Tropic of Darkness (11 page)

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

Poor, poor me.

Two centuries had passed, and Isadora DeFlores had still not grown accustomed to the grave that was her daytime home. She was not tied to her old physical form, her crumbled bones, and that was a blessing at least. But she floated just below the coffin lid like oil in a container. At this hour of the morning, the woman was pure essence and completely insubstantial.

An approaching noise from the world above the coffin brought her meandering thoughts to a halt. Three sets of footfalls closed in, stopped for a short while, then drifted off.

Isadora reached out with her senses to find two Brazilian tourists and a guide. She stayed with them for a while as they moved away.

To draw an odor in. To reach out with your fingertips and feel actual sensation through the fine, delicate nerves. How she envied that.

To be free to move around under the fierce eye of the sun once more. That especially. That most of all.

Her thoughts turned to the new man she had found. The tall American, with his curious history, his music, and the rootless solitude with which he lived. He was so different from the types she was used to.

And he'd actually managed to fend her off. The first man who had ever managed that. He had altered the course of the dream, making Francis Jackson push back her approaching face.

She was not sure what it meant, but it seemed to point to some kind of special inner strength. She suspected this might be an exceptional man. Like her in a strange way, on the search for something that had been denied him for too long. Maybe he had pushed her back . . . because he wanted something more than she'd been offering.

Perhaps she had, at long last, found the vessel she was looking for.

She thought she heard a low, unpleasant chuckle from the neighboring grave. Lucia had made her presence known, and it sharpened Isadora's thoughts. There was something else special about this day. She felt she ought to remember what it was, but it eluded her.

Then she suddenly recalled it. Dolores was thirty this very day. And how could she have forgotten that? Tonight was the night when dearest Dodo would conceive the next one in her line.

*   *   *

Back in the house, the woman in question had no need to struggle with her memory. She was perfectly aware what date this was.

In the normal course of her life, time meant very little. Weeks merged into each other, one month fused into the next. But this . . . it was almost like a chime had resounded inside her when she'd woken.

What amazed her was how calmly she was taking it. She sat in the house's drawing room, perfectly still, her eyes half closed.

Tonight
. It ground at her.
Tonight
.
Quite inescapable.

To give away her virtue to a total stranger was a horrid enough prospect. But worse than that, to bring another like herself into this shadow-haunted place, to live out her entire life in servitude, in the same way she had done. That was almost an unbearable thought.

Once her girl—and it
would
be a daughter—had reached fourteen years of age, there would be no further need for mothering, and then the twins would let Dolores die. But she would not die with any ease or satisfaction.

Her arms gave a quiver.

Something was tickling her cheek. She went to brush it away.

And her hand jerked back the moment she touched it.

She gazed at her fingertips, amazed. They were damp, had smudged a tear. And she'd believed for such a long time that she could no longer cry.

It felt strangely pleasant, now that it was happening. And when it was done, she felt a little cleaner.

Except nothing had been altered, and her fate could not be changed.

Tonight still waited for her, like a panther in the shadows.

*   *   *

Dolores had not eaten all day, and by two in the afternoon, hunger had begun to overtake her. The prospect of a meal had never been one to relish, since there was no cool place in the house and no access to ice, and she was forced to subsist for the most part on dried foods. But she went through to the pantry door.

Arranged inside were the small metal bins that kept her provisions safe. Going through them, she found only a handful of flour and a little rice. She'd let her supplies dwindle. So she would have to make one of her rare excursions to the outside world.

She usually left such forays till dusk. The thought of being out in the full glare of daylight was hardly a pleasant one, but she couldn't wait.

Dolores got a large shawl from a downstairs closet. She chose an old straw hat with an enormous brim. She found her wicker basket and then went to the front door.

Its hinges had rusted decades back, and it was hard work opening it. But once that was done, she halted in the entrance, her eyes screwed to the thinnest slits. And another truth occurred to her.

The world outside the mansion—it was so intensely gorgeous that it scared her. And she could no more live out in that bright, kaleidoscope existence than a fish could on dry land.

She did not bother to close the door behind her. No one dared come anywhere near this place, so its contents were quite safe.

Dolores made her way out through a gap in the railings and then headed up to the main road. A dusky brown lizard scuttled out of her path, but that apart she was quite alone.

She continued on until her destination came in sight. A tiny roadside market, quite a forlorn little enterprise.

About a dozen trestle tables had been laid out, the foodstuffs on them sheltered from the sun by beach umbrellas. The vendors were women, old or middle-aged. What little activity there had been stilled, and every head swung around, as she came in view.

