Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,43
immediately recognizable. George Sanders! Addison DeWitt, the acerbic theatre critic in All About Eve, an Academy Award–winning role come to life. And the woman ahead of Jackie was his famous movie-star wife, one of the glamorous Hungarian-born Gabor sisters. When Zsa Zsa turned to her husband and nodded, Jackie was so dazzled by the perfection of her heart-shaped face and porcelain skin that her impatience gave way to awe.
“I heard from Fidel’s contact, and he apologized profusely for not showing up,” Emiliano was saying when their lunch arrived. “I asked him what happened, and all he would say was that he had run into some trouble with the secret police. But he promised to meet with us tomorrow and swore that he would be there. So that gives us this whole day to ourselves.”
“Well, you couldn’t have picked a better place for lunch,” Jackie said.
The Tropicana, surrounded by colorful tropical foliage, was every bit as spectacular as the Nacional. Jackie had been struck by the beauty of the Nymphs Fountain at the entrance to the casino and the lovely ballerina sculpture in front of the outdoor nightclub adjoining the casino, the world-famous Paradise Under the Stars.
Jackie’s guidebook had raved about the club’s spectacular shows featuring a cast of more than a hundred dancers and musicians, the dancers performing on aerial walkways around the treetops. She could see why the Tropicana was known as a mecca for tourists, international celebrities, beautiful women, and well-heeled gangsters.
And now, incredibly, here she sat, having lunch with Emiliano in Café Rodney, named after Roderico Neyra, the famous choreographer known in Cuban song and dance circles simply as Rodney. Born a leper and raised in a leper colony, according to Emiliano—was there anything this man didn’t know?—Rodney had launched his career with a burlesque show at the Shanghai, one of Havana’s most notorious strip clubs. From there, he worked as head choreographer at the elegant Sans Souci, staging lavish, talk-of-the-town, Afro-Caribbean shows for shock value and fun, until the nearby Tropicana had lured him away.
“This is delicious,” Jackie said, after her first mouthful of enchilado de camarones, a flavorful dish of shrimp, tomatoes, green bell pepper, onion, and garlic. “Back home we call this shrimp Creole, but this is an even tastier version.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Emiliano said. “After lunch, is there anything in particular that you’d like to do?”
“I haven’t really thought about it,” Jackie said. “We could walk around the grounds, but I’d rather not go into the casino. I’m not much of a gambler.” When your job pays $42.50 a week, there’s not a whole lot to play with, she said to herself.
“I don’t like it either, but I’m afraid gambling has become Cuba’s national pastime. There’s the official national lottery—the legal one—and then there’s the bolita, the black market numbers game where Martin Fox made all his money before he bought the Tropicana.”
“He must be making a lot more with the casino here,” Jackie said, remembering the line of shiny black Cadillacs and long white limousines bringing patrons to the casino last night when her cab pulled up in front of the hotel.
“Oh, yes, a casino is a license to print money. The big ones rake in millions of pesos a day, and the gangsters and the crooks like Batista line their pockets with money from them.” Jackie could see a flash of anger in Emiliano’s eyes. “There’s something wrong when the people running things live like kings, and five hundred thousand campesinos live in miserable shacks, working four months in a year and starving the rest. The rich landowners live high off the hog while a hundred thousand poor farmers like my parents are feudal serfs who have to pay for using a small plot of land by giving up a share of its produce. Do you think that’s right?”
“No, of course not,” Jackie said, shaking her head, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the numbers he had reeled off. “It’s terribly unfair for people who do an honest day’s work to be victimized so badly by a corrupt system. I feel sorry for them. Your heart would have to be made of stone if you didn’t.”
The anger faded from Emiliano’s eyes. “Forgive me for lecturing to you,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to spoil your lunch. We should talk about something more pleasant.” He thought for a moment. “I’ve seen some of your writing, and I have to say that I was quite impressed.”