Tropic of Darkness (3 page)

He clapped an arm round Jack's shoulder. And that was going too far by a good long mile.

The man was in a wristlock the next instant, being propelled into the cover of a sunken doorway. And when he looked down, Jack's knife was open, winking by his throat.

The hustler went up on his tiptoes, trying to escape the blade. Jack pressed his face up close.

“I don't want you following me anymore,” he said between clenched teeth. “If you don't leave me alone, I'll cut you bad. You understand?”

Sweating, the man nodded.

“Good. Have a nice day.”

Jack turned the guy around, propelled him out across the worn old cobbles with the flat sole of his shoe. And the fellow kept on going, scrambling down the lane, only glancing back once he had reached the bottom. Then he disappeared around a corner.

Jack closed the knife and pocketed it, feeling satisfied. He knew how fast the jungle drums sounded among guys like that. Word would be all over the square by the time he returned. He'd not be bothered anymore.

Except he felt a slight twinge at the edges of his consciousness. A softly spoken question seemed to nag at him. He had grown good, down the years, at dealing with people in that way. He'd learned it since he'd crossed the border. But was that the only thing he had become, a solitary creature with a densely toughened outer shell? Persistence and survival . . . was that all his life amounted to these days?

He wasn't sure about it. The feelings put him off his balance, leaving him uncertain. But he wondered if—by this stage of his life—there really ought to be a whole lot more than that. He felt like—ever since the age of nineteen—he'd been somehow missing out.

But there was nothing he could seem to do about it, so he put the lingering thoughts aside. He adjusted his hat, and then continued into the Old Town, still slightly tormented by the feeling there was someone watching him.

*   *   *

La Habana Vieja.
Old Havana, with the emphasis on “Old.” Exactly as Jack had imagined it would be. The big colonial buildings with their massive, arched entranceways, their lush courtyards filled with statuary and fountains. The narrow townhouses, some of them with frescos on their walls. The balconies overhanging every street. Churches, more cobbled alleys, the old fortifications, and the verdant squares.

He had never been to Venice, Italy, but had heard it described in terms of “faded grandeur.” However faded Venice might look, Havana had to beat it into a cocked hat. The little paint left on the walls was cracked and peeling. And the surfaces revealed were pitted, crumbling, heavily weathered.

He couldn't tell quite what was keeping some of the homes standing. Perhaps they rationed gravity here, like they rationed everything else. The whole place looked like, if you blew on it too hard, it would turn to dust and simply swirl away.

A few of the cafes had been restored but, those apart, he'd never seen a city so dilapidated in his life.

Yet nearly every balcony had someone standing on it. And the street that he was walking down was jammed to overflowing. It was like tens of thousands of people had decided that these surroundings were the ideal enhancement to their lifestyle, since it didn't seem to bother them the least bit.

They'd simply gotten used to it, he reckoned. Most of them had grown up with it. It was just the way things were.

A sudden blast of music from around a corner drew him on. He stepped into the expanse of the Plaza de la Catedral, and saw immediately that it was one of those places where you just wanted to stop and rest awhile. The cathedral itself was so very badly weathered that it looked like it was made of pumice.

But when you gazed around the place—the cool arches and pillars and the flowering vines—it was all pretty beautiful.

A four-piece band was playing out on the terrace of a nearby cafe. That was what he'd heard.

He found an empty table in the corner, ordered a rum Collins and then leaned back, watched and listened. It was merely a garden-variety four-piece combo, playing for tips the way that he'd once done. But they were marvelous.

It was the main reason that he had come here in the first place. To play with musicians like these. This island produced some of the best in the world.

The passage of time became fairly meaningless, the more he stayed there. When he finally glanced at his watch, it was five-thirty. He was due to meet Pierre back at the hotel in half an hour's time. He downed the last of his drink and then set off back the way he'd come.

The main streets, if anything, were even busier than before, offices and shops emptying out, their workers heading home. The sun retreated behind the uneven rooftops. Everything started to take on a smoky, semi-opaque quality.

