Havana Bay (11 page)

Bugai had kept retreating and Arkady had kept advancing until he stepped on a pencil that broke with a sharp crack. The vice consul jumped and looked not
as cool as jellyfish anymore, more like an egg yolk at the sight of a fork. His nervousness reminded Arkady
that he had killed a man; whether in self-defense or not,
killing someone was a violent act and not likely to
attract new friends.

"What was Pribluda, your sugar attache, working
on?"

"I can't possibly tell you that."

"What was he working on?" Arkady asked more
slowly.

"I don't think you have the authority," Bugai began,
and amended as Arkady started around the desk.» Very
well, but this is under protest. There's a problem with
the sugar protocol, a commercial thing you wouldn't
understand. Basically they send us sugar they can't sell
anywhere else, and we send them oil and machinery we
can't unload anywhere else."

"That sounds normal."

"There was a misunderstanding. Last year the Cubans
demanded negotiations of agreements already signed.
With such bad feelings between the two countries we
let them bring in a third party, a Panamanian sugar
trader called AzuPanama. Everything was resolved. I
don't know why Pribluda was looking into that."

"Pribluda, the sugar expert?"

"Yes."

"And a photograph of Pribluda?"

"Let me look," Bugai said before Arkady took another
step. He backed to the bookshelves and retrieved a
leather album, which he opened on the desk, flipping
through ring-bound pages of mounted photographs.»
Guests and social events. May Day. Mexican Cinco de
Mayo. I told you Pribluda didn't come to these things.
Fourth of July with the Americans. The Americans don't
have an embassy, only a so-called Interests Section bigger
than an embassy. October, Cuban Independence Day.
Did you know that Fidel's father was a Spanish soldier
who fought against Cuba? December. Maybe there's one.
We used to have a traditional New Year's party with a
Grandfather Frost for Russian children, a major affair.

Now we have only a few children, but they demand Santa
Claus and a Christmas party."

In the photograph two girls with bows in their hair
sat on the lap of a bearded man in a plush red suit, a
round figure with cheeks rouged to a cheery glow.
Presents ringed a tinsel tree. Behind the children spread
a buffet line of adults balancing plates of cheeses and
Christmas cakes and glasses of sweet champagne. At the
far end someone who might have been Sergei Pribluda
shoved his whole hand into his mouth.

"The heat in that suit was unbelievable."

"You wore it?" Arkady took a closer look at the
picture.» You don't look well."

"Congestive heart failure. A bad valve." Kneading his
arm, Bugai went around his desk and rooted through
drawers.» Pictures. I'll make a list of possible names and
addresses. Mostovoi is the embassy photographer, then there is Olga."

"You should be in Moscow."

"No, I angled for Cuba. They may not have enough
drugs here but they have excellent doctors, more doc
tors per person than anywhere else in the world, and
they'll operate on anyone, a general, a farmer, some
little man who rolls cigars, it doesn't matter. Moscow? Unless you're a millionaire you wait two years at least.
I'd be dead." Bugai blinked through a film of sweat.» I
can't leave Cuba."

Elmar Mostovoi had a monkey's round mug and curved fingernails and a hairpiece of frizzled orange that sat on
his head like a souvenir. He was in his mid-fifties,
Arkady guessed, but still in good shape, the sort who
did push-ups on his fingertips, wore his shirt open and
rolled up his pants to show off a shaved chest and shins as smooth as tubes. He lived in Miramar, the same area as the embassy, in an oceanfront hotel named the Sierra
Maestra, which offered many of the features of a sinking
freighter: listing balconies, rusted railings, a view of the
water. The furnishings of Mostovoi's apartment were
quite plush, however, with a sofa and chairs covered in
vanilla leather sitting on a deep shag rug.

"They put Poles, Germans and Russians here. They
call it the Sierra Maestra, I call it Central Europe."
Mostovoi inserted a Marlboro into an ivory cigarette
holder.» Did you see the popcorn machine in the lobby?
Very Hollywood."

Mostovoi's apartment was decorated with movie
posters
(Lolita, East of Eden),
the photographs of an
expatriate (Paris bistro, sailing, someone waving at the
Tower of London), books (Graham Greene, Lewis Car
roll, Nabokov), souvenirs (dusty campaign cap, bronze
bells, ivory phalluses in ascending size).

"Are you interested in photographs?" Mostovoi
asked.

"Yes."

"An appreciator?"

"In my way."

"Do you like nature?" It was very natural. Mostovoi
had boxes of eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs
of young female nudes half hidden by fronds, romping
through waves, peeking through bamboo.» A cross
between Lewis Carroll and Helmut Newton."

"Do you have any photographs of your colleagues at
the embassy?"

"Bugai is always after me to take pictures of his so-
called cultural events. I can't be bothered. You can't get
Russians to pose like this. You can't even get them to
take their clothes off."

"The climate, perhaps."

"No, even here." Mostovoi pondered the photograph of a Cuban girl lightly breaded in sand.» Somehow, the
people here manage to balance socialism with naivete.
And by mixing with the Cubans I don't live with the
paranoia that has gripped the rest of our dwindling
community."

