Red Angel Read online

  “It is a secret society with many sects. Very violent and dangerous, and much feared by the people. They consider themselves part of Palo Monte, yet apart from it. Most paleros wish they were even more apart.”

  “Great. We’re being followed by lunatic voodoo worshipers, who also happen to work for the secret police.” He reached out and placed a hand on Martínez’s shoulder. “You have any good news?”

  Martínez offered up one of his mournful smiles. “Soon, my friend. Soon we will have good news. I promise you.”

  They drove a dozen blocks before Martínez pulled to the curb in front of a large, crumbling house that would easily qualify as a small mansion.

  He turned to face Adrianna. “This is your ancestral home,” he said. “It was the home of your grandfather before he left Cuba. It was also the home of his father before him.”

  Adrianna turned to look at the house. It was two stories of stone, covered with stucco that had fallen away in places. There were two balconies visible from the front, with ornately carved stone balustrades and curved floor-to-ceiling windows. The small front yard was closed off by a low stone wall and iron gates, and behind it thick tropical vegetation hid much of the house from view. There was a long driveway that led back to a large detached carriage house, with long-disused servants’ quarters above. It was one of those houses that years before must have seemed impervious to any changes that might come.

  On either side stood equally once elegant homes, homes that now spoke of the new Cuba of the past forty years. To the left was a brightly painted and well-tended mansion that served as the headquarters of the Cuban Olympic Committee. To the right was an even larger, but fast-crumbling house that had been converted into apartments. A large Cuban flag hung from one window of the second house, while another held freshly washed clothing set out to dry.

  “It’s like seeing a world that doesn’t exist anymore,” Adrianna said. “I’m trying to imagine what all this was like when my grandfather lived here.”

  “It was an elegant neighborhood,” Martínez offered. “People like your grandfather lived in great splendor, while others barely lived at all.” He shrugged, as if apologizing for that regretful truth. “Your aunt returned to the house after the revolution. She lived here with her sister, Amelia, and her sister’s husband. But apparently the two women did not get along, and later Fidel gave her another house in Miramar, where many of the leaders of the revolution still live.”

  “Fidel gave her a house? Himself?”

  “Oh yes. All the houses given to heroes of the revolution were selected by Fidel, or at least personally approved by him. It is the same today. He is—how do you say it?—a micromanager?” Martínez seemed pleased with his use of the word. “Anyway, your tía Amelia lives here alone now. Her husband died several years ago. But certainly you knew that.”

  Adrianna shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I never even met my aunt Amelia.” Her hands tightened in her lap. “I guess it’s time I did.”

  A small, agitated woman with the darting eyes of an angry bird opened the door. Amelia Mendez de Pedroso glared at Adrianna, then at the two men. Her hair was pulled back in a tight gray bun. Strands had pulled free on either side, and it gave her a wild, slightly mad look. She was frail, almost shrunken, and well into her seventies. Yet there was an intimidating quality about her that caused Adrianna to hesitate.

  “Auntie … it is I. Adrianna … your niece. Your brother Rudolfo’s daughter.”

  The old woman stared at her, horrified. “Rudolfo is dead. Don’t talk to me about the dead. It is bad luck.”

  Adrianna turned to Martínez, momentarily confused. She switched to English. “What do I say to her? Does she even know about my aunt María?”

  “I understand what you are saying,” the old woman snapped. “Don’t think you can fool me by speaking in English. Why are you talking about my communist sister, may God forgive her treacherous soul. And who are these men? They smell like Castro’s police.”

  Martínez stepped forward. “Ah, your nose is good, señora. At least for me.”

  The old woman let out a grunt. “Even an old woman can smell swine. Why are you bringing my niece here? Has she been arrested?”

  “No, I assure you, señora. No one has been arrested. I have brought your niece here to speak to you about your sister’s death.” Martínez spoke to the woman in Spanish.

  The old woman snorted and looked at Martínez with contempt. “I can speak English, you know. You think I am not educated, but I am. And do not try to fool me. My sister is not dead.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You communists are not clever enough to kill her.”

