Tango for a Torturer

More Critical Praise for Adios Muchachos

by Daniel Chavarría, Winner of a 2001 Edgar Award

Fun, fast, and intelligent, this devilishly charming import gives pulp fiction a good name. Hailed as one of the best Latin writers, Uruguayan-born Chavarría is well known throughout Europe as well as in Latin America … Chavarría never loses sight of his goal: to deliver an energetic hustle that will leave readers clamoring for more. —Publishers Weekly

In Carlos Lopez’s flawless translation … Chavarría provides a peek at a Cuba in the throes of globalization during the devastating Special Period. Full of humor and wit, Chavarría turns this basic story of survival into an erotic, fast-paced thriller. Times are hard, but who said they had to be dull? —Village Voice

Out of the mystery wrapped in an enigma that, over the last forty years, has been Cuba for the U.S., comes a voice so cheerful, a face so laughing, and a mind so deviously optimistic that we can only hope this is but the beginning of a flood of Cuba’s indomitable novelists, playwrights, storytellers. Welcome, Daniel Chavarría. —Donald E. Westlake, author of Watch Your Back!

This spritely translation marks the U.S. debut of Chavarría, a Classics-trained Uruguayan writer of novels, stories, literary journalism, and screenplays whose academic specialty—no surprise—is the origins and evolution of prostitution … Set-ups, doublecrosses, disguises, and shifts in gender clack and flutter like palm fronds, and readers who persevere through the most bawdy and stomach-churning passages of this mad, breezy romp will emerge battered and scorched and asking for more. —Miami Herald

"Place Adios Muchachos alongside the work of John D. MacDonald, Carl Hiaasen, and a good deal of Elmore Leonard, and it’ll fit right in with those masters of incongruously sunny, quirky capers." —PopMatters.com

"The warm, naked characters tangled in the steamy, suspenseful plot of Adios Muchachos are further evidence of why Chavarría is recognized as one of the most dynamic and exciting writers in Latin America." —Paco Ignacio Taibo II, author of Four Hands

"Daniel Chavarría has long been recognized as one of Latin America’s finest writers. Now he again proves why with Adios Muchachos, a comic mystery peopled by a delightfully mad band of miscreants, all of them led by a woman you will not soon forget— Alicia, the loveliest bicycle whore in all Havana." —William Heffernan, author of Beulah Hill

Pulp fiction in Castro’s Cuba. A picaresque novel with sex, scheming, and, well, more sex. —Martin Cruz Smith, author of Havana Bay

If you have never visited Cuba and wish to do so—accompanied by a beautiful escort—this is your chance. —Rex Stout Journal

"Adios Muchachos is a comic mystery that left me giggling as the bizarre and unpredictable story took its final twist … And despite the alleged machismo of Latin men, Chavarría reveals no timidity or prejudice when diving deep into the erotic behavior of his gay and transsexual characters …" —New York Press

Daniel Chavarría is a prince of a fellow, larger than life and twice as much fun. —Lawrence Block, author of Eight Million Ways to Die

… just about the perfect book to pack for a summer weekend at the beach. —Ink19.com

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Akashic Books

©2002, 2006, 2007 Juan Daniel Chavarría

English translation ©2006, 2007 Peter Bush

First published in Spain in 2002 as El rojo en la pluma del loro by Mondadori

First published in English translation in the U.K. in 2006 by Serpent’s Tail

eISBN-13: 978-1-617750-95-3

ISBN-13: 978-1-933354-19-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2006938152

All rights reserved

First U.S. printing

Akashic Books

PO Box 1456

New York, NY 10009

[email protected]

www.akashicbooks.com

To Hilda, pilot and boatswain of this vessel

Author’s Note

I have never brought legal charges against anyone or myself been charged with anything in Cuba. I’ve never been to a trial. In terms of laws and procedure, I know the basics, which two lawyer friends taught me; but regarding relations between the police, the public prosecutor, and the courts, I have surely committed errors that run counter to standard legal practices. My apologies in advance to all concerned.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Part I

