Naked in Saigon (11 page)

“If you have trouble finding buyers, come and see me,” Walt said as he climbed into a
siclo
outside.

“Buyers for what?” Reyes said.

Walt shook his head. “You’ll come around,” he said. “You know I’m right about this. A better man!” He shook his head and laughed. “You are some piece of work, you know that?” He turned around as the
siclo
driver pushed off from the side of the road. “You want to sell dope, why would you go to anyone but the CIA?”

He actually shouted it aloud down the street.

Chapter 17

MAGDALENA

The barbers were at work under the tamarind trees; a shard of glass used as a mirror flashed in the sun. There were betel nut stains in the dirt, like bloodstains.

A fortune teller squatted against one of the trees with her soiled pack of cards laid out on a little bamboo mat. For a moment I was tempted; so many roads led from here and I would like to have known which one was intended for me. But instead I ignored her and hurried on.

Reyes’ apartment was two blocks from the Tu Do, down a leafy green boulevard. I could see him sitting on his wrought iron balcony reading the newspaper, but he still hadn’t seen me. I went inside the cool of the building and climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked.

I thought he might be pleased to see me, I thought he might be just plain angry. Instead he just looked intrigued. He folded his arms and leaned on the doorframe.

“Well, princess, this is a surprise.”

“Hello, Reyes.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again, not after our last encounter.”

“I’m sorry if I was rude.”

“Castro’s secret police treated me better.”

“May I come in?”

He thought about it, then stood aside and bowed, as if he were welcoming royalty. “Would you like tea?”

“If that’s alright.”

“I’ve become addicted to Chinese green tea. For breakfast anyway.” He went into the kitchen.

I looked around. The apartment was shaded by tamarind trees and looked out over a small square. There were silk carpets on the floor, green wooden shutters on all the windows. It was blessedly cool inside. It was as I remembered his house in Hollywood, neat, no clutter, elegant watercolours of water buffalo and cranes on the wall, nothing personal. At least that’s what I thought at first.

In the corner was a low table with a bronze Buddha and lighted incense. That was a surprise.

A calendar caught my eye, it was from 1958. I recognized it straight away--it was one of the promotional calendars Papi had ordered for our bar in Havana. There was a black and white photograph of Inocencia Martinez on the front cover.

So at last there was a chink in the armour.

He came back from the kitchen with a stone kettle and saw me staring at the calendar. I looked away and we both pretended he hadn’t seen me.

“Do you want to sit outside on the balcony?”

“Inside is cooler.”

He put the kettle on a little stand at a table by the window and then fetched two small red lacquered Chinese cups. He poured tea into the cups and raised his in a toast.

“To find memories.”

I was speechless.

“It’s hot today,” I said, shocked at myself for saying something so banal.

“But it may rain later in the year,” he said, making fun of me. I guessed I deserved that. “You look heart-stoppingly beautiful as you always do. But why are you here?”

I drank the bitter green tea, shifting the handle-less cup from palm to palm as the heat scorched my fingers. “I need your help.”

“I guessed that.”

“It’s about Connor.”

“Keep going, I can tell this is going to be good.”

“He’s missing. I haven’t heard from him for a week and I don’t know who else to turn to.”

“Except the man you can’t forgive for saving your life.”

“That’s the way it’s turned out, I guess.”

“A week is a long time to wait before you call someone missing.”

“He said he’d be three days, four at the most.”

“Where did he go?”

“Laos.”

“Laos? He just got out of hospital.”

I shrugged. That was my argument, too.

“Hell, he’s just making it easy for these guys, isn’t he?”

“He said he had a contact in Vientiane.”

“The town is full of Corsicans, they still run the opium and morphine trade over there. They hate reporters worse than the mob. You shouldn’t have let him go.”

“You think I didn’t try and stop him?”

“I don’t know. Tell me something, do you love this guy?”

“He’s my husband.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Of course I love him,” I said.

