Havana Bay (20 page)

Her attitude had changed a little.» That man Andres
only showed us the cigar seals he found because he
looked into your eyes. You knew he was hiding some
thing. How did you do that?"

It was true that from the moment Arkady walked
into the boatyard he felt guided to the flimsy dock and
the spear-shaped floats of the "mother line." He could
say it was the way the workmen avoided Osorio, but
no, it was as if
El Pinguino
had called his name.

"A moment of clarity."

"More than that. You saw through him."

"I'm highly trained in suspicion. It's the Russian
method."

Osorio gave him an opaque, humorless gaze. He had
yet to figure the detective out. The fact that Luna had
backed off when Osorio arrived in the
santero's
yard
suggested as much that they were working together as
on opposite sides. She could just be a smaller version of
the man who had beaten Arkady with a bat. Yet there
were moments when Arkady would spy an entirely
different, unrevealed person stirring within her. The
ferry engines reversed and threw the deck into vibrations as it coasted to the dock.

"Now we should go to a doctor," Osorio said.» I
know a good one."

"Thanks, but I finally have a mission. Your Dr. Bias
needs a better photograph of Sergei Pribluda. I volun
teered to find it. At least, to try."

The address Isabel had given him the night before was
an old town house that, like a dowager in a once fine
but tattered dress, maintained an illusion of European
culture. Wrought-iron railings guarded marble steps.
Lunettes of stained glass cast red and blue light onto
the floor of a reception room staffed with women sitting
in white housecoats.

Arkady followed strains of Tchaikovsky, bright and
brittle notes from a badly tuned piano, into a sun-filled
courtyard, where, through an open window, he saw
a class in progress, dancers who balanced the upper
bodies of starving waifs on a powerful musculature that started at the small of their backs, sculpted the haunches
and flowed down through the legs. While Russian
ballerinas tended to be doe-like and softly blonde,
however, Cubans had whippet-thin faces trimmed in
black hair and eyes and lit with the arrogance of
flamenco dancers. In their leotards they combined pov
erty and chic, moving on point in stiffly elegant, birdlike
steps in taped toe shoes across a wooden floor patched with squares of linoleum.

As a Russian, he took a moment to adjust. He had
been brought up with the attitude that great dancers—
Nijinsky, Nureyev, Makarova, Baryshnikov—were, per
se, Russian, that they graduated from schools like the
Vaganova Academy in St. Petersburg and that they
danced with the Kirov or Bolshoi until they escaped.
Even now, although they were free agents like ice-
hockey players, the tradition was still Russian. Yet here
was a room of dancers as exotic as hothouse orchids. Especially Isabel, who had the classic line, who made
every move seem effortless, whose arabesques were
infinitely smooth, whose grace even from the last row
stole the eye until the mistress clapped her hands and
dismissed the class, at which point Isabel gathered her
sweatshirt and bag, joined Arkady and demanded in
Russian, "Give me a cigarette."

They took a table in a corner of the courtyard, Isabel
inhaling fiercely, looking Arkady up and down.» Eighty
degrees and you're still in your coat. That's class."

"It's a style. I noticed that you're very good."

"It doesn't matter. I will never be more than corps
de ballet no matter how good I am. If I weren't the best I wouldn't be in the company at all."

Arkady was struck again by the melancholy of her
voice and the long line of her neck, with its nape of
feathery black curls on milk-white skin. Also by her
fingernails, which were bitten to the quick. She drew on
her cigarette hungrily, as if it served for food.» I like that you're thin."

"There's that." Arkady lit a cigarette himself, cele
brating an attribute he had been unaware of.

"You can see the conditions in which we have to
work," Isabel said.

"It doesn't seem to stop you. Dancers dance no
matter what, don't they?"

"They dance to eat. The ballet feeds us better than
most Cubans see. Then there's the chance some infatu
ated Spaniard from Bilbao will set us up in an apart
ment in Miramar, and all we have to do is drop our
pants whenever he's in town. The rest of the girls would
say, 'Oh, Gloria, you're so lucky.' I would slit my throat rather than live like that. The others at least get to travel
from Cuba and be seen while I rot here. Sergei was
going to help."

"A ballerina who defects
to
Russia?"

"You're laughing?"

"It's a change. I was never aware of Pribluda's
interest in the ballet."

"He was interested in me."

"That's
  
different,"
  
Arkady
  
conceded.
  
Her
  
selfabsorption was so complete she had yet to notice any
scuff marks on him.» You were close?"

"On my part, strictly friends."

"He wanted to be closer?"

"I suppose so."

"Did he have any photographs of you?" Arkady
thought of the frame in Pribluda's bureau, of Isabel's
willowy pose in class.

"I believe so."

"Do you have any photographs of him?"

"No." She appeared to find the question ridiculous.

"Or the two of you together?"

"Please."

"Only asking."

"Sergei wanted a different relationship but he was so
old, not the most handsome man in the world and not
very cultured."

"He didn't know a plie from a
...
whatever?"

"Exactly."

"But he was doing something for you."

"Sergei was communicating with Moscow for me, I
told you. You're sure there was no E-mail or letter?"

"About what?"

"Getting out of this wretched country."

Arkady had the sensation that he was talking to a fairy-tale princess imprisoned in a tower.

