‘Yes, I expect I am.’
‘I’m not insulting you, Father. It’s only theology. You’ll be saved like the good pagans. Socrates, you know, and Cetewayo.’ ‘Who was Cetewayo?’
‘He was king of the Zulus.’
‘What else do you pray?’
‘Well, of course, lately I’ve been concentrating on the horse.’
He kissed her good night. She asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘There are things I’ve got to arrange about the horse.’ ‘I give you a lot of trouble,’ she said meaninglessly. Then she sighed with content, pulling the sheet up to her neck. ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it, how you always get what you pray for.’
Chapter 4
At every corner there were men who called ‘Taxi’ at him as though he were a stranger, and all down the Paseo, at intervals of a few yards the pimps accosted him automatically without any real hope. ‘Can I be of service, sir?’ ‘I know all the pretty girls.’
‘You desire a beautiful woman.’
‘Postcards?’
‘You want to see a dirty movie?’ They had been mere children when he first came to Havana, they had watched his car for a nickel, and though they had aged alongside him they had never got used to him. In their eyes he never became a resident; he remained a permanent tourist, and so they went pegging along -sooner or later, like all the others, they were certain that he would want to see Superman performing at the San Francisco brothel. At least, like the clown, they had the comfort of not learning from experience. By the corner of Virdudes Dr Hasselbacher hailed him from the Wonder Bar. ‘Mr Wormold, where are you off to in such a hurry?’ ‘An appointment.’
‘There is always time for a Scotch.’ It was ob-Vj0US from the way he pronounced Scotch that Dr Hasselbacher had already had time for a great many. ‘I’m late as it is.’
‘There’s no such thing as late in this city, Mr Wormold. And I have a present for you.’
Wormold turned in to the bar from the Paseo. He smiled unhappily at one of his own thoughts. ‘Are your sympathies with the East or the West, Hasselbacher?’
‘East or West of what? Oh, you mean that. A plague on both.’
‘What present have you got for me?’
‘I asked one of my patients to bring them from Miami,’ Hasselbacher said. He took from his pocket two miniature bottles of whisky: one was Lord Calvert, the other Old Taylor. ‘Have you got them?’ he asked with anxiety. ‘I’ve got the Calvert, but not the Taylor. It was kind of you to remember my collection, Hasselbacher.’ It always seemed strange to Wormold that he continued to exist for others when he was not there. ‘How many have you got now?’
‘A hundred with the Bourbon and the Irish. Seventy-six Scotch.’
‘When are you going to drink them?’
‘Perhaps when they reach two hundred.’
‘Do you know what I’d do with them if I were you?’ Hasselbacher said.
‘Play checkers. When you take a piece you drink it.’
‘That’s quite an idea.’
‘A natural handicap,’ Hasselbacher said. ‘That’s the beauty of it. The better player has to drink more. Think of the finesse. Have another Scotch.’ ‘Perhaps I will.’
‘I need your help. I was stung by a wasp this morning.’
‘You are the doctor, not me.’
‘That’s not the point. One hour later, going out on a sick call beyond the airport, I ran over a chicken.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘Mr Wormold, Mr Wormold, your thoughts are far away. Come back to earth. We have to find a lottery-ticket at once, before the draw. Twenty-seven means a wasp. Thirty-seven a chicken.’
‘But I have an appointment.’
‘Appointments can wait. Drink down that Scotch. We’ve got to hunt for the ticket in the market.’ Wormold followed him to his car. Like Milly, Dr Hasselbacher had faith. He was controlled by numbers as she was by saints. All round the market hung the important numbers in blue and red. What were called the ugly numbers lay under the counter; they were left for the small fry and the street sellers to dispose of. They were without importance, they contained no significant figure, no number that represented a nun or a cat, a wasp or a chicken. ‘Look. There’s 2 7 4 8 3,’ Wormold pointed out. ‘A wasp is no good without a chicken,’ said Dr Hasselbacher. They parked the car and walked. There were no pimps around this market; the lottery was a serious trade uncorrupted by tourists. Once a week the numbers were distributed by a government department, and a politician would be allotted tickets according to the value of his support. He paid $18 a ticket to the department and he resold to the big merchants for $21. Even if his share were a mere twenty tickets he could depend on a profit of sixty dollars a week. A beautiful number containing omens of a popular kind could be sold by the merchants for anything up to thirty dollars. No such profits, of course, were possible for the little man in the street. With only ugly numbers, for which he had paid as much as twenty-three dollars, he really had to work for a living. He would divide a ticket up into a hundred parts at twenty-five cents a part; he would haunt car parks until he found a car with the same number as one of his tickets (no owner could resist a coincidence like that); he would even search for his numbers in the telephone-book and risk a nickel on a call. ‘Senora, I have a lottery-ticket for sale which is the same number as your telephone.’ Wormold said, ‘Look, there’s a 37 with a 72.’
‘Not good enough,’ Dr Hasselbacher flatly replied.
Dr Hasselbacher thumbed through the sheets of numbers which were not considered beautiful enough to be displayed. One never knew; beauty was not beauty to all men -there might be some to whom a wasp was insignificant. A police siren came shrieking through the dark round three sides of the market, a car rocked by. A man sat on the kerb with a single number displayed on his shirt like a convict. He said, ‘The Red Vulture.’
‘Who’s the Red Vulture?’
‘Captain Segura, of course,’ Dr Hasselbacher said. ‘What a sheltered life you lead.’
‘Why do they call him that?’
‘He specializes in torture and mutilation.’
‘Torture?’
‘There’s nothing here,’ Dr Hasselbacher said. ‘We’d better try Obispo.’
‘Why not wait till the morning?’
‘Last day before the draw. Besides, what kind of cold blood runs in your veins, Mr Wormold? When fate gives you a lead like this one -a wasp and a chicken -you have to follow it without delay. One must deserve one’s good fortune.’
They climbed back into the car and made for Obispo. ‘This Captain Segura’ -Wormold began.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’
It was eleven o’clock before they found a ticket that satisfied Dr
Hasselbacher’s requirements, and then as the shop which displayed it was closed
until the morning there was nothing to do but have another drink. ‘Where is your
appointment?’
Wormold said, ‘The Seville-Biltmore.’
‘One place is as good as another,’ Dr Hasselbacher said.
‘Don’t you think the Wonder Bar…?’
‘No, no. A change will be good. When you feel unable to change your bar you have become old.’
They groped their way through the darkness of the Seville-Biltmore bar. They were only dimly aware of their fellow-guests, who sat crouched in silence and shadow like parachutists gloomily waiting the signal to leap. Only the high proof of Dr Hasselbacher’s spirits could not be quenched. ‘You haven’t won yet,’ Wormold whispered, trying to check him, but even a whisper caused a reproachful head to turn towards them in the darkness. ‘Tonight I have won,’ Dr Hasselbacher said in a loud firm voice. ‘Tomorrow I may have lost, but nothing can rob me of my victory tonight. A hundred and forty thousand dollars, Mr Wormold. It is a pity that I am too old for women I could have made a beautiful woman very happy with a necklace of rubies. Now I am at a loss. How shall I spend my money, Mr Wormold? Endow a hospital?’