CHAPTER 3

His boss’s home was a handful of blocks past Mella Theater, on the eighteenth floor of a modern white building, its pristine exterior not yet sullied by the city’s soiled air. The balconies, for distinguishable flair, had been painted bright orange. The elevator rails always looked polished, the floors mopped to a shine. According to Gimenez, there was a mutual understanding between the residents that the common areas must remain clean. This had stood out to Serguey, who was used to collective disdain even in his own building. Getting an apartment in such an exclusive location, the doctor claimed, was quite a process, unless you had a recognizable family name. Reputable television actors, a museum director, the Transportation Minister’s oldest daughter—these were Gimenez’s neighbors, whose homes Serguey had to pass on the way to ask for help.

The lobby was empty as he waited for the elevator. He was surrounded by an understated chemical odor, remainders of the kind of cleaning products his and Anabel’s family never had access to. The elevator doors gaped with a soft groan. He stepped in and pressed the corresponding button. The doors had begun their slide when another man stuck his arm in. He stood next to Serguey, expecting him to select the floor.

“Which one is it?” Serguey said, skipping formalities.

The man shook his head in appreciation. “Fifteenth.” He had a perfectly cropped beard, as if meticulously clipped with a tiny scissor. His hair, with sporadic strips of gray near the sideburns, was parted to one side. The doors shut, and Serguey could smell cologne, which, for some reason, he linked to the color green.

“You’ve been running?” the man asked.

Serguey felt a sudden chill on his face, where sweat had accumulated. “I walked here.”

The man lifted his hand toward Serguey’s neck, a gold-plated watch sticking to his furry wrist. “You’re going to ruin your collar.”

Serguey didn’t bother to look at it. “The wife will take care of it.” He had learned at the Ministry that poise and authority always went over well with men of power.

The man smiled, and Serguey noticed he had feminine lips. “Do you live in the building?”

A cunning question. Gimenez could recite the names of all the residents. No way this man, concerned about a perspiring intruder, didn’t know them as well. “I’m here to see Dr. Gimenez.”

“Ah. Tell him Carlos says hi. I haven’t bumped into him for a couple of weeks.” The man got off the elevator shortly after, the scent of his cologne staying behind, out-welcoming its stay.

Serguey began to feel nauseated, his chest tightened by the upward movement of the elevator, but was relieved the moment he exited and the odorless air of the eighteenth floor hallway greeted him.

He knocked on Gimenez’s door, which the doctor opened with a courteous smile. A green kitchen towel was draped over his left shoulder. He motioned Serguey in. “Follow me to the dining room,” he said. “I’ve got something on the stove.”

He had insisted on the phone that they speak in person before getting into details. Just like Felipe, his boss had a proclivity for the spectacle that is face-to-face human interaction.

Serguey stepped through the lavishly furnished living room—hand-carved wooden chairs and a glossy leather sofa, none of which seemed meant to be sat on and which Serguey was always afraid to touch, and three exotically stenciled vases on a glass shelf, which Gimenez asserted were from Egypt (except for the one instance when Serguey had caught him telling a superior in his office that they were from Morocco). He walked past framed degrees and diplomas set at various heights along the hall, snaking like a stream of musical notes that announced your impending arrival at the dining area. The layout was similar to Serguey’s apartment, though more spacious and elegantly adorned. A long wooden table stood in the middle of the room, decorated by a basket of artificial fruit, a gift from a Canadian ambassador.

“He knew our fruits are better than theirs,” Gimenez had told Serguey, “so he gave me something that looks better than ours.”

An old cupboard with sliding glass cabinet doors rose against the wall. A set of sparkling wine glasses, assorted in color, lay arranged like museum pieces inside it.

The last time Serguey had visited, the apartment was filled with coworkers, a get-together organized by Gimenez to celebrate his birthday. In an unforgettable night (now considered legendary at the Ministry), he had commanded everyone to stand behind their assigned chairs and sit simultaneously at the imperious wave of his hand. He drunkenly professed his love for Italian women as the night wore on and called Serguey his “son” with a sniffle as a parting note.

The inviting smell of butter and garlic on fresh seafood wafted from the kitchen. Serguey watched Gimenez stirring a big pot of yellow rice. Despite the man’s age, his hair was still brown and thick. His posture and movements, like Felipe’s, rivaled those of a younger person.

“Take a seat,” Gimenez said, his back to Serguey. “You don’t mind if we speak like this until the food’s ready, do you?”

“Not at all.” Serguey pulled out a chair.

“So what’s the matter? You sounded worried when you called.”

“It’s my father. He’s been arrested.”

Gimenez tossed the kitchen towel from one shoulder to the other, like swatting at a fly. He tapped the large spoon on the edge of the pot, set it down on the counter, and turned around. “I’m sorry, Serguey. That you should’ve told me on the phone.”

“I wasn’t sure . . . it’s a very private matter.”

“I understand. I’m glad you came to see me. Has he been charged?”

“I’m not clear about it yet. I don’t even know where they took him.”

Gimenez wiped his hands on the towel and threw his weight against the doorframe. “That shouldn’t be difficult to find out.”

