MUELLER STOOD inside the Spanish villa entrance and marveled at the Sans Souci’s opulence, listening to Jack’s exuberant description of all there was. Shiny slot machines lined the wide mosaic tile hall and elegant couples wandered with dazzled eyes.
“It’s French,” Jack said. “Means without care. And if you don’t care about losing your shirt you can have a good time gambling. They’ve got roulette, craps, blackjack, and a poor man’s carnival game with eight dice and a board. Players have a one-in-a-thousand chance of winning, but the croupier’s job is to convince you otherwise. A Manhattan doctor lost twenty-five thousand last week. It’s run by the mob. No one cheats.”
The two men were alone at the base of gracefully curved stone steps that had brought them to a patio with milling drinkers who stood among groomed palms. Prominently in the center was a majestic fountain where crystal water, illuminated by rainbow lights, cascaded level to level. Perfume of tropical flowers infused the hint of brackish waste from beyond the casino’s walls. An energetic Afro-Cuban band played a wild Caribbean mambo and a couple moved in quick orchestrated steps. They were obviously from the show—she in flamboyant dress and a flower hat, he an athletic man in tuxedo—and then a dozen men and women from the milling crowd joined in. These tourists dressed in banded straw fedoras, guayabera shirts, and flowery smocks bought in the street to enhance their claim on the spirit of the country. A surplus of waiters hustled among the array of tables, giving energy to the sparse crowd. Long tables radiated out from the stage like spokes on a wheel and each was heaped with bottles of white rum, spiny lobster tails, blackened ham, and beans served over rice.
Mueller sensed a precarious air to the partygoers’ carefree liveliness—the possibility that the evening would be suddenly interrupted by a gunshot in the street, or a bomb. Tourists willed themselves into bliss until a wailing siren put an end to the night.
Jack nodded at the stage where two heavyset thugs in suits stood guard. “That’s where the pigs came out. Ten huge hogs. Pandemonium. One woman from Cincinnati had to get a tetanus shot.” Jack waved over the young Cuban woman who had started the evening’s dancing. “Her name is Ofelia. Let me introduce you.”
Jack presented the woman. Her strapless dress swayed at her ankles and her head was crowned with an elaborate nosegay. She was slight, with narrow hips, pearl skin, and raven hair, and had the quality of handmade beauty coveted in the commerce of casino floor shows.
“This is my friend George Mueller.” Then, to Mueller, “She’s a wonderful dancer. She wants to work Las Vegas, but immigrant visas are tough to get. There is a waiting list. You know people. Maybe you can help.”
Mueller saw her eyes widen hopefully. “The people I know are gone. I don’t know anyone in the embassy.” He put forward his hand to greet her, but lowered his hand when he saw her disappointment. Her eyes impaled his coldly. The awkward moment lingered.
She turned to Jack. “You are full of empty promises. I must change. The show starts.” Her eyes darted to the shadows of the room and she became agitated. “We can’t speak to customers. Nunca. They see us.” She swung around and headed toward a stage door marked No Entrada.
Jack turned to Mueller. “Her English is better than you think. We found her in Camagüey and I got her this job.”
“What did you tell her I could do for her?”
“I said you had connections. She’d be grateful for whatever you can do. Tell her you’ll ask around. I know it’s tough. Do me that favor. Give her some encouragement.”
Jack wrapped his arm around Mueller’s shoulder, dismissing the discussion, and smiled broadly. “Aren’t you glad you came?” He waved at the opulence. “Nothing like this in New Haven. You’d have to go to Paris to get this decadence, but they don’t have beaches and no floor shows. Not like this. You’ll see.” He pointed to customers gathering at tables. “It’s a good crowd, given the bombs. Those men there are the beef buyers I’m entertaining. Good men who fill in their partying with a few hours of work. They came to see the prize steers we’re selling. They left their wives and manners at home.”
