R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

‘Money?’ he said. ‘I did not suggest this because I wanted your money.’ He seemed slightly offended, as if I had made some improper suggestion.

I raised my hand in a conciliatory fashion. ‘I know, Raúl, I know you didn’t, but I am a man of principle and honor, and I feel it would be unjust to enter into this without making some contribution to the venture. I insist that it be this way, regardless of your viewpoint.’

Raúl smiled. He winked. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If that is the case then we shall employ a lawyer and we shall draw up an agreement, a letter of co-operation if you like, and we shall have it sworn in and made legal.’

I held out my hand and we shook. I would give Raúl Brito ten thousand American dollars, and I would become his partner.

It was then that the difficulties began. My money was well-hidden in my house. I had no bank account, I had no records or registered assets. In organizing the legalities of our partnership I was required to provide a passport or some legal means of identification. These things I did not have, at least nothing current and admissible in a Cuban lawyer’s office, and when the lawyer suggested I solve the problem by registering my name and place of birth at the local police headquarters I was caught like a rabbit in the headlights. I had made an agreement with Raúl to do this, but what was asked of me I could not provide, and no matter the attempts I made to construct this agreement based on a handshake and a word of trust, Raúl insisted that if we were going to do it then we would do it properly. It was, after all, my idea, was it not?

When I failed to appear at the police headquarters, not only on one occasion, but a second time also, the lawyer – a suspicious and invasive man by the name of Jorge Delgado – commented to the local constabulary that there was something unusual about the elderly man who lived in the house on Avenida Belgica. The constabulare, a card-carrying member of the Crusade for the Defence of the Revolution, an organization that was nothing more than the eyes and ears of Castro’s secret police, was interested enough in me to ask details of Claudia Vivó, and she – loyal and reticent in her own way – merely served to awaken his further curiosity.

It was in the second week of September that he came to Brito’s, and there he found me seated near the window, smoking a cigar and reading a magazine.

‘Mr Perez,’ he said quietly, and sat beside me at the narrow table.

I looked at him, and everything within me told me I was in for some difficulty.

‘My name is Luis Hernández. I am the constabulare for this sector.’

I held out my hand. ‘I am pleased to meet you, sir,’ I said.

Hernández did not shake my hand and I withdrew it slowly.

‘I understand that you have been here in Cuba for some months?’

‘Yes, I have… myself and my son Victor.’

‘And how old is your son, Mr Perez?’

I smiled. ‘He is nine years old.’

‘And I understand he is tutored by Claudia Vivó?’

‘He is, yes.’

‘I have spoken with her and she tells me he is a very bright boy indeed.’

I nodded. ‘He is a bright boy, yes.’

‘And his mother?’

‘His mother is no longer alive.’

Hernández shook his head. ‘I am sorry. She has been dead a long time?’

‘In March of this year.’

‘And she died here in Cuba?’

‘No, she did not die in Cuba.’

Hernández was silent. He looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

‘In America. She died in America.’

‘Aah,’ he said, as if suddenly understanding something significant. ‘And may I ask how she died, Mr Perez?’

‘An automobile accident, she and my daughter, Victor’s sister.’

‘And her name?’

‘Angelina,’ I said reticently. I knew what was happening. I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Hernández was soliciting all the information he could with the appearance of concerned interest.

‘Such a tragic thing, Mr Perez… my condolences.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and turned back to my magazine.

‘And I understand that you have now come here to stay in Cuba?’

‘Perhaps, I am not sure. After the death of my wife I wanted to be away from America for a while. Such a thing is very difficult to come to terms with, and I felt it would be better for my son to be away from any reminders.’

‘Of course,’ Hernández said. ‘If it were me I am sure I would feel much the same way.’

I turned and looked out of the window. I could feel beads of sweat breaking beneath my hairline.

‘And you came in with a visitor’s visa or as a Cuban national?’ Hernández asked.

‘As a national,’ I said. ‘My father was born here in Cuba and I possess Cuban national status as a hereditary right.’

‘Indeed you would, sir,’ he said. ‘Indeed you would.’ He looked at me askance, and then he leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. ‘I have one question,’ he said, and he smiled like a man setting a trap for something he knew was defenseless.

I looked back at him and attempted to show nothing of any meaning in my expression.

‘I understand that you are looking at the possibility of engaging in this business with Raúl Brito?’

‘We had discussed such a thing,’ I replied.

‘But the details of the agreement have not been worked out?’

I shook my head.

‘It is not something you wish to do? You have changed your mind perhaps?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I have not yet made time to attend to the paperwork.’

Hernández nodded his head. ‘So I understand. I happened to be speaking with the lawyer assigned to this matter, a Mr Jorge Delgado, and he told me you have failed to make both of the appointments he has arranged with Mr Brito and yourself to conclude the documentation.’

‘That is correct,’ I said. ‘I have been very busy with my son’s schooling.’

‘But you are not so busy now,’ he replied, and once again he smiled his reptilian smile and looked at me through slitted eyes.

‘I am not,’ I said, for there was nothing I could say in my defense.

‘Then I think it would be a good idea, if only for Mr Brito’s peace of mind, that we conclude this matter this afternoon. I think it would be fair, in order to further prevent any inconvenience for both him and Mr Delgado, that we go to your house now, collect your identification papers, and sign these partnership agreements.’

I smiled. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I think that would be an excellent idea.’

Hernández rose immediately. He looked very pleased with himself. I gathered my coat, threw it around my shoulders, and with a sense of ease and lack of concern I showed Hernández to the door and followed him out into the street.

We conversed as we walked, of nothing consequential – the weather, the shameful lack of care shown to some of Havana’s more historic and beautiful buildings – and it was little more than fifteen minutes before we reached Avenida Belgica and the house I had rented.

The thoughts that passed through my mind were those thoughts one always encountered solely in hindsight. I had considered entering Cuba under an assumed name even as I left America, but I was so caught up in the necessity to leave that country, so unwilling to engage in any formal investigation of the murder of my wife and daughter, I had fled as I was. Of course I possessed a Cuban passport, and it was in my birth name, but that passport had been purchased for seven hundred and fifty dollars some years before from a skilled counterfeiter. In America I had carried no social security number, no formal identification, and the customs and immigration people at the Havana docks had no more than glanced at my documents as I entered. Leaving would have been different, a far more difficult enterprise altogether, as I knew from experience with my father so many years before. The passport I would show Hernández would be identified as a forgery under scrutiny, and that was a road I did not wish to travel.