"When did you last see Sergei?"

"Two weeks ago. It was the day of the first night of
Cinderella.
One of the principal dancers was ill, I was
filling in as one of the ugly stepsisters and there was a
problem with my wig, because here in Cuba the ugly
stepsisters are blonde. So it was a Friday."

"What time?"

"In the morning, maybe eight. I knocked on his door
on the way down. He came to the door with Gordo."

"Gordo?"

"His turtle. I named him. It means 'fat boy.'"

Arkady could see Pribluda opening the door. Had
the colonel imagined himself a knight errant rescuing Isabel from her island prison?

"You lived right above Pribluda," Arkady said
_r
"did
you ever notice who visited him?"

"Who would visit a Russian if they knew his home
was watched?"

"Who is watching?"

She touched her chin as if such a delicate feature
could sprout a beard.»
He
watches.
He
watches everything."

"The last time you saw Pribluda, did he mention
what he was going to do that day?"

"No. He didn't boast like George, who always has big plans. But Sergei brought you."

"He didn't send for me, I just came." Arkady tried to get the conversation back on track.» Did you ever see Pribluda with a Sergeant Luna from the Ministry of the
Interior?"

"I know who you mean. No." Isabel awarded him a
smile.» You stood up to Luna last night. I saw you."

"In a feeble way." What Arkady remembered of the
encounter was being saved by Detective Osorio's arrival.

 
"And you are going to save me." She placed her cool
hand on his and said as if they'd reached an understand
ing, "When the letter comes from Moscow I will
immediately need an invitation to Russia.
Pues,
that you
must organize through some cultural entity, a dance
company, a theater, anything. Do you see where Cubans
are dancing now? New York, Paris, London. It doesn't
have to be the Bolshoi at the start for me, if only I can
get out."

Over Isabel's shoulder Arkady saw George Washing
ton Walls almost trip and recover as he entered the
courtyard from the street. His light complexion was
even lighter for a moment before he regained momen
tum, the street stroll of an American slowed to a Cuban
pace and an actor's self-consciously casual style: pressed
blue jeans and a fastidiously white pullover over brown
biceps. The man had to be fifty, Arkady thought, and
Walls could almost play himself as a young man if there
was a movie. Why not? As Arkady remembered, there
had been the war protests, the march on Washington,
the plane. As he crossed the courtyard he distributed a
pat on the shoulder here, a smile there. The only one
impervious to his charm was Isabel, who recoiled from
a kiss. He sat and told Arkady, "Oh, oh, I am on the
outs. Arkady, you seem to be the new boy in town."

"Comemierda"
she leaned across the table to say,
then twisted out her cigarette and marched back to the
rehearsal room.

"Do you want me to translate that?" Walls asked
Arkady.

 
 
"No."

"Good. She is as mean as she is lovely and she is a
lovely lady." Walls sat and gave Arkady his full atten
tion.» Are you interested in ballet? I contribute to the
cause here, but I'm actually more of a fight fan myself.
I go all the time. You?"

"Not too much."

"But sometimes." Walls eyed the repair work on
Arkady's head.» So, what happened to you anyway?"

"I think it was baseball."

"Some game. Look, I wanted to thank you for stopping Luna last night."

"I think you helped."

"No, you did it and it was the right thing. The
sergeant was out of line. These things happen in Cuba.
Do you know who I am?"

"George Washington Walls."

"Yeah, that says it all, doesn't it? Here I am like a kid checking out everyone Isabel talks to. You surprised me,
I admit it. Last night I didn't come on too well, either. The problem is, I'm the elder statesman of radicals on
the run in Cuba but I'm like a kid when it comes to
Isabel."

"That's all right." Arkady changed the subject, "What
was it like to be 'on the run'?"

"Not bad. In East Germany, the old Democratic
Republic, the blonde Hildas and Uses used to line up to
serve under the black commander. I thought I was a
god. Here I am trying to wring one little smile from
Isabel's lips."

 
"You've been here a while."

"I've been here forever. I don't know what the fuck I
had in mind. The truth is, I always let my mouth get
away from me. My mouth said, 'I'm not going to war,
I'm not going to let you push around my black brothers in the South, I'm hijacking this fucking plane.' And the
rest of me's going, 'Jesus Christ, I didn't mean that, please don't hit me again.' I didn't really think they'd
take me to Havana. But my eyes were popping, I was
totally dosed on speed and waving a big cowboy gun in
the cockpit, they must've thought I was one fucking
dangerous dude. I got out of the plane here and one of
the stewardesses hands me a little American flag. What was going on in her head? I don't know. Fuck, I burned it. What else? That picture was everywhere. Drove the
FBI straight up the wall. They made me a Most Wanted
and, at the same time, a hero to half the world. So that's
what I've been for twenty-five years, a hero. At least, they tried. They thought they had a hardened revo
lutionary and they sent me to camps with Palestinians, Irish, Khmer Rouge, the scariest men on earth, and it
turned out that I was really just a loudmouthed boy
from Athens, Georgia, who could spout a lot of Mao
and play a little ball and probably would have ended up
with a Rhodes Scholarship at Oxford if I hadn't come
to Cuba instead. Those guys were scary. Eat-the-snake
scary. Know the type?"