Jack took a gratis Macanudo from a waiter’s open box and grabbed a champagne flute from a passing tray. “Drink, George. There’s Coca-Cola too. I’ve never liked its candied sweetness unless it was cut with rum. Come on. Do me the favor.”
Jack pulled Mueller to the stage door and blithely ignored the big yellow sign prohibiting entry. Mueller found himself in a dimly light hallway alive with people clinging to the walls. Half-dressed dancers, men and women, who suddenly stopped talking when the two Americans passed, and then resumed their chatter a moment later. Jack knocked twice lightly on a frosted glass pane of a dressing room, and he pushed the door open before there was a response from inside.
Ofelia sat across the tiny dressing room. She was seated at the large, arched vanity mirror with her back to them, wearing a bra. Before her, a clutter of creams, wigs, perfume, combs, brushes, and a jumble of bras. Mueller saw the back of her head, her black hair loose to her neck, and then he saw her looking directly at him through the reflection. She spun around. “Que?” She stared at Jack. “Who is he?”
Mueller almost laughed. Ofelia lifted articles of clothing from the vanity and began throwing them to the floor, looking for one thing, and not finding it, she dropped a scarlet blouse, a flowered shirt, a confining carnelian top, silver rhinestone brassiere, and as she did she swore in an angry soprano, examining one thing, then another. She rejected each and then as suddenly as her search had begun, it stopped. She turned to Mueller. “I know you. We just met.”
She stood and quickly wrapped herself in a terry cloth bathrobe, pulling the neckline closed. “I am late. Todo está desorganizado. Mi vida. My costume.” Ofelia again stared at Mueller, but this time she looked at him as if trying to see inside his mind.
Mueller thought: Who is this woman? Not yet twenty, he thought. Wild. Insulting. He saw the whole of her life in her pleading eyes. Her smooth hands revealed her privilege. Her fair skin unmasked her age. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
A quick gasp of breath spoke her surprise. Her tears gave away her gratitude. She foreswore all callous pretense. Emotion triumphed and broke through in a fragile voice. She kissed his hand. “Gracias! Gracias!” Her eyes sparkled.
Jack and Mueller were again in the hall passing the other dancers, who stepped back to let the two men pass.
“What did I agree to?” Mueller asked.
“Nothing,” Jack said. “She’s grateful. That’s enough. Immigrant visas are impossible now. You made her feel better. She won’t be happy on this island. Her eyes are wide for the world. She wears ambition like a curse.”
• • •
“We thought we’d lost you,” Katie yelled.
Mueller heard his name called as he stood beside Jack at the cascading fountain. Liz and Katie approached, laughing brightly, each holding a colorful drink. Their exuberance contained Jack’s big personality and the women smiled, claiming the moment with mocking eyes.
Katie turned to Jack. “You look startled to see us.” She poked him with her finger and turned to Mueller. “This is what you do in Havana. You see the shows. Dancing. Food. Liquor. You won’t believe what they do onstage. I had to convince Liz to come. She’s not sure she wants to be here.”
Liz smiled unhappily. “Anything for you. I’m sure I’ll tolerate the nudity.”
Mueller nodded. He too had come along with a vague interest, and he wasn’t enthusiastic about being reduced to an American tourist doing the casino circuit. But he was curious, and if he was honest with himself, he wanted to investigate the scandalous offering that lured businessmen on their weeklong junkets without wives. There was always something to learn from buttoned-up men letting loose in the safe space of licensed striptease. Jack had called twice to remind him of the invitation. Mueller obliged, thinking that if he got bored, or he found the company tiring, he’d slip away. And he knew that some of what he saw would find its way into his magazine piece—and please the editor—and that thought convinced him.
Jack again put his arm around Mueller and repeated, “Glad you came?”
The four of them had made their way to a table marked “Reserved,” and six seats were held for their party. One of the six seats was already occupied.