He gave me a strange look that could have meant anything. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, all right, I’ll do what I can, but you have to be prepared for bad news.”

“You heard about him getting beaten up?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“I think we both know who ordered it. You know as well as I do, with Angel and his people you don’t get a second warning. He’s used up all his chances, princess. Going to Laos was like spitting in their eye. But I’ll make some enquiries with some friends of mine, see what I can find.”

“Thank you.”

My eyes went back to the calendar on the wall. Eleven years ago! It was another lifetime. If I closed my eyes I could still hear Inocencia rasping out the final words of her favourite bolero, see the sweat running down her face, the white monogrammed handkerchief clenched in her right fist.

When I look in your eyes

I see how I used to be

When I look in the mirror

I see what’s become of me

I can’t stay here with you

I know you’ll break my heart

It’s love that bring us together

It’s love that tears me apart

“Beautiful,” he said. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

“Inocencia? Yes, I did. Not the way I loved you though.”

I finished my tea, staring at the leaves in the bottom of the tiny cup. I wondered what one of those fortune tellers out in the street would say if she saw them.

“I’d better go.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I’ve found out something.”

He got up and stood there with his hands in his pockets. I badly wanted to kiss him.

“I never stopped loving you,” I said. “But it was a long time ago, Reyes, and we have to move on. Please find Connor for me.”

A convoy of Army trucks rumbled through the square, belching blue clouds of exhaust smoke. I covered my face with a silk scarf and hurried into the cool of the Caravelle.

I stopped at the desk and asked the clerk if there were any messages for me.

“So sorry,” he said, checking the cubbyhole. “Nothing for you,
madame
.”

I went back to my room. I got off the elevator at the wrong floor then when I found the right floor I couldn’t find my key. I was a mess. There was a part of me silently praying for my husband, another part of me thinking about the last time I made love to Reyes.

Chapter 18

Much of the old colonial town had gone, bulldozed to make way for new apartment blocks and bars. Angel had disdained the faded elegance of the Continental and the kitschy comforts of the Caravelle and had instead afforded himself of one of the few remaining colonial villas on Cong Ly Boulevard. I supposed his family’s unique relationship with the Thieu government might have helped with such a privileged arrangement.

There was a uniformed guard on the gate, a high wall topped with razor wire. A long driveway led through the flower gardens and banana palms to a massive white
porte-cochère
, shaded by a giant tamarind tree. Purple bougainvillea climbed the cream stucco walls.

A white-jacketed servant met me at the door and led the way. It was cool and quiet inside after the bedlam of the street, and there were silk carpets and antique furniture made from Burmese teak and walnut. The house smelled of must and the heavy night scents of the garden. I looked at the faded red damask and the cracked chandeliers and I could imagine a French
fonctionnaire
, dressed in a formal white frockcoat, calling for his
bep
to bring him his dinner.

Angel was sitting on the terrace in a white shirt and linen trousers, his jacket thrown carelessly over one of the cane chairs. He was drinking cognac.

I thought about him as a twenty-year-old callow Cuban kid. He was so eager to please back then and it had paid off, for he had pleased his father, and his father-in-law, and been duly rewarded for putting conscience aside.

Or perhaps some men never had one to start with. I supposed it was possible.

His two goons sat at another table, playing cards on a foldout table, smoking, watching me with mean black eyes.

He stood up to greet me with a cocky grin, and kissed me on both cheeks, lingering longer than was necessary. He invited me to sit, had his houseboy fetch me a vermouth. Vermouth? It seemed he was getting used to the way of life already.

“Baby! Can’t believe you’re here. Good to see you,
guapa
.”

“This isn’t a social call, Angel.”

He raised his hands in mock horror. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Where’s my husband?”

He decided to make a joke of it. He looked under the table then under one of the chairs and raised his hands in a ‘Not here!’ expression. His bodyguards laughed at these antics, but then they were paid to.