Havana, Cuba
5:10 p.m., Friday
28 September 1888
I returned to Hotel Florida to take a short rest and to check on Rork. Now that I had made the chief American diplomat and the chief Spanish administrator my friends, my second performance of the day would be to deceive the chief Cuban paramour of the city. I intended to enjoy this next phase of the mission. Yes, it would be totally at odds with Consul-General Williams’ admonition, but all the better to camouflage my true intentions from the Spanish.
Yet some additional camouflage was needed. My status as a suspected provocateur had by now been elevated by Colonel Marrón to the point where his surveillance was doubled or tripled. There were always two men at the hotel room door, as well as two more on the street below our balcony. No telling how many new peepholes had been drilled in the walls. Unchaperoned departures from our luxurious abode were no longer possible.
The new watchers, as well as the ubiquitous Señor Acera, were always proactively engaging us in conversation, offering to do any errand, fetch any item, help Rork and me in any way, inquiring into our likes and dislikes, and repeatedly letting us know that we were honored guests in Havana. In fact, so obliging were they that they arranged the carriage for my tour with the lovely Belleza.
I had requested a single-horse victoria for just the two of us, but such was not available. Fine, then we would have a paired-horse phaeton, a sporting vehicle offering greater speed and geographic flexibility. I would handle the reins myself. It was also the sort of thing a man out to impress a lady would do, though it would cost dearly.
Rork, having shouldered much of the action the night before at the theater, was relaxing in the room and, once the shade increased, out on the balcony. A glass of rum-infused orange juice in one hand, a weighty tome on the history of Cuba in the other, and two cigars in his shirt pocket for enjoyment later, he presented the very picture of a man of leisure. His repose had the added professional value of tying down a portion of the considerable complement assigned to our surveillance.
I noticed Rork was moving a bit slower than normal and upon my asking the cause, he said the exertions of late had tired him a bit. An understatement, if ever there was one. He had eight years beyond my forty-nine and had earned those aches and pains the hard way, as an ocean seaman for well over thirty years and an intelligence operative for the last seven. The former had given him arthritis in his hands and feet, common to veteran sailors. The latter had taken that left hand and part of the forearm and given him serious wounds all over the rest of his body. Not for the first time, I worried about Rork and wondered if I had put too much on him lately.
Warriors use humor to mask pain, both physical and otherwise, so I bade him to rest and admonished him against female companionship in my absence. That got the hoped-for chuckle and the quip, “Yer the one what’s bound fer trouble with a lady today. Me ownself’ll be takin’ it easy as a lordship in his castle. Feelin’ rather fancy right now.”
Standing close to the wall and our peepers, I reminded him, “Very good, Rork. Don’t forget that tomorrow will be a busy day, as we’ll be walking in the Saint Michael’s procession, then attending services at church, and afterward both of us are having lunch with Belleza.”
I put in a special postscript for our listeners, “Oh, and remember to lay out a second set of clothes, because tomorrow afternoon we’re taking the train with Belleza to the city of Batabanó for dinner—it’s about an hour’s ride down to the south coast. She said there’s a good restaurant and garden there she wants to show us.”
“Aye, sound’s like the morrow’s gonna be a right good day then. Have fun tonight.”
“I intend to. Don’t wait up,” I said with a wink.
At the appointed time, I descended to the lobby front, accompanied by one of our door Spaniards, ready to hop into my phaeton and head off. But to my disappointment, there was no small, fast vehicle waiting for me. I found, instead, nothing less than a fully appointed landau in front of the hotel. Capable of seating six, it had a white driver in a red tunic with shiny black boots perched up on the box in front, unusual in a city where most drivers were African. His presence became clear when I perceived his close observation of me, of a manner more in keeping with a detective than a chauffeur.
The harried concierge explained the landau with profuse apologies and much wringing of hands, the justification being that he had found all the city’s phaetons hired for the day, a most curious occurrence. He was providing the larger replacement and its driver at no extra cost, since I was, of course, an honored guest. He begged that I would understand.
After assuring him that I certainly did understand, we started off—me a happy American sailor with thoughts of romance showing on his face. Such a display wasn’t difficult for me, for Doña Belleza was a very enticing woman.
Trotting by the U.S. consulate, where I waved to a surprised Mr. Lafleur at the front door, we rounded the corner and arrived at Hotel Isabella, across the Plaza de Armas from the captain-general’s palace. I was three minutes late due to the vehicular confusion at the hotel. Madam Belleza was another fifteen minutes late due to her preparations and probably a premeditated attempt to impress on me who was to wait on whom.
Her arrival at the hotel’s entryway was inspiring, a performance Sarah Bernhardt would’ve applauded. The crowd literally backed away and opened a passage for her as she swept out of the lobby onto the portico. As I have said before, Spanish ladies do not travel on public streets with strange men in the same carriage without familial guardians, and the onlookers’ expressions were a mix of admiration for Belleza’s appearance and shock at her brazen disregard for social norms. She ignored the gasps and appreciated the ogles and smiled ever so sweetly at me.
