At the tavern, however, they were expected. A large black man wrapped in an oilcloth cape and carrying a large umbrella came outside to usher them out of the carriage. A thick plank of wood had been laid on the ground to prevent them from sinking up to their ankles in the mud. Five steps and they were safely inside.
All those whom the wind and rain had driven off the streets of Havana that night seemed to have gathered at La Chucha’s. Santos Huesos, whom they had sent on ahead, could not have been more accurate in his description of the establishment. It was a dive, halfway between a huge tavern and a bordello, judging from the look of the women there, who were drinking and carousing among the patrons with scant concern for modesty and decorum.
Larrea, however, had little interest in the locals or the whores just then. His chief focus was the matter that had brought him there.
“Foul weather we’re having tonight, Señor Julián,” he heard the stocky servant say with an extravagant guffaw as he closed the dripping umbrella.
Larrea noticed that the servant was quite old and was even taller than he was, despite the hunchback that was visible when he removed his oilskin.
“Foul and filthy, Horacio, foul and filthy,” muttered Calafat, removing his top hat and shaking it at arm’s length so that the water that had collected in the rim did not splash his shoes.
So, the old rogue is a regular, Larrea reflected as he imitated Calafat’s gesture. What if this whole thing is a trap, a clever ruse cooked up by Zayas and my supposed guardian? Calm down, stay focused, he commanded himself. Just then, he sensed a familiar presence, like a shadow, appear beside him.
“Everything in order, lad?” he asked Santos Huesos, scarcely moving his lips.
“He arrived just now; he’s upstairs.”
At that instant, the fellow called Horacio addressed him with an exaggerated bow that only accentuated the hunch on his back.
“Welcome to our humble abode, Señor Larrea. La Chucha is waiting for you in the turquoise salon. Follow me, please.”
“Has Zayas brought an entourage?” Larrea whispered to his servant as the giant led them through the crowd.
“Well, I’d say about six or seven.”
That sly bastard, he was about to say, but thought it wiser to hold his tongue in case one of the patrons mistakenly thought he was referring to them: in such places, brawls and stabbings were as abundant as the liquor that flowed out of the barrels and down people’s throats.
“I want you covering my back all night. I trust you’ve come well prepared.”
“Don’t doubt it for a minute, patrón.”
Calafat and Larrea followed Horacio up the wooden staircase while Santos Huesos took up the rear, a knife and pistol concealed beneath his poncho. They perceived no threat among the other patrons, who were minding their own business: a few solitary figures sat drowning their demons and memories in rum while others shared jugs of beer and engaged in raucous banter, or gambled at tables where cards, Spanish pesos, and gold coins changed hands swiftly; many more were wooing the whores, rudely thrusting their hands up skirts and down cleavages while the women crossed themselves fearfully with each fresh rumble of thunder. On a dais at the far end of the room, a quintet of mulatto musicians were tuning up. Although no one appeared to take any interest in them, Santos Huesos took up his position behind them with military precision.
On the upper floor they were confronted by a pair of splendid carved sabicú doors, which looked completely out of place but turned out to be a foretaste of what they would discover in the salon, decorated with blue silk wall coverings, which most of the time remained under lock and key, out of bounds to the riffraff below.
Eight men were waiting for them inside, accompanied by the hostess and some of the classier whores provocatively dressed. As was customary in that and every other city, all the men, Larrea included, wore pin-striped trousers and varying tones of gray frock coat, white shirts with starched collars, and silk cravats.
“Welcome to my humble home,” La Chucha greeted them in a deep, velvety voice that was a little throaty but still attractive.
Her gold tooth shone. Sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five—it was impossible to tell how many years had accumulated on that visage crowned by a tight gray chignon. For many decades, her almond-shaped eyes the color of honey and her exotic, gazelle-like body had made her the most coveted whore on the island—or so Calafat had told him over dinner. He understood why when he saw, amid a mass of wrinkles, her still-exquisite bone structure and her beguiling eyes sparkling in the glow of the candlelight.
