At your orders, if that’s how you want things to be, Señora. I’m sure you have your reasons, reflected Mauro Larrea; I only hope you inform me sooner rather than later what the devil you expect from me. Meanwhile, he continued to shake hands with the other guests as they were introduced to him by his hostess, the lady of the house, forcing himself to memorize the names and faces of that dense network of influential Creoles and peninsular Spaniards who navigated the two closely connected worlds. Arango, Egea, O’Farrill, Bazán, Santa Cruz, Peñalver, Fernandina, Mirasol.
“Pleased to meet you . . . yes, from Mexico . . . delighted . . . no, not entirely Mexican, Spanish . . . the pleasure is mine . . . delighted . . . how kind . . . so nice to meet you, too.”
A lavish atmosphere permeated the splendid villa in El Cerro, the area where numerous members of the Havana upper classes had chosen to build their magnificent residences, having abandoned the decaying palaces in the older quarters of the city that had been inhabited for generations by their ancestors. Extravagance and luxury were palpable in the fabrics and jewelry adorning the ladies, in the gold buttons, braid, and honorary sashes sported by the gentlemen, in the tropical hardwood furnishings, heavy tapestries, and dazzlingly bright lights. The colossal wealth of the crumbling Spanish Empire’s last bastion, thought Larrea. God only knows how long the crown will manage to retain its hold on all this.
The ballroom floor filled with couples moving to the rhythms of an orchestra of black musicians; at the periphery, clusters of guests were engaged in conversation. An army of gold-braided slaves weaved among them, serving a constant stream of champagne and holding aloft trays laden with delicacies.
Mauro Larrea was content to merely contemplate the scene: the lissom waists of the beautiful young Creole girls bending to the rhythm of the melancholy music, the seductive languor of their swaying skirts. And yet he had no real interest in any of this, but was simply waiting for Carola Gorostiza, despite her initial show of indifference, to give him a sign.
He wasn’t mistaken: less than half an hour later, he felt a womanly shoulder brush rather audaciously against his back.
“You don’t appear very keen to join in the dancing, Señor Larrea; perhaps a turn in the garden would do you good. Leave discreetly, I shall be waiting for you.”
After whispering her message in his ear, the Gorostiza woman sashayed away, flapping her bright feather fan to the strains of the orchestra.
Larrea swept the ballroom with his gaze before following her orders. He could see her husband at the center of a group of guests. He seemed distracted, to be only half listening, as if his mind were in some far-off place. All the better. Larrea made his way toward one of the exits, slipping through the stained-glass doors that separated the house from the night outside. Amid the tropical foliage, draped over balustrades or seated on marble benches, couples were speaking in hushed tones in the darkness: flirting, quarreling, making their peace, or swearing undying love.
A few steps farther on, he could make out the unmistakable figure of Carola Gorostiza: her billowing skirts, wasp waist, and generous cleavage.
“I imagine you already know that I have something for you,” he began straightforwardly, not wishing to delay matters.
As though deaf to his remark, she started toward the far end of the garden without bothering to check whether or not he was following her. Once she was satisfied that they were far enough from the house, she wheeled around.
“And I have a favor to ask of you.”
He might have guessed: he’d felt apprehensive since receiving her note that morning at the guesthouse in Calle Mercaderes. He had taken up lodgings there the previous day after disembarking in Havana following several days of rough seas. He could have chosen a hotel; there were plenty of them to choose from down by the port, where a multitude of souls arrived and departed daily. But when someone pointed him to a guesthouse that was both comfortable and central, he decided that would be ideal: more economical for an open-ended stay, and possibly better located for taking the pulse of the city.
