Hotel Cuba, page 23
“I’m merely stating facts. Carl’s not a bad guy, not really. He knows I’m Jewish and he has virtually no problem with it. He considers us friends.”
“Okay, so it’s not a problem, but you think he likes it?”
“Besides,” Alexander goes on, “he can’t just disobey the policy dictated by his government back home. Imagine if you were he. What would you do?”
“I would do what is right.”
“And that’s why you’re not the consul.”
No, she thinks, that’s not why. There are so many reasons.
* * *
WHEN PEARL GETS home, Alexander advises her to drink plenty of water and apologizes for the way their outing ended. Shockingly, he says he’d like to see her again. She says that’s fine, but later she thinks about all the things he said, and worst of all, how he fawns over men like Carl. In that light, Alexander’s fine clothing and manners now seem like a carefully curated costume, worn to ensure that he isn’t mistaken for one of his coreligionists with their dark hats and loud voices and rough beards.
She harbors no regret for her outburst, which lost her nothing, not even Alexander’s friendship. If anything, she’s gained something, an understanding of who he is and where his loyalties lie.
Just as she originally suspected, a man cannot be both a Jew and an aristocrat.
Alexander’s wife wouldn’t be a great lady in a mansion, but another part of the disguise of a hanger-on, a neutered flatterer dependent on others for status. Here in Havana, where riches are concentrated in a closed circle, a man like Alexander probably has to behave as he does if he wants to maintain his position. And that’s not freedom.
Marrying Alexander would be a compromise, like Father becoming a butcher. At least Father had a reason to settle: History got in the way of his dreams. She won’t give up so easily.
* * *
MAYBE IT’S TRUE, what Martin said about the laws changing, about America tightening its borders. Lately, she notices that the lines at the American consulate are growing longer, and she hears people talk of trying Mexico or Argentina.
Meanwhile, she receives a letter from Basha. After a lengthy description of a new book she’s been studying, she delivers bad news. Mendel has telephoned Frieda, and their engagement is back on. “I can’t tell her anything,” writes Basha. “Frieda has a special, fragile soul.”
No, she’s tougher than you think, Pearl thinks bitterly.
That same day, Pearl hears from Ben the Oak. He has wired her the money she requested. No additional message. He could have thrown in a friendly word or two. Oh, well, she doesn’t need his message, just his money.
Putting on a dress to go out, she notices how loose it fits now, practically dripping from shoulders. She’s been working so hard and eating so infrequently that she’s lost weight. She’ll have to take in her clothes.
As Pearl waits in the post office to cash the money order, she pictures Ben the Oak taking the dollars out of the bank or a sock or under the bed, then going to the post office to fill out the forms. What must he think of her, scheming this way?
Perhaps soon, she can ask him face-to-face.
* * *
“NO!” SAYS ALEXANDER.
They’re sitting outside San Cristobal Cathedral with its pockmarked facade. Alexander argues that the only way to appreciate the architecture is to go in, but she won’t because Jews should not enter a church. Nearby, an old man plays a wooden flute for change, then stops because no one’s listening. Alexander is talking about the building, another glorious highlight of this city she wants to escape. Finally, she confesses her plans.
“Wait a bit longer, I could secure you a proper visa,” he says. “If you had a proper visa, no one could deny you.”
“And if they refuse me?” Pearl says. Maybe they’d have her name from when she tried to get in before. Alexander’s friend Carl has taught her the law is not on her side. “I can’t wait. I hear they’re closing the borders. Soon no one will be able to get in.”
The man with the flute strolls up to them. “Leave us in peace!” Alexander growls in Spanish, and the man hurries away. “If you’re caught entering illegally, you might be banned forever from America.”
“Like you are?”
“Yes, Pearl, as I am.” He scowls, shoves his hands in his pockets. She’s surprised at his vehemence, his profound disappointment. Has she misjudged him? His intentions always seemed wafer thin, like those of a flapper, if a man could be a flapper. What’s the slang for a man flapper?
“It’s too late,” says Pearl. “I already paid some money.”
