‘What’s he saying?’
‘He doesn’t seem to know Teresa.’
The man with the screwdriver sat down on top of the ladder and began to make a speech. He said that Maria was the best woman you could find in Havana. She weighed one hundred kilos with nothing on.
‘Obviously Teresa is not here,’ Wormold explained with relief.
‘Teresa. Teresa. What do you want with Teresa?’
‘Yes. What do you want with me?’ the thin girl demanded, coming forward holding out one stocking. Her little breasts were the size of pears. ‘Who are you?’
‘Soy Teresa.’
Beatrice said, ‘Is that Teresa? You said she was fat-like that one with the mask.’
‘No, no,’ Wormold said. ‘That’s not Teresa. She’s Teresa’s sister. Soy means sister.’ He said, ‘I’ll send a message by her.’
He took the thin girl’s arm and moved her a little away. He tried to explain to her in Spanish that she had to be careful.
‘Who are you? I don’t understand.’
‘There has been a mistake. It is too long a story. There are people who may try to do you an injury. Please stay at home for a few days. Don’t come to the theatre.’
‘I have to. I meet my clients here.’
Wormold took out a wad of money. He said, ‘Have you relations?’
‘I have my mother.’
‘Go to her.’
‘But she is in Cienfuegos.’
‘There is plenty of money there to take you to Cienfuegos.’ Everybody was listening now. They pressed close around. The man with the screwdriver had come down from the ladder. Wormold saw Beatrice outside the circle; she was pushing closer, trying to make out what he was saying. The man with the screwdriver said, ‘That girl belongs to Pedro. You can’t take her away like that. You must talk to Pedro first.’ ‘I do not want to go to Cienfuegos,’ the girl said.
‘You will be safe there.’
She appealed to the man. ‘He frightens me. I cannot understand what he wants.’ She exhibited the pesos. ‘This is too much money.’ She appealed to them. ‘I am a good girl.’
‘A lot of wheat does not make a bad year,’ the fat woman said with solemnity.
‘Where is your Pedro?’ the man asked.
‘He is ill. Why does the man give me all this money? I am a good girl.
You know that my price is fifteen pesos. I am not a hustler.’ ‘A lean dog is full of fleas,’ said the fat woman. She seemed to have a proverb for every occasion.
‘What’s happening?’ Beatrice asked.
A voice hissed, ‘Psst, psst!’ It was the negro who had been sweeping the passage. He said, ‘Policia!’
‘Oh hell,’ Wormold said, ‘that tears it. I’ve got to get you out of here.’ No one seemed unduly disturbed. The fat woman drained her wine and put on a pair of knickers; the girl who was called Teresa pulled on her second stocking.
‘It doesn’t matter about me,’ Beatrice said. ‘You’ve got to get her away.’
‘What do the police want?’ Wormold asked the man on the ladder.
‘A girl,’ he said cynically.
‘I want to get this girl out,’ Wormold said. ‘Isn’t there some back way?’
‘With the police there’s always a back way.’
‘Where?’
‘Got fifty pesos to spare?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give them to him. Hi, Miguel,’ he called to the negro. ‘Tell them to stay asleep for three minutes. Now who wants to be treated to freedom?’ ‘I prefer the police-station,’ the fat woman said. ‘But one has to be properly clothed.’ She adjusted her bra.
‘Come with me,’ Wormold said to Teresa.
‘Why should I?’
‘You don’t realize they want you.’
‘I doubt it,’ said the man with the screwdriver. ‘She’s too thin. You had better hurry. Fifty pesos do not last for ever.’
‘Here, take my coat,’ Beatrice said. She wrapped it round the shoulders of the girl, who had now two stockings on but nothing else. The girl said, ‘But I want to stay.’
The man slapped her bottom and gave her a push. ‘You have his money,’ he said. ‘Go with him.’ He herded them into a small and evil toilet and then through a window. They found themselves in the street. A policeman on guard outside the theatre ostentatiously looked elsewhere. A pimp whistled and pointed to Wormold’s car. The girl said again, ‘I want to stay,’ but Beatrice pushed her into the rear seat and followed her in. ‘I shall scream,’ the girl told them and leant out of the window.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Beatrice said, pulling her inside. Wormold got the car started.
The girl screamed but only in a tentative way. The policeman turned and looked in the opposite direction. The fifty pesos seemed to be still effective. They turned right and drove towards the sea-front. No car followed them. It was as easy as all that. The girl, now that she had no choice, adjusted the coat for modesty and leant comfortably back. She said, ‘Hay niucha corriente.’ ‘What’s she saying?’
‘She’s complaining of the draught,’ Wormold said.
‘She doesn’t seem a very grateful girl. Where’s her sister?’ ‘With the Director of Posts and Telegraphs, at Cienfuegos. Of course I could drive her there. We’d arrive by breakfast time. But there’s Milly.’ ‘There’s more than Milly. You’ve forgotten Professor Sanchez.’
‘Surely Professor Sanchez can wait.’
‘They seem to be acting fast, whoever they are., ‘I don’t know where he lives.’
‘I do. I looked him up in the Country Club list before we came.’
‘You take this girl and wait there.’
They came on to the front. ‘You turn left here,’ Beatrice said.
‘I’m taking you home.’
‘It’s better to stay together.’
‘Milly..
‘You don’t want to compromise her, do you?’
Reluctantly Wormold turned left. ‘Where to?’
‘Vedado,’ Beatrice said.
The skyscrapers of the new town stood up ahead of them like icicles in the moonlight. A great H. H. was stamped on the sky, like the monogram on Hawthorne’s pocket, but it wasn’t royal either -it only advertised Mr Hilton. The wind rocked the car, and the spray broke across the traffic-lanes and misted the seaward window. The hot night tasted of salt. Wormold swung the car away from the sea. The girl said, ‘Hace demasiado calor.’
‘What’s she saying now?’
‘She says it’s too hot.’
‘She’s a difficult girl,’ Beatrice said. ‘Better turn down the window again.’
‘Suppose she screams?’
‘I’ll slap her.’
They were in the new quarter of Vedado: little cream-and-white houses owned by rich men. You could tell how rich a man was by the fewness of the floors. Only a millionaire could afford a bungalow on a site that might have held a skyscraper. When he lowered the window they could smell the flowers. She stopped him by a gate in a high white wall. She said, ‘I can see lights in the patio. Everything seems all right. I’ll guard your precious bit of flesh while you go in.’
‘He seems to be very wealthy for a professor.’
‘He’s not too rich to charge expenses, according to your accounts.’
Wormold said, ‘Give me a few minutes. Don’t go away.’ ‘Am I likely to? You’d better hurry. So far they’ve only scored one out of three, and a near miss, of course.’
He tried the grilled gate. It was not locked. The position was absurd. How was he to explain his presence? ‘You are an agent of mine without knowing it. You are in danger. You must hide.’ He didn’t even know of what subject Sanchez was a professor.
A short path between two palm-trees led to a second grilled gate, and beyond was the little patio where the lights were on. A gramophone was playing softly and two tall figures revolved in silence cheek to cheek. As he limped up the path a concealed alarm-bell rang. The dancers stopped and one of them came out on to the path to meet him.
‘Who is that?’
‘Professor Sanchez?’