The large room was remarkably bare, as if someone were moving in or out. The floor was gray tile. In addition to the lounge chair, there were three white wicker chairs. All faced a low, dark wooden coffee table that matched none of the other furniture. Against a wall stood a heavy, black mock-Chinese serving table on which sat a Chinese-made LP record player. The only decoration on the wall was a crude oil painting of Castro as he might have looked two decades before.
The Carerras had been solicitous. They had welcomed Elena and offered her a towel to dry herself after her dash from the taxi to the apartment building. They had given her a tall glass of lemonade as she apologized for being late. The taxi driver had been unable to find the house. He had been unable, in fact, to find the housing complex or the street. He had lived in Havana his entire life, but he had needed to call his dispatcher for instructions and the dispatcher had not known for sure.
“Havana is a maze of high-rise houses and renamed streets,” Angelica Carerra told Elena.
The rain came down so loudly they had to raise their voices. The wind rattled the windows.
“We are lucky to have this apartment,” said Carlos. “When the rain stops, look around out there. There are only four floors in this building, only eight apartments. It was built before the revolution. The walls are thick. It stays cool. We are lucky.”
The Carerras were standing side by side, concerned, grateful that Elena could speak Spanish, anxious to cooperate.
Carlos was in his late thirties, perhaps forty. He was thin and good-looking, with a broken nose and thinning black hair that he brushed back. He wore faded white slacks and a pale blue cotton shirt with the top button unfastened to reveal a stand of hair on his chest. His wife, Angelica, was of a similar age. She had blond curly hair, wore a lot of makeup, and was quite pretty. Her dress was a pale blue that almost matched her husband’s shirt. Angelica’s body, only slightly fuller than that of Victoria Oliveras, once again made Elena acutely aware of the body she had inherited from generations of Timofeyevas and Lipinovs.
Angelica glanced at the shaking windows.
“When the hurricane came through years ago,” Carlos said, “it took out those windows. Even then it was difficult to get glass. Now, if the windows go, we’ll probably have to board them up.”
“But that is a sacrifice we will make gladly if it will help the revolution,” Angelica added, looking at the painting of Fidel on the wall.
“Please sit,” said Carlos with a sad smile.
Elena sat in approximately the same place where she was sure Maria Fernandez had died. Sitting made Elena acutely aware of how wet she had gotten in her dash from the cab. Angelica sat in one of the wicker chairs.
Carlos asked Elena if she wanted more lemonade. When she declined, he sat in another wicker chair, adjusted the crease in his trousers, and looked at Elena, who put her lemonade down on the coffee table and took out her notebook.
“What do you do for a living?” Elena asked.
“Tours,” said Carlos quickly. “We arrange tours of entertainers throughout Cuba and, when we are lucky, we arrange for Cuban entertainers to travel to other countries. We sent a folk band to the Soviet Union three years ago. Great success.”
“Until a few years ago,” Angelica said, “Carlos and I performed. Dancers. My parents were ballroom dancers before the revolution. They appeared all over the world-Miami, New York, Rio, Madrid. Santos and Anita.”
“I was a great admirer of Angelica’s parents,” said Carlos as lightning cracked outside again. “I wanted to be a dancer. I became a soldier.”
Carlos laughed. Angelica joined him. Elena did not laugh, but she did manage a small smile.
“How long did you know Maria Fernandez?”
“Well,” said Carlos. “Not very long. A year, perhaps.”
“Yes, a year,” Angelica agreed. “She wanted to be a singer. There are too many singers. Some of them very good, but too many, even too many pretty ones.”
Carlos nodded in agreement.
“But we liked her,” he said. “We hired her to help us. And she was very good.”
“Very good,” Angelica agreed, folding her hands in her lap.
“And Victoria Oliveras?” Elena asked, trying not to think of a quick return to her room at the El Presidente and a change into dry clothes.
“Well,” said Carlos, looking at Angelica and sighing. “To tell the truth, Victoria was a friend of Maria’s. I don’t know how they met. I think Victoria attached herself to Maria. We warned her about Victoria.”
“We had heard some … things about her,” Angelica said, almost too softly for Elena to hear.
“Things?” Elena asked.
The rain suddenly subsided. Within seconds it turned into a light drizzle.
“None of our business,” said Carlos, “but we heard she was into things, perhaps illegal things. And some of the people she knew … Well, sexual preferences can some times …”
“Not that we condemn,” added Angelica.
“What about Shemenkov?” said Elena.
“Ah, the Russian,” said Carlos. “Maria met him at the Russian club. She was there with a show, managing, setting up, you know.”
Elena nodded and wrote in her notebook.
“He approached her,” said Angelica. “That’s what she said. And to give him his due, she encouraged him. She thought he was funny. She called him her Russian bear, said she would train him to do tricks.”
“Were you at the Cosacos bar when the man called Javier threatened to kill Maria and Igor Shemenkov?”
“Who told you that?” asked Carlos.
“Victoria Oliveras.”
“It wasn’t such a great thing,” Carlos said. “Yes, he got into an argument with Igor. Javier had said some things to Maria. Maria had tried to ignore him. Javier was a little drunk and so …”
“Did Shemenkov strike him?”
“No,” said Carlos. “Push a little, maybe. But strike? No.” He looked at Angelica, who nodded her head in firm agreement.
“Javier is a
“Perhaps,” said Carlos. “Many blacks are.”
“Whites too,” added Angelica. “More now that Fidel is enlisting the
Carlos closed his eyes and nodded in assent.
“The
“Yes,” said Carlos.
“The night Maria Fernandez was murdered, did you see anyone nearby?”
“You mean like a witness?” asked Angelica.
Elena nodded.
“I don’t know,” Angelica said. “Who remembers?”
“I don’t remember,” said Carlos, playing with a large silver ring on his finger. “Just Martin, the building maintenance man. He was sweeping the stairs when we came in, I think.”
“Yes,” Angelica confirmed.
“Where does he live?”
“In the basement,” said Carlos. “A room. But he is …” Carlos touched the side of his head with a finger.
“What happened the night Maria Fernandez was murdered?” Elena asked.
“You know we have told this three, four times to the police?” asked Angelica.
“I have seen their report. Please, once more.”
Carlos sighed and said, “We came here for drinks, to talk, and to be sociable. Victoria showed up. There were words, stupid words. Angelica and I wanted them to go. Maria and Igor started to argue. We got Victoria into the hall and tried to get her to leave.”