His first night in Havana was on its way. And he was already looking forward to it.

He heard a high-pitched, brittle laugh from somewhere, when he was halfway back along the narrow, sloping alley. A woman's laugh, so happy and delighted that it intrigued him.

And he swiveled round to find its source.

But couldn't. There was no one even near him.

CHAPTER

FOUR

Across the bay from Old Havana lies Habana del Este, less cluttered and far greener than the part of town that Jack had strolled through, large rocks and old battlements along its shore. And had Jack made his way there while it was still light, he would have probably assumed that the mansion to the left of the big fortress was abandoned.

Three stories high and twice as broad, it was in such an advanced state of decay that it made the cathedral he'd seen look pristine by comparison. It was protected by a rusted iron fence. Its gardens had grown wild. The dried grasses had raised themselves almost to shoulder height, and it was hard to tell whether the spindly, unkempt trees were supporting the creepers on their branches or the other way around.

Oddly, the path that ran from the front door to the main gate was clear enough to walk along.

The windows were all boarded up. And one of them, on the top story, had the blackened marks of an old fire around it, although strangely it didn't appear that the blaze had spread.

The roof sagged massively where its supports had rotted.

Its grounds ended at the waterside, a steep incline with an array of jagged rocks below.

Jack would have seen all this. And one more thing.

As the sun began to drop past the horizon, he might have noticed one of the boards in a ground floor window move.

*   *   *

Dolores Vasquo peered out through the gap, watching as the sun dropped behind the Old Town. She'd read once—in one of those countless leather-bound books in the house's mildewed library—that sunsets were considered beautiful by people in the outside world. But the setting sun didn't look that way to her eyes. The colors in the sky looked like the same shades as a week-old bruise, sickly pinks and ugly purples, tinges of ochre and turquoise round their edges.

The only good thing about the sight, she believed, was that it was fading. And how she'd love to join it. Simply fade away, the way the light was doing. Dim out into nothingness.

She'd felt this way throughout most of her waking hours, most of her life, ever since she'd had explained to her precisely who she was and what the future held in store.

She let the board drop back into place, then squeezed her eyes shut, trying to cry. As usual, nothing came. Her tears seemed to have dried up many years ago. The misery was hidden, churning around inside her, trapped. And ten times worse for that.

After a while, she picked up her candle in its cast-iron holder. And, moving with her usual creeping softness, she began to look around where she was—the dining room—making sure that everything was in its proper place.

The sisters would be waking soon. And the gods help her if they found anything had been moved.

*   *   *

Jack was right. No one tried to bother him when he walked back across the Parque Central. The hustlers, still at their lampposts, remained where they were and kept their faces turned away from him. And even the street urchins kept their distance, watching him through troubled eyes.

Jack went through the cool, echoing lobby of the Portughese to the bar, and spotted Pierre Melville immediately. Not too difficult a trick, admittedly. The word “big” was the best one to describe the hirsute Frenchman—even though he stood at only five-foot-nine—and it wasn't merely his girth.

More a matter of the bullish broadness of his shoulders and the density of muscle in his thickly matted limbs. The way he moved his hands, with power and direction. And the fire in his eyes.

He was seated alone at a table in the center of the room. Had a thick black cigar stub screwed into one corner of his mouth, practically singeing his beard. A daiquiri was clutched in one enormous, sunburned fist, and Pierre was staring around unabashedly at the bar's other occupants, for all the world like some overly nosy child.

He caught the eye of a pretty young blond woman as Jack watched. Melville grinned at her, tipped his head to one side, and then winked.

Her boyfriend, sitting right next to her, glowered at him angrily, but the Frenchman did nothing to avert his gaze.

Where had they first met? Jack tried to remember. Pierre was one of those people who, if you moved around a lot, you kept on running into. But there were two things you were wholly certain of, within a few minutes of meeting him.