Early in the morning of his first day on the island, still struggling with the humidity and keen to free himself of his obligations, he had sent Santos Huesos to look for Carola Gorostiza’s house on Calle Teniente Rey, bearing a note. In it he requested an audience with her at the earliest opportunity, and was expecting to be received promptly. To his dismay her reply was a firm refusal written in an exquisite hand: My dear friend, I deeply regret that I am unable to receive you this morning . . . Following a string of vapid excuses, he had been surprised to find an invitation to a ball, that very evening, at the private residence of Señor Barrón’s widow, who was a close friend of hers, the letter explained. A horse and trap belonging to the hostess would call for him at his lodgings at ten o’clock that evening.
Reexamining the note as he sipped his second cup of coffee amid the lush palms in the patio where the guests were served breakfast, he puzzled over its meaning. Reading between the lines, he concluded that Carola Gorostiza’s overriding desire was to keep him away from her own home. Yet she clearly wished to see him, and had therefore selected a more neutral, less intimate setting.
Midnight was approaching when they finally stood face-to-face in the shadowy garden.
“All I’m asking is that you wait,” she went on. “That you hold on to what my brother sent me for a while.”
Despite the darkness, Larrea’s gesture of irritation couldn’t have escaped her.
“Two or three weeks at most. My husband is settling a few business matters. He’s . . . he’s considering whether or not to make a trip. I’d rather keep this from him until he has decided.”
So that’s what this is, he thought. Damned marital problems—just what I needed.
“In the name of the friendship that unites our families,” she insisted after a few moments, “I beg you not to refuse, Señor Larrea. From what Ernesto told me in his letter, which I received only yesterday, you and my brother are soon to forge a family bond.”
“I trust so,” he replied bluntly, feeling a sharp pang as he recalled Nicolás’s disappearance.
A bitter half smile was now visible on her perfectly powdered face.
“I remember your son’s fiancée, Teresita, when she was born, swaddled in lace, lying in her cradle. She was the only one who later came to see me off the day I left Mexico. None of my family approved of my marrying a Spaniard and leaving for Cuba.”
As she unashamedly shared the same confidences her brother Ernesto had already told him about, Carola Gorostiza now and then glanced toward the mansion. In the distance, amid the warm lights of the chandeliers and candelabra, they could make out the shapes of the guests through the tall stained-glass windows. Snatches of voices, tinkling laughter, and the mellow rhythms of the contradanza filtered out to them on the breeze.
“To avoid further complications,” she added, returning to the present, “it’s essential my husband remain ignorant of your connections with my family in Mexico. I beg you therefore to make no attempt to contact me.”
Her voice was abrupt, with none of the flourishes of her handwritten note that morning. Presenting him unceremoniously with both a requirement and a fact.
“And to compensate for any bother my request might cause you, I propose to offer you, say, a tenth of the sum you have brought me.”
He stifled a guffaw. At this rate, he would recoup his losses without having to lift a finger—first the countess and now this other mysterious woman.
He gazed at her through the shadows. Elegant, undeniably attractive, with her audacious neckline and sumptuous appearance. She didn’t look like the victim of a tyrannical husband, yet he knew nothing of marital strife. The only woman he had truly loved had died in his arms, drenched in sweat and blood after giving birth to her second child when she was not yet twenty-two.
“Very well.”
Even he hi
mself was surprised by his hasty acceptance of her offer. You utter fool, what on earth were you thinking? he reproached himself. But it was too late to back out now.
“I agree to be discreet, and to take care of what belongs to you for as long as necessary. However, I want no financial compensation.”
Her expression hardened.
“What, then?”
“I also need help. I came here in search of business opportunities, a way of making money quickly that doesn’t require much investment. You know this society, you move in wealthy circles. Perhaps you can tell me where there might be profits to be made.”
She responded with a sour laugh, her black eyes glinting in the dark.
“If making a fortune overnight were that easy, my husband would doubtless have left Cuba by now, and I wouldn’t be forced to sneak around with such damned caution behind his back.”
Larrea had no idea where her husband was intending to go, nor was he interested. But he felt increasingly uneasy at the unexpected turn their conversation was taking, and he was keen for it to end. Voices could be heard nearby, and doubtless they weren’t the only ones hiding from prying eyes and ears in the darkness of the garden.