  “Señora …”

  Another wave. “I saw her only yesterday.” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I had just awakened from a dream, and she was standing there in the room. Ochun was with her. It is how I know the paleros have her.” There was a sly smile, then her eyes turned hostile again. “It is all Juanita’s fault, may her cursed heathen soul bum in hell.”

  Adrianna stepped forward and took her aunt’s hand. “Tía Amelia, may we come in? I so much want to speak with you.”

  The old woman’s eyes remained suspicious. Then she seemed to surrender to the inevitable. “You may come into my house. But you remember. Nothing in here is yours. My father gave me this house when he and Rudolfo left Cuba. It is all mine, even though my communist sister will tell you differently.”

  They followed her into the dark interior, down a long hall absent of any light, passing several closed doors as they moved toward the rear of the house. The hallway was narrow and confining, the heat trapped inside it oppressive. Whatever paint was left on the walls was peeling badly, mostly from areas where pictures had once hung. A heavy odor of mildew and decay seemed to permeate everything, to come from deep within the structure itself, almost as if the house was mourning what it once had been.

  They passed through a final door and entered a large kitchen. It had the look of a place heavily lived in. There was an ancient wooden table with six sturdy chairs, set apart from the cooking area. A pedal-operated sewing machine sat before a tall, wide window that looked into an overgrown garden, behind which stood the carriage house and servants’ quarters.

  Amelia waved at the chairs, waited for them to be seated, then stared at the one empty seat beside her niece before reluctantly sitting herself.

  Adrianna reached out and took her hand again. “Tía Amelia, tell me about this Juanita you spoke about. Was she the nana you and Tía María and my father had as children?”

  Amelia pulled her hand away, then pushed herself up and went to a small bookcase next to the door they had entered. She returned with a photo album and began turning the pages.

  She let out a long, somewhat nervous breath when she reached the photo she wanted, and jabbed a finger at it. “Here,” she said, pointing to three small children gathered around a large black woman, a bandanna around her head, a cigar protruding from her mouth. “Juanita Asparu,” Amelia said. “A daughter of Obatala.”

  Adrianna looked at Martínez. The major gave her a helpless shrug.

  “Obatala is one of the orishas, the African gods,” he explained. “There are two hundred and thirty-six gods and goddesses, about thirty who are very important. Obatala is among the most powerful. All children belong to her. As a daughter of Obatala, this Juanita would be able to give a child to another god.”

  “Yes, yes.” Amelia’s voice had grown insistent. “When she was just a child, María was given to Ochun by Juanita.” She gave her niece a cunning smile. “This is why the communists could never kill my sister.”

  Devlin leaned forward, bringing the old woman’s eyes to his. “This Ochun, this is the person who was with your sister?”

  Amelia gave Devlin a look of contempt. “Ochun is not a person,” she snapped. “It is like this policeman says. She is one of the orishas.” Her eyes flicked to Martínez, as if asking why he had brought such a fool into her home.

  Devlin refus
ed to give up. “What did this Ochun look like?” he asked.

  The old woman snorted. “As she always looks,” she snapped. “Like the Virgin of Caridad, very saintly and black as the night. Protector of all the whores and deviants.”

  Martínez placed a hand on Devlin’s arm. “Ochun is one of our most popular orishas. You will see many women dressed in yellow to honor her. She is very powerful. Also very vindictive. She can give twenty-five blessings, or twenty-five curses. And if you should ever harm a daughter of Ochun …” He ended the sentence with a shrug.

  “Yes, yes.” Amelia echoed Martínez’s warning with a vigorous nod. “It is why María is safe from them.” She gave Martínez a contemptuous look, as if he was one of her sister’s enemies.

  “Do you believe in these gods?” Devlin asked.

  She gave Devlin a sly look. “You are my niece’s lover, eh? I saw your picture. My niece sent it to my sister and she showed it to me.” She nodded as if coming to a decision. “You are very handsome. But you are also from the police. I know about you.”

  “Do you believe in these gods, Aunt Amelia?” Devlin asked again.