“I’ll get it back for you,” he says.
She’s tempted by his earnest voice, the eager look in his eyes. “I still don’t understand how you can help me get a visa. From your friend Carl who I offended? What exactly is your connection with him?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You think I wouldn’t understand because I don’t have your education?”
“That’s rot, Pearl. You’re the smartest girl I know.”
“Even if you could find me a visa, how long would it take?”
“I don’t know for sure. But I can talk to Carl. Or perhaps another chap there.”
He’ll be talking forever, she thinks. Martin’s a sure thing, though not for long. If I don’t go now, I might waste my chance. Alexander’s way means more waiting. And if he’s wrong, I’m stuck here. Sure, Alexander would be very sorry and apologize for his bad advice. He’d apologize beautifully, like an aristocrat.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Pearl says, “that is, if you thought maybe you and I might, you know”—she can barely say it—“Get married.”
“I’d be of no help to you in that way,” says Alexander bitterly, crossing his long legs. “You’d better find some other American to marry.”
She wishes she had something to hit him with. “There are other reasons to get married, besides immigration.”
“I know there are.” He stares at his pretty shoes. She can’t face him, so she stares at the shoes too. Bad enough that she as a woman is talking so directly. Can’t he offer some reply? Or does he lack the basic gallantry to be frank, to tell her she’s mistaken his intentions? “You caught me by surprise,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d leave so soon. Perhaps I hoped, irrationally, in time you might change your mind. About Cuba. And maybe about me.” He pouts, digs his hands deeper into his pockets, like a little boy. She wants to pat his cheek, which is a problem. She’s fond of him, but his advances stir nothing in her heart, inspire no real desire. The pretty way he talks now reminds her of the little quips he makes to impress his influential friends.
“As you say,” Pearl says, “people come to this country because they’ve failed somewhere else. I don’t want to be like that. There’s no opportunity for someone like me in Havana. Here there are only a few rich people, and many more who are poor.”
Alexander pauses, then says, “I may not be wealthy, but I’m not a poor man, Pearl. I have a comfortable life here. You could have it too.”
Another problem. He’d do anything to preserve his comfort. He can’t survive without French cigarettes, horse races, or fine suits. He hasn’t been deprived, tested as she has been, so she doesn’t know what he’s made of, down deep. Maybe if he’d gone to the war . . . Of course, she admires him for not going, though it’s kept him soft.
“I must go to America and you must stay in Cuba,” she says. “How could I stay here with you and risk never seeing my sister again? I would never agree to that.”
“I know.” He gives her a helpless smile. “If it’s America you want, I’m of no help to you. Not unless things change and there’s some kind of amnesty for men like me.”
“Could that happen?”
“I don’t know, Pearl. And it would be false if I pretended that I did.”
The wealthy, the privileged, they don’t need to know things, she thinks. But poor people can’t afford that luxury. We have to make choices. We have to be sure.
“Forget about me,” he says. “We’ll find another way to get you to America. But you must not do this risky thing. The people who smuggle immigrants, they’re greedy enough to stoop to anything. You mustn’t trust them.”
“How do you know?” she asks. “Are you one of them too?” He turns to her, looks appalled. She says, “Is that your big secret? Your real profession?”
Alexander pauses, then lowers his voice. “I’m not one of those men, but some of them think I am. They share information with me that I pass on to men like Carl. It’s my strategy to get to America. To earn my way back. Do you see now?”
“Yes,” she says. “You made a deal. You’re like a spy.”
He digs at the cement with the tip of his lovely shoe. “The rotten part is I’m awfully good at my work. It’s the one occupation I’m suited for. They’re quite happy to keep me here. But Pearl, these smugglers are dangerous. Promise you won’t go with them. I can get your money back if that’s what’s concerning you.”
Maybe he’s right. Pearl stops for a moment to consider it, searches the earnest expression on Alexander’s fine face. Is she crazy to leave him? In some other neutral place or time, they might make a good match. But she could never imagine away what he said and did during that awful day at the country club, though she wishes she could, just as she wishes she believed that Martin was lying about the changing laws, the tighter borders. Wouldn’t that be nice?
