This Canadian talking like some pissed-off vet, showing me he empathized. Why else?
I had already studied the walls, not looking for famous names but searching for a bit of graffito that Rivera's secretary had told me about. Didn't find it.
Geis behaved the same way while he and Dewey drank daiquiris at Floridita. "That painting of Morro Castle behind the bar? That bronze bust of Ernest? Man, the stools. All priceless."
Geis toured us around Old Havana. Stone streets just wide enough for an oxcart, stone buildings with verandas hanging over the sidewalks. "Like New Orleans," he said, "only not that fake, touristy bullshit. People live in these places. Sometimes two families to an apartment." Every block, pointed out a statue or a museum… Lenin, Marx, Guevara… the Rosenbergs, too-"They're heroes here, the American traitors who sold A-bomb plans to the Soviets." He whispered it, as though it were a dangerous thing to say. When Dewey told him, "The whole place's like one big museum," he said, "Yeah, the museum of a failed system. I keep telling my fiancee that Havana gets to me. Like living in a city that's dead but has survivors walking around. But believe me, one day there'll be a ton of money to be made here."
Now we were in the oldest part of Havana, the Plaza de la Catedral, a cobblestone courtyard fronted by ornate block buildings. The opening to each building was set deep behind stone pillars so the courtyard seemed enclosed by a catacomb of caves. I'd been standing in the background listening to Geis talk about it, working hard at charming Dewey, fiancee or no fiancee. I drifted off by myself when he started talking about the priests, the bishops-"I have a strong interest in the church," he explained-and the conquistadors who once frequented the place. Then I stopped at the entrance of what appeared to be an open cathedral. I stood peering in as if looking at Gothic windows, the coral rock floors, and the Nativity scene near the gold-and-onyx altar-first sign of Christmas I'd seen in Havana. But what had really caught my attention was a number and a letter that had recently, very recently, been scraped into a stone archway: 8A.
Juan Rivera's secretary had told me that 8A was what I should look for. It was the newest of the ever-changing code words that Havana's anti-Castro people used to communicate. Find that symbol and I might be able to connect with someone named Molinas or Valdes, the contact Armando Azcona had given me.
I didn't have to ask why dissidents went by single names and kept changing their codes.
I gave it a few seconds before turning toward the garden at the center of the courtyard. There were a few people sitting on stone benches in the darkness. I thought about strolling over and making a polite tourist inquiry: "Did my tour guides Mr. Molinas or Mr. Valdes pass by here?" but decided it would be a stupid thing to do unless I really needed help. Besides, Geis was coming toward me now… taking Dewey's arm as if they were on a Sunday walk.
"Got to say, you've got taste, Doc. Wanna know what you're looking at?" I thought he meant the graffito but, no, he was talking about the open room of the cathedral. He leaned up against one of the limestone pillars, pointed, and said, "This is one of my favorite places in Havana, the Cathedral of the Conception. It was built more than four hundred years ago"-he looked at Dewey to see if she was impressed-"to be like the Vatican of the New World. See that little niche in the wall? This place was so holy, Columbus himself used to be buried right there. Well, not buried but… interred. Like in a vault?"
I was trying to read the marble slab beside the niche. Difficult because it was in archaic Spanish… something about remains that were to be preserved for a thousand years in remembrance of a nation. I wondered which nation, Cuba or Spain?
Geis was still talking to Dewey. "Columbus, his bones I mean-the actual explorer, I'm talking about-he lay right there for more than a hundred years until he disappeared like in nineteen-hundred. Him and his little solid lead box."
Dewey said, "You're telling us somebody came in and stole Christopher Columbus?"
"Not really, but some of the religious Cubans-there're more religious people here than you'd think-they'd like to believe Columbus never left. Not because of what he did. Jesus, the Indios hate him for what he did. It's because of the medals he supposedly wore around his neck. You've seen the paintings I'm talking about?"
Dewey turned to me and said, "In a place that doesn't get ESPN, I guess you have to get interested in history or go nuts, huh?" Geis chuckled, showing that he really liked her style. "I know what you're saying, yeah, it seems kind'a dry, right…? Anyway, what probably happened was, the Spaniards shipped his remains back to Spain. Columbus I'm saying. Him and the medals-one given to him by Queen Isabella and blessed by the pope, the other some kind of sacred medallion the Spaniards took from this rebel Indian before they burned him at the stake. The beer you were drinking, Hatuey?" With his good Spanish, Geis pronounced it correctly: AH-tu-way. He said, "It's named after him, Yara Hatuey. That's why it has a picture of an Indian on the label. Hatuey supposedly gave the conquistadors fits before they finally caught him, and Columbus was given the medallion. Like to show they had control of the island and prove that Hatuey was dead. Before they burned him, know what this Indian asked when they offered to baptize him? He asked if there were any conquistador Christians in heaven. When they told him yes, plenty, he said he'd rather go to hell, so go ahead and light the fire."
I was looking at the 8A carved into the arch as Dewey said, "So what would Columbus and his medals be worth back in the states?" joking, but giving it a soft touch. Maybe Geis would get it, maybe he wouldn't.
I realized Geis was looking from me to the arch, then back to me. It had finally dawned on him what had really drawn me to the cathedral; I could tell by his sudden nervousness. I listened to him tell Dewey, "It's like all this waterfront property. A fortune. Whatever the international money guys will pay for it," before he touched my shoulder and said, "We better be moving along, ay?"
Geis waited until Dewey had crossed the lobby, headed for our room before he said, "I notice you've got an interest in street art, shit like that. A guy like you-kind of bookish, like a college professor-that's kind'a unusual, huh?"
No longer in the presence of a lady, Lenny Geis had an earthier vocabulary.
We were sitting in the patio bar of the Havana Libre. I could have chosen to watch Dewey walking to the elevator-swing of hips, bounce of soft hair; full of herself, confident in the person she perceived herself to be and secure in her view of the world.
I could have watched her, but didn't. Later… later, I would deeply regret that small indifference…
Instead, I looked through the palms into the street where young girls in tight dresses stood staring back at us. Their restlessness, standing out there wanting something to happen, put me in mind of behavior that was familiar. Stray dogs?
I took off my glasses and used a napkin to clean them, as I said, "We've got an audience, Lenny."
He didn't have to look. "The jineteras? They're always out there. The manager won't let them in unless they're with a guest. Hey…" Now he did take a peek. "… you see a tall mulatto in a white dress? She's usually there; always wears the same white dress, but clean. I mean, spotless. No-o-o-pe… must be two dozen or so and… but she's not around…" He sat back in his chair. "She'll show up. Always does. Believe me, once you see her you'll remember. No older than nineteen with legs that go clear up to her tits. My God, and her face. I've never said a word to her. I've got no reason, right? But sometimes I think she comes to the Havana Libre just to see me. The way she looks at me, you know? Stares right into my eyes. God damn! A girl like that, back in the states, what'd she be worth? She'd be grabbed by some rich doctor. A rock star maybe? Anything she wanted. The kind of woman you see at the best dinner parties. What a buddy of mine calls a Gold Card woman-kind of like Dewey… no offense."