1 Wheel and Thumb

2 Neither the Pantheon nor the Colosseum

3 Not a Ripple

Part II

4 Figueredo

5 The Florsheim Shoes

6 Velasco and Company

Part III

7 The Hairy Hand

8 Worst Luck

Part IV

9 No Storm Clouds

10 A Saturday Party and A Sunday Riddle

11 Mistake or Bullshit

12 The Pure, Whiter-Than-White Gospel Truth

13 Precautionary Measures

Part V

14 That Night, on O Street

15 Rigoborio and Camberto

16 Now is When

17 The Immaculate Preparation

18 The Tocororo

19 Combine, Combiner

20 The Merry Widow

21 Convict Number Fourteen

Part VI

22 Butcha

23 His Inexorable Ruin

Part VII

24 Building 2, Fourth Floor, South Wing

25 Dr. Azúa

Part VIII

26 A Faulty Diagnosis

27 Ius Iurandum

28 A Good, if Eccentric Listener

29 Bife Chorizo

30 A Stressful Visit and An Innocent Joke

31 News From Madrid

32 A Move in the Right Direction

33 Homage to a Rhapsodistx

34 Scent of a Dog

35 God, the Authorities, and the Weather

36 Memory

Epilogue

37 Brum, Brum, Brummmmmm

Part I

1   wheel and thumb

Where did he learn to shake it like that? Fact was, for a gringo he danced great. Fifty-five, and so youthful and strong. He was a real looker. But above all very kind and tender.

They were already into their third delicious day together. Bini was being treated like a bride-to-be, not like some pickup you pay for. And Aldo, considering his age, wasn’t a bad fuck. And always came back for more … You know, better than most thirty-somethings.

Another stylish thing about Aldo was his way of handing out dollar bills. He was no Scrooge. And it was no big deal. He paid for Juanita’s apartment just to make her happy; but also kept a room at the National Hotel, which he hardly used. Style galore. And ever since they’d met on O Street, they hadn’t been apart.

But what Bini most liked was the patient way he taught her to drive; and even when she skidded, he wouldn’t get jumpy like that bastard François or shout at her like Rafael. Aldo was fun …

She enjoyed the progress she was making behind the wheel. In a car of her own, she’d spend the day careening up and down the streets, if only just to keep moving.

Yes, man, what she did best was keep on moving; speaking of which, she now found discos a drag. Why don’t we go to the cabaret at the National Theater? César López is playing tonight with the Habana Ensemble.

Yes, a saxy friend of hers, really great. Yeah, come on, my lovely papi, and nibbling his neck, making him laugh, come on, mi amor, take me.

She wanted to dance into the early hours.

But he didn’t, he’d had enough.

Aldo had been drinking from early on and knew that if he downed a couple more glasses, he’d be zonked on the floor. And in that state, no way could he drive …

And Bini offering to drive.

And he, no, no.

And she in a tantrum.

And he, no way in the dark.

And she threatening him, if he didn’t let her drive she wouldn’t give him his tit feast the next morning.

And he snickered and promised to take her to the beach tomorrow, where he’d let her drive to her heart’s content, and she nibbling and licking, and come on, mi amor, only for a bit, and he finally giving in, letting her drive a little, but only part of the way, ’cause around Fifth Avenue cars went very fast, and driving at night was what you call dangerous.

Aldo drove away from the disco at the Comodoro Hotel. When they reached 60th Street in Miramar, he turned left. On the corner of First and 60th, opposite the aquarium, he let her take the wheel.

She gripped it lustily. With that wheel between her hands she transformed herself into a character from a novel. Life looked like a film.

Bini drove along First to 10th Street.

She drove well, calmly and confidently, at a reasonable speed.

Aldo praised her. He said she would be ready to take her test soon.

Bini turned onto 10th in the direction of Fifth Avenue.

Aldo tried to take back the wheel, but she begged him to let her keep going across Fifth Avenue. At that time of night nobody was driving around there, not even the police.

Aldo let himself be persuaded.

And also let her persuade him when they got to the corner of 10th and Seventh.

"Oh, papi, don’t be mean."

And papi wasn’t mean.

He let her cross the Iron Bridge—a nice touch. And then another little treat, up 17th Street as far as Vedado.

In the end, Bini drove all the way to the corner of 21st and N.

"Oh, man, just one more little stretch, por favor."

And he let her drive the car into the building’s garage.

She parked easily.

