Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,53
rhymes. To Jackie, much of Havana was turning out to be a dream city composed of the myriad romantic longings of its citizens, all set to an Afro-Caribbean beat that set the pulse racing and the toes tapping.
After breakfast, Emiliano had picked her up in a cab—Jackie assumed that his old Chevrolet might have conked out. He had the driver take them to the Vedado again, explaining that he wanted to show Jackie something more plush than a cigar factory on this return visit. Now she could see that this northwest part of the city was home to luxe shops and posh restaurants, as well as many office towers and apartment houses, making Havana the rival of any major city in either hemisphere when it came to luxurious living.
They were now walking through a beautiful outdoor flower market, a veritable Eden plunked down right in the middle of this urban landscape. It was crowded with tourists taking pictures and sailors from many nations buying tokens of affection for the young women who escorted them, many of whom looked to be of dubious propriety. The market vendors offered a profusion of mariposa, heliotrope, and yellow morning glory, among other tropical breeds—a riot of colors that was difficult for the eye to take in at one time and a variety of scents that was intoxicating. In her colorful, flower-print summer dress and matching ballet flats, Jackie felt that she blended right in with her surroundings.
“Such beautiful flowers,” Jackie marveled as she looked around in awe.
“Would you like me to buy you one for your hair?” Emiliano asked her with a shy smile.
Jackie felt like blushing, not for her part, but for Emiliano’s. She could well imagine how difficult this intimate gesture was for him.
“I’d like that very much,” Jackie said.
They stopped at the next vendor, where Emiliano asked Jackie to pick out a flower that she liked.
“This is beautiful,” Jackie said, pointing to a precious-looking white butterfly jasmine.
Emiliano smiled. “That’s the official flower of Cuba,” he told her.
After a brief but brisk session of haggling with the vendor, Emiliano purchased the flower, then handed it to Jackie to fix in her hair with a bobby pin. She took out a makeup mirror and gave it to Emiliano to hold while she manipulated the mariposa in place until he pronounced it, “Perfect.”
“Thank you,” Jackie said simply, and Emiliano nodded in response as they walked on.
After a few blocks, Emiliano stopped and said, “I just want you to know one thing about the man you are going to meet.”
Jackie looked up at him.
“He is no political dilettante. No mere dabbler in causes,” he continued. “Four days after the coup—ten days before your government officially recognized Batista—Fidel stood up in one of Cuba’s highest civil courts and denounced El Presidente. He even asked for a public trial for him. That is the man you are going to meet.”
Jackie looked at Emiliano. He sounded almost as passionate as he had when he was reading that stirring exhortation from Les Misérables to the cigar-factory workers. It was the same kind of passion that had animated Rosario during their conversation in the pickup truck. She wondered about this Fidel Castro, and what it was about this man that brought out such strong emotions in others. Well, she would soon find out.
Once past the flower market, Emiliano guided her beyond the spacious thoroughfares of the Vedado to a series of streets that ran in a slightly narrower fashion. Once again, he stopped to tell Jackie something important.
“This place where we are headed is very close to the local police precinct. It is also not far from the headquarters of the Service of Military Intelligence. The Colonel Sanchez you met the other night is a member of this secret service. The interrogation cells there are stained red with the blood of many innocent victims. So you see, Fidel and the members of the resistance are operating right under the very nose of the lion.”
Abruptly, he started walking again. It took Jackie a moment or two to take in the information that Emiliano had just imparted. He was now a little way ahead, and she ran to catch up with him, clutching her camera bag, which she had taken along as part of her cover as a journalist. Inside it, along with the trusty Speed Graphic—a parting gift from Jacques before he took off for Balazistan—was the thirty-five-millimeter film reel of Dracula. Given the key it held, there was no way