Hard Currency

and begin to coax his leg into some level of reluctant cooperation.

“You wish I should leave?” asked Antonio, also rising. “I have give offense?”

“No,” said Rostnikov. “Sit, sit. My leg fell asleep. It will pass. You have a wife, Antonio Rodriguez?”

“Wife, two sons. I have pictures in my wallet, but old, very old pictures, not my sons old, the pictures. My sons are grown but … my pictures are of children.”

Rodriguez sat suddenly, looking quite glum.

“I have a wife and son, one son. His name is Iosef,” said Rostnikov.

“One of my sons is José. Same name, is it not so?”

“El mismo, verdad,” said Elena as the waiter returned with her drink and American hamburger. When the food was in front of her, Elena realized how hungry she was. Rostnikov paid the waiter in Canadian money, and she lifted the sandwich as the waiter departed.

“A witness told Investigator Timofeyeva,” Rostnikov said, “that the son of a Santería priest-”

“Babalau or Obba, keeper of the secrets,” Rodriguez corrected.

“This babalau’s son had threatened the victim, Maria Fernandez, threatened her with death.”

Rodriguez shrugged.

“Is possible,” he said. “People get angry, say things. Is possible. Which Santería?”

“Javier, the son of …” Elena began, and Rodriguez finished.

“… a very important babalau named Manuel Fuentes.” He began to laugh so loud that even his journalist friends at the table across the pool paused to look at him.

“Forgive me, Rosenikow,” he said. “We are lucky I do not choke. Manuel would hurt no one, would not permit his people to hurt anyone.”

“You know this Manuel?” Rostnikov said.

“I know many people in Habana,” Antonio whispered, his magnified eyes darting around the remaining patrons poolside. “Sí, I know him. Actually, I know one of his people, a Communist youth leader. Irony, no? A Communist youth leader is a secret Santería. But that’s nothing. A cabinet minister was last year made a santo, how you call a saint by the Santería. See, I trust you. I tell you things that could get my friends in trouble. You should trust me.”

“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov, feeling painful life returning to his leg. “But experience in my country has taught me that trust must be earned slowly and relied upon almost never.”

“You read Lorca,” Rodriguez said with a smile.

“Gogol and Ed McBain,” Rostnikov said. “Can you arrange a meeting for us with this babalau?”

“Maybe,” said Rodriguez. He scratched his chin and looked at Elena as if she held some special answer to the puzzle before him. “But I will have to be with you.”

“You would be most welcome,” said Rostnikov, sitting down carefully to avoid angering his leg.

“Then,” said the little man, “I shall get back to you very soon. If I do arrange this, however, is important you respect the babalau.”

“Once,” said Rostnikov, watching Elena take the final bite of her sandwich, “I saw an Inuit holy man do things that may have been miracles. One of those things may have saved the life of my wife. I always respect what I do not understand until it proves unworthy of my respect.”

“You are a crazy Russian,” Antonio said, “or maybe I no understand your English as good as I like to think.”

“I think you understand,” said Rostnikov.

“Ah well, so maybe I do. But as you can tell I am fond for you and more than fond for this lovely lady who has the appetite of a Cuban. I will talk to you soon.”

“Soon, I hope,” said Rostnikov.

“Tomorrow,” said Antonio. “Buenos noches, señorita.”

“Hasta mañana,” answered Elena.

The little man turned and tottered toward the end of the pool.

“I hope he doesn’t fall in the water,” Elena said.

“He won’t fall,” said Rostnikov.

“A coincidence, his approaching you.” She picked up a few overlooked crumbs on the end of a finger and guided them to her mouth.

Rostnikov shrugged.

“Povlevich sent him to you?”

“Perhaps, but probably our Major Sanchez,” said Rostnikov. “Do you know that song?”

Elena didn’t. It was a plaintive song, sung by a woman who was almost in tears.

“What is she saying?” Rostnikov asked, looking over his shoulder toward the radio in the bar.

“She says, When one loves too strongly, one is a slave, and a slave is doomed to misery until she dies. But since one has no choice when love comes … I don’t know the word … then one must learn to accept, and get whatever pleasure one can for as long as it lasts.”

“I’m a little drunk, Elena Timofeyeva,” he said. “So that may account for my telling you this. Say nothing, just consider. Remember the first time you met my son, Iosef?”

“The birthday party for Sasha Tkach at your apartment,” she answered.

“He told me in the bedroom that he loved you and that he intended to marry you. It is dark. I cannot tell if you are blushing or angry.”

“I don’t think you are drunk, Inspector Rostnikov.”

“Perhaps not,” he said. “Maybe it’s the island breeze and … If Povlevich didn’t look like such a boor, I would invite him over to our table for a drink. I have tried not to think about him. KGB people have no sense of humor, and once they get started they talk too much. This one … I can’t tell if his being sent with us is an insult, or if the KGB now has only mediocrities because the best have fled.”

The Americans and Antonio were getting up now, arms around each other, problems resolved in the temporary mist of alcohol. The family of Germans had already left and the sun was all but gone. A few pool lights came on and Rostnikov and Elena said nothing for a few moments as they watched the noisy writers walk across the open patio and enter the hotel.

“Shemenkov,” she finally said, feeling very tired. She wondered what her reaction was to the declaration of love from the son of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.

“I was informed that he tried to hang himself in his cell. Tied his socks and shirt together to make a noose, hung it from a water pipe, and jumped from his bed. The makeshift rope tore, but not before causing a burn around his neck and altering his voice. All this I got from our Major Sanchez. We will be permitted to talk to Shemenkov in the morning.”

Elena tried to hold back a yawn.

“I’m sorry.”

“Your day has been long,” Rostnikov said. “It is still early. If there is water, I’ll take a bath and read my novel, an Ed McBain, about women.”

Elena hardly heard.

“Tomorrow then,” she said.

“I’ll call you when we must go,” Rostnikov said. “Go ahead. You’ve done well. I’ll finish my drink. Leave the notebook with me.”

Rostnikov watched the young woman move across the patio. A new song began, unfamiliar, upbeat, instrumental. Elena was built more solidly than his Sarah. Elena’s skin was fine and her mind alert. There was an uncertainty in her that worried him, but all in all she would be a fine daughter-in-law. Deep within him he wished that it might happen soon so that the possibility of a grandchild … but that was for Sarah. He wanted very much to talk to his wife.