"You see, papi, everything in order?"

And papi saw. And nodded distractedly.

Distracted, because he was sure Triple-O was hiding in Havana under the name Alberto Ríos. Since arriving three days ago, papi could only draft and redraft his plan to kill the man. This time he wouldn’t let him escape.

That night he was asleep as soon as he hit the sheets.

She went to the bathroom for a quick shower. Took a toothbrush from the shelf above the sink, lathered it with soap, and started rubbing her left thumb. Rubbed the nail with particular care. Then rubbed down to where it joined her palm. Scrubbed like a maniac. After five minutes she washed the toothbrush, put it back in its place, and returned to the bedroom.

She picked up an Italian magazine and leafed through it, sitting on the bed next to Aldo. As she read, she started sucking her clean thumb.

He’d begun to snore and was now purring gently and pursing his lips slightly, as if pouting for a kiss. His style went that far.

Aldo’s mouth fascinated her. It reminded her of Pepito’s, the even teeth and deep red lips … That was probably why she liked him so much. Yes, right from the start. And she loved his Argentine lilt.

She also liked the fact that his mouth never stank. On the contrary, his breath was always minty.

What she most hated when she went out with guys was having to kiss them.

But kissing Aldo was heavenly. She just shut her eyes, and it was like kissing Pepito.

Yes, she felt good with Aldo. If only they were all like Aldo.

How long would he last?

Bini always got bored with these men. And then she dropped them, even though they treated her like a queen.

2   neither the pantheon nor the colosseum

Aldo could get away with saying he was thirty-eight, but he was really fifty-five. Aurelia had gotten to know him two years before in Rome.

Gonzalo, you sure that’s his real age?

Of course, Aurelia, Aldo and I grew up together.

What an amazing guy. Such skin, such strong features … Did he dabble in cosmetic surgery?

"He really looks after himself," Aurelia groused.

Yes, I should be looking after myself as well … but not now. I’ll go on a diet when we get back to Cuba. But now I’m on vacation and I want to enjoy myself … Don’t be a spoilsport, my love.

Aurelia blushed when she recalled her first impression of Aldo, which had been negative. It wasn’t just his perpetual youth. She was riled by his success. There was something seriously fake about him: the way he looked at you, his over-concerned politeness toward Pia and herself. For the first few weeks Aurelia kept her defenses up.

Aldo had invited them. He’d paid both their fares, though his friends had set Gonzalo up with lectures so he could earn money at some universities and Italian cultural centers. And even that generous welcome sparked her mistrust.

Charismatic, handsome, a public relations star, in 1982 Aldo had married Giuditta—a Roman beauty and daughter of the owner of a real-estate company.

Within three years he’d saved his father-in-law from bankruptcy and taken charge of the business. By 1990, somehow or other, he’d bought the company out, then merged it with a more powerful enterprise; by ’96 had turned himself into chief executive and the largest shareholder. He quickly accumulated a small fortune. Aldo once confessed to Gonzalo that Pia’s dad—his second Italian father-in-law—had helped him out well before their marriage.

Aldo had slipped easily into high-society. He had been a Don Nobody in Buenos Aires, yet managed to become a member of the Jockey Club in Rome.

He made great first impressions, Gonzalo recalled. He inspired trust.

Aldo welcomed them at Fiumicino with hugs and kisses.

Pia is really excited about meeting you, he told Aurelia. She’s sorry she couldn’t come to the airport, but she’d already made plans … You know what it’s like …

Aurelia interpreted this as deference to Gonzalo. She found this level of effusive warmth stifling.

When they were in the arrivals lounge, Aldo took her luggage and held her arm, then outside he opened the car door and offered her the front seat. He pointed Gonzalo into the back.

No Cuban would ever dream of putting an old friend’s wife and complete stranger in the front seat.

Nonetheless, Aurelia kept her defenses in place.

When she learned about Aldo’s successes, she commented to Gonzalo that she didn’t trust nice, handsome men with superrich in-laws.

Do you find him that handsome?

Off the charts.

And of course he was: six feet tall, with dark wavy hair, blue eyes, a manly jaw, broad chest, flat stomach, perfect teeth, and a voice that would be the envy of any professional newscaster.

It’s in his blood.