I have no skill at describing these things, but Belleza’s efforts deserve at least an attempt. She was resplendently attired in a light pink, lacy satin dress that nicely flattered her figure, chiefly her décolletage. The dress was trimmed in miniature, red fabric roses and some sort of black doodads around them. Down over it all streamed an exquisite, black lace mantilla—the famous Spanish veil—dotted with real red roses. The mantilla framed her face perfectly and completed the whole image, a uniquely Spanish blend of bashful innocence and knowing calculation. It was an unusual adornment, however, for Spanish ladies wear a mantilla only for formal occasions and High Mass. I thought it yet another sign that the lady was a nonconformist and supremely self-confident.
But that was not all. Bending low enough upon embarkation to tease me with visions of future pleasures—with perhaps a little more than she had intended me to see—Belleza arranged herself in the back seat and snapped open an intricately painted fan. Holding it partially over her face, she then flitted it a few times in a flamboyant gesture. As in the mother country, the Spanish ladies of Havana communicate messages through the positions of their fan, a language they enthusiastically learn when very young. I had been taught something of this language while in Sevilla in ’74 and now comprehended that Belleza was signaling to one and all that I was taken, off-limits to all other females.
The driver apparently understood fan signals also. He grumbled while adjusting the canvas top. Shooting me a nasty look, he put the top up just enough for some shade but low enough to allow us to see the sights. And, of course, we could be seen by other watchers along the route. He then stowed the matching, pink parasol she’d brought along.
I was outfitted in the same thing I’d worn elsewhere in Havana, other than at the formal occasions at the dinner soiree and the theater, when I wore a full dress uniform. My clothing this particular evening was the standard blue working rig uniform, which had been delivered from Richmond to my sick room at the hotel. I was not pleased, for unlike tropical whites, the damned blues are heavy and hot, but I couldn’t blame Rork, though he apologized for it. He’d been occupied with getting our personal weaponry ashore in the seabags, a far more important chore. His apology for the oversight included the usual, never-to-be-fulfilled compensation, a round of rum at our next liberty port.
So there Belleza and I were, pink and blue, clattering and swaying our way up the gentle incline of Obispo Street past the palace, where four days earlier I had made my mark. The shrapnel marks were still fresh in the columns and walls, and several windows were not yet repaired. She saw me looking at them and squeezed my hand supportively, a gesture apparently spontaneous and genuine, unlike most of her mannerisms.
Shadows began filling the streets as the glaring, white siesta hours gave way to evening pastels, while the people of Havana emerged from their places of refuge from the sun. The sound of guitars and drums, their staccato rhythm so different than in America, came from a corner taverna at Cuba Street, where a girl laughed uproariously at some joke. Kitchens were beginning to cook the evening’s dinners, which would be consumed around eight or nine. The roasting pork and fish and chicken scents wafted over me, making me hungry. The city’s gentlemen strolled along the street, while volantes bearing the fairer sex perused the shop windows and each other. All were dressed in their best and heading toward the boulevard of the Prado, for it was Friday evening and everyone who was anyone would be out and about on that magnificent promenade.
Belleza leaned close and asked, “What do you want to see of Havana?”
I replied dreamily, “Everything, my dear, through your beautiful eyes.”
The fan flapped quickly as she cast her eyes downward shyly. “Oh, I see that you are still eager, Commander Wake. So let us start with the city’s churches. Perhaps some religion will help cool your ardor.”
“Call me Peter, please. Commander Wake is far too formal for us, especially on this lovely tropical evening.”
Again the fan flapping, an act that is cute at first but rapidly grows wearisome to me. Her fluency in the custom rapidly outdistanced mine—I no longer had a clue what she was signaling. “Very well, Peter. And I insist that you call me Belleza.”
“Belleza, why don’t we start with some of your famous Havana churches. How about the pretty one down by the docks? Paula something?”
“La Iglesia de San Fransisco de Paula? Yes, it is a lovely church, very romantic. We will begin there.”
We arrived moments later, and she pointed out the stained glass for which the three-hundred-year-old church was well known, then the adjacent hospital, which specialized in female patients. From there we went west to the gates of the Spanish naval yard, which I ignored, having been inside on several occasions. A drive farther west took us to the elevated suburb of El Cerro, where the richest of the rich reside and look out over the city and harbor. Next, we drove to the overgrown ruins of the Bishop’s Gardens and the monastic church there, an ancient retreat for the Church’s upper crust in Havana.
Returning to the original quarter of the city, we clomped passed the famous Dominica Café, a popular spot for fruit-flavored ices infused with rum. By now I imagined that our wandering itinerary had disguised my intent, so I had her tell the driver to take us to the world-famous Prado. We turned north on Egido Street, a main thoroughfare of Havana, en route to another church near the city center. Though the rainless sky still shed some light over the city, the streets were now lit by the occasional lamp. The air temperature grew perceptively cooler to a wonderful, life-energizing crispness, courtesy of that first autumn wind blowing over the island from North America.