  The old woman stared at him. “I am not your aunt. Do not try and fool me. And I believe in nothing.” She turned her glare on Martínez and elevated her chin defiantly. “And, especially, I do not believe in that communist fool Fidel. The Negroes believe in him, just as they believe in their gods.” She made a slicing gesture with one bony hand, as if wielding a knife. “Fidel cut off their tails and let them down from the trees, and now I have them living next door to me. And now their gods even enter my home with my sister.” She reached out and slammed the album shut, as if closing away her childhood. “It is all the communists’ doing. All of it.”

  “I am afraid she will be of little help to us,” Martínez said. They were driving back toward the old city, headed to the apartment of José Tamayo, the mystery writer-cum-political cop whom Martínez wanted to enlist in their small army.

  “You think she’s …” Devlin finished the sentence by tapping the side of his head.

  Martínez shrugged. It was the major’s habitual response to any question. But it wasn’t just Martínez. Devlin had gotten it from bellmen and waiters, and just about everyone he had met. It seemed to be the Cuban national answer to any question.

  “She is old,” Martínez said. “But I suspect she is also very clever. She also likes to say things that are not acceptable. Perhaps she feels it is safer to act”—he glanced regretfully at Adrianna—“shall we say, somewhat mentally infirm.”

  “Do you think she believes in these … these orishas?”

  Martínez kept his eyes straight ahead. Devlin could see he was smiling. “Did you notice the bracelet she wore on her wrist. The one made of blue and white beads.”

  “I noticed it,” Adrianna said.

  “It is a symbol that marks her as a daughter of Yemaya, the goddess of the sea and the home and motherhood. Sailors worship her and seek her protection. She is also Ochun’s older sister, and the one who gave Ochun her powers. And Yemaya, herself, is very powerful, her dark side very capable of vengeance.”

  Adrianna gave Martínez a sharp look. His words had seemed sly to her, almost condescending. “I don’t care what she believes, or doesn’t believe. I think she was frightened.” She held the major’s gaze, defying him to contradict her. “I want to go back and see her again. But next time I’ll go alone.”

  “I’m not sure that’s—” Another sharp look from Adrianna killed Devlin’s objection in mid-sentence. “Maybe Ollie could go with you,” he said instead.

  “God, no.”

  “He could stay outside,” Devlin offered.

  “He’d scare the entire neighborhood.” Adrianna shook her head, letting him know further discussion was useless. “I want to see her again, and I don’t want her to feel her home is being invaded. I want her to talk to me, and I don’t think that will happen unless I go alone.”

  Before heading to their next stop, Martínez stopped at a public phone to check with his office. When he returned to the car, his face was masked by uncertainty.

  “It seems Colonel Cabrera has postponed your appointment.”

  “Until when?” Devlin asked.

  “Tomorrow morning at ten.”

  “Do you think that means he’s found something?” There was a hint of hope in Adrianna’s voice.

  Martínez inclined his head slightly as if considering the possibility. “I think it is more likely he wants to await a report from his Abakua henchmen and see what we are up to. But we can be hopeful.”

  “Maybe we should ask him why the Abakua are following us,” Adrianna suggested.

  Martínez and Devlin exchanged a quick look.

  “Perhaps it would be better to let the chicken sit on the nest undisturbed,” Martínez said. “But on our way to José Tamayo’s apartment, perhaps we also could give the chicken something to think about.”

  “What would that be?” Devlin asked.

  Martínez offered up his Cuban shrug. “Perhaps I can come up with something,” he said.

  José Tamayo’s apartment was in a battered block of tenements off the Plaza de Armas, a small square dominated by a statue of Carlos Manuel de Cespedes, who led the fight to free Cuba from Spanish domination.

  Martínez parked his ancient Chevrolet in front of what appeared to be a diminutive church that sat behind a spiked iron gate and an ancient tree with wide-spreading branches.

  “Come,” he said. “Let me play tour guide for the benefit of the Abakua.”

  Martínez stood before the gate. Fifty yards away, the two Abakua who were tailing them sat in their car on the other side of the plaza.

  “Those clowns certainly stand out in a crowd,” Devlin said.