“Let me make some inquiries,” she whispered at last. “But don’t come looking for me; I’ll contact you. And remember: you and I have never met.”
In a swirl of shimmering taffeta, Carola Gorostiza made her way back toward the lights, the music, and the throng. Larrea stood motionless amid the dense undergrowth, hands in his pockets, watching her until he saw her step through the glass doors and become swallowed up by the party.
Only when he was alone did he become aware of his predicament: rather than ridding himself of a burden, he had taken on an even heavier one. And he could see no way out. He wished the transfer of the inheritance had been settled once and for all, freeing him from his obligation. He would have celebrated by dancing with the first caramel-skinned beauty he stumbled upon, even if he had first to negotiate the price of her caress. He wished the ground felt firm beneath his feet.
But instead, like a fool, he had recklessly struck a bargain with a disloyal wife who had long ago burnt her bridges with her own family and was now intent upon deceiving her husband over some money he had hidden at the back of his wardrobe. For heaven’s sake, brother, have you lost what little sense you had left? he thought he could hear Andrade’s prodigiously sensible voice echo in his head.
He went back into the mansion just as the last guests were leaving and the weary musicians were yawning and packing up their instruments. On the marble floor, where a myriad steps had been danced, lay a mixture of crushed, half-smoked cigars, the flattened remains of sweetmeats, and fallen plumes from the ladies’ fans. Beneath the high ceilings of the ballroom, amid the stucco and mirrors, some of the household slaves burst into laughter as they downed the dregs of champagne.
There was no sign of Señor and Señora Zayas Gorostiza.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He awoke mulling over the events of the previous night. Weighing things up, debating with himself. Until he resolved to stop thinking: time was short, he needed to act. Becoming bogged down in what had already been done would lead nowhere.
He and Santos Huesos went out early. His immediate concern was to find a safe place to deposit the countess’s money and his own meager capital, as well as Carola Gorostiza’s inheritance, with which he was still burdened. He could have asked the proprietress of the guesthouse, but he didn’t wish to attract attention. Since nothing about this port city seemed straightforward, he preferred to reveal no more than was necessary about himself.
He soon realized how inappropriate his fine English wool suits were for the tropical climate as he crisscrossed the heart of Havana. Despite the familiar Spanish names of the streets, such as Empedrado, Aguacate, Tejadillo, and Aguiar, and plazas such as San Francisco, del Cristo, La Vieja, and de la Catedral, they bore no resemblance to those he was familiar with in Mexico City. Everything seemed thrown together in an eclectic mingling of humanity and architecture where vendors selling salted cod occupied the ground floors of the finest town houses, where junk shops and hardware stores stood shoulder to shoulder with grand noble mansions.
He turned down Calle del Obispo, teeming with people conversing and pungent aromas, then Calle San Ignacio, which led him to the fashionable Calle O’Reilly, where it was rumored each square yard cost an ounce of gold. In the thick, humid air among the grid of narrow streets there hovered a smell of the sea and of coffee, of bitter oranges and the sweat of a thousand perspiring bodies mixed with fish, salt, and jasmine. A frenzied clamor of cries and laughter arose from every corner, carriage, and balcony.
The store awnings, large strips of colorful fabric strung from side to side, created a welcome shade from the harsh light. Weaving his way along, he dodged children, dogs, porters, messengers, fruit sellers, and tinkers. He saw shop assistants emerging from stores laden with goods destined for ladies and adolescent girls who sat waiting in carriages without having to alight to make their purchases.
After trying a couple of commercial houses, which did not satisfy him instinctively, his third attempt bore fruit: a large, ramshackle building on Calle de los Oficios with an enamel plaque bearing the words Casa Bancaria Calafat. The proprietor, a fellow with a bushy mustache, cottony white hair, and a good many years’ experience behind him, received Larrea at a magnificent mahogany desk. Above him, an oil painting of the port at Palma de Mallorca evoked the now-distant origins of his surname.