When time had robbed her of some of her regal splendor, the former slave and subsequent concubine of well-to-do gentlemen had proved herself both astute and farsighted, using her savings to set up her own business. She had inherited the furnishings that decorated the sumptuous, exotic room from a handful of gentlemen who had fallen for her charms. Either to settle a debt or, on more than one occasion, as a bequest after they died of a stroke between her thighs, they had provided her with a motley collection of brass candlesticks, Chinese earthenware pots, Philippine chests, ancestral portraits of paler, mustier, less attractive races than her own, cavernous armchairs, and gold-leaf-framed mirrors. These were all arranged with a supreme indifference to prevailing notions of good taste or aesthetic harmony.
“La Chucha opens her salon only on very special occasions,” Calafat had told him. For example, when the sugarcane harvest was over and the wealthy planters arrived in Havana with their pockets full. When one of Her Majesty’s warships docked in the port, or when she wished to present a fresh batch of young prostitutes from New Orleans. Or sometimes when a customer needed a neutral venue for a special event such as that night.
“A pleasure to see you again, Don Julián. You’ve been neglecting me,” she greeted him, extending her dark hand to Calafat with a magnificent flourish. “And a pleasure to meet our guest,” she added, appraising Larrea with an expert eye while keeping her comments discreetly to herself. Turning to the others, she said: “Well, gentlemen, I think we’re all here.”
The men nodded silently as one.
During the course of the exchanged greetings, the two men’s eyes had not yet met. They did so the very instant La Chucha addressed them: “Don Gustavo, Señor Larrea, if you’d be so kind.”
The rest of those present, suddenly aware of their secondary role, took a step backward. Now at last the two stood face-to-face like the adversaries they were to be. The murmur of voices stopped dead as though cut with a knife; the sound of heavy rain on the flooded path outside drifted in through the open balcony windows.
Zayas’s watery gaze was as impenetrable as it had been the previous night in El Louvre. He exuded self-assurance. Tall, dignified, and elegant, his fine hair impeccably groomed and blue blood doubtless throbbing in his veins, he wore no jewelry or other accessories: no rings or tiepins, no visible fob. Like Larrea.
“Good evening, Señor Zayas,” he said, proffering his hand.
Carola Gorostiza’s husband returned the greeting with deliberate precision. You’re a cool bastard, thought Larrea.
“I trust you don’t mind, I’ve brought my own cues.”
Mauro Larrea gave a curt nod.
“I can lend you one if you wish.”
Another brief gesture, this time of refusal.
“I’ll use one belonging to the house, if Doña Chucha has no objection.”
She gave her consent with a nod before ushering them to the table at the far end of the room. Surprisingly fine for such a dive, Larrea noticed instantly. Full-size, no pockets, nice and smooth. Above it, an impressive bronze three-branch lamp was suspended from the ceiling by thick chains. Dotted about the floor were brass spittoons, and along the wall a neat row of carved wooden seats.
In one corner, beneath an oil painting of naked nymphs, was the cue stand. Larrea headed toward it while Zayas undid
a leather sheath and removed a magnificent cue of polished wood with a leather shaft and his name carved on the butt. Larrea tried several of the house cues before selecting one with the correct weight and feel. Both men then applied chalk to the tips before dusting their palms with talcum powder to absorb any moisture. They avoided looking at one another, each immersed in what he was doing, like a pair of duelists loading their weapons.
Apart from a few details, the terms of the challenge scarcely needed any discussion; both men understood the rules of the game they were to play: carom, or three-cushion billiards. The stakes had been firmly agreed upon the night before.
All thoughts of the foolishness of this contest were banished from Larrea’s mind. His worries seemed to vanish into thin air as though blown away by the storm that was still battering the dark night over El Manglar. His opponent’s scheming wife faded into the mist, as did his distant and recent past, his beginnings, his hopes, and his troubled future. Everything evaporated from his brain like smoke; from then on he would be only arms and fingers, sharp eyes and taut muscles, calculations and precision.
