Stuart Kaminsky - Hard Currency

The man had clearly not dressed to impress his visitor. He was wearing a pair of frayed blue denim pants and a sleeveless undershirt. From the corner of his mouth a seemingly lifeless cigarette drooped. The man, whose hair was cut short and was steely white, looked older than he had on the platform of the restaurant. He was barefoot.

Rostnikov stepped forward toward the seated man and handed him the bottle of rum, as he had been told to do by George. The babalau nodded almost imperceptibly as he watched Rostnikov’s eyes. Javier stepped forward and took the bottle. A young woman, a beautiful light-skinned woman in an African-style dress of yellow and brown, her head turbaned, entered through a maroon drape in the far corner of the room. The rum bottle was passed to her and she exited quickly and gracefully.

The babalau said, “Siéntese, por favor.” He held out his right hand, palm up, toward the bench nearest the door through which Rostnikov had entered. Rostnikov sat, his left leg extended, and George sat next to him.

Javier went through the maroon drapes and the babalau began to speak in Spanish.

“He says,” George translated, “you should consider moving to Cuba before the earth shakes and the men who have ruled for the blink of Chango’s left eye are gone. After they are gone, it will be difficult for a Russian to move here.”

“Why should I move to Cuba?” Rostnikov asked, and Manuel began to speak before George translated.

“He says your leg, your wife, and your children,” George translated.

“I have only one child,” Rostnikov said.

Manuel spoke again and George translated.

“You have two girls in your house.”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov.

Manuel spoke again.

“The babalau has many children. His wife has been fruitful.”

The beautiful girl in the yellow-and-brown dress came back through the maroon curtain carrying a metal tray with two glasses and the bottle of rum Rostnikov had brought. The glasses were common kitchen glasses much like the ones in his hotel room in the El Presidente Hotel. They were filled with rum. The girl with the tray bowed before the babalau, who took one glass; then she moved to Rostnikov, who took the other. Both men drank deeply. Although Rostnikov was not particularly fond of rum, this was good rum and the setting felt appropriate for its thick amber strength.

The curtain parted and people filed in. Rostnikov was aware of girls in African dresses and turbans, and shirtless young men with lean powerful bodies, including the young man Rostnikov had seen through the window playing with the baby. Two of the young women were carrying babies. A boy and a girl of five or six came in holding hands and sat together near the curtain. Javier entered and stood behind his father’s chair, his arms folded. He had changed his clothes and wore a loose-fitting red shirt. Finally, an ancient woman came through the curtain, her dress a mad rainbow of colors. The young people parted and the woman moved to a bench in the corner. The woman with the bowl had stopped mashing her mixture and was wiping her hands on a towel a girl had handed her.

The babalau spoke again, and George said, “These are his children and the wives and husbands of his married children and these are some of his grandchildren. Behind his wife is his mother, who has powers of the eye and mind.”

Rostnikov watched as the ancient woman scooped up a child who had waddled across the floor into her 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.”