And Gonzalo told her that Aldo’s mother, born in northern Italy but brought up in Buenos Aires, was a beautiful woman.

"A drunken poet who kept the corner bar in business called her La Botticelli and wrote poems to her. Everybody flflirted with her."

And what was she like?

A very proper lady who never strayed from home, but she was totally vivacious. I remember how she once came home laughing her head off because some bum on the street called her ‘a little porcelain doll from the Columbus Emporium.’ She had the smoothest skin, and she concealed her age. You can’t imagine what she was like when she passed fifty and did herself up and went out on the arm of one of her sons: She looked like a girlfriend … And Daddy Bianchi was older than her, but he was a well-preserved, ripe old fruit. That’s why I say Aldo has a champion pedigree.

And he looks after himself, Aurelia added.

Indefatigable in her struggle against her husband’s obesity and alcoholism, Aurelia never espoused a genetic fatalism.

As for the successes of Aldo, who had risen from penniless immigrant to millionaire industrialist, Gonzalo cleared him right away of all suspicion. He was a very decent young man, very Catholic as well.

Weren’t there Communists in his family?

His father and brothers were, but he followed his mother in every way.

But he sure looks after himself. Aurelia could really beat a dead horse.

In Rome, Aldo accommodated them on the top floor of his palazzo. From the terrace adjacent to their bedroom, they could see the garden and the big swimming pool. Aldo had cut a threehundred-yard path that snaked between gnarled trees and served as a running track. Every day he would jog three miles, then immediately swim thirty lengths of the pool.

Gonzalo and Aurelia were witnesses to Aldo’s self-discipline. In the month they stayed with Pia and him, he didn’t miss a single day. He’d come down for his run at 8 a.m. and his guests would watch him while they breakfasted on the terrace.

Do you see? bitched Aurelia.

Yes, I can see, rasped Gonzalo, angrily buttering his toast.

Aldo, on the other hand, vertically breakfasted on fruit juice and coffee after a quick shower, then headed to work at 9:30.

Aldo had at his disposal a well-equipped gym for rainy days and the dead of winter. Naturally he kept his blood pressure and cholesterol at just the right levels.

And his bilirubin and triglycerides and even his conscience, commented Gonzalo. It’s because of his red wine intake. Did you know that it prolongs life?

* * *

Aldo divorced Pia, his second Roman wife, at the beginning of 1999.

A winner on every front—intelligent, hospitable, rich, and available—Aldo was a hot prospect, even for wealthy young women. There was much conjecturing in the upscale clubs and salons that he frequented.

Following his divorce he sported various possibilities on his arm, ever more beautiful and high-ranking, but he stayed single.

Until one day he fell in love and announced he was getting married again.

He fell in love in Havana.

He fell in love with Bini, a twenty-seven-year-old whore.

A stupid, dense mulatta, opined Gonzalo after meeting her.

Bini attracted one’s attention not for her immediate physical beauty, but for her rough-and-ready Creole look. Nobody could catch sight of her sexy strut and resist turning around to give her behind a once-over. Tall, curvaceous, and feline. But Aurelia and Gonzalo would have ruled her out as a lure for the sophisticated, worldly Aldo Bianchi.

Skin-deep beauty … and compared to Pia, a disaster, was Aurelia’s verdict after meeting her.

As a psychiatrist, Aurelia drew various hypotheses, but she lacked data to confirm them. She was a fifty-something and she felt let down by Aldo.

What an asshole.

And as a Cuban, she couldn’t avoid feeling ashamed, as if her country was to blame.

Imagine hooking up with that little hussy …

Gonzalo and Aurelia were very grateful to Pia. She had acted like a sister during their stay in Rome. She had devoted a whole week of her summer holidays to driving them to Florence, Bologna, and Venice.

Pia had worked in a museum and was an ideal guide, well-versed in art and history. And she was a splendid human being—honest, helpful, and quite modest. Her warm gestures communicated simplicity and goodness. And as a wife, she had treated Aldo well.

Aurelia the psychiatrist knew nobody should be influenced by appearances; that every marriage is a Pandora’s box … but fuck, it was as painful as it was unexpected when Aldo abandoned his thirty-four-year-old wife, a polite, cultured, witty, elegant, classical beauty, to hook up with trash like that.