“Don’t bother,” she says. “I will talk to them, say I changed my mind. Women are famous for changing their minds, after all.”
He seems to believe her, asks if she wants to hear more about this church and its architecture, and she says yes. How easily he accepts all her false words. If women are the weaker sex, then why are men so easy to fool?
Fourteen
AT MIDNIGHT, PEARL STANDS UNDER THE COLONNADE OF the U.S. Consulate, its windows shuttered, its mahogany front doors bolted. Cloaking herself in the shadows, Pearl watches the Plaza de Armas, silent and deserted.
Or not quite deserted. A man is pacing only meters away, by the famous ceiba tree where Cubans make their desperate wishes. A cop, criminal, or tourist looking for a whore? If she called for help, who’d respond? Maybe this man is Alexander, following her to make sure she’s safe. No, this one has too much hair.
The man continues pacing, and Pearl retreats deeper into the shadows with her wicker suitcase, packed with clothes, letters, and photos, her English-Yiddish book, a sewing kit, a small black velvet hat she’d made. And six packets of biscuits, enough for the week’s journey to New Orleans. She gave the workshop a thorough dusting and mopping, and left a note for the Steinbergs saying she’d finished their last order without payment, to make up for her earlier debt.
This may be her last best chance to get off this island. America, America. She’s thought, said, and dreamed that word for so long, she’s sick of its sound.
The air weighs on Pearl’s skin and smells sweet in a bitter way, like raw sugar burning on a stove. It’s February—isn’t that supposed to be winter? A full year in Havana has taught her that all months feel the same here, slight variations of intolerable heat.
The man pacing by the tree notices her, but says nothing. She spots a small traveling case at his feet. Are they waiting for the same reason?
She hears a car engine. It belongs to the Queen of England, chugging into the square. His Ford is stripped of its flags and fripperies, but the Queen drives as recklessly as ever, stopping short of a stone hitching post for horse-drawn carriages.
Pearl and the man by the ceiba tree simultaneously cross the square. In the light of a lamppost, she sees his full head of curly red hair.
Three men already sit in the back seat of the Ford as if arranged by size, starting with a baby-faced teenager crammed against one end. In the middle sits a wide-faced man wearing a tweed newsboy cap. At the other end is a portly middle-aged fellow with one bag on his lap and another tucked between his legs. Hugging his luggage, he eyes the other men. “Watch your feet,” he says in Yiddish as the redhead squeezes in beside him. “These are new shoes I’m wearing. One scratch on this leather, and you’ll pay.”
“Listen to this one,” the redhead says in Yiddish. “His roof is on fire and he worries about his challah burning in the oven.” The others snicker. So they’re all Jews.
Pearl feels them watching her, the only woman. At least they’re Jews, so they might behave properly. If not, she can remind them how in the language of their mothers and sisters. She climbs up front beside the Queen and pats her thirty American dollars in a hidden pocket she’s sewn in the lining.
That afternoon, she deposited her payment for the journey at a grocery on a street called Amarguesa—she’ll always remember the name, which means “bitterness” in Spanish. In return, she was issued a receipt to give to the men who bring her to America so they can take it back to Havana to be paid. If she’s deported back to Cuba, she can go to this store and present the receipt for a refund, less a fee of twenty dollars.
She’s reassured to see the Queen, though he seems unusually tight-lipped tonight. He grimly inspects their receipts, which they hold up with tight fists.
“You promise it’s safe, yes?” asks Pearl, hoping he won’t lie to her.
“Yes, yes. Here.” He slaps something hard and cold into her hand. “Martin say me to give it to you, to remember your old friend Martin, a souvenir.”
She turns it upside down, unsure what it is—a comb? “Careful,” says the Queen, showing her how it works. It’s a silver switchblade, the handle engraved with leaves and vines. Pearl holds it by her fingertips, afraid the blade might pop out if she touches it the wrong way. Does Martin think she’ll need it? Maybe it will be useful for cutting fruit.