It was the same each time she visited here. The customers were leaving now. The stallholders were suddenly quite fascinated by the ground between their feet.

They ought to have grown used to her. Something in Dolores wanted to try reaching out to them, except she knew that it would be no use. To them, she was no real kind of human being in the slightest. Merely part of an old legend. The madwoman from the haunted house.

They remained immobile as she picked her way between their stalls. And as Dolores took the items that she needed, she reached into the leather purse she carried in her basket and produced a shiny coin. They were gold doubloons from a cache in the study, each of them worth enough to feed these people for several years. But the downcast gazes of the women did not even lift. None of them had ever tried to take one.

She finished loading up her basket and moved off. Dolores chose a route along the waterside for her return journey. The sunlight made the foam shine whitely, and the great stone fortress up beyond the house, and the lighthouse next to that, were reduced to blackened outlines.

The brightness was getting too much for her. Her skin started to ache for want of shade.

The path rose higher above the sea as it continued. And it occurred to her that maybe she could end all this. If she was fast enough. If she did it without warning. Simply went.

Turning abruptly, Dolores dropped her basket and then lunged at the edge, trying to throw herself onto the rocks below. And . . .

It didn't happen.

She went nowhere. Fell, flew nowhere. Her feet did not leave the ground, not even half an inch. It was as though an invisible hand had closed around her suddenly, and was holding her in place.

When she struggled, she could not break loose. She could see the wet rocks below, almost beckoning to her. But there was no way she could reach them.

It was always this way. There had been the same restraining force when she had tried to cut her wrists one time. And another, when she had attempted to drink iodine.

And too, it had stopped her on each of the occasions she had tried to flee the house.

Her thoughts blurred again as she wandered home, her misery even worse. For what chance did one person have against the massed armies of Fate?

CHAPTER

TWENTY

That afternoon, Jack felt the need to hide himself away from the strange, whirling dance of life that was Havana. He spent several hours in the bar of his hotel, haunted by the prospect of returning to his room tonight.

Trapped here. The very thought of it left him feeling oppressed and suffocated. The knuckles of his right hand still ached gently where he'd touched the apparition, a reminder of what awaited him.

The light outside began to fade after another while. Soon, the yellow lamps of passing cars were brushing through the purple-gray of twilight. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing he hadn't sat here quite so long.

When a tourist couple came into the lobby, he saw that there was someone with them, bringing up the rear. It was Luis, his guide of yesterday. Jack watched as the husband paid the student off.

The young man saw his clients to the elevators. Then he doubled back, spotted Jack, raised a hand in salute and strolled over casually.

“Hello. Mind if I sit down?”

“I'd be glad for the company.”

“Taking it easy today, huh?” the boy inquired as he dropped into a seat.

“I suppose.” What else was there to say? Jack fished out a cigarette and lit it.

“Hey, is something wrong?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Had a sleepless night, that's all. Bad dreams.”

Which got him an uncomfortable stare from the student. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“Neither do I, really. I just . . .”

God, why hadn't he kept quiet about this? The kid would think that he was going crazy. But when he looked up again, he saw that Luis was studying him with an even, measured gaze.

“What kind of dreams, Jack?” he asked gently.

“I don't know. I . . . oh, the hell with it. Some of them were to do with the graveyard yesterday.”

“And what exactly happened in them? You forget, I believe in this stuff.”

Jack lowered his head again, his whole body from the waist upward curving like a heavy branch.

“She . . . came to me. A beautiful woman, very, very lovely. One of the twins, I think.”

“And?”

“That was it. A dumb dream, that was all.”

But the student was looking aggrieved.

“I should never have taken you there.”

“What, you're offering me a refund?”

Jack stood up suddenly and began heading for the elevators himself.

“Compañero?”
Luis was following him. “Wait a minute!”

But he got short shrift.

“Get out of here. Go chase real live girls or whatever it is you do.”

A narrow but surprisingly strong hand grabbed Jack by the sleeve, whirling him around. Their gazes met and held, the boy still staring.

“You are in trouble, aren't you?” There was wariness to the young man's expression, but determination too. “Friend, if I were you, I'd get out of Cuba.”

“Love to,” Jack said. “I'm afraid I can't.”

He explained about the passport.

“You need help, then. And I think I might know someone.”

“What're we talking about here? Witch doctors?”

“It's not what you think, Jack. You'll see. Will you at least trust me for a short while?”

