Alex finished her food. She indicated her clothing, the dirt, and the tears. “Maybe I could wash later,” she said. “And maybe clean my clothing.”
“Of course,” Maria answered. “Do you have other clothes to wear?”
Alex shook her head. “I fled very quickly,” Alex said. “I had extra clothes but I left them behind.”
The woman laughed. Carlos, fully amused for the first time, shook his head.
“Maybe there is a shop nearby,” Alex suggested. “Perhaps I could buy some extra things. Maybe a skirt, a few blouses.”
Maria’s face illuminated. “Come with me!” she said. “Clothing, yes!”
Maria sprung to her feet, taking Alex by the hand. She led her out of the house and down a long dirt road until they came to a few windy, dusty streets of a town. Maria greeted a few people she met on the way and was soon in front of another small building with a heavy front door and iron gratings.
The door was open for air circulation, as were most doors on the block. She rapped on a wooden door and called out for someone named Ramona.
A small child came into view, then turned and ran. His mother, Ramona, returned moments later and recognized Maria.
Ramona was Maria’s sister. The door opened. Ramona ushered Alex and Maria in. The front room of the home had a few racks of used clothing and an area for a seamstress. The place, a small store and tailoring shop in Ramona’s home, was a godsend.
“Please,” Ramona said. “Find what you like.”
Alex riffled through the racks. She picked out a pale green dress, a pair of skirts, one green one to the knees and one ankle length in pale orange, both in a tropical-weight cotton, two white blouses, a pair of shorts, and a pair of T-shirts. The store also had some fresh underwear. Alex used the family bedroom to change and tried to keep her gun well hidden, though she wasn’t sure she had. Ramona had a twelve-year-old daughter who helped.
Ramona used her sewing skills to adjust the waist on one of the skirts. Within minutes all three women were laughing as old friends might.
There were some baseball caps there too, and Alex picked one. She avoided American logos and opted for one from a Mexican professional baseball team. Los Sultanes de Monterrey. The cap was perfect. Navy blue. It would help her blend into crowds. Then Alex added a pair of espadrilles for walking.
Ramona wouldn’t let Alex leave until she had also repaired the damage to Alex’s clothes. She washed out the area that had been spoiled with sand and dirt, then went to work with a needle and thread. Alex added a pair of sneakers that fit and also saw a used tote bag. She offered to buy it. Ramona let it go for the equivalent of five dollars.
In the end, Alex wore new clothing out the door.
“I have Mexican pesos and Cuban pesos,” Alex said. “Which do you wish?”
There was a pause. Ramona and Maria exchanged a conspiratorial smile.
“Do you maybe have American dollars?” Ramona asked.
Alex paused. “I might have a few,” she said. “You’d prefer those?” Ramona nodded, not surprisingly. “How many do you want?”
Ramona couldn’t bring herself to ask for such an extravagant amount as she had in mind. So, with a giggle, she wrote the number on a pad and showed it to Alex.
Thirty-five dollars. She looked as if she were ready to bargain.
But Alex exuded gratitude, not a cheap streak. “Perfecto,” Alex said. “?Treinta cinco dolares!” Alex peeled off thirty-five dollars. Ramona was ecstatic. Then they chatted about local news and the rumors about yesterday’s incident.
Later that afternoon, Maria and Alex strolled back to the house.
Behind the house was a makeshift shower stall for bathing. There would be no hot water. Maria warned that the warmth of the day would soon be gone and the sea breezes made bathing chilly at night. So it was best to shower before their late dinner, while the sun was still on the back of the house.
The water pump wasn’t working, Maria warned further, and the showerhead was out of order. But the bathing area would drain properly. So the family directed Alex to the well, where she drew four buckets of water. Guillermo helped carry the water to the bathing area. There was a single shower curtain, badly torn, behind which Alex could shield herself from two directions only, but the family gave her privacy. Maria handed her a small bar of Camay soap, the type found in downscale American motels.
Alex stashed her new tote bag and clothes by the shower stall, safely away from the water. She pulled the curtain and undressed. Maria gave her a towel, then left. Alex hung the towel on an exposed nail outside the stall and washed quickly. She was out of everyone’s view. The cool water, fresh air, and soap on her body refreshed her. She closed her eyes and for a moment savored the notion that she had survived the day and might even survive the journey, though the uncertainty about Paul’s fate gnawed at her.
Abruptly, she heard a male voice on the other side of the curtain, so close that it jarred her. “?Senora?” the voice asked.
Alex grabbed the towel and covered herself. But it was only Guillermo, the teenager. “?Otra toala?” he asked. He had another towel for her, in case the first one was too small.
“Si, Gracias.” Alex answered.
Guillermo flipped the second towel up to where it hung over the bar of the shower curtain. Peeking through one of the rips in the curtain, Alex could see that the boy, bashful, was looking the other way. Alex suppressed a smile. She finished her shower and dressed in her new clothes.
She came back inside, still functioning in an information void of what had transpired the previous morning. She knew the rumors that the locals were spreading, but questions haunted her: Was Paul dead? What was the larger picture? Did Washington yet know what had happened? Who was looking for her? Cuban police, Cuban security? Violette? Figaro? Anyone?
As for Roland Violette, Alex had carefully memorized the contact procedures. She had little choice but to persist in her initial assignment until it blew up completely. But ugly scenarios further presented themselves. What if, by contacting Violette, she was walking further into a trap? What if the CIA wasn’t leveling on their intentions with him. There were plenty of questions and some fly-by-night morality. But no answers emerged.
That evening, as the sun was setting, the family took Alex to a small cafe in town. Alex went warily, not wishing to be spotted by police, but the hour passed uneventfully, during which she watched the street from a corner table. Working men knocked back slugs of rum in the bar lit by fluorescent light. She listened as dominos banged on tables. She tried to tune in on the bawdy passionate conversations among lovers and strangers. The ever-present whiff of puros permeated the night air, and she heard the beat of drums and maracas through bad speakers.
Later, Alex sat in the small living room with her new friends and they chatted. Maria seemed to be preoccupied with correspondence that she was writing by hand. They had no extra bedroom for her, so when they retired to their single bedroom at about 11:00 p.m., Alex slept on the sofa.
FORTY-FIVE
At a side-street cafe in Old Havana, shortly before midnight, business was finally slacking off. Gradually the cafe El Rincon Cubano emptied out. Two couples still sat at separate tables, as well as a single man in a suit, reading a newspaper. At a table in the rear sat an old revolutionary named Garcia, drinking by himself. One of the couples rose and left, followed by the man who’d been reading the newspaper. Then the other couple started smooching, but soon they got up and left as well. Watching all this was yet another man at the bar, alone, nursing a mojito.
Jose, the bartender, spoke to the barfly. “I’m going to close,” he said. “Time for everyone to go home.”
The final drinker nodded. “May I finish?” he asked politely.