“I wish to deposit a certain amount of capital temporarily,” Larrea announced.
“I don’t believe I’d be boasting if I said that you couldn’t have come to a better place on the entire island, my friend. Please, if you will, take a seat.”
The two men discussed fees and interest rates, each politely arguing on his own behalf. After reaching an agreement, they proceeded to count the money. Then came the signatures and the preamble to their taking leave of one another, having made a deal in which both stood to gain and neither would lose.
“It goes without saying, Señor Larrea,” declared the banker once the transaction was concluded, “that should you require advice on any local matters relating to business that you might be planning to pursue here, I am entirely at your disposal.” He had sensed that this fellow with a Spanish passport, the build of a stevedore, the speech of both a Spaniard and a Mexican, and the commercial savvy of a Jamaican buccaneer had the makings of a good steady customer.
I’d sell my soul to the devil to know what those businesses might be, Larrea thought.
“We’ll speak again,” he replied evasively as he rose. “For now, I’d be grateful if you could direct me to a good tailor.”
“The Italian Porcio, in Calle Compostela, without a doubt. Tell him I sent you.”
“I will. Much obliged.”
Larrea rose to his feet and made to leave.
“And when you have satisfied your sartorial requirements, Don Mauro, I wonder whether you’d be interested in having me recommend a profitable investment,” said Julián Calafat.
Larrea could have burst out laughing. Shall I tell you something, my good man? he wanted to say. Of all the capital I’ve left in your safekeeping, which gives you the impression that I’m a prosperous foreigner with money coming out of his ears, less than one-fifth is really mine. And to obtain that, I had to mortgage my house to a miserable moneylender whose sole desire is to see me rolling in the mud. But, consumed with curiosity, he held back and allowed Calafat to continue.
“Needless to say, investing in a few well-chosen ventures would give you an excellent return.”
Instead of pressing for an immediate answer, the crafty old banker gave Larrea a moment to reflect while he plucked a pair of Vueltabajo cigars from a nearby box. He squeezed them gently to test their humidity, then sniffed them slowly before finally offering one to Lar
rea, who, still on his feet, accepted.
Without saying a word, both men clipped their cigars with a silver guillotine. Afterward, immersed in a lengthy silence, they lit them using the same long cedarwood match.
Concealing the unease assailing him, Mauro Larrea sat down once more at Calafat’s desk.
“Please proceed.”
“As it happens,” the banker resumed, exhaling a first puff of smoke, “one of our silent partners has pulled out of a deal at the last minute, and I thought the business might interest you.”
Larrea crossed his legs, one elbow propped on the arm of his chair. Having adopted the pose, he drew on his cigar. Emphatically, protractedly, as if he were the master of the universe, successfully disguising his frail resolve behind a façade of self-assurance. Let’s hear it, then, old man, he thought. I’ve nothing to lose by listening.
“I’m all ears.”
“A refrigerated vessel.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The remarkable invention of a German fellow; the English are attempting the same thing but have yet to perfect the technique. Used for transporting fresh beef from Argentina to the Caribbean. Perfectly conserved, no need to salt the stuff, unlike that revolting jerked beef they feed their slaves.”
Larrea drew on his cigar once more. Anxiously.
“What exactly are you proposing?”
“That you invest one-fifth of the total capital, which would make you the fifth partner. If not, I shall put up the money myself.”
Larrea had no way of knowing the potential of such a venture, but, judging from the sums involved, which the banker went on to explain, it was significant. Larrea’s first instinct was to trust Calafat blindly. Thus he made a few swift calculations, but as he had expected, he didn’t have enough—not even if he invested both his and the countess’s money.
And yet, there was a way. On top of Calafat’s table, the gold sovereigns contained in the leather pouches Ernesto Gorostiza had given him seemed to draw him with a force akin to that of the Earth’s core.