Jack turned it over. Finally, he gave a nod.

“We'll have to wait a little longer. Until nine o' clock, most likely.” Luis fished the dollars he'd just earned out of his pocket. “Might as well have dinner.” He grinned. “My treat.”

*   *   *

While they were eating, Pierre Melville left the city limits behind, driving along the highway, heading east. The wide strip of beachfront that ran parallel with the road started to fill with “nodding donkey” oil rigs before too much longer, swinging beyond his headlight beams like the heads of iron dinosaurs.

It ought to have been an entirely familiar sight. But ever since this morning, everything around him had started to look different. Everything had taken on a skewed appearance, like he was gazing at the whole world from some peculiar angle.

There were strange sheens to surfaces. Extra and peculiar shades. And the sky seemed a little closer than it had been. The freshly budded stars seemed overly large, their brightness so intense that it actually pained him to look at them for very long.

Pierre did his best to concentrate on the uneven road, bumping along it in his rented Lada. He knew that he ought to watch out. There was barely any other traffic on the road. But cattle and horses frequently strayed onto the asphalt after dark, and there were unlit carts and cycles to beware of.

The windows of isolated houses twinkled through the gloom. He could make out the outline of hills covered with sprawling woods. A sign told him that he'd reached Santa Cruz del Norte, nearly the halfway mark of his journey—heading to the beach resort of Varadero to sell off his current consignment of cocaine to the locals.

He had not been paying a great deal of attention to the pair of headlights to his rear. They'd been with him for a while, but this was the only road in this direction, so he did not think it odd. As he slowed down, though, he started getting curious, remembering vaguely what Jack had told him earlier that day.

He followed the signposts through the narrow streets, except his gaze kept darting to the mirror. And sure enough, the headlights stayed behind him, the exact same distance back.

It still proved nothing.

Pierre abruptly felt a shiver running through his frame, accompanied by a sudden chill. He'd been a little cool all day, the skin of his palms damp. But he'd dismissed it as nothing, up until this point. It was probably a bug that he'd picked up.

The surface of the road continued to unravel up ahead of him. Pierre forced himself to stay alert. It wasn't too far to the beach resort. So it was time to find out what was what.

He waited till he'd reached a shallow incline and then eased off on the gas. Watched his speedometer needle drop. If he looked in his mirror and the lights behind were catching up, he'd know he was okay.

They were exactly the same size as they'd been when they had first appeared. They'd remained the same distance back.

They'd slowed down when he had.

He'd been so groggy and confused that he'd barely taken in what Jack had told him earlier. But now it started coming back to him, and all in a fierce rush. Passport? The authorities had taken the man's passport? And Pierre's heart began to thump abruptly.

It was starting to look like Jack had been right after all. Somebody
was
after them.

*   *   *

Pierre's breathing had quickened by the time he entered Varadero. He considered his options, weighing the pros and cons.

He kept his patience until a dense network of streets and alleys had grown up around him. Then, without giving any hint what he was doing, he sped up. He went around the first corner, his tires rumbling as asphalt gave way to packed gravel and dirt.

The car behind him nearly went past. It had to go up on the sidewalk to come after him. And by then, he was halfway down the narrow lane and turning left again. His gaze darted about, searching for a hiding place.

A billboard with a tattered poster of Castro came in sight. Pierre killed his lights and yanked the Lada off behind it, praying that he hadn't kicked up too much dust.

If he had, his pursuers never noticed. Pierre watched, grimly satisfied, as they whirred past and disappeared.

He waited another half minute, then backed out again and returned to the main drag, furiously thinking what to do. This required a change of plan. He'd originally figured on his usual course of action, hanging around by the developed beachfront most of the evening, peddling to the tourist kids.

But that was far too chancy by this stage. He may have lost the car, but they'd have radioed in. Every cop in town would probably be looking for him.

The only sensible course of action was to sell off the whole stash as fast as he could, and then make himself scarce.

He made a U-turn, heading off in the direction of a bar he knew about.

*   *   *

It was half a mile beyond the edge of town. Music from crackling speakers greeted Pierre as he stepped out into the dingy parking lot.

The bar itself was a single story building with grubby white walls. A string of colored lanterns swayed above the entranceway in the sea breeze. Beyond them lay a row of palm trees and a curving, isolated beach so pale it looked more like sugar than sand. Beyond that, the ocean glistened darkly in the moonlight.

A couple of tall youths in baseball caps were sitting on a low wall at the far side of the lot, their faces shadowy from this distance. Pierre knew they'd be watching him and he immediately wished he'd brought his gun.

