Stuart Kaminsky - Hard Currency

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.”

“You will,” said the babalau.

Rostnikov was not sure how he got to his feet, whether he had stood or been lifted. The next thing he knew he was standing outside next to the big gray tree that cracked the stone walkway to the babalau’s room.

“We are here because this tree is here,” said Javier in English. “The mother of the babalau brought us to the giver of life. It is not buildings or monuments we worship, but the symbols of life we respect and draw strength from. We do not kill women for their bodies, for spite, for revenge. We do not kill. The son of a babalau who will himself be a babalau knows better than to let the animal that lives within us all out of the cage of our ribs. We do not ask you to believe as we do. We ask you to respect who we are. Our tradition will not fall when a government dies. Do you understand?”

Rostnikov reached out and touched the tree, partly to steady himself and partly to reassure himself that he was awake. The tree felt cool and reassuring in the heat of the night.

Then Rostnikov was in the back seat of the car.

“The sun will be up soon,” said Javier.

Rostnikov tried to shake off the taste of rum and the sound of imagined rain. He had something to say, but before he could say it he was on an elevator, one arm around George, the other around someone he vaguely remembered as a desk clerk at the hotel.

Then he was in his bed. He was alone. As he looked at the stains on the ceiling, he sensed that the sun was coming gently through the closed blinds and that the ghost of Maria Fernandez, which haunted this room, was whispering something he could not quite understand.

Something the babalau had said made him feel that he should take some action, but he also felt that it was too late and would be far too difficult.

Porfiry Petrovich closed his eyes. There was an image of snow, the Moscow winter snow of his childhood, and the sound of his friends, Mikhail, Ilya, Feodor, calling across the park in a language he did not know.

Later he would rise. Later he would face the killer of Maria Fernandez. Later when the snow of his dreams melted in the hot morning sun of the island.

Two floors below the room in which Rostnikov was falling asleep, Elena Timofeyeva opened her eyes and turned to look at Sanchez, who was wide awake and staring at her.

“Good morning,” he said in Russian.

“Good morning,” Elena responded in Russian.

“I must go,” he said, getting out of bed. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Elena nodded and pulled the sheet up to cover her large breasts.

Sanchez, as her fingers had confirmed the night before, was covered with scars. His back was scarred, he had said, from beatings by a street gang. Other scars, on his legs, stomach, neck, came from encounters with drunks, petty criminals, and a pair of women who didn’t like the fact that Sanchez had stepped into their quarrel. He had told her all these things in the night. He had observed after touching her that she was very young, that the smoothness of her skin attested to her inexperience as a police officer.

Elena had accepted Sanchez’s offer to drive her back to the hotel so that she could cover for Rostnikov. At least that was what she had told herself, and Sanchez, she was now sure, had let her get away with the illusion that he was being taken in.

“He is probably in his room,” she had said. “But I would rather not wake him. He gets little sleep and when he does he sleeps soundly.”

“Perhaps the desk clerk can confirm that he returned,” Sanchez had suggested.

“I doubt it,” Elena had said. “He doesn’t check the key.”

“Still,” Sanchez had said, as they parked in front of the hotel and he stepped out.

“Does it really matter?” she asked.

“I am concerned for the safety of Chief Inspector Rostnikov. He is under my protection. You are both under my protection. When I leave you at your door, I will have to make inquiries, perhaps knock at his door. I have no choice.”

It was then that Elena had decided. When they arrived at her hotel room door she had stood for an instant, long enough to encourage him to lean over and kiss her. His kiss was soft and lingering, and his arms pulled her close to him. She had felt her breasts against his chest, his excitement between her legs.

She had invited him in.

He had been prepared, an American condom in his pocket, and he had been gentle and loving. Elena had told herself that she was doing it to protect Rostnikov, but she knew that it was also from her own desire, perhaps her own need.

There had been none of the self-absorbed frenzy of the two Russians she had gone to bed with, and none of the false concern of the American she had slept with when she was a student in Boston. Sanchez was older than any of these and he made love slowly, enjoying her growing arousal and matching it to his own.