“Here’s someone I thought you’d like to see,” Jack said. Later, Mueller realized he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Toby Graham seated at the table. Graham turned, having risen from his seat, and faced Mueller and in the suddenness of his getting up came the surprise.
Mueller felt Jack’s fingers dig into his shoulder in the unpleasant way he had of putting physical emphasis on his declarations. Jack boasted. “I had one hell of a time finding him and it took some persuasion to get him here, but I told him you’d be here and that was enough.”
Jack turned to Graham. “You know George, of course. Quiet man. Former diplomat. Teaches Shakespeare. Always lost to me at poker. He can’t bluff to save his life.”
Jack coaxed Liz forward to join the little group.
Mueller saw Liz’s face had the startling pallor of death.
“My wife, Liz. And her friend Katie.” Jack turned to Liz. “This is the guy George was looking for. Works in the embassy doing something he can’t talk about. Is he the guy you thought you didn’t know?”
Mueller looked at Jack, curious about the way he phrased his question, as if he were confirming a suspicion.
“We’ve met,” Liz said. “Through George.”
Mueller didn’t impeach her lie.
Jack added, “He works in Camagüey.” Jack turned to Graham. “Community development work. Is that right?”
“Yes.” Graham looked at Liz, who looked away.
“You’re near us. Our ranch is an hour north. We’ll get you out for a visit.”
The moment was usurped by an explosion of brassy sound from the stage. It was the call to be seated, and the music drove the group to their chairs. Mueller found himself beside Graham and across from Katie, and Liz was on his other side, so he was aware of his place separating them. Jack had gone to the other end and greeted his cattle buyers, pressing fingers into shoulders, making small talk, and when he was done, he sat beside Katie. Jack looked over his spiny lobster tail at Graham.
“There was a rumor you were dead.”
Graham raised an eyebrow. “In Cuba you discover that things aren’t always as they seem. Castro has been reported dead three times and each time he’s had a miraculous resurrection.” Graham smiled. “Here in Cuba death can be a temporary matter.”
“That’s a good line,” Jack said. “Maybe George will put it into his travel piece. How is the piece going? Anything good?”
“Good? Where’s your confidence in me?”
“Go to Colon Cemetery. It’s bigger than Père Lachaise in Paris. No one writes about it.” He looked at Graham. “Nothing temporary about the dead in Colon Cemetery.”
Jack turned his attention to the cattle buyers, and Mueller looked at Liz, and then at Graham. Liz was sullen, eyes on her plate, avoiding the conversation. Graham was quiet too, his eyes fixed on the glass of rum that his fingers touched like a chalice. Mueller looked at each, but neither looked at him, or at each other. Mueller again found himself in Jack’s orbit.
“And this too is a fact.”
Mueller had missed the predicate so he leaned closer to understand what had been said, all the while nodding knowingly, because to do otherwise would have been rude.
“She was a new maid at the ranch,” Jack said to the cattle buyers, “and she knew no English. Not a word. And Liz’s Spanish was not too good at the time. We were hosting dinner for the ambassador, the previous one—a nice fellow but a political appointment who had no clue about Cuba and didn’t speak Spanish—and his wife. Liz wanted everything to be perfect for our guests. She told the maid that she wanted the main course, a whole fish, to be served with a lemon in its mouth. The maid thought this was a silly idea, and protested violently. Even threatened to quit. But Liz insisted. Con un limon en la boca.
“The maid agreed to serve the fish that way, thinking it was a stupid idea, but she relented. That night the ambassador and his wife were seated for dinner, and her face went pale when the maid brought out the whole fish on a silver tray, a lemon clenched in her teeth.”
Liz snapped. “Stop, Jack. That’s a stupid story. It was my fault. I didn’t communicate what I wanted her to do. Why must you tell it?”
“Well, it’s a funny story. You handled it well. You got him to see why it’s important to speak the language.” Jack turned to his beef buyers. “Here’s another story. We had a maid we had to let go. She was an uneducated girl from the campo. We asked her to cook a chicken in the gas oven—”
“Jack, that’s enough.”
