She said, "I will be very nice for you."
I shrugged, grinning foolishly. "I don't hab-la the Es-pan-yol, Sen-yor-rita," I said.
The girl turned helplessly to the man. Concerned, but trying to appear friendly, he came up, clapped me on the shoulder and said in Spanish, "I attend university with this lady. She likes you very much. But she is badly in need of money. Perhaps you and she could step into that private place"-he motioned toward the shadows of a nearby park-"and get to know each other better."
I said, "Huh? Parque? Sorry, buddy, I don't com-pren-dough."
Listened to the girl say, "Carlos, he doesn't understand a word you're saying. Must we do this?"
Carlos was nodding-relax; everything was going to be okay-as he said, "We've talked about it; it's what we've decided. We know he's a Yankee, just as I said. What does he care about the price?"
That gave me pause. He could have meant a couple of things by that. I decided I had to see it through. I touched the girl's shoulder. Felt her cringe before reconsidering and then she leaned heavily against me. "Carlos, I'm not certain I can do this."
Carlos said, "Do we have a choice?"
"Perhaps we should find someone else. He's so big, maybe he's dangerous."
"That's why we followed him, to make certain. He's a tourist. He seems respectable and clean. Lena, it's what we have to do."
Lena. The girl had a name.
Carlos smiled at me as he created a circle with thumb and index finger, then poked a finger through the hole. International sign language. Then he flipped his fingers at me twice: twenty bucks.
I let Carlos watch me think about it before reaching into my pocket and handing him the money. Then I took Lena by the hand and led her off to a little private hollow created by frangipani trees and hibiscus. When I turned to face her, she moistened her lips then got up on tippy-toes and tried to kiss me. Got a faint whiff of cornstarch before I stopped her by holding up my palm.
She said, "Is something wrong?" Started to say, "What do you want-?" before she remembered that I didn't understand.
I was listening; I wanted to see if Carlos and maybe friends were going to come through the bushes and jump me. If he or they had, I would have run. I would have assumed there was a possibility he knew about the money and that's all I needed to know. But there was only the sound of bike traffic on the Malecon and parrots in the trees. It was just Lena and me; Carlos out there waiting for us to be done.
The girl misinterpreted my reticence. She began to unbutton her blouse. Maybe I wanted to watch. I got a quick glimpse of pinecone breasts and belly scar before I touched her shoulder and said in Spanish, "Senora, I will not help you do this to yourself." I left her standing there as I walked out of the bushes and found Carlos sitting on a bench. He had his face buried in his hands. Again in Spanish, I asked, "How old is the child, friend?"
First there was the cornstarch, then her scarred stomach.
Carlos was talking before he realized who had spoken to him. "Two years old and she is very sick-" Then he stopped, looking up at me. I watched him teeter between fear and anger-maybe I was some kind of undercover cop. He thought about it before he asked, "Why did you pretend? You understood everything we said."
I didn't reply.
His tone took on a pleading quality. "The only reason we did it is to get money for the child. The things she needs, we can get them only on the black market, but we have no-"
I was shaking my head. I didn't want to hear his sad story. If you allow it, the private tragedies of the Third World will worm their way into the cerebral core and drag you into a vacuum of that world's own despair. Tomlinson doesn't agree, but most emotional entanglements are pointless. It pleases me when he says that I am unfeeling-just as it irritates me when he says that I often lie to myself, implying that I am more empathetic than I really am.
I took four more bills from my pocket and stuffed them into Carlos's shirt. "I didn't touch her. With that, maybe no one will have to." I took him by the arm and steered him toward the bushes. I remembered the little shove he'd given Lena, now did the same to him. Told him, "Go get your wife."
It was sunset by the time I got back to the Havana Libre.
No one I'd spoken with had ever heard of Tomlinson. Same with Rita Santoya, a.k.a. Julia DeGlorio.
Dewey was still out by the pool, sitting in a lounge chair positioned to catch the sun's last rays. She had a bottle of Hatuey beer in her hand and was speaking animatedly with a squat, bearish man. The man had pale red hair and an incongruously dark mustache. He had a thoughtful, professorial style of nodding. Probably his way of showing that she had his full attention.
Dewey's corner of the deck was the only busy corner in the pool area. A small but intense coterie of men sat or stood or moved around her, apparently waiting for the red-haired man to finish so they could have a turn. Spaniards, mostly. A couple of Germans and maybe a wealthy African. Same with the white-shirted waiters. Each man demonstrated his interest by being pointedly indifferent as he peeked at Dewey, taking her in with his eyes, probably sending the red-haired guy telepathic messages to get the hell away from her.
I thought: Good-bye closet, hello world.
Not that I was surprised that Dewey had drawn a crowd. Her wet hair was darker, combed back. She had a copper-colored scarf wrapped around her waist, sarong-fashion. Very stylish. The two silk swatches of bikini top hung on her as if held by a mild breeze. She looked stunning, but that's not why I wasn't surprised. Undressed, or in any partial stage, Dewey's body and her mannerisms would awaken in men what therapists might refer to as the Tarzan Syndrome. Because there was no hint of self-consciousness in the way she moved-yawning, scratching, knees thrown wide apart as she leaned to grab her beer-her physical language communicated a primal acceptance of all body functions… a primitive, welcoming sexuality to any male strong enough… a form of muscle-and-marrow primal challenge.
It made me smile, watching men compete for her; a very old and intricate drama indeed. But it also made me a tad uneasy. I knew they'd never understand or appreciate why they were among the very few men who had seen her undressed the way she now was. Doubted if they would accept or sanction the inner conflict that had prompted her to buy and wear a tissue-sized swimsuit. Mostly I thought: God help the guy who actually tries to make a move on her.
I stood there for a couple of minutes, but she was way too involved for me to get her attention. So I took the elevator to our room, showered, changed into T-shirt and running shorts, and went back down for a swim. This time she saw me and waved me over, still listening to the red-haired guy but looking at me as I approached. I watched her mouth speak a private message to me: "He knows…" somebody. Couldn't decipher it. Then, when I was close enough, heard her say to the man, "Here's Doc." Then to me: "Doc, this is Lenny Geis."
The man was standing, extending his hand as she added, "Lenny was just telling me that he knows Tomlinson."
Geis was a couple of inches under six feet, probably weighed a little over two hundred pounds. Had one of those pulling-guard bodies, a layer of fat over pounds of muscle. Heavy chest and shoulders covered by a pelt of Viking hair and balanced on a set of spindly bronc-buster legs. He looked a little like a grown-up version of Mayberry's Opie: the jaw, the hair, the perceptive collie eyes. Probably in his mid to late thirties, but already had the handshake and the poise of the successful businessman. Not self-important, but city-smart, easy to talk to. A difficult impression to communicate without the executive's tailored-suit uniform, but Geis-wearing only green trunks and thongs-pulled it off without much effort.
"Doc, I was telling this beautiful lady. My week here? I went from the outhouse to the penthouse, just like that." He was smiling, being familiar as if we were old friends, as he repositioned chairs at a nearby table-"You guys be more comfortable here?"-and signaled the waiter. "Didn't I say that, Dewey? A place like this, meet one gringo a month, you're lucky. Especially around the holidays. Who'd want to spend Christmas in Havana? But first I meet Tomlinson and Julia, now you two. Man, I'm telling you, it's like being in jail and getting visitors. Just to hear someone speak English, you know?"