At the main train depot, just south of the central park on the Prado, I had the driver stop. Without any more explanation than, “Back in a minute, my dear,” I dashed in and bought three tickets for the three o’clock train to Batabanó the next day. It was encouraging to see that Marrón’s men were as efficient as I’d hoped. The cigar-smoking man in the planter hat with the broad black trim, who’d been on horseback behind our carriage two blocks back, now appeared in the giant reception hall, watching me from the entrance. I knew the clerk would give the Spanish agent details of my transaction and my intentions in Batabanó, for I’d taken pains to pass them along to him.
Once back in the landau and under way along the course that the Saint Michael’s procession would follow the next morning, my lady sat closer and closer to me, until she was positively melded to my left thigh and arm. I could feel the soft warmth of her bosom pressing against me, but Rork’s admonition came to mind, and I found myself in the ridiculous position of attempting to surreptitiously study her dress in an effort to ascertain if she had a derringer in her garter.
Then, with a mischievous flash of her eyes, she spread a thin shawl over our laps, a gesture that effectively precluded my scrutiny. In addition to this incredibly bold—for a gentle lady in Havana—display of friendliness, she insistently queried me about my foray into the depot, which I deflected with a knowing smile while saying, “It’s part of a little surprise gift for you for tomorrow. Muy romantico.”
That caused her to raise her eyebrows in delight and gained me a breathy, “Muchas gracias, mi novio.”
I particularly noted the word novio, which is a personal endearment, loosely translated to “lover” and used only when a relationship has progressed to intimacy. Secure in the knowledge she had me hook, line and sinker, my amor now set about impressing me with her mind. She began a running commentary about the various edifices and parks we passed, demonstrating a surprisingly detailed knowledge of the city’s cultural and architectural past, remarkable for a lady from Oriente who’d been in the city for only two years.
But it wasn’t all a dry historical recitation. She giggled like a schoolgirl at my inane attempts at humor and used the cover of the shawl to launch a ticklish expedition up my left thigh with her fingers. All the while, she never let up on her tour guide recitation, an impressive exhibition of mental and physical prowess. The lessons were highlighted when she would lean closer and exclaim about some beautiful thing, allowing delightful glimpses of her cleavage far beyond my initial one. And behind that delicate protective veil, the lady’s eyes had lost their coyness, openly conveying a hunger for something more than riding in a carriage.
All these signals I understood completely, and I reacted with the expected male responses, both verbal and otherwise. Soon, the temperature in that back seat escalated to the point that I began to wonder if we would make it through my planned geographic itinerary.
I will admit my mind was beginning to waiver on the decision to use Belleza only as a decoy. For a moment, right about when those fingers arrived at their intended destination, I entertained the thought of allowing some pleasure to coincide with my mission in Havana. What harm could that do, really? An hour, maybe two. Then back to work.
But alas, sanity made an appearance, along with a disconcerting observation. From what I’d seen of Belleza, which was a fair amount by then, not only lust but also a warning had risen in my mind. I decided to dampen my own fires a bit by asking her vaguely about several other churches. She obliged by having the driver take us to them, not knowing they were on or near my planned route of ingress and egress for the next day.
Though I know Havana relatively well, I needed to do a last-minute reconnaissance to see for myself the layout of streets and buildings and if there had been any changes. Cover, concealment, and open, dead ground where we would be vulnerable to fire needed to be understood clearly. I had to plan potential secondary and tertiary avenues of escape. It was my last chance to do so calmly—well, relatively calmly—for once my men and I were committed and the action began, there would be no time for deliberation.
The driver, professional that he was, never turned around to openly spy upon us, but his eavesdropping by way of cocked head was plain, and I made sure he had a lot to hear, mainly of an amorous nature. We joined the heavy traffic and traveled the Prado northbound, waving to the scandalized grandmothers and stern policemen observing our intimacies. On both sides were magnificent apartments, rising three and four stories. On their balconies, couples pointed down at us, while around us girls in volantes tittered at our freedom, and the eyes of angry-looking men on strutting Paso Fino horses flared in rage at my impudent invasion of their romantic domain. I thought it great fun, and by her defiantly pleasant expression, so did Belleza.
Reaching the northern end of the Prado, we circled around the Audiencia, I being careful to never look at it directly, instead surveying it peripherally while admiring the ocean beyond. I noted that the routine number of guards were in place and none appeared on alert. Most of them were watching the inmates of the volantes. Once beyond that dreaded portal into hell, we traversed the park by the Punta fortress and headed south on Compostela, passing the Church of the Holy Angels and the tree where we would pick up our bag of cassocks.
There are times when one’s mind clarifies abruptly, realizing an opportunity has arrived. Such was the case in that landau, for after perusing her intimately for an hour and gaining insight about the lady, I had a new notion regarding Belleza’s usefulness to me. She wouldn’t be just a temporary veneer for my reconnaissance that evening. No, she could be of far more in-depth and long-lasting use. A gamble on my part, yes. It could go wrong. Dead wrong. But I had a spark inside that told me to seize the moment.
And so it was that I bid the driver to take us to the Plaza de Luz. We needed to take a little trip out of Havana, though Belleza didn’t know that yet.