Havana Bay (32 page)

Ofelia was late for the meeting with Muriel's teacher.

She rushed because she was convinced that the Italian with Hedy was slaughtered simply because he resembled
Renko. She had gone to the medical clinic in time to
find Lohmann, the salesman from Hamburg, still being examined and he truculently answered yes, his friend
Franco had bumped his head a few days earlier on one
of those stupid low doorways in Havana Vieja. Poor
Hedy had not been too bright to begin with, and place,
time, looks, names, a simple scrape on the Italian's
head, everything had conspired against her.

Also Ofelia wanted to shower. She felt death lying
like a film on her skin. If other people couldn't smell it,
she could.

A footbridge led from the Quinta de Molina to the
school, modern and airy with pastel walls covered with
self-portraits of students in their maroon uniforms,
skirts for girls and shorts for boys, and murals on the
theme of "Resistance!" featuring children with rifles
downing hapless American jets.

Muriel's class had recently visited a banana planta
tion, and the classroom walls were decorated with paper
bananas. Ofelia wondered where they got the paper.
The school had one book for every three students, no new books in the library for three years, no chemicals
for chemistry.» They learn in the abstract," as her
mother put it caustically; nevertheless the school was
clean and orderly. Ofelia made profuse apologies to
Miss Garcia, Muriel's teacher, an older woman with
eyebrows as thin as spider legs.

"I'd almost given up on you." The brows lifted to
indicate exasperation.

"I'm so sorry." Was there anything more self-abased
than a parent meeting with a teacher? Ofelia wondered.»
Is there something special you wanted to talk about?"

"Of course. Why would I have asked you in?"

"There's a problem, no?"

 
 
"Yes. A great problem."

"Muriel has not been turning in homework?"

"She turns in her homework."

"It's good?"

"Adequate."

"She misbehaves in school?"

"She behaves normally. That was the reason she was
allowed to go on the trip. But deep in her, in the soul
of this little girl, is something rotten."

"Rotten?"

"Festering."

"She hit someone, she lied?"

"No, no, no, no. Don't try to get off easy. Deep in
her heart is a worm."

"What did she do?"

"She violated my trust. I took only my best students
to the farm. To learn of the struggle in the countryside.
Instead, she revealed herself as an anti-revolutionary
and a thief." Miss Garcia set a paper bag on her desk.»
On the way back on the bus this fell out of her shirt. I heard it fall."

Ofelia looked inside the bag.» A banana."

"Stolen goods. Stolen by a daughter of an officer of
the PNR. This is not going to end here."

"Actually, a banana skin, no?" Ofelia lifted it from
the bag by its unpeeled end. The skin was brown and
blotchy, ripeness on the edge of rotting.

"Banana or banana skin, it makes no difference."

"She had eaten it or not?"

"That doesn't matter."

"You heard it fall. It's not likely you would hear an
empty banana skin fall on a moving bus."

"That's not the point."

"Whose custody has it been in? There could be more
than one person involved, there might be a whole ring involved with this banana. I will test it for fingerprints
inside and out. We can do that. I'm glad you brought
this to my attention. Don't worry, we'll get them all,
each and every one. Do you want me to?"

"Well." Miss Garcia sat back, and her tongue dabbed
at the corner of her mouth.» It was in my custody, of
course. I don't know how it got eaten."

"We can investigate. We can make sure the perpetra
tors never show their faces in this school again. Is that
what you want?"

Miss Garcia looked aside, the eyebrows settled, and she said in an entirely different voice, "I suppose I was
hungry."

Now Ofelia felt even worse. There was no pleasure to be had in cowing a teacher who didn't even recog
nize she was slowly starving. Miss Garcia's problem was her revolutionary purity, she had to be the only
person Ofelia knew who didn't have some small enter
prise on the side. Next the poor woman would start
hallucinating and see Che wandering the halls. Ofelia
was so ashamed she couldn't wait to get her hands on
Muriel.

Arkady opened the briefcase and laid the contents on Pribluda's desk, photocopies that were in Spanish, nat
urally, every word. If he'd only studied Spanish at school
instead of English and German, which were only good for sciences, medicine, philosophy, international busi
ness, Shakespeare and Goethe. For sugar, Spanish
seemed to be the key. Arkady tried anyway:

•
     
A document with the title "Negociacion Russo-Cubano"
with lists of names, Russian for the "Ministerio de
Commercio
  
Exterior
  
de
  
Rusia"
  
(Bykov,
  
Plotnikov,
Chenigovskii), Cubans for the Cuban "Ministerio de
Azucar" (Mesa, Herrera, Suarez) and a third of Pana
manian
  
mediators
  
from
  
AzuPanama
  
(Ramos,
  
Pico,
Arenas).

•
     
A
 
"Certificado
 
del Registro Publico Panameno" for
AzuPanama, S.A., including a list of "directores" with
the same names as the mediators, Sres. Ramos, Pico,
Arenas.