When they signaled that they were ready, their companions as well as the whores fell silent once more, withdrawing to a discreet distance from the table. A reverential hush descended on the room, while from below arose the rhythms of a contradanza mixed with the clamor of customers’ voices and the furious stamp of the dancers’ feet on wooden floors.
Then La Chucha, with her honey-colored eyes and glittering tooth, took on the seriousness of a trial judge. As if, instead of in that bordello-cum-tavern in one of the seediest port areas of the colonial city, they were in an official chamber of the captain general’s palace.
A gold doubloon tossed into the air decided who would cue off first. As it landed on her palm, the stately profile of the quintessentially Spanish Isabella II marked the opening of the game.
“Don Mauro Larrea, the first turn falls to you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As the balls sped across the table, bouncing off the cushions before striking one another with a soft click or a resounding crack, the game soon turned into a tense battle in which neither side gave any quarter. There were no errors or concessions in this spellbinding contest between two men with clearly contrasting styles and characters.
Mauro Larrea had to acknowledge that Gustavo Zayas was good, devilishly good. A little overconfident in his posture, yet his shots were expertly dazzling, his technique magnificently calculated by that unfathomable mind, which showed nothing of what was simmering on the inside.
For his part, Larrea played bold shots, precariously balanced between solidity and fluidity, between what he could anticipate and what his intuition impelled him to do. The exquisite style of the one player was pitted against the hybrid, mongrel game of the other, clearly revealing the disparity between the schools each hailed from: genteel salons as opposed to filthy dens that had arisen in the shadows of mines and sinkholes. Orthodoxy and cold brainwork in contrast to rapt passion and pastiche.
Their physiques and temperaments were as different as their way of playing. Zayas, sharp and icy, his blond hair impeccably combed back from his receding hairline, seemed inscrutable behind his blue eyes and studied gestures. Mauro Larrea, on the other hand, seemed all too human. He leaned over the table casually, lined up with the cue, his chin nearly touching it. His thick head of hair grew increasingly disheveled, legs flexed nimbly, arms at full stretch as he gripped, aimed, and shot.
The scores mounted steadily as the night wore on, continually fluctuating as the two men pursued the game’s objective: that the first to reach a hundred and fifty caroms would be the winner.
They stalked each other like a pair of hungry wolves, never more than a few points apart. Twenty-six to twenty-nine, hand on the wood, endless circling about the table, more chalking up. Seventy-two to seventy-three, more talcum powder applied to the hands, ivory clacking against ivory. Zayas surged ahead; Larrea languished; Zayas fell behind; Larrea regained ground. A hundred and five to a hundred and eight. The margin remained narrow until the final stretch.
Had Calafat not alerted Mauro Larrea beforehand, he would have continued, unstoppable, until victory was his. But when the moment came, he was instantly aware of it: behind the exhilarating game, his mind had remained vigilant, watching to see whether the banker’s suspicions would be borne out. And so they were, for no sooner had Zayas marked up a hundred and forty caroms, having proven his mastery before God and man, than his game began almost imperceptibly to fall off. He made no obvious blunders but rather minute errors of precision at just the right moment: a risky shot he didn’t quite manage to pull off, a ball that missed its target by a few millimeters.
Mauro Larrea then took a convincing four-point lead. Until, after scoring his hundred and forty-fifth carom, he began to introduce a few errors into his own game with the same subtlety as his opponent. A riposte that wasn’t quite on target, a ball that fell short by a whisker, a spin that lacked enough force to succeed.
For the first time, when the scores were even at a hundred and forty-six, realizing that his opponent was also slowing his game, Gustavo Zayas started to perspire. Copiously, from his temples, brow, and chest. He dropped his chalk on the floor, cursed between gritted teeth, the anxiety showing in his eyes. Just as old Calafat had suspected, Larrea’s unexpected behavior had put him off his stroke. He had just realized that his opponent had no intention of going along with his plans by allowing him to lose at his whim.