“Can I finish the story?”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” She looked at Jack with rebuking eyes and then at Jack’s audience. She flared a smile. “What he was going to say is that she filled the oven with paper and logs. She’d never seen a gas oven. We live in our own little worlds and don’t understand how people can’t be just like us. That’s the story.” Her face had paled with awkward kindness toward the drinking men.
She stood. “I’m exhausted, Jack. Do you mind terribly if I go home?” She turned to Katie. “Will you come with me?”
“I promised to stay.”
“Then I’ll go alone. I’ll take a taxi. I’m sorry, Jack, I have a terrible headache. It’s been a long day.”
Graham turned to Jack. “If it’s no trouble I can take her.”
Mueller saw Liz briefly consider the offer, but whatever her hesitation it passed quickly, and she said, “Kind of you, but that’s not necessary.”
Lights dimmed as Liz made for the exit, and no one among the small group had the presence of mind to protest her departure. From the band onstage came beating drums and whooping calls. The band leader, in a rainbow-colored shirt and a headdress of threaded palms, shouted “Diablo” to start the mambo, and the horn launched a catchy repeating rhythm that gathered in intensity. Dancers emerged doing a cha-cha-cha, slow beats done one-two-three, and there followed an up-tempo syncopated melody that drew a handsome couple onto the stage—he in tuxedo and she in a colorful flowing dress. Their precise footwork and acrobatic turns were the start of the show.
Mueller stepped back from the table and found a nearby pillar from which to watch. He observed the audience, and in particular watched Graham, now alone at the table. Mueller pondered him, pondered this man obviously trying to look at ease. Mueller slowly let his eyes drift back to the dancers—like a stage director watching the evening’s performance.
A curtain opened. Props onstage evoked a plaza in Old Havana and into the spotlight of a streetlamp strolled a woman in stiletto heels, carrying a sequined handbag, but otherwise naked. Her coffee skin, black hair, and scarlet lips were luminous in the bright light. She swung her handbag with a lazy arm and little acting skill, but no one in the audience was there to judge her acting. She used a come-hither finger to catch the attention of men prowling the plaza. She was joined by three other nudes in heels, elaborate feather hats, and rhinestone handbags, with the bored eagerness of women looking for business. The band played a rumbling percussive arrangement pierced by a bright whispery flute. The women came up to a passing car with exaggerated hip movements and whistles, but then the call-and-response to the driver was broken up by a policewoman who entered stage left.
She was a tall, voluptuous mulatto dressed in visored police cap and gold epaulets, and carrying a black truncheon—two feet long and rubber that she slapped on her palm. She harassed the girls for soliciting customers and lined them up under the spotlight.
She had the first spread her legs and proceeded to search for concealed weapons. The harassed woman moved her hips rhythmically to the sound of a snare drum and the kitsch burlesque quieted the audience.
“Watch this.”
The voice was beside Mueller. Katie nodded at the stage. She had whispered her instruction when Mueller saw her, and she again looked at the stage. She added a moment later, “They make more in a day than a cane cutter makes in a year. Young women wait hours for auditions. But it’s a short career. The best get noticed. They go to Vegas or Miami, or find a man who supplies a visa.”
Mueller looked back at the garishly lit stage and watched one dancer be culled from the lineup. She was slight. He recognized Ofelia’s raven hair and pearl skin. Her feigned surprise and mimed objections were grossly overplayed, but her youth and beauty forgave her amateur performance.
“She’s Jack’s girl,” Katie whispered.
Mueller watched the girl being put through a mock humiliation. Jack’s girl. Mueller’s understanding settled in, and with it the sense that it was something predictable, knowing Jack as he did, and that feeling deepened when Katie said Liz didn’t know. Mueller felt the burden of the unwanted secret. He rehearsed how he would speak with his two married friends—graciously, thoughtfully, mindfully, but never again carelessly.