Naked in Havana (16 page)

For days Papi lay in bed, the blinds down, taking his meals in his bedroom, not saying anything. I thought he’d given up.

But then, the day after I met Lansky, he was awake early, got dressed for breakfast and said he had to go to Miami. He had packed his suitcase and put on his best white linen suit and two-tone shoes. The swelling around his eyes had gone down and the bruising had faded. There was still a raw strip of scalp with fresh stitches, but he could hide the scar easily enough with his Panama hat.

“What are you doing in Miami?” I asked him.

“Just a little business,” was all he would say. He gave Maria instructions to look after me, said he would be back in a few days, and jumped in the back of the Bel Air. Luis drove him to the airport.

Angel telephoned the house. The first two times he rang I refused to take his calls, in fact I was disappointed, I was hoping it was Reyes. I told Maria to tell him I was washing my hair. Both times. But the third time curiosity and - yes, need - got the better of me.

I still hoped.

“I have to see you,” he breathed into the telephone.

“What for, Angel?”

“Just to talk, that’s all, baby. Hey, what about I take you to the Tropicana? My father’s out of town and I have the car.”

“Papi would never let me.”

“Your papi’s in Miami,” Angel said, surprisingly well informed. I think about it now, I should have said no, of course I should. But I could never say no to Angel, that was the trouble. I thought about it; Luis went home every night, he lived somewhere in the
Ciudad Viejo
. Maria always went to bed at nine o’clock.

“Meet me outside after the cannon,” I said, and put the telephone down and cursed myself for a fool and a
puta
.

The Tropicana! I had always wanted to go.

At nine-thirty Angel was waiting outside our villa in his father’s Pontiac. I crept out, knowing that if Papi ever found out about this he’d kill me, and he’d have a right to.

We drove down the Prado. Havana was ablaze with neon. Buskers roamed the streets singing “Guatanamera,” the rebel’s theme song, and the tourists threw them money, thought it was quaint. There were Americans everywhere, mostly men looking for somewhere to lose their money--on booze, on girls, on gambling.

They’d sure come to the right place.

I was scared. This was the most reckless thing I’d ever done. Sleeping with Angel was worse, but at least I knew how to keep it a secret. But this was public; this was out of my control.

I glimpsed my reflection in the wing mirror. Did that face belong to a girl who was out having fun?

What were you thinking, Magdalena? He calls you up and you just drop everything to be with him. Is that the kind of girl you always wanted to be?

While he drove, Angel talked about how much he’d missed me and what a great time we were going to have. I was barely listening. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Papi would say if he found out about this. All I could think was: someone’s bound to see you at the club, he’s sure to find out.

Oh, Magdalena, another voice said, you’re not a little girl anymore. He can’t keep telling how to live your life. Didn’t you just stand up to one of the biggest gangsters in town?

Yes, but this is going to hurt him. I’m going behind his back.

And what about Reyes?

Yes, what about Reyes. I realized I didn’t want him to find out about this either.

I wound down the window, there was a cooling breeze coming off the ocean. I saw sheet lightning in the distance, over the Florida Strait. There was another storm on the way.

The Tropicana was on a huge estate out at Marianao, on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by jungle. When we arrived, taxis were stacked three deep at the curb, there were well-groomed men in dinner jackets, stylish women in jewels and gowns.

And an eighteen-year-old with her flashy boyfriend who was engaged to someone else.

Old man Salvatore had a big stake in the place, and when Angel got out of the car the busboys recognized him straight off and they were all over us, taking the car keys, leading the way inside, making sure we got the best seats. Angel loved it. Maybe he didn’t love Salvatore’s daughter, I thought, but he sure loved being his future son-in-law.

The gardens were overgrown with jungle and lianas, there were coloured spotlights, classical statues and fountains. It was breath-taking. The chandeliered gaming room was right off the entrance lobby. Already there were men crowding around the craps and roulette tables or playing blackjack or poker. It was never too late at night or too early in the evening to give your money to the Mob. There were even slot machines around the walls. Papi told me once the Tropicana made more money from gambling every day than the Cuban mint.

