“I don’t like convertibles. People look at you more when you’re driving a convertible. And I don’t much like being looked at.”
“So are you the shy type? Or are you just guilty about something?”
“Neither. Just private.”
“Got a smoke?”
“There’s a packet in the glove box.”
She stabbed the lock on the lid with a finger and let it fall open in front of her.
“Old Gold. I don’t like Old Gold.”
“You don’t like my car. You don’t like my cigarettes. What do you like?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I took a sideways glance at her. Her mouth always seemed to be on the edge of a snarl, an impression that was enhanced by the strong white teeth that filled it. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t imagine anyone touching her without losing a finger. She sighed and, clasping her hands tightly, pushed them between her knees.
“So what’s your story, Señor Hausner?”
“I don’t have one.”
She shrugged. “It’s seven hundred miles to Santiago.”
“Try reading a book.” I knew she had one.
“Maybe I will.” She opened her handbag and took out a pair of glasses and a book and started to read.
After a while, I managed to sneak a look at the title. She was reading How the Steel Was Tempered, by Nikolai Ostrovsky. I tried not to smile, but it was no good.
“Something funny?”
I nodded at the book on her lap. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“It’s about someone who participated in the Russian Revolution.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So, what do you believe in?”
“Not much.”
“That’s not going to help anyone.”
“As if that matters.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“In my book, the party of not much beats the party of brotherly love every time. The people and the proletariat don’t need anyone’s help. Certainly not yours or mine.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Oh, I’m sure. But it’s funny, don’t you think? Both of us running away to Haiti like this. You because you believe in something, and me because I believe in nothing at all.”
“First it was not much you believed in. Now it’s nothing at all. Marx and Engels were correct. The bourgeoisie does produce its own grave diggers.”
I laughed.
“Well, we’ve established something,” she said. “That you are running away.”
“Yes. That’s my story. If you’re really interested, it’s the same story as always. The Flying Dutchman. The Wandering Jew. There’s been quite a bit of travel involved, one way or the other. I thought I was safe here in Cuba.”
“No one is safe in Cuba,” she said. “Not anymore.”
“I was safe,” I said, ignoring her. “Until I tried to play the hero. Only I forgot. I’m not the stuff of which heroes are made. Never was. Besides, the world doesn’t want heroes. They’re out of fashion, like last year’s hemlines. What is now required are freedom fighters and informers. Well, I’m too old for the one and too scrupulous for the other.”
“What happened?”
“Some obnoxious lieutenant of military intelligence wanted to make me his spy, only there was something about it I didn’t like.”
“Then you’re doing the right thing,” said Melba. “There’s no disgrace in not wanting to be a police spy.”
“You almost make it sound like I’m doing something noble. It isn’t that way at all.”
“What way is it?”
“I don’t want to be the coin in anyone’s pocket. I had enough of that during the war. I prefer to roll around on my own. But that’s just part of the reason. Spying is dangerous. It’s especially dangerous when there’s a good chance of being caught. But I daresay you know that by now.”
“What did Marina tell you about me?”
“All she needed to. I kind of stopped listening after she said that you shot a cop. That pretty much brings the curtain down on the movie. My movie, anyway.”
“You speak like you don’t approve.”
“Cops are the same as anyone else,” I said. “Some good and some bad. I was a cop like that myself once. A long time ago.”
“I did it for the Revolution,” she said.
“I didn’t imagine you did it for a coconut.”
“He was a bastard and he had it coming, and I did it for—”
“I know, you did it for the Revolution.”
“Don’t you think Cuba needs a revolution?”
“I won’t deny that things could be better. But every revolution smokes well before it turns to ash. Yours will be like all the others that went before. I guarantee it.”
Melba was shaking her pretty head, but warming to my subject, I kept on going: “Because when someone talks about building a better society, you can bet he’s planning to use a couple of sticks of dynamite.”
After that she remained silent and so did I.
We stopped for a while in Santa Clara. About 180 miles east of Havana, it was a picturesque, unremarkable little town with a central park faced by several old buildings and hotels. Melba went off by herself. I sat outside the Central Hotel and had lunch on my own, which suited me fine. When she reappeared, we set off again.
In the early evening we reached Camagüey, which was full of triangular houses and large earthenware jars filled with flowers. I didn’t know why and it never occurred to me to ask. Parallel to the highway, a goods train moving in the opposite direction was loaded with timber cut from the region’s many forests.
“We’re stopping here,” I announced.
“Surely it would be better to keep going.”
“Can you drive?”
“No.”
“Neither can I. Not anymore. I’m beat. It’s another two hundred miles to Santiago, and if we don’t stop soon we’ll both wake up in the morgue.”
Near a brewery—one of the few on the island—we passed a police car, which got me thinking again about Melba and the crime she had committed.
“If you shot a cop, then they must want you bad,” I said.
“Very bad. They bombed the casa where I was working. Several other girls were killed or seriously injured.”
“Which is why Doña Marina agreed to help get you out of Havana?” I nodded. “Yes, it makes sense now. When one casa gets bombed, it’s bad for all of them. In which case it will be safer if we share a room. I’ll say you’re my wife. That way you won’t have to show them your identity card.”
“Look, Señor Hausner, I am grateful to you for taking me with you to Haiti. But there’s one thing you should know. I only volunteered to play the part of a chica to get close to Captain Balart.”
“I was wondering about that.”
“I did it for the—”
“The Revolution. I know. Listen, Melba, your virtue, if there is anything left of it, it’s safe with me. I told you. I’m tired. I could sleep on a bonfire. But I’ll settle for a chair or a sofa and you can have the bed.”
She nodded. “Thank you, señor.”
“And stop calling me that. My name is Carlos. Call me that. I’m supposed to be your husband, remember?”
We checked into the Gran Hotel in the center of town and went up to the room. I crawled straight to bed, which is to say I slept on the floor. During the summer of 1941 some of the floors that I slept on in Russia were the most comfortable beds I ever had, only this wasn’t as comfortable. Then again, I wasn’t nearly as exhausted as I’d been back then. About two o’clock in the morning I awoke to find her wrapped in a sheet and kneeling beside me.
“What is it?” I sat up and groaned with pain.
“I’m so scared,” she said.
“What are you scared about?”