Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,37
as a starched collar, Jackie thought. Jacques would have ooh-la-la-ed, and Jack Kennedy would have given her his womanizer once-over and a basket of compliments.
“Yes, I’m ready, and please call me Jacqueline,” she said, well aware that suggesting “Jackie” was asking too much.
Walking down the maze of narrow streets, lined on both sides with boutiques, small art galleries, and cafés and bars, Jackie was glad to have Emiliano as a guide in this historic part of town. He was an amazing font of information, pointing out landmarks with a relish that was a testament to his obvious, deep-seated love of the city.
“That’s El Floridita, the most famous bar in Havana,” Emiliano told her when they passed a café on the corner of Calle Obispo and Calle Monserrate. “It’s known as the ‘Cradle of the Daiquiri.’ ”
“Isn’t that a favorite hangout of Hemingway’s?” Jackie asked, recalling what she’d read in Life magazine about how Ernest Hemingway had spent last year in Cuba working on a novella that the magazine would be featuring in a few months.
“Yes, El Floridita is a favorite of his,” Emiliano said. “Some day there will probably be a life-sized replica of Hemingway propped up in his usual seat.”
Closer to the seafront, Emiliano led Jackie through the ancient city, which was filled with impressive castles, churches, and civic buildings constructed in baroque and neoclassic styles, replete with myriad columns and ornate stonework.
Everywhere she turned, there was something remarkable to see. “That’s the Catedral de San Cristóbal, known as ‘music set in stone,’ ” Emiliano said, pointing to a beautiful, asymmetrical church. “The remains of Christopher Columbus were once housed there.” About each museum, concert hall, monument, and historic building, Emiliano imparted some tidbit that Jackie found fascinating. He should be a professor, she thought, not a lawyer and a political activist.
As they reached the waterfront, Emiliano explained that the array of imposing walls and fortresses had been erected to protect the city from the constant siege of corsairs and pirates. Jackie could imagine pirate ships turning back in trepidation from the massive Castillo del Morro guarding the entrance to Havana Bay and the intimidating La Cabaña fortress with its eighteenth-century walls.
Soon Jackie and Emiliano found themselves joining the parade of tourists and locals strolling along the Malecón, the seaside avenue that was the throbbing pulse of the historic walled city. Jackie wished that she had her camera with her to photograph the charming view. On one side, the blue waves of the Caribbean splashed against the craggy rocks of the seawall, and on the other, the golden sheen of the setting sun burnished the beautiful old pastel-colored buildings.
“Emiliano, this is so lovely,” Jackie said. “I can’t thank you enough for showing Old Havana to me.”
Instinctively, she grasped his hand and pressed it. It was an innocent gesture, but it seemed to embarrass him.
“I think we’d better be going,” Emiliano said, withdrawing his hand and glancing at his watch. “We don’t want to be late for our meeting.”
Don’t feel insulted. He’s just shy, Jackie told herself. Emiliano reminded her of some of the scholarship students she had met at college—the ones called “grinds”—who restrained their social lives and were awkward around girls because their education was paramount to them. But they didn’t look like Emiliano. His torrid handsomeness was at odds with his bookish reserve, an incongruity that Jackie found amusing.
On the walk back to catch a taxi, Jackie took a stab at learning more about her reticent escort without seeming to pry. “I like your name,” she said. “Emiliano Martinez has a nice ring to it. Were you named after anyone special?”
“Yes, my parents named me after Emiliano Zapata.” He looked at Jackie with an arched eyebrow. “Do you know who he is?”
“Of course I do,” Jackie said. “He led the Mexican Revolution against the Díaz dictatorship and the landowners who stole the peasants’ farms from them.”
Emiliano looked impressed. He had no idea that Jackie knew about Zapata, not from any history book, but from a press kit that the entertainment editor at the Times-Herald had shown her for a new Elia Kazan movie coming out soon called Viva Zapata! and starring Marlon Brando. There were pictures of a fierce-looking Brando with a thick black mustache overhanging his lip and a sombrero tied under his chin with the tag line: “Roaring Story of Mexico’s Tiger on a White Horse!”
Jackie cast a sidelong glance at Zapata’s namesake walking beside her, the scholarly young man dressed in summer slacks and