Hard Currency

“The babies stay here for forty-five to ninety days after they are born,” a young woman doctor in a white smock explained. “Then they go to relatives or the state center for orphans.”

From the hospital Elena was taken to the heart of the prison, the textile factory. She was told that prisoners were paid to work an eight-hour-a-day schedule. There was also schooling in weaving, sewing, and knitting.

“The policy of Fidel, the Central Committee, and the Ministry of the Interior is reeducation before release,” Lieutenant Colonel Lopez said. “We have psychologists, social workers, and lawyers on the staff. Some of our women choose to live in the nearby towns when they are released. They can continue to work in the prison factory and earn the same or better wages than they would in the city.”

Elena had asked a few polite questions, accepted the offer of orange juice, and was led to the cafeteria, where she sat drinking alone and listening to the distant sounds of the prison, the chatter of women’s voices, the churning of sewing machines.

Then a woman guard appeared with a full-lipped, angry young woman. The young woman’s dark hair was long, straight, and tied back at the neck. She was short and lean with the body of a model. She wore denim slacks and a denim blouse with denim buttons.

Elena asked Victoria to sit and the guard to excuse them for a few minutes. The guard nodded and disappeared, but Victoria did not sit. She crossed her arms defiantly and stood across from the Russian detective. Elena took her notebook from her pocket and went over her notes once more before looking back up at Victoria.

“You are not Cuban,” Victoria said.

“I am not Cuban.”

“You are some kind of Russian.”

“I am some kind of Russian.”

“Your Spanish stinks.”

“We can speak Russian.”

“I don’t speak Russian. Just Spanish.”

“Then you will have to suffer my Spanish.”

“Or not talk.”

“We will talk,” Elena said. “Sit.”

“You like men?”

“As a gender or …”

“For sex,” said Victoria, rubbing her finger along her lower lip.

“That is not relevant to our conversation,” said Elena. “Now sit.”

“It is relevant to our conversation,” said Victoria. “Maria liked men and women. Have you ever made love to a woman?”

“No,” said Elena. “Now you sit.”

“What is so important about my sitting?”

“I don’t like looking up, and I don’t want you uncomfortable and hostile.”

Victoria shrugged and sat across from Elena on the stone bench. She kept her arms folded and her eyes defiant.

“Thank you,” said Elena. “I have only a few questions.”

“I’m not in a hurry. I go back to the pressing machine when we’re finished.”

“Did you see Igor Shemenkov murder Maria Fernandez?”

Victoria laughed. “I see. You’re going to try to get him off. He’s a Russian and you’re … I saw him.”

“You actually saw him stab her?”

“No,” Victoria said. “One minute she was fine. Then we were out in the hall and she was alone with your Russian. The next minute we came back in and he is on his knees over her body with a knife in his hand and a scratch on his face.”

“Carlos and Angelica Carerra were with you in the hall the entire time?”

“Yes,” said Victoria, rolling her eyes to the ceiling at the stupidity of the question. “Yes. Yes.”

“To your knowledge, had Shemenkov ever acted violently toward Maria?”

“To my knowledge?”

“Yes.”

“No, but so what. He tried to hit me.”

“Did he or anyone else threaten Maria Fernandez, argue with her, express a desire to harm her?”

Elena’s question was routine and she almost wrote the answer before it came. But the answer she got was quite unexpected.

“Yes,” Victoria said. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes,” said Elena.

“Do you think I am pretty?”

Elena looked at the young woman who now pouted in poor imitation of a model in an American fashion magazine.

“Yes.”

“You are pretty too in a heavy kind of Russian way.”

“I’m flattered,” said Elena. “You say someone threatened Maria Fernandez?”

“The Santería,” said Victoria. “I’m in the band here. You should come and hear us. We do shows for visitors. I sing ‘Blue Moon.’ In English.”

Elena closed the notebook, sat back, and looked at Victoria Oliveras. Shemenkov had said something about Santería.

“What? What are you looking at?”

“Sudden changes of subject are neither interesting nor attractive.”

“Is this attractive?” asked Victoria. She stood up and pulled down her denim pants and underpants.

“No,” said Elena. “Who is the Santería?”

“It’s not a who, it’s what,” said Victoria, pulling up her pants and sitting again. “The Negroes brought it from Africa. They’re like your gangs. You have gangs?”

“We have gangs,” admitted Elena.

“They worship dolls and do magic. They kill. They kill and eat the hearts of their victims for their religion. I know. It was the son of a babalau who works at the Cosacos. Maria made fun of him. She got drunk, made fun.”

“A ‘babalau’?”

“Holy man, Santería,” Victoria said. “Like a … a priest or something. He’s a waiter at one of the tourist bars. Just a waiter, but he comes on to Maria like she should be impressed because he’s the son of a babalau. Hell, his father’s just a second-rate bass player.”

Elena was tired, and the woman in front of her seemed either very clever or very stupid.

“Maria offended this …”

“Javier. I don’t know his last name.”

“And you think Javier …?”

“I don’t think nothing. You asked me a question. I answered your question. I answered your question ’cause maybe I don’t answer your question and they transfer me to another prison. This one is better than where I was living in Havana. Food’s better. Rooms are safe if you watch yourself. Work’s a bore, but easy.”

“This Javier, he threatened Maria?”

“Yes,” Victoria said wearily, looking toward the barred windows.

“Who heard this threat?”

“We all did,” Victoria said.

“We?”

“Me, the Carerras, Maria, your stupid Russian.”

“And Javier said?”

“Maria would die for insulting the son of a babalau. He whispered like a bad guy in a movie. Maria laughed at him. He walked away and Carlos told her it wasn’t a good idea to make the Santería angry. Maria said she didn’t give a shit. Her Russian would protect