"What paranoia is that?"

"Ignorant paranoia. When an intelligence agent like
Pribluda floats around the harbor in the middle of the night, what is he doing but spying? We never change.
It's disgusting. It's what happens to Europeans in Para
dise, we kill ourselves and blame the natives. I hoped Pribluda had more sense. You know, the KGB used to
produce very civilized people. I said something in French to Pribluda once and he looked at me as if I
were speaking Chinese."

Mostovoi opened another box. On top, a girl
squeezed a volleyball.» My sports series."

"More of that dramatic angle."

The next shot was of a light-colored nude cradling
a skull on her lap. The girl directed a sultry glower
through a mane of curls that only half covered her
breasts. Around her were molten candles, drums, bottles
of rum.

"Wrong box," Mostovoi said.» My rainy-day series.
We shot in here and I had to use the props at hand."

The skull was a rough facsimile, lacking detail around
the nasal orifice and teeth, although Arkady was
impressed by the number of artifacts a serious photographer had to have ready for a rainy day. In the next
picture another girl wore a beret to model clay.

"Very artistic."

"That's kind of you. There's talk of a show at the
embassy. Bugai strings me along. I don't care. I only
hope I'm there with my camera when he has his heart
attack."

She was buxom with fine hair fading from blond to
gray and an oval face with small eyes a little damp with
recollection. Although her air-conditioning had failed,
Olga Petrovna's flat was a little corner of Russia with an
Oriental rug on the wall, geraniums thriving in pots and
a canary bright as a lemon trilling in a cage. Brown
bread, bean salad, sardines, coleslaw with pomegranate
seeds and three types of pickle were laid on the table.
By an electric samovar sat a pot of jam and tea glasses
in silver holders. She sorted through photograph albums
for Arkady and, in a ladylike fashion, plucked at her
dress where it adhered.

"They go back twenty-five years. It was such a life. Our own schools with the best teachers, good Russian
food. It was a real community. No one spoke Spanish.
The children had their Pioneer camps, all in Russian,
with archery and mountain climbing and volleyball.
None of this baseball idiocy of the Cubans. Our own
beaches, our own clubs and, of course, there were
always birthdays and weddings, real family events. It
made you proud to be Russian, to know you were here protecting socialism on this island far from home in the
teeth of the Americans. It seems hard to believe we were
so strong, so sure."

"You are an unofficial historian of the embassy?"

"The embassy mother. I've been there longer than
anyone else. I came very young. My husband is dead
and my daughter married a Cuban. The truth is, I'm hostage to a granddaughter. If it weren't for me she
wouldn't speak Russian at all. Who can imagine such
a thing? Her name is Carmen. This is a name for a
Russian girl?" She poured tea and added jam with a
conspiratorial smile.» Who needs sugar?"

"Thank you. Did your granddaughter go to the
embassy Christmas party?"

"Here she is." Olga Petrovna opened to the first
picture of what appeared to be the most recent album
and pointed to a curly-haired girl in a white dress that
made her look like a walking wedding cake.

"Very cute."

"Do you think so?"

"Completely."

"Actually, it's an interesting mix, Russian and Cuban.
Very precocious, a little of the exhibitionist. Carmen
insisted—all the children insisted—on an American
Santa Glaus. That comes from watching television."

From snapshot to snapshot Arkady followed the little
girl's progress to Santa's lap, a whisper in his ear and
her retreat along the buffet. He pointed to a broad back at the table.» Isn't that Sergei Pribluda?"

"How could you tell? It was Carmen who dragged him to the party. He is such a hard worker."

Olga Petrovna had the highest esteem for Pribluda, a
strong individual with a real worker's background, patriotic, never drunk though never shy, quiet but
profound, obviously an agent but not the sort to act
mysterious. Certainly not a weakling like Vice Consul
Bugai.

"Remember the word 'comrade'?" asked Olga
Petrovna.

"All too well."

"That's what I would call Sergei Sergeevich in the
best sense of the word. And cultured."

"Really?" That was such a new perception of Pribluda
that Arkady wondered whether they were speaking of
the same person. Unfortunately, despite her respect for
the colonel, she had no other pictures of him. Then,
with great delight, "Oh, here she is." A girl of about
eight in an outgrown school jumper of dull maroon
stood at the threshold of the room. She glowered at
Arkady from under a vee of brows.» Carmen, this is our
friend Citizen Renko."

The girl advanced in three deliberate steps, shouted
"Hai!" and delivered a kick a millimeter short of contact
with his chest.» Uncle Sergei knows karate."

"He does?" Arkady had always thought of Pribluda
as more a kidney-punch devotee.

"He carries a black belt in his briefcase."

"Did you ever see it?"

"No, but I'm sure." She administered a karate chop
to the air and Arkady stepped back.» Did you see? Fists
of fear."

"That's quite enough," Olga Petrovna said.» I know
you have homework."

"If he's a friend of Uncle Sergei's he'll want to see
it."

"That is enough, young lady."

"Stupid coat." Carmen looked Arkady up and down.

Olga Petrovna clapped her hands until the girl tucked
in her chin and marched to the next room.» I'm sorry, that's children now."