Tension hung in the air; barely a sound could be heard in the room apart from an occasional cough, rain splashing into the puddles outside, and the two players’ movements. At three-twenty in the morning, with an excruciating one hundred and forty-nine caroms apiece, one shot away from victory, it was Mauro Larrea’s turn to play.
He gripped the cue and leaned over the table. The cue slid firmly through the circle formed by his fingers, his left hand manifesting the consequences of the explosion at Las Tres Lunas. He measured, prepared, aimed. Then, poised to take the shot, he hesitated. The silence was palpable as, with unnerving deliberateness, Larrea stood up straight. His eyes remained fixed on the cue for a few seconds, then he looked up. Calafat was twisting the tips of his mustache; next to him, La Chucha was watching Larrea with her strange honey-colored eyes as her fingers clenched the hunchback’s arm. A quartet of whores stood craning their necks and biting their nails while a few of Zayas’s cronies wore gloomy, alarmed expressions. Beyond them, Larrea could see a mass of faces lining the walls: bearded, disheveled men, some with rings in their ears; faded trollops. Some had even climbed onto the furniture to get a better view.
It was then Mauro realized that not a soul remained downstairs. There was no longer any music and stamping feet below. No more fandangos or rumbas, tangos or congas. Even the stragglers had now climbed the stairs, passing unimpeded through the sabicú doors that marked the frontier between the two floors, between the barroom frequented by ordinary folk and the flamboyant gaming room reserved for those blessed by good fortune. Eager to know the outcome, they had all crowded together to watch the fierce contest between these two gentlemen.
Larrea finally grasped the cue again, leaned over, lined himself up, and played the shot. The white ball that could have ended in a triumph for him sped off, hitting the three obligatory cushions before traveling unwaveringly toward the two balls. It edged past the red one with only the width of a coin’s edge between.
A deep murmur spread through the room. Now it was Zayas’s turn.
Zayas, still perspiring freely, rubbed his hands with talcum powder. Then, focusing his attention on the baize, he took his time to think through his strategy, or possibly to contemplate the significance of these final shots. Never in a million years had he imagined that Mauro Larrea would deliberately resist winning; that he would refuse to keep Carola, reject the triumph that would have spread his fame throughout Havana like the e
arly morning mist. Despite Zayas’s unease, his shot was clean and effective. The spin he put on the ball caused it to bounce off the three selected cushions before supposedly veering toward the two other balls. However, gradually the pace diminished until the ball rolled to a halt, a hairbreadth from its destination.
The crowd gave a stifled roar of frustrated admiration. Faces grimaced as the tension mounted. The score remained even. It was Larrea’s turn. He would have gone on playing until Christmas, or possibly Easter, determined not to surrender—or what amounted to the same thing: he refused to win. And so, once again, he found himself considering the angles, weighing up the options, second-guessing his opponent. Then, placing his hand on the cue, he twisted his body and leaned over the table. The shot was as accurate as he had hoped. Instead of tracing a triangle, the ball struck only two cushions. It should have hit a third but merely rolled alongside it before coming to a halt.
This time the howl from the audience could be heard by half of El Manglar. Whether they were white or black, rich or poor, merchants, sailors, drunkards, floozies, planters, petty criminals, good or bad folk. By now, everyone there had realized that the two men were vying with each other to lose. They couldn’t give a good goddamn what obscure reasons lay behind this eccentric behavior. All they wanted to see was which man succeeded in imposing his will.
When the clock struck half past four, Zayas accepted the fact that he had nothing to gain from continuing this outrageous battle of wills. In his bid to engineer a defeat to suit his own interests, he hadn’t reckoned on things turning out this way. This damned Mexican, or fellow countryman, or whatever he was, was driving him out of his mind. Larrea’s neck veins were bulging like ropes, his shoulders threatening to burst through his shirt seams, his hair tousled as though by the devil himself. He exhibited the reckless play of someone accustomed to blindly skirting the edge of a cliff, seemingly prepared to go on fighting to his last breath and in the process turn the erstwhile king of the billiard table into the laughingstock of the island. Zayas realized with sudden force that the only reasonably dignified way out for himself was to win.