Number one, he made his money any way he could, neither law and nor morality counting for an awful lot. And number two, he was interesting to be around.

Although not always in a good way.

“Sir? Hey,
sir
?”

The blond woman's boyfriend straightened on his barstool, his cheeks flushing angrily.

“Would you kindly look elsewhere? Or perhaps you'd like me to ask you less politely?”

Pierre made no move, save that one black eyebrow lifted.

Jack started across, noticing as he drew closer that there were two more half-finished daiquiris on the table, one of them with lipstick on its rim. Pierre had brought along some company, apparently.

He reached across, clasped his friend by the shoulder, and then smiled apologetically at the boy.

“You must excuse my friend, he's French. His English isn't—”

But before he'd time to say another word, Pierre Melville was on his feet, both great arms clamping around Jack, practically crushing his ribs. And Pierre was shouting.

“Gilliard, you asshole! Great to see you, Jackie! Welcome to Havana, boy, home of
La Revolución
!”

Jack endured it with good grace.

“I'm pleased to see you, too. But . . . Pierre . . . can I breathe now?”

The trouble with the younger guy was forgotten, at least. He staggered back a little as the man released him, then they sat down side by side.

Jack inspected his companion.

“You look unusually fit.”

And it was no false flattery. The Frenchman looked as though he had spent half his time here working out and the other half in a solarium.

“Clean air and healthy living, Jack, my boy!” came the reply. “And I'm serious. I'm living the life of an honest laborer these days. You should try it yourself, instead of hanging round those smoky clubs.”

Jack tried to spot a hint of irony on the man's face, but there was none.

“Huh?”

“I've become a volunteer! An
Internationalista
! I give my labor every day for nothing but the glory of the Revolution.”

Jack wasn't sure whether to laugh or not, Pierre looked so earnest.

“Get out of here,” he came back. “You're no Communist.”

The Frenchman brought his head forward and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Perhaps not. But it's the only way that I can stay in Cuba as long as I like. And believe me, Jackie, I
do
like.”

Which was far more like it. Jack waited for him to go on, but Pierre's attention had been diverted. Two tall black women in the shortest of white dresses were emerging from the ladies' room. Melville grinned and beckoned to them.

“Ah, our lovely playmates, at long last.”

It only took a glance to figure what they were. Jack felt something curl up wearily inside him as the girls approached the table. Not that he wasn't used to hookers. Since crossing the border, much of his experience along those lines had come with a price tag. It was the way things were with gringos here. But . . .

He found himself pausing mentally. But what?

It was one of those questions that grinded at the core of your being sometimes. Kept you awake on your pillow some nights, without really knowing why.

He thought it better to ignore it. Simply pretend that questions like that did not exist.

Jack forced a smile.

One of the girls sat down next to him, leaned on his shoulder wordlessly, and started ruffling his hair. The other dropped into Pierre's lap with a high-pitched giggle. So they were going to spend the evening with a pair of whores who were already pretty drunk.

So fine, then. They were very attractive whores, and looked like a whole barrel load of fun. To hell with “buts” anyway, Jack decided. Let's take all the damned “buts” in the world and drop them down a great big hole.

He leaned back in his chair and looked from one girl to the other. They were both the same height and build, and their narrow, painted faces were remarkably alike.

“I'm Lola,” the one at his shoulder informed him.

Jack nodded.

“Is that so? Hi, Lola.”

“And she,” the girl went on, pointing with a long, mauve nail, “is Nona.”

Jack mulled it over.

“Are you two sisters?”

At which, Lola smirked.

“We can be, if you like.”

That small voice started saying “but” again, inside Jack's head.

Except he shut it out.

*   *   *

“Okay, man, so what's the deal?”

They were headed back into the Old Town, following the same route Jack had used that afternoon, though everything looked rather different in the dark, the amber streetlight being partly swallowed up by long, deep shadows. Lola and Nona were following along behind them, high heels setting up a rhythm on the cobbles.

