Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,73

Do all United Fruit Company executives live in homes like that?”

“No, they all have big, beautiful houses on La Avenida, but Mitchell’s is at the end of those and larger and grander because he’s so high up in the company. Wait until we get closer. You’ll see what I mean.”

“At this point, I’d settle for a cot in a tent somewhere. Anything to get out of this broiling sun and away from these damn mosquitoes.” Jackie smacked at her arm, where a new insect bite had just left a swelling, itchy, red welt to add to the others dotting her arms and legs.

After their hair-raising jump from the train, Jackie had been trekking with Emiliano through the dense brush of the Oriente countryside for what seemed like days. Her legs felt leaden, her feet were bleeding, her throat was parched, and her stomach growled with hunger pangs. She was grateful that Emiliano had become increasingly protective of her, often slipping an arm under her elbow to prevent her from stumbling over a rock or covering her head with his hand to shield her from an overhanging tree branch. The tenderness of his touch told Jackie that Emiliano was not just being a gentleman anymore; he was exhibiting genuine caring. A tide of circumstances—the assignment they shared, their travels together, and the dangers they had faced—had propelled them into a closeness that was now inching toward intimacy.

Jackie’s feelings for Emiliano deepened when they passed a shantytown where the cane cutters lived in mud huts that looked like a colony of large ant hills, and he told her that he had grown up there.

“You mean you and your family lived in one of those shacks?” she asked, her incredulity mixed with compassion. “They’re so small, and they have no windows.”

He nodded. “Yes, the area is called a batey, and we lived in a one-room dirt bohío with no windows, no plumbing, and no electricity either. The only light came through the open doorway and cracks in the walls. We slept in hammocks and cooked our meals outdoors, and my parents had to carry water in buckets from a spigot at the edge of the cane fields.” He said it without a trace of self-pity or bitterness, simply as a fact of life.

Jackie looked at the scrawny children running around in the batey, without clothes on their backs or shoes on their feet, and couldn’t imagine Emiliano as one of them. Tears gathered in her eyes as she turned to him. “What a terrible childhood,” she said softly.

“No, actually, it wasn’t,” he told her. “My parents gave me unconditional love, and it was enough to sustain me through all the surface deprivation.” He pointed ahead to Walter Mitchell’s mansion, growing ever closer. “And don’t forget, I had a benefactor. Mr. Mitchell was very generous to me. It was because of him that I was able to go to expensive boarding schools and the University of Havana.”

Jackie was intrigued. “How did he happen to take such a liking to you?”

“He was grateful to me because I got his son, Ricky, out of some trouble.”

“Oh? What kind of trouble?”

“The American kids weren’t supposed to go near the batey, but Ricky was adventurous and liked to play with the Cuban boys. Then one day, some rough boys ganged up on him and tried to steal his clothes. I broke the fight up and brought Ricky back home. He was beaten up, but it could have been a lot worse.”

Jackie looked at him and smiled. “Your heart was always in the right place, wasn’t it? I’m proud of you.”

“Anyone else would have done the same thing. Ricky didn’t deserve that.”

“So the Mitchells repaid you by providing for your education?”

“Yes, and Ricky and I became pals. His parents thought I was a good influence on him, like a big brother. They always welcomed me into their home. Ricky and his sister, Stephanie, are away at college in the States now, so the Mitchells miss having young people around. They’ll give us a warm welcome, I’m sure.” Emiliano glanced at Jackie’s precious camera bag, which he was now carrying for her. “And when no one’s looking, we’ll sneak into their screening room with your reel of the Mexican Dracula and see if we can find Metzger’s treasure map.”

“I can’t wait.”

At this point, they had reached the palm-tree-lined approach to Walter Mitchell’s estate near the sea wall. As Emiliano had said, the estate stood in singular glory apart from the