“I considered going to Section twenty-one in Marianao, to the State Security building.”

“They won’t tell you anything. If you get too nosy or confrontational, they’ll throw you in a cell. Those guys don’t mess around.”

“That’s why I came to you.”

Gimenez shifted his body so that his spine aligned with the frame. His faraway gaze, a thinking man’s veneer, gave Serguey hope: his boss was interested.

“Why do you think they arrested him? Your father’s a playwright, correct?”

“Used to be. He’s a director now.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Well, as I said, the details are a bit blurry. My brother was the only one present when they came for him.”

“Victor, right?” Gimenez caressed his own chin, committing to a full display of clout. “He’s the one who’s been in jail.”

Feebly, Serguey nodded.

“I’ll make some calls tonight, when people are home. I’m friends with some of the guys on the fifth floor at the Ministry, in the State Security wing. I’ll see what I’m able to find out, and I’ll give you a call. You can take the day off tomorrow. Try to meet with your old man. Unless . . .”

“Unless it’s political.” Serguey figured it was best to get it out of the way, before it began festering, before it became like a curse no one wanted to speak out loud.

“That would complicate things.” Gimenez pushed himself off the doorframe. “But you should cross that bridge when you get there. Maybe they just want to interview him.”

“With State Security handling it?”

“It’s possible. Has your father ever been in trouble?

“No. His work doesn’t involve politics.

“I see.”

“He’s well respected.”

“Right, El Escenario,” Gimenez said with a reserved smile.

Serguey had told him about the article in passing, but Gimenez was bound to log these kinds of details. Convert them into weapons, he might’ve said, as good litigators should. He knew damn well that Felipe was a director, just like he remembered that Victor had been in jail. Serguey stared at the table, preferring not to acknowledge his boss’s subtle derision of his family. He had never touted them; he perhaps had even complained about them in the past to share in the inconsequential smugness of the office. But his father and brother as subjects of wry mockery now bothered him.

“Do you want a drink?” Gimenez asked.

Serguey hesitated. “Sure.”

His boss retrieved a bottle of cognac from the bottom of the cupboard and two glasses from the top. “Got this in Marseilles,” he said, pouring a glass for Serguey, the other for himself. “Anyway, if the charges are serious, if they’re political in nature, don’t dig too deep. Be certain you’re standing on solid ground. I’m aware he’s your father, but one false step and your career could be over.”

Serguey let a flood of cognac slither down his throat, embracing the sting in his nose and eyes.

“You’re very talented, Serguey, and you have Anabel to worry about. What does she think?”

“About what?”

“About what happened.”

“She’s distraught.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Serguey considered lying, withholding. Coworkers once warned him (at the time, he figured it was out of jealousy) that Gimenez had fired two previous protégés: one for showing up unprepared to a meeting and embarrassing him, the other for failing to disclose that an uncle had successfully processed the paperwork to get him to the United States. The latter, the coworkers said, saw his trip delayed six months, having to get by without a job, as a result of a Gimenez’s phone call. Should he admit that Anabel was willing to risk Serguey’s job, their status? Should he give his boss reasons to doubt him? Those protégés, of course, hadn’t lived in the apartment. Neither of them, as far as he knew, had been called “son.”

“Family comes first,” he finally said, refusing to betray his wife.

Gimenez drank his cognac. “You have a brave woman by your side. But it is our job to be lawyers, not heroes.” He grabbed the bottle and offered a refill. Serguey declined. He poured more for himself. “However, I got to where I am in part because of my family, so I know what Anabel means.”

“I’m going to help my father,” Serguey said, infusing authority into his words.

“I understand.” Gimenez gulped down half his glass, then said, “When I was your age, things were different. Back then, if your father’s issue had been political, he would have no shot. Today the game is different. Between you and me, it’s very winnable, but you need connections and luck.”

“My brother thinks I have connections.” Serguey stared at his glass. “I have you, but not much else.”

Gimenez chuckled. His cheeks and forehead were smudged by the rosy hue of mild inebriation. “I’m no connection, believe me. I’m a washed-up attorney with a cushy job. Go back to your brother. Ask him who he knows.”

Serguey resisted a grimace. “Victor knows delinquents.” He had the feeling of having said something similar about Victor before.

“I know your brother is a sore subject, but family comes first, right? You can’t be prideful if you really want to do something for your father. I’m still going to make my calls and get back to you. I’ll be reaching you on your landline, so make sure you’re home.”

Serguey thanked him, tapping his glass as if he were flicking a marble.

“Now, have lunch with me,” his boss said. “I’ll give you some food to take with you, that way Anabel won’t have to cook today.”

“I really should go. I’ll get something on the way home.”

“A quick lunch. You can tell me more about your father. I have no one I can reach until later today. I don’t like calling people at work. You don’t know who’s listening. Besides, if you show up too soon, they won’t let you see him.” Gimenez went to the kitchen. He brought out plates and silverware and placed them on the table in an almost ceremonious way.

“Let me give you a hand,” Serguey said.

“Nonsense,” Gimenez said. “You’re the guest.”