“What's always the deal, Jackie boy?” Pierre replied. “The Yankee dollar. It's just as important here as anywhere else.”

“But I thought they'd dumped all that?”

“Theoretically, sure—but you know what theory gets you. They've had hard currency shops for a while now. And the black market here has always operated on a dollar basis. But that isn't the half of it. You aren't gonna believe this one.”

The man paused to catch his breath.

“Until quite recently, it was a serious offense for a Cuban citizen to be found with American dollars in his pocket. It could actually net someone two or three years in jail.”

Jack whistled.

“Then a couple of years back, Fidel decides that the black market is bleeding his lousy economy dry. The best solution, he concludes, is to channel back the contraband dollars by making them legal. So they've got a dual economy these days . . . dollars and pesos are both legal tender. A hard and a soft currency, sitting side by side. You're an intelligent fellow, Jackie. You can figure out what the result of that would be.”

“The hard destroys the soft. Pesos have become worthless?”

“Precisely! These poor sons-of-bitches”—Pierre waved generally at the city around him—“have pockets full of Cuban money, earned with the sweat of their brows, and it's like toilet paper—they can't buy a damned thing with the stuff. The state-run food stores are pretty much empty. Rations have been cut. If you want a decent meal, you have to go to the free-trade markets, and they only accept dollars. The same in any good restaurant, cafe, or club. Hard currency only.”

Jack's eyes widened with astonishment. “You're telling me these people can't walk into a decent bar in their own country and buy themselves a drink, and we
can
?”

A sly, triumphant grin had started up between Pierre's whiskers.

“Oh, they can go into a
bad
bar. They can stand in line outside some beat-up old cantina for one bottle of warm, flat beer. But we can sip daiquiris at the Floridita any time we like. Eat at the best restaurants. Dance at the best nightclubs. We're like kings here, Jack. The new conquistadors.”

Jack felt stunned. The full implications of what he was hearing were only just beginning to sink in. “Everyone here must be hustling like crazy for hard currency.”

“I
knew
you'd figure it out. A bellhop is better paid in Havana than a college professor because he gets hard currency tips. And if you can't do it the legal way, there are plenty of others. I suppose you've already met the guys around the square?”

“Persistent, aren't they?”

“Everybody is. Take Lola and Nona.” He jerked his thumb back. “Give them thirty bucks and they'll do anything you want. And I mean
anything
. Life is good, no?”

Jack still found it difficult to take the concept in. There was a tightness growing at the center of his chest, simply at the thought of people being abased this way. And he'd seen a lot since he had come to Latin America. But it was like these guys were third-class citizens in their own country. And that didn't seem an awful lot to crow about.

“Goddamn it,” Jack managed at last. “There are times when I don't like you a great deal, Pierre. And maybe this is one of those times.”

“Aw, c'mon!” Pierre's voice was vibrant with laughter. “I didn't create this situation. I'm merely taking advantage of it.”

They were walking down one of the narrow alleys. It looked tighter, more oppressive than it had this afternoon. But perhaps that was more to do with his mood.

Jack gazed at the passing locals in a whole new light. They looked like a proud race. Offering them sympathy would be like offering the two girls pesos, a currency they had no use for. The only thing they wanted was to get on with their lives, and he thought that people should respect that.

“Okay then,” he asked Pierre, something new occurring to him. “If you're using this to take advantage of the situation, where exactly are
your
dollars coming from?”

Pierre lowered his voice again. “Where does anyone get real money these days?”

“You're dealing?”

“Not just that, Jack. I'm importing.”

“Are you nuts? They
shoot
traffickers here.”

Which got him a low guffaw. “But who's going to suspect an
Internationalista
? I don't even use middlemen—just pick up my shipment twice a month, then drive down to the beach resorts and sell it to the Canucks and the European kids. I'll even hit a roadblock sometimes. If I were a local, then the cops might search my car. But all they see is some gringo
turista
, and they wave me on.”