arms.
“They are beautiful,” said Rostnikov, holding up his glass of rum.
The babalau smiled and also held up his glass as George translated. Both men drank and Rostnikov understood this part of the ritual. If either man drank, the other was obliged to do the same. The bottle was still nearly full and there was no knowing how much longer the night would be.
The babalau spoke. George and most of the people in the room nodded.
“You have missed a god’s day by one day,” George said. “Yesterday was the feast of Santa Barbara, who is the shadow face of Chango, our god of war. You would have been welcome. Our religion has been secret for two hundred years because of the intolerance of the Catholic Spanish and the atheist Marxists. Only now can we begin to show our ways.”
The babalau spoke and the congregation nodded.
“Santería is open to all who embrace its truth,” George translated as Manuel held up his glass, and he and Rostnikov finished what was left. “White and black. A Catholic can be a Santería; even a Hindu or a Jew can be a Santería.”
“Entonces casi la sua esposa,” said the babalau, holding out his glass to be refilled.
Rostnikov too held out his glass for the young girl. He hoped they would offer him something to eat.
Manuel leaned toward Porfiry Petrovich and spoke again.
“Then even your wife could be a Santería,” George translated.
The two men drank yet again.
“Pregúntele,” said the babalau.
“You have questions,” said George. “Ask.”
“I have been told that Santería kill their enemies,” said Rostnikov. He was aware that he had begun to perspire.
George translated without hesitation both Porfiry Petrovich’s question and Manuel’s answer.
“There are many Santería, many babalau. There are those who take the path of the shadow and those who take the path of the light. The Abakua secret societies are sometimes confused with the Santería. The Abakua have been known to practice violence. We do not tell the others how to live their tradition. There is no right or wrong in your sense but there are more than one hundred secrets a babalau passes on to the one who will succeed him. Our babalau will be succeeded by his oldest son, Javier, and he is being taught the secrets.”
“And,” said Rostnikov, trying not to look around at the crowd of smooth sculptured faces and firm bodies that surrounded him in the warm room, “what do you do when you are attacked? How do you protect your people? You have men watching the front of your house. They watch for something. When someone comes, what will they do? What will you do?”
“Find a way within the paths given to us by our gods through tree, shell, and dream,” George translated the babalau’s answer. “You have more questions.”
“Did Javier or any of the babalau’s family or congregation kill or participate in the killing of Maria Fernandez?” Rostnikov drank deeply from his second glass of rum and wondered if he could possibly stand.
“No,” said the babalau, the cigarette bouncing in the corner of his mouth. Then he spoke very slowly, very softly, to the hum of his family.
“He says, you now know who killed this woman, but you must have the courage to face the truth. The babalau believes you have this courage.”
“And if I do not?” asked Rostnikov.
The babalau shrugged and spoke, and George said, “We will survive and prosper. Now listen.”
Manuel spoke again, slowly and clearly, and everyone around the room nodded as he spoke and as George translated.
“He says that the Orishas, the gods of our people, spoke clearly to all the babalaus and told of the fall of Fidel. When the white dove landed on Fidel’s shoulder more than thirty years ago, the Orishas blessed him. Now there are new signs, and Fidel has severed the twins.”
Manuel nodded his head and spoke quickly.
“The twins are sacred, Jimaguas. Fidel ordered one of the LaGuardia twins executed, one of his closest advisers. He ordered the death of the general with the sacred name, Ochoa, Eight-A. Now, when the gods have spoken, Fidel wants to make peace with the Santería. He fears betrayal and seeks the blessing of those who first give him power-the poor, the Black, the ones who had been slaves.”
Before Rostnikov could ask another question the babalau nodded his head slightly. Three of the sinewy young men produced drums of various sizes, each drum draped with beads and shells on strings.
“These drums have been among us for thousands of years,” George whispered. “It takes a lifetime to learn to play them so others can hear them. Listen.”
The three men began to beat the drums gently, humming, chanting. The babalau motioned to one of the young women. She was very young, very beautiful, and very shy. Manuel gestured to her again and smiled. Those around her urged her forward.
The babalau reached back and took the drum from the youngest of the three men. He put the drum in his lap, began tapping its head gently, and shook the drum once. The rattle of the beads and shells shivered through Rostnikov like the sound of half-remembered rain. He smelled his wife’s hair, Sarah’s hair, clearly, unmistakably.
The babalau handed the drum back to the young man, who nodded in understanding, and the music rose as the young girl who had been summoned danced and the policeman and the priest drank their rum.
All three drums were rattling, and the steady rumble of hide surged through Porfiry Petrovich. The girl turned, smiled, and glided to the music. For an instant, Rostnikov had the feeling that he was leaving his body. He was leaving his body and it was not frightening. The feeling passed and then the music stopped.
Rostnikov’s eyes met those of Javier, whose look seemed to say, “Now, do you see, do you understand?”
“That was beautiful,” said Rostnikov. The babalau raised his glass and they drank once more.
“What do you enjoy doing, Russian policeman?” a voice asked, and Rostnikov was sure the question had come in precise English from the babalau himself.
“I like to lift weights, fix plumbing, read books, be near my wife and son and the girls who live with us, do my job, feel that I can rely on those with whom I work, and strive to be there so they can rely on me.”
“Look,” said the babalau. Rostnikov, whose eyes were half shut, forced them open as a necklace of shells left the babalau’s, hand and clattered to the red floor.
The necklace was twisted like a dead snake, the shells facing both up and down.
Manuel leaned forward to look at the necklace and examine the shells.
“Your wife has suffered but the suffering ends. You should go home to Russia as soon as you can.”
This time Rostnikov was sure Manuel was speaking to him in English. Rostnikov did not speak.
“Do you understand all that I say?”
“Enough,” said Rostnikov. The roomful of people hummed with approval.
“One more thing the shells say. When you face a bearded man, be careful to hide your gods as we have hidden ours.”
“That,” said Rostnikov, “I do not understand.”
