Elena looked at Rostnikov, who put down his drink and gave her a very small nod of understanding.
“Antonio,” he said, “the Santería are a subject of great interest to Russians-a curious alien thing. It is something like the interest the English had in American Indians in the eighteenth century or …”
“I’m no a fool, Rosenikow. Hey, you want to be my friend, my amigo, my tovarich? See, I speak few words Russian.”
Rodriguez laughed and removed his glasses to wipe his eyes with the backs of his hands. With his glasses off, he looked to Rostnikov like a small mole.
“This Santería question, it has something to do with your Russian in jail, verdad? I’m a journalist, remember?”
“Yes, perhaps,” said Elena, wondering whether Rostnikov disapproved of her pursuing this before she discussed it with him.
Antonio Rodriguez put his glasses back on and clapped his hands. “Then,” he said, “I speak.”
The radio was now playing a loud Spanish version of a song Elena had heard in the United States. It was something about virgins.
“The Santería are the biggest religion in Cuba, bigger than Catholics,” Antonio said, holding his hands out to show how big they were. “But they got no pope, nothing like that, just branches, groups, dozens, maybe hundreds, big, small, each with its own babalau who leads his group like a family.”
“Are they violent?” asked Elena.
“Violent,” he repeated, shaking his head and looking at the sky. “Who isn’t violent? Some of them they are. Most of them are no violent. There are stories yes of spells, sacrifices, all kinds of stupid stuff. Most of the Santería are Negroes. They brought their religion from Africa and had to hide it even before the revolution. They hid their gods, giving them the names of Catholic saints, celebrating them on the Catholic saints’ days, but hiding their saints in jars, turning desks into altars. They are powerful, here, all through the islands, New York, Miami, but not organized. Now you tell me, Rosenikow, why you want to know these things?”
Rostnikov turned his eyes to Elena. She opened her notebook and slid it in front of Rostnikov, who shifted in his seat and read the notes by the quickly fading light of the setting sun.
Antonio Rodriguez looked at the notebook in Rostnikov’s hands and then over at his fellow writers, who seemed to be getting along quite badly enough without him.
Rostnikov took his time going over all of Elena’s notes. Her handwriting was firm and flowing, and the notes were a combination of data and personal impressions. Karpo’s notes, which Porfiry Petrovich had grown accustomed to, were, in contrast, printed in small, efficient block letters, easy to read and with no personal impressions.
Satisfied, Rostnikov closed the notebook and returned it to Elena. It was only then that he realized that he had been sitting in nearly the same position for a long time. The drink, the sounds of the sea, and the lights around the pool had lulled him into forgetting his leg. Now, suddenly, this rebellious appendage had gnawed into him and brought him to consciousness. Porfiry Petrovich had no choice but to stand, holding the edge of the table; and begin to coax his leg into some level of reluctant cooperation.
“You wish I should leave?” asked Antonio, also rising. “I have give offense?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “Sit, sit. My leg fell asleep. It will pass. You have a wife, Antonio Rodriguez?”
“Wife, two sons. I have pictures in my wallet, but old, very old pictures, not my sons old, the pictures. My sons are grown but … my pictures are of children.”
Rodriguez sat suddenly, looking quite glum.
“I have a wife and son, one son. His name is Iosef,” said Rostnikov.
“One of my sons is José. Same name, is it not so?”
“El mismo, verdad,” said Elena as the waiter returned with her drink and American hamburger. When the food was in front of her, Elena realized how hungry she was. Rostnikov paid the waiter in Canadian money, and she lifted the sandwich as the waiter departed.
“A witness told Investigator Timofeyeva,” Rostnikov said, “that the son of a Santería priest-”
“Babalau or Obba, keeper of the secrets,” Rodriguez corrected.
“This babalau’s son had threatened the victim, Maria Fernandez, threatened her with death.”
Rodriguez shrugged.
“Is possible,” he said. “People get angry, say things. Is possible. Which Santería?”
“Javier, the son of …” Elena began, and Rodriguez finished.
“… a very important babalau named Manuel Fuentes.” He began to laugh so loud that even his journalist friends at the table across the pool paused to look at him.
“Forgive me, Rosenikow,” he said. “We are lucky I do not choke. Manuel would hurt no one, would not permit his people to hurt anyone.”
“You know this Manuel?” Rostnikov said.
“I know many people in Habana,” Antonio whispered, his magnified eyes darting around the remaining patrons poolside. “Sí, I know him. Actually, I know one of his people, a Communist youth leader. Irony, no? A Communist youth leader is a secret Santería. But that’s nothing. A cabinet minister was last year made a santo, how you call a saint by the Santería. See, I trust you. I tell you things that could get my friends in trouble. You should trust me.”
“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov, feeling painful life returning to his leg. “But experience in my country has taught me that trust must be earned slowly and relied upon almost never.”
“You read Lorca,” Rodriguez said with a smile.
“Gogol and Ed McBain,” Rostnikov said. “Can you arrange a meeting for us with this babalau?”
“Maybe,” said Rodriguez. He scratched his chin and looked at Elena as if she held some special answer to the puzzle before him. “But I will have to be with you.”
“You would be most welcome,” said Rostnikov, sitting down carefully to avoid angering his leg.
“Then,” said the little man, “I shall get back to you very soon. If I do arrange this, however, is important you respect the babalau.”
“Once,” said Rostnikov, watching Elena take the final bite of her sandwich, “I saw an Inuit holy man do things that may have been miracles. One of those things may have saved the life of my wife. I always respect what I do not understand until it proves unworthy of my respect.”
“You are a crazy Russian,” Antonio said, “or maybe I no understand your English as good as I like to think.”
“I think you understand,” said Rostnikov.
“Ah well, so maybe I do. But as you can tell I am fond for you and more than fond for this lovely lady who has the appetite of a Cuban. I will talk to you soon.”
“Soon, I hope,” said Rostnikov.
“Tomorrow,” said Antonio. “Buenos noches, señorita.”
“Hasta mañana,” answered Elena.
The little man turned and tottered toward the end of the pool.
“I hope he doesn’t fall in the water,” Elena said.
“He won’t fall,” said Rostnikov.
“A coincidence, his approaching you.” She picked up a few overlooked crumbs on the end of a finger and guided them to her mouth.
Rostnikov shrugged.
“Povlevich sent him to you?”
“Perhaps, but probably our Major Sanchez,” said Rostnikov. “Do you know that song?”
Elena didn’t. It was a plaintive song, sung by a woman who was almost in tears.