Renata had gone quietly upstairs to her mother’s bed, knelt beside it and whispered “Mami,” then shushed her mother and held her arm so she would not move it and wake her sleeping husband. She backed away, beckoning her mother, and they retreated to Renata’s room where she delivered a capsule history of two days of death, terror, and fear of the police who wanted to interrogate her as the friend of a Palace attacker. I knew him only through his painting, Mamita, it is such a tragedy. I am all right, as you can see and I have Esme’s car and I have a friend downstairs, an americano who helped me, and we’re going to Cárdenas to stay with Tía Gabriela, but you must tell no one where I am or they will come and arrest me. I need clothes and money, Mamita, and don’t tell Papa or he will be furious and think I’m in politics. But the politics are not mine; they belong to an artist I knew who is dead.
While her mother went to get money Renata pulled from under her bed the large cardboard box where she kept valuables and letters. She took out the red and white Changó beads and put them around her neck. She uncovered the three pistols she kept in the box, put two back and kept the Colt Cobra.38, which she wrapped in her underwear and put in the suitcase along with blouses, skirts, makeup, hairbrush, toiletries, and the bottle of perfume, Gardenia, that Alejo Carpentier gave her.
Her mother sat on the bed by the suitcase and handed Renata six hundred dollars in cash, all she had in the house. Renata said that’s wonderful, tell Papa I love him and I will call, or maybe someone else will call and say the clock is fixed, which will mean I am all right.
“Natita,” said her mother, “you are a problem child and you do not tell the truth. I won’t ask what this is about for it will kill me if it is what I think it is, and kill your father before it kills me. You have a second life. One life is not enough for you. You are the strangest child and I love you for that, but be careful with your precious life and do not be crazy. Now take me down to meet your American. Is he Catholic? Does he have money?”
Quinn instantly recognized Renata in her mother’s beauty, obviously a genetic gift to this family. Even in her tightly clutched silk robe she had the elegant, lustrous look of a silent movie vamp — Dolores del Rio came to mind.
“My mother, Celia,” Renata said. “Mama, this is Daniel.”
Quinn took Celia’s fingers in his hand and kissed them and said he was incredibly happy to meet the mother of Renata, whom he valued beyond words and whom he wanted to marry as soon as possible.
“Marry?” said Celia.
“The first time he saw me he told Hemingway he would marry me,” Renata said.
“Hemingway? What does he have to do with you?”
“It is a long story, no, a short story, Mamita, but I have grown fond of Daniel very quickly. He is from New York.”
“And that makes everything all right?”
“I knew you would like him.”
“I don’t even know his full name.”
“Quinn,” said Quinn. “Daniel Quinn. And I really believe it’s fated that I’m in Cuba and fated that I met Renata. I’m tracking my grandfather who came here in the last century to write a book about your national hero Céspedes. I read that book in high school and dreamed of coming to a place like Cuba and writing about battles and heroes and villains in a war like your Ten Years War. Now there’s a war in the streets of Havana, and in the mountains of Oriente, and I’m here and I’ve started writing about it.”
“Why do you want to write about war?”
“To tell something to myself, and to keep myself from boredom.”
“Do not get my daughter into this.”
“It’s the last thing on my mind. I want to save her from everything.”
“You are impetuous, asking to marry her so soon.”
“It’s the sanest judgment I’ve ever made.”
“Daniel is a new friend but a great friend,” Renata said, taking Quinn’s hand. “I don’t know how it happened so fast but it is very real.”
“All her life she was an incredibly loving child,” Celia said. “Everyone loves her.”
“I’m finding that out,” said Quinn.
“We have to go,” Renata said. “The police may return.”
“I’m sorry to leave,” Quinn said. “I wanted to talk about your dancing. Renata said you won prizes.”
“You want to talk about my dancing?”
“My father won prizes for his dancing. He was a prize waltzer. You were too, no?”
“I was.”
“You see? Another stroke of fate — Renata and I, children of prize waltzers.”
“You are as strange as my daughter. Another time we will talk about dancing. Protect this child of mine.”
“With my life,” said Quinn.
He remembered that his grandfather wrote about Céspedes’ child — his son Oscar. The Spaniards captured Oscar in battle and threatened to kill him if Céspedes and his followers did not surrender. Céspedes told the Spaniards Oscar was not his only son, that he was the father of all Cubans who died for their country. A firing squad then executed his son.
They went to the Ali Bar, where Renata called her contact number and spoke with a voice she recognized, and said have Pedrito call me here. They drank mojitos because she always drank them here for breakfast after all-nighters.
“Beny Moré sang to me here one night,” she said. “He comes all the time. Everybody comes here. Gary Cooper sat right there.”
“Do you see anyone who knows you?” Quinn asked.
“Nobody would know me with my blond wig.”
“I’d recognize your mouth no matter what color hair you had.”
They drank their mojitos and in twenty minutes Aurelio called. Renata told him Alfie could bring out las cosas from the Vedado apartment because he is shrewd and fearless and she trusts him and will pay him herself to do it. Aurelio said he’d call Alfie.
“I will go see Alfie now,” she said, “but you must do the rest because I’m going to Santiago.”
It was dawn when they left the Ali Bar and Quinn considered calling Hemingway about the Cooney challenge. He would be up and writing. He gets up with the birds. But does he answer the phone during birdsong? So they woke up Alfie and he met them on the Nacional’s patio, which was empty of people. They walked down the garden path and stood under a royal palm with their backs to the hotel and Renata told him of the guns. He said he’d think about it after he talked to Pedrito, who, she admitted, was really Aurelio. But if the police were watching that apartment it would be dangerous.
“I will give you five hundred dollars now and another five hundred when I get back from Santiago. Is that enough? We are not buying these weapons, just reclaiming them,” she said.
“These are Directorio guns?”
“Yes, but they will go to Fidel now.”
“Is this Fidel’s money?”
“No, it is mine.”
“You’re the new Directorio, all by yourself?”
“I worry the police will take the guns I put there. Fidel needs them badly.”
“How will you get them to Fidel?”
“Maybe by yacht, or truck, maybe airplane. A car is impossible, there are too many guns. Aurelio will figure a way. Maybe you can help him. I won’t be here.” She handed him five of the six hundred dollars her mother had given her.
“Keep your money,” he said. “Wait till I get the guns.”