As the Queen starts up the motor, Pearl scans the Plaza de Armas. No Alexander. Why would he be there? Still, she looks over her shoulder once more as they speed away.
During their short ride to the port, the smell of rotting leaves gives way to a salty breeze blowing in from the water. The Queen parks beside a bakery with shuttered windows. They grab their bags, exit the car, and walk behind the Queen, who gestures for them to stay quiet and keep a slight distance.
Most of the businesses are closed for the night: dry dock repair shops, souvenir stands that cater to sailors, and penny groceries where in daytime fruit vendors polish their wares with a light coat of melted wax to make them shine. The bars are loud with jazz music and drunken sailors standing on tables and singing. Tourists line up to board a ship that’s been impounded for smuggling alcohol to the States. A sign says VIEW AN ACTUAL CONTRABANDISTA! DAY OR NIGHT! ADMISSION 10 CENTS!
The road ends at a large open warehouse, where a sailboat with a rotted bottom is propped on a metal rack. The Queen guides them around the building to a narrow inlet, where he kneels beside a motorboat hitched to a wooden piling. Pearl watches closely, shivering in the night air. The Queen’s fingers work quickly, untying the ropes as the water makes soft slurping sounds against the wood.
The portly man pushes ahead and throws his bags into the boat. “Ladies first,” hisses the redhead, but the plump fellow gets on, claims a seat in the bow. The man in the cap and the Queen hold the boat steady. “Here,” he says, grabbing Pearl’s suitcase and offering his hand. She takes it and gets on the boat, settling in back near the motor.
“Quickly,” whispers the Queen, and the rest of them scramble into the boat. The Queen jumps in back with Pearl and pushes away from shore. He passes the oars up to the ginger and the guy in the cap, and they row away from land, splashing loudly until the Queen says, “Quiet, quiet,” moving his arms in slow circles.
When they’re a sufficient distance from shore, the men pull up the wet oars, spattering Pearl’s cheek with cool droplets of water that make her shiver. A breeze off the water blows out her hair, already plumping up from the humidity. The Queen turns on the motor and they speed toward one of the steamships that have dropped anchor in the middle of the harbor. The dock is filled with ships waiting for weeks to get paid for their cargo. Another side effect of plummeting sugar prices: Cubans can no longer afford to pay for all the goods they’ve ordered from abroad.
Their destination is a ship flying an Italian flag. Its massive black hull dwarfs their tiny craft. Pearl is astounded that such monstrous ships, big as castles, can float on water. The Queen takes out a whistle and blows three sharp blasts, and a man whistles back from the deck high above, then tosses down a rope ladder. The redhead catches it, and the Queen scrambles over and ties the ends of the ladder to their boat.
“How will we get our suitcases up there?” demands the pudgy man as if he’s expecting a valet. Pearl’s wondering about this too. The man tries to squeeze his bags under his armpit and pull himself up the ladder one-handed, but a bag slips out, hits the boat’s edge, and tips into the water. The other men help him grab the bag before it sinks.
The Queen giggles, then yells up to the deck, high as a cathedral above their heads. A sailor appears, his face too dark in the shadows for Pearl to make out his features. He lowers a second rope for pulling up their luggage.
It’s slow work getting them and all their baggage on board. When it’s Pearl’s turn, she grips the rope ladder and pauses at the first rung. Inhaling deeply, she takes the first step, then marches steadily up the swinging ladder and doesn’t dare look down. She wishes she’d worn pants for this. Also, she wishes she knew how to swim.
She climbs over the ship’s railing and her boots hit the deck, a mess of tangled ropes, cigarette butts, a mix of dirt, sawdust, sand, and shards of broken wine bottles that glitter in the Italian sailor’s lantern.
Pearl has never met an Italian, and she’d find it hard to distinguish between this one and a Cuban. He has dark curls, a long unshaven face, and knobby hands like an old man. His angular body juts out of a dirty striped shirt, and around his neck, he wears a red scarf, a decorative touch that gives Pearl hope.
