally. Yet you spend money in the United States when Cuba needs all it can get. Why?”
“Tell him it was a mistake. I didn’t like it.”
“You didn’t like Disney World?”
“No,” I reply with as much indignation as I can muster. “It’s a false view of life. A capitalist-pig fantasy. That’s why I came to Cuba.”
Another exchange in Spanish. The Customs officer sweeps his eyes over me warily. They leave the room to decide my fate. I return to the window. Several more containers are unloaded. I’m about to turn away when 95824 is suddenly lifted from the freighter’s hold and deposited in the flatbed of an eighteen-wheeler.
Damn. Is it staying in Cuba? Being transferred to another ship? A plane? I’ve got to get out of here and keep track of it. I’m beside myself by the time they return. The Customs official hands me my passport. “You’re free to go, Mr. Katkov,” the interpreter says. “Enjoy your stay in Cuba.”
“Thanks,” I reply as calmly as possible. “Is there a place nearby where I can rent a car?”
“The next pier,” he replies, to my surprise. “Where the cruise ships berth.”
“Thanks.” I force a smile and head for the door.
“Only tourists and seamen with hard currency can afford them now,” he goes on, blocking my way. “Fuel is very scarce. The price outrageous. It’s gotten so bad, we have power blackouts to conserve energy. Five to eight
P.M.
every day.” He pauses and shakes his head, disgusted. “We have that fool Gorbachev to thank for it. He let the Soviet Union go down the toilet, and we went with it. No more troops spending their pay, no more aid, no trade, nothing.”
“For what it’s worth, things aren’t much better in Moscow, believe me.” I shake his hand, then slip past him and head downstairs to collect my bags. A tough-looking man clutching a thick sheaf of paperwork exits an office and comes toward me. I’m stunned by the sight of him. Stunned by the aggressive stride, the flattened nose, designer sunglasses, and shaved head dotted with stubble that are eerily familiar; not to mention the
jeans, leather jacket, and gloves—worn despite the stifling heat—that confirm the skinhead’s identity. It’s Arkady Bar-khin’s thug, Ray-Ban!
I’m trapped. No alcove, no doorway, no escape. He charges straight down the center of the corridor. I cringe and hug the wall, anticipating the encounter. His shoulder brushes mine as he blows past without so much as a glance. All business. Preoccupied. As if I don’t exist. Of course. He’s not expecting to run into me here, let alone in Vuarnet knockoffs, Disney World T-shirt, Miami Beach tan, and camera hanging from my neck. No, that’s not at all the image he has of me.
I hurry to a nearby window. Ray-Ban exits the building and crosses to the eighteen-wheeler with 95824 in its flatbed. He climbs into the cab next to the driver. It belches black smoke and thunders off, merging into the line of rigs leaving the pier.
It’s midmorning by the time I rent a car. The dusty Lada 1600 is part of a small fleet of Russian-made vehicles on the waterfront lot. Eighty-five thousand kilometers on the odometer, worn tires, faded paint, but it has a full tank of gas and a detailed map of Cuba and the streets of Havana on the threadbare driver’s seat. Container 95824 is long gone, but I know where it’s going. Rubineau told me. Varadero. Ninety miles due east of Havana. Where the Turistica Internacional resort complexes are being completed. That’s where it’s going. That’s where they’re all going.
Via Blanca, the superhighway that connects Havana and Varadero, circles the harbor, then winds eastward along the coast. Lest I have any doubts about the scarcity of fuel, its broad, smoothly paved lanes are free of automotive traffic. Clusters of pedestrians and hundreds of bicycles in long caravans travel on them instead. Except for the occasional car or motor scooter, and decrepit buses with passengers hanging out the doors, the container-laden eighteen-wheelers are the only motorized traffic. They travel in small convoys. Each time the Lada overtakes one, I anxiously scrutinize the numbers; each time, 95824 isn’t among them.
On one side of the highway, fields of sugarcane stretch to the horizon. Workers with machetes do the work of fuel-starved combines. On the other side, miles of pristine beaches and picturesque villages with musical names go by: Santa Maria Del
Mar, Boca Ciega, Playas del Este, Santa Cruz del Norte, Carbonera.
Rubineau may be a deceitful son of a bitch, but he wasn’t lying about Varadero. Bathed in sunshine, dotted with swaying palms, cooled by gentle trade winds, it’s a dream come true; actually, dream in progress would be more accurate. Some hotels are open for business, others in various stages of construction.
It’s noon by the time I arrive and get my bearings. The narrow peninsula is barely a thousand meters at its widest point. The main street, Avenida Primera, runs the entire length, joining intermittent grids of short cross streets. The simple layout makes it easy to conduct an organized search. I cruise the ten-mile strip of sand with my map, checking out construction sites and the loading docks of every hotel, office building, and warehouse. Containers are everywhere, arriving, unloading, baking in the sun; but to my profound dismay, 95824 isn’t one of them either. It’s not like I’m looking for a needle in a haystack. The massive aluminum boxes are difficult to conceal, the large numbers easily spotted.
The sun is setting when I come upon a hotel that’s nearing completion. Containers from the
Halifax
are aligned in the parking lot. Furniture, gaming tables, and slot machines are being unloaded and moved inside on dollies. I’m circling the lot in search of my elusive target when I notice a Zil limousine pulled up alongside the loading dock. A few moments later, I’m stunned to see Rubineau and Barkhin emerge from the hotel.
Rubineau said they had a business relationship. Banzer said he thought Barkhin would get a piece of the action. And from the looks of things, running the casinos in Varadero is it.
They have a brief exchange with a man supervising the operation, then get into the limousine and drive off. The clumsy vehicle lumbers down Avenida Primera, crosses the bridge that spans the narrow lagoon, and instead of swinging into Via Blanca toward Havana, turns into Varadero Airport, where numerous private and commercial jets are parked. Rubineau’s Gulfstream is one of them. It buttons up and taxis the instant they’re aboard.
I’m back to square one. No sign of the container, or Ray-Ban, for that matter. I’ve no choice but to conclude that I was wrong; that despite my logic, despite the convoys of eighteen-wheelers,
despite Rubineau and Barkhin’s presence, container 95824 wasn’t taken to Varadero.
I head back to Havana. Darkness falls en route, deepening my mood. The power blackout follows. The coastal villages are lifeless, as if abandoned to an invading army. Every so often, the distant flicker of a candle alleviates the monotony. Nothing alleviates my sense of failure. Scotto put her trust in me. I haven’t been in Cuba a day, and I’ve already blown it. How can I tell her I’ve lost track of the container? Dammit. It has to be here somewhere. I’m exhausted. My brain refuses to function. I decide to check into a hotel, get some sleep, and regroup in the morning.
Havana is dark when I arrive, an earthly black hole with a faint glow from the harbor at its center. I’m proceeding cautiously through the pitch-black streets when the power suddenly comes back on. Every window in the city lights up at once. The cool glow of television screens reflect off ceilings. Rock music blares from open windows. Signs flicker to life. Streetlights pop on with startling brilliance. Havana’s sweltering citizens pour out of their apartments. The dusty neighborhoods are soon crowded with strollers escaping the stifling heat indoors.
I’m stopped at a traffic light. My eyes drift to a wall in a small shopping plaza covered with posters, then blink in weary disbelief at their message. Maybe I’ve been on the road too long, maybe it’s a mirage, a desperate man’s fantasy. But no. No, there, plastered at odd angles across the sun-bleached stucco, dozens of posters with colorful typography proclaim: COPPELIA.