As casually as he could manage, he took the ornate wooden cigar box full of cocaine from underneath his seat and made his way to the front door, doing his best to ignore them.

More heads swung around. The place was full. But he immediately figured that the four men in the corner, better dressed than those surrounding them, were the characters he wanted. He puffed out his chest as he approached their table.

A short conversation, and then he was being led into a washroom at the back. The wish that he'd come armed was redoubled. But the fact that he was a foreigner would most likely keep him safe. The murder of a gringo was simply bad for business—it would bring the cops down way too hard.

The men on the wall had vanished by the time he emerged clutching a small beach bag filled with wads of dollars. His luck seemed to be holding out tonight. But halfway to the car, he stopped, turning to the shore.

It was like . . .

A voice had called out to him.

Jesus Christ, come on!
he told himself.
Get your ass out of here!

But his feet wouldn't move. The cops were on the lookout for him, and the clowns inside the bar might change their minds at any time. Even so, this damned beach seemed the only thing important to him at this moment. And why was that?

Get back in the car, you moron!
he kept telling himself. But his legs would not obey. When he finally took a step, it was toward the shoreline.

A strange drowsiness seemed to have overcome him. The noise of the surf filled his ears. The waves were glittering in peculiar patterns, dazzling him.

The asphalt gave out before much longer, crunching sand replacing it. Pierre barely noticed that.

His face lit up with a faraway smile, and he turned and began following the slow curve of the coastline.

*   *   *

It must have been a mile before Pierre finally stumbled to a halt. There was not a light anywhere to be seen, and no one else in sight.

He stood almost numbly, wondering where he was. Then, he wandered over to a palm tree, dropped the bag of cash beside it, and sat down with his back against the trunk.

Immediately, his torpor took a firmer hold. The glow of the waves became a sequined mist.

His eyelids drifted shut.

*   *   *

The cab Luis had found for himself and Jack entered a poor suburb, and Jack peered out unhappily, wondering where exactly the student was taking him. Luis was smiling.

“What's the matter?” Jack inquired.

“This is where I grew up as a kid.”

“Here?”

“Sure. It's not exactly wealthy, but a good community. I still have lots of friends here.”

When they finally pulled up, it was not what Jack had been imagining in the slightest. They stopped outside a modern building, two stories high, with an ivy-draped roof terrace, which sat pale and smooth among older, more ramshackle dwellings. The front doors were glass and he could see fluorescent lights beyond them.

According to a brass plate by the entranceway, this was a clinic.

“Hold on,” he asked, a new thought coming to him. “You're not taking me to a
psychiatrist
, are you?”

“Jack, don't worry. Wait a short while more. You'll see.”

He relaxed again, if only because he had no choice.

When they went in, a young nurse recognized Luis. Warm greetings were exchanged. The student led her off into a corner, where they conversed in whispers. Finally she nodded, and then disappeared through a doorway to the back.

“You're certain this is going to help?”

“It's hard for you to understand, I know.” Luis nodded. “But be patient.”

The nurse reappeared and ushered them inside. It was a modern surgery, where a middle-aged woman was sitting on a chair with a baby in her lap. A doctor in his fifties was examining the child. He finally nodded, the mother beaming with relief.

“Bring her back again next week,” he told her. “Just to be completely safe.”

The door clicked shut as she went out. The room got very quiet. The doctor returned to his desk and made some detailed notes on a pad. Only when he had finished did he look up at the two arrivals.

He was a short man, around five foot five, his hair silver and closely cropped. He wore a neatly trimmed beard, and pale gray eyes peered out from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.

This didn't look like any kind of witch doctor that Jack had ever seen.

The man studied him unabashedly for almost a minute before shifting his attention to Luis.

“Dorothy informs me that this Yanqui is being plagued by spirits. Are you here to translate for him?”

“I speak Spanish,” Jack said. “But I think you've got it wrong. It's dreams, not—”

The man raised a hand to interrupt him. Luis smiled. “Jack Gilliard, this is Doctor Aldo Torres.”

“I kind of guessed he was a doctor. But—?”

“But how can I help you?” Torres finished for him. “Well, sir, medicine is but one of the methods that I use to assist this community. The others are a little more . . . unorthodox.”

Jack began to notice a few things out of place. Like the piece of twisted tree branch by the window. And, in the corner nearest Torres's desk, a small round table covered in a white cloth, with goblets of water standing on it. What exactly were they for?