  “Yes. They are not very good at surveillance, but they are persistent.” Martínez raised one hand toward the small church hidden behind the massive tree. “So, I will play tour guide for a few minutes. Then we will lose our Abakua friends before we go to José Tamayo’s home. And, who can say, you may even enjoy my instructions.”

  Martínez waved his hand in a circle. “Here, under this sacred ceiba tree, on November sixteenth, 1511, was held the first mass to celebrate the founding of the city. The small church behind the tree, the Templete, was built later, in 1828, and it holds paintings commemorating that day.”

  “It can’t be the same tree,” Adrianna said.

  Martínez raised and lowered his bushy eyebrows. “It is unlikely. Some say succeeding trees were grown from shoots of the original. But, according to legend, it is the same tree. I suspect the tree has been replaced several times, possibly from these shoots, but many prefer to believe the original tree has endured.” He smiled. “Like Cuba itself.”

  Martínez took each of their arms and started to walk toward the small park at the center of the plaza. “The ceiba tree is also very important in Palo Monte. The paleros believe the god Iroko lives in the tree. If a palero must leave his home, he will bury his nganga under a ceiba tree and Iroko will protect it. Then, when the palero returns he must leave money for the god in order to retrieve his possessions.” A broad smile creased Martínez’s face. “The gods, the orishas, do nothing for free, you see. If they are not paid, they will do no work, either for good or for evil.”

  The major led them into the small park, the surrounding sidewalks of which were filled with used-book stalls. “We will buy one of Tamayo’s books,” he said. “He will be very honored if you present it for him to sign.” He let out a small laugh. “Like the orishas, Cubans also do not like to work for free.”

  “What kind of books does he write?” Adrianna asked.

  “He is a great follower of your American writers Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. I do not know the work of these men, but it is said that Tamayo’s is very similar.”

  “They were very good,” Adrianna said. “What we call ‘hard-boiled’ fiction.”

  “Ah, yes,” Martínez said. “That is T
amayo. Very hard-boiled. But only in his writing.”

  After buying a copy of one of Tamayo’s books, they made their way through the plaza and into a government building that housed offices for the Ministry of the Army. Once inside, they immediately moved to a side door that opened onto an adjacent street. Three entry ways down, they turned into a dark, narrow hall covered in ancient mosaic tiles.

  “This is Tamayo’s building,” Martínez said as he led them to a narrow staircase that had frayed electric wires hanging from the ceiling. “The Abakua will be staring at the government building we first entered, wondering who in the army is giving us aid and comfort.” He laughed. “It will also give Colonel Cabrera great concern when they tell him where we went.”

  Devlin glanced at the ceiling of the battered building they had entered. “He won’t have anything to worry about if we don’t get out of this firetrap alive.”

  Martínez followed Devlin’s gaze. “Do not worry,” he said. “Tamayo is a son of Chango, the god of thunder and fire—a very powerful rascal—and he will not allow flames to touch the home of his follower. Besides, Tamayo also keeps a statue of Eleggua behind his door, which he feeds every day.”

  “Feeds?” Devlin asked.

  Martínez nodded. “Yes, feeds, my friend. From his mouth he sprays it with aguardiente, a cheap Cuban rum. This way he gives Eleggua his ache, his spirit, and this assures the god is content and that Tamayo has nothing to fear inside these walls.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Devlin said. “Is there anybody in Cuba who doesn’t believe in these gods?”

  “Oh yes,” Martínez said. “There are many. You will know them by the misery in their lives.”

  They climbed the battered staircase, past crumbling walls and metal doors, many of which had more than one lock. Martínez had told them that Tamayo was one of Cuba’s most revered and successful writers. Now he had also told him that the man practiced a form of voodoo that was beyond Devlin’s comprehension. And that those who didn’t practice voodoo could be known by the misery in their lives? He glanced about him as he climbed the steamy, battered staircase to the fourth floor of this hellhole firetrap of a building. If this was viewed as the absence of misery, he wondered what life in Cuba was for those who rejected these two hundred and thirty-six African gods. And what had it been before the arrival of Comandante Fidel. Perhaps that was it, he thought. Like Castro, perhaps these strange religious beliefs simply offered hope in a country where hope had always been the one elusive commodity of life.