“Ahhh but the world’s getting smaller every day,” JZ countered. “Look, I hope this guy of yours knows how lucky he is. Hope he appreciates you.”
This made her think of the last time she’d seen Montoya-earlier, asleep at the Santa Isabela. Her face softened with an inscrutable Mona Lisa smile.
“OK…right…” he stammered, unhappy at her reaction, resignedly going around the car for the passenger seat. “So then… you’d best drop me at the Palacio.”
Qui slide into the driver’s seat, wishing she didn’t have to share such intimate space with this intriguing man. She nervously fidgeted with the radio and mirror. They shared few words on the drive, Qui playing the role of a tour guide, pointing out places of interest. When the car stopped at the hotel, they looked across at one another-a fire building again, but she quickly dispelled it, saying, “Good night, JZ. We’ll no doubt see one another again.”
“When?” he eagerly asked.
“On the dance floor, perhaps.”
“I’d love to share a dance with you, and again, I had a wonderful evening.” He lingered even though he realized she’d already closed the door on anything so personal as a goodnight kiss. “Thank you for dinner.”
“For what? You paid.”
“For showing me the real Cuba, and for feeding me well.”
“Ahhh…yes, agreed. You do owe me a debt of gratitude for that, but why try to repay it?” she half joked.
“I mean it, sincerely.” He slipped from the car, quickly came around to her open window, and leaned in to add, “I’d invite you in for a nightcap, but I know you’re tired.”
She nodded. “To say the least.”
He stepped away from the car and watched her little black Peugeot speed off into the neon-lit darkness of Havana.
A short while after climbing into bed, JZ’s last thoughts centered on Qui’s smile, the soft hand he’d caressed with his lips, her sexy dancing, and the fun they’d shared with the Varela family. Any personal involvement with Quiana Aguilera, he feared could get him replaced, but he’d been so enraptured by how she’d moved on the dance floor, and how her eyes sparkled when she laughed, that the risk-taker in him was willing to take that chance. That part of him wished that Qui was with him now, in his arms, warm and soft. His more rational side knew intuitively there was truth in what she’d earlier said about their being from different worlds; regardless of his attraction, she embodied certain danger on more than one level, not unlike the deep Havana itself. As when she danced, ebbing, flowing, calm and beautiful, the next moment spirited and unfathomable. She might so easily, casually destroy a man, at least emotionally. Still, JZ found reason to chuckle aloud at his attraction to the Cubano who didn’t like Americans. Even as a child, he’d liked playing with fire.
JZ knew full well the kind of skewed portrait of America and Americans Qui had grown up with. Layer that with a restless undercurrent in this passionate woman and JZ had to wonder if he were up to the task of changing this interesting and complex woman’s mindset.
Still, he intuitively sensed that part of her reserve was meant to keep him at arm’s distance, a familiar self- protective feminine pose. The chip on her shoulder was understandable, reflecting her frustration with her department, with which he’d himself so recently done battle. Just the brief encounter he’d had with Gutierrez and Pena pissed him off to no end.
Her stance toward Americans was certainly validated by such men as the so-called Maui Jim as well. Still, the attitude seemed a long-standing one, perhaps ingrained in youth, perhaps from a lifetime of seeing adversarial US- Cuban relations. The state-run media was suffused with a politically correct, anti-American posture, but JZ knew- even with his limited time in Cuba-that most of the population, like Liliana, desperately wanted to find a way to America and opportunity. While a few thought that open relations with the US would jump-start Cuba’s sagging economy, others believed that only the politicians and the rich would benefit, not unlike the situation in Mexico since NAFTA. However, at this moment, the only thing filling his mind was her face.
Qui, lying in bed at home, stared up at the ceiling fan, which whirled much like her emotions, as she recalled the evening. She couldn’t remember a time on the town with Montoya where she’d been made to feel as appreciated as she’d felt tonight.
What an old-fashioned thing to do kissing the back of my hand. Then there was that thing he did with his breath against my skin. Thank God, he didn’t know what an effect he’d evoked. If so, I might not be in this empty bed just thinking about him. JZ, mister Americano, you are not at all what I expected. But what did I expect from a security officer in the American Interest Section?
With this last question, a creeping doubt came over her as to his motives. A cop’s suspicion. He was, after all, interested in locating two missing Americans. Is it possible, she asked herself, that this is what he’d truly wanted from her? Information? Had he all along simply been doing his job tonight? It was a consideration she could not shake, and in fact, she’d be disappointed in him if there were no truth to it…and then again, she’d be disappointed in him to learn that it was true-that his interest in her was a cover for his interest in her case. “Qui, stop thinking and analyzing everything!” With this, exhausted, she fell asleep with the memory of Julio Zayas’s sea-green eyes watching her.
18
The next day, Sunday, Miramar district, Havana
Hearing chirping overhead, Tomaso Aguilera squinted up through the thin leaves of the lemon tree and into the brilliant blue sky. His hands juggled three flowerpots at the same time as he watched an advancing rare-for- its-size cloud of magnificent black birds, flying in formation-darting left here, right there-as if of one mind. He dropped the flowerpots, breaking two, in order to grab his latest toy, a digital Nikon, to get a shot of the passing parade overhead.
The birds did not disappoint. While individual birds at a distance could be hard to see, a mere dot on the horizon, a flock this size created an iridescent blue-black ribbon that made for a dazzling aerial dance of solidarity not to be missed. The creatures soon disappeared into the safe Miramar forest canopy as immediately as they’d appeared. He’d only the single instant to get off a single shot. As a professional photographer, he knew he’d captured something, but exactly what must remain a mystery until later when, using his computer, he’d convert the digital image on his screen. Until then, Tomaso could only hope he’d captured the splendor of the aerial tango. He thought of this just as a lone bird came into his peripheral vision- a slacker, trailing after. But the single creature fascinated Tomaso. Again, he aimed his camera, this time zooming in as the lone bird came ever nearer. He caught this single creature against the vastness of sky and cloud at exactly the right moment.
How like my Qui this one is, he thought, always the loner, and never one for a parade…yet so beautiful.
This magic of freezing a moment in time created a wondrous effect that communicated, influenced, and persuaded because it evoked passion and compassion. As a teenager, he’d learned to exploit this effect in provocative ways using photography as his weapon of choice. As a small child with his first camera, he’d had no notion of this power. “What did I know?” he muttered. “I was just a boy.”
The only son of wealthy parents, Tomaso was one of several children, in fact the youngest child. At age six, he’d begged for a camera and had gotten his way, but it’d been a cheap Eastman Kodak Brownie, a mere child’s toy instead of the one he’d wanted. Even so, when his pictures were processed, the developer complimented his mother on her new hobby and how wonderfully her photos had come out. Taking a much closer look at his pictures, his parents decided the photo-developer was right, so Tomaso soon got the Rolleiflex he wanted.
Not long after, he learned how to develop his own pictures. Tomaso loved to watch the fluid black images magically coalesce onto the white paper, freezing each into permanence. Tongs forgotten in his excitement, Tomaso’s fingers turned an unsightly yellow-brown from the developing solution-much to his parent’s dismay.
His reverie ended, Tomaso now set his camera aside, knelt, and began collecting the shards of clay pots that he’d earlier dropped. Tomaso tended his plants like a shepherd his sheep, his fingers now stained with dirt rather than photographic solution. He spoke to the plants, encouraging each. Who else am I going to talk to, he thought. Like Qui, I am a loner, always have been, a cruel thing to be if one is also an idealist looking for justice in this world.