•
     
A
 
"Referenda
 
Bancaria"
  
for
 
AzuPanama
 
from
 
the
Bank for Creative Investments, S.A., "Zona Libre de
Col6n," signed by the bank's "Director General," lohn
O'Brien.

•
     
Face pages of Cuban passports for Ramos, Pico and
Arenas.

•
     
Cubana airline tickets
 
from
 
Havana to
 
Panama for
Ramos, Pico and Arenas.

•
     
Room vouchers for Ramos, Pico and Arenas from the
Hotel Lincoln, Zona Libre, Colon, billed to the Cuban
Ministry of Sugar.

•
     
A long list of Russian commitments in funds and cash
equivalents totaling $252 million for Cuban sugar.

•
     
A revised list after mediation by AzuPanama for $272
million.

•
     
A deposit slip of $5,000 in the name of Vitaly Bugai at
the Bank for Creative Investments, S.A., Zona Libre,
Colon, Republica de Panama.

In other words, the mediators Ramos, Pico and
Arenas were Cuban, and the neutral AzuPanama was a
creation of the Cuban Ministry of Sugar and the Bank
for Creative Investment. Arkady's Spanish was non
existent, but his math was fair. He understood that
Cuba had defrauded Russia of an extra $20 million, one
beggar stealing from the other. He also understood that
the .Cubans' silent partner in crime was the pirate who owned Capone's boat.

Close
 
up,
 
Muriel's
 
dark
 
eyes
 
had
 
irises
 
like
 
solar
flares, frightening glimpses of the eleven-year-old soul.
Her interrogation was brief because she admitted to worse than her teacher claimed. She had bought the
banana.

"The workers at the farm were selling them. I had a

dollar from Grandmother. We bought a bunch."
"A bunch? Miss Garcia found only one banana."
"Everyone in class hid a banana. She only found

mine."

 
Ofelia's mother ticked on her rocker.» We got all the
others, don't worry."

"That's not the point," Ofelia said.» You've turned
my daughters into profiteers."

"A lesson in capitalism."

"They're not supposed to sell bananas at a state farm like that."

"A lesson in communism."

Marisol, the younger sister, said, "My class is going
to see baseballs made. I can get baseballs."

Ofelia's mother said, "Good, maybe we can cook
them."

In her mind Ofelia saw the militant Miss Garcia
looming over her two beautiful daughters, and her
mother defending them like a hen in a housedress, the family universe embattled within and without.

"I'm taking a shower."

"Then what?" her mother asked.

"I have to go out."

"To see that man?"

"He's not a man, he's a Russian."

Arkady found that he had been expecting the detective, with her inquisitor's glare, informal shorts and pullover,
straw bag and gun. All the AzuPanama documents were
out of sight, and Osorio could swing her gaze all she
wanted.

"Did you find a picture of Pribluda today?"

 
"No."

"Well, I found a picture of you." It was plain she
relished the surprise.» Do you remember Hedy?"

"How could I forget Hedy?"

Osorio told him about the two bodies at the Casa de
Amor, Hedy Infante and an Italian national named
Franco Leo Mossa. She described the condition of the
room, positions of the bodies, nature of the wounds,
time of death.

"Machetes?" Arkady asked.

"How did you guess?"

"Statistics. There was no outcry?"

"No. The murderer also used something round and
sharp to puncture the Italian's throat so he couldn't call
out."

"Like an ice pick?"

"Yes. At first, I thought of an extortion turned
violent. Sometimes a
jinetera
goes with a tourist and
when his pants are down a so-called boyfriend shows up and they rob him."

"We know who her boyfriend is."

"Then I thought the dead man looked like you."

"There's a compliment you don't get every day. Was
he the man we saw her with on the street the other
night?"

"I'm pretty sure. Did you dance with Hedy?"

"No. We were only introduced. By Sergeant Luna."

"You talked to her?"

"Not really. She wasn't completely sober, and later,
of course, she was—possessed."

 
 
"After the
santero's,
Hedy cleaned herself up and
returned here. We saw her, you and I. At the time I
wondered why. I mean, everything was over. The
sergeant was gone and this was not the usual place she
picked up tourists. I think the reason she was here was
you."

"I'd only met her."

"Maybe she wanted to meet you again."

"She would have known the difference between a
well-dressed Italian and me. Why even think of me?"

"This was in the room." She showed him the picture.

A camera had the photographer's eye and it was
always odd to see yourself as others imagined you. If
they were dead, Arkady thought, that lent a certain
finality to what had been a simple snapshot. Arkady saw cars, baggage, heavy coats, a Russian herd at Shereme-
tyevo Airport. Only he was in focus. He had delivered the colonel a farewell smile but no embrace sprinkled
with vodka and tears, their history was too complicated for that. Perhaps what Pribluda wanted, finally, Arkady
thought, was someone who knew him that well and
would still see him off. The photograph reminded him of the empty frame he had found in Pribluda's bureau
drawer.