He was serious.

The Tropicana had two nightclubs: one was outdoors under the stars,
aire libre
, under towering royal palms; the other, the Crystal Arch, was a massive hall they used when it rained or when the outdoor club could not fit in any more customers.

Tonight they thought the weather would hold off so we were guided to a front row table outside. It was dazzling. There must have been a hundred showgirls in feathered headdresses and sequins high kicking in front of us, to the right, to the left, even above us, even perched among the palms like exotic tropical birds. Pink and mauve searchlights swept the floor while a man in a bright blue evening suit sang about Paris.

The table was set with white linen and crystal and the heady scent of jasmine and gardenias from the garden was overwhelming. I looked across the tables, saw Frank Sinatra talking to Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Floyd Patterson was there, too, talking to some tough looking black guys.

Angel ordered a
mojito
for me and Brugel rum with a squeeze of quarter lime for himself. He sucked on a fat Rey del Mundo cigar, as he’d seen his father do. “Are you glad you came?” he said grinning.

I shrugged, like I couldn’t care less, and hoped my face did not give me away. It was so different from the Left Bank, this was glamour on a scale I had never imagined.

“You’ve never been here before, huh?”

“This is my first time.”

“What do you think?” he said, like he owned the place.

“It’s okay.”

He grinned. “Stick with me, you’ll do all right.”

“I wanted to stick with you, Angel, it was you that split us up.”

“We’re not split up. Come on, baby, don’t spoil it.”

“I can’t believe you’re still going through with that sham of a wedding.”

He put an arm around me and whispered, “Baby, I ache for you every night. I can’t stop thinking about you. That’s the truth.”

I wanted to believe him. Perhaps it was like that play,
Romeo and Juliet
: we could have been together if only it wasn’t for our parents. But in the play, didn’t Romeo stab himself through the heart when he thought he couldn’t be with her? Romeo didn’t sit in his prospective father-in-law’s club, smoking Cubans and drinking rum.

“When are you going to America?”

“Let’s not talk about that now.”

“What happens when old man Salvatore finds out you were here with me tonight? Someone’s going to tell him. He owns the club.”

“He doesn’t own the club, he owns the casino.”

“He’s still going to find out.”

“Look, the show’s going to start.”

The house lights fell.

Softly at first, then louder, came the hammering rhythm of batá drums, the chanting of bembé. It was the music of the Santería, what westerners called voodoo. I’d heard the drums in the night when there was a ritual in one of the barrios, but I’d never seen a voodoo dance for myself. I’d heard the rumours, of course: they cut the throats of chickens and goats then the priestesses had sex with the other dancers right there in front of everyone. Papi said it wasn’t true, except maybe the bit about the chickens.

I knew this was going to be just a parody of the real thing but I felt my belly tighten with excitement anyway. I remembered the chicken blood and the cigar I had seen on the cobblestones in the old city. That made me think about Reyes and I wished he were here.

The lights went up. The drummers on stage were dressed in white turbans and pants and their bare chests glistened with sweat. The primitive rhythm of the drums stirred me. I felt a trickle of sweat slowly make its way between my breasts. The night was suddenly so hot it was difficult to breathe.

A scantily dressed mulatto swayed onto the stage. She was dressed in yellow, tossing her head from side to side and swinging her skirts high in the air in rhythm with the drums. Angel leaned closer to me. “Yellow is the colour of Ochun,” he said. “She is pretending to be the goddess of love.”

She did not have to pretend very hard. She was young, not much older than me, and her body was lithe, brown and beautiful. I imagined there wasn’t a man in the room who didn’t want her as soon as he saw her. Angel crossed his legs and turned a little away from me, trying to hide how aroused he was himself.

Ochun was surrounded by dark-skinned African dancers, all chanting in high-pitched Yoruba. They had oiled their muscles and they gleamed in the torchlight. She danced with each of them in turn, grinding her hips against them, then turning her back, sliding against them in long, sinuous movements. Her body rippled like a snake.