Of course, neither Aurelia nor Gonzalo ever imagined that Aldo was a monogamous little angel. But neither was he a total slut. Married or single, he always had a legion of women in train, and they both figured he must be promiscuous. Promiscuous with good taste and discretion. And never with women who were stupid and coarse.

In May 1999, Aldo had announced his first trip to Cuba. He would fly on Thursday the sixth. Gonzalo had let him know in advance that he wouldn’t be able to meet him, because he would be chairing an exam board at the time. (He taught literature at the University of Havana.) But he said Aurelia would be there.

Aldo answered not to worry. He’d take a taxi to his hotel, rest awhile, and eventually ring them and hook up for dinner.

But he didn’t call that evening. He called the following afternoon to apologize and say he’d just met someone, a fantastic young woman …

He didn’t reveal any details. He seemed in a hurry. He asked them not to worry on his behalf. He felt great and looked forward to seeing them. If he didn’t call them tonight, he’d be sure to in the morning.

But he didn’t.

He saw Gonzalo on his last day, when he only had ten hours left in Cuba. They chatted frantically at a bar in Vedado.

Aurelia was relieved that she couldn’t go. Better that way.

"What do you think he’s playing at, chico? Do you think it’s right to abandon your friends to go whoring?" she asked Gonzalo later.

Determined to change the subject, Gonzalo told her that among other things, Aldo wanted to tell them about the interests of his real-estate company, which specialized in condominiums.

Architectural complexes, Aldo had said. And recently they’d been building hotels. Consequently, he wanted to test the terrain in Cuba. In Aldo’s opinion, the hotel industry here was ripe for development. The American blockade wouldn’t be eternal. He trusted his own business sense, which had never let him down; aperhaps his firm could open a new line of investment.

That had been the main reason for his trip. The idea had come to him suddenly and he’d decided to take a five-day vacation. He’d also get to spend some downtime in Havana and see his friends.

But after getting waylaid by the girl, none of that happened.

Or perhaps it was the best business he’s ever done.

For Christ’s sake, how could you, Gonzalo? Aurelia protested.

Gonzalo went on the defensive. "He said that, not me. You should have seen him talking about her, endlessly, like an excited little boy. Piling on the superlatives … He’s totally infatuated and says it’s serious. He’s even talking about marriage."

What’s she like?

From Aldo’s description, Gonzalo imagined a mulatta from the Oriente Province.

How did their paths cross?

He spotted her near the National Hotel, invited her for a beer, and then they headed straight to one of her friend’s apartments.

"And he’d only just met her? He didn’t know who she was?

He’s nuts …"

He said he’d never felt so aroused … He even confessed that he’s been suffering from impotence for several years and could rarely do it more than once a night. Often not even that. On his best nights, when he’d taken Viagra and was sleeping with a woman he was crazy about, he sometimes managed two orgasms. But with Bini he came five times in four hours.

Aurelia chortled contemptuously.

And as he was telling me this, he demonstrated the number with his fingers, and stared at me intently to see whether I believed him or not.

Didn’t you laugh in his face?

I couldn’t. He was dead serious. I just stood there suffering liporis.

(Liporis was a term invented by a colleague of Aurelia’s to make up for the paucity in modern languages of words to describe our own embarrassment when other people make fools of themselves.)

He said it was his lifetime record. Even when he was twenty, he never hit such highs.

With each number Aldo added, Gonzalo’s liporis count had increased.

And that night, after the fifth fuck, he went on a binge with her. Can you imagine?

He must have been including her climaxes.

"No way, he was quite explicit about his five orgasms."

How ridiculous! Well, he’s a real disappointment …

He kept repeating that he’d never gotten off so much, even in his twenties … what a night it was, what a fantastic time, and that’s why he forgot to call us. Oh, and he said the next day he had more energy than he’d had in years …

Naturally, and he beat his chest like Tarzan.

… and when she woke up, he was waiting for her like a stud in springtime: three times in the morning, two in the afternoon, once at night.

Don’t fuck around, Gonzalo, you’re bullshitting.

Cross my heart, Aurelia, and guess what his tally was over the four days?

She shook her head silently.

Twenty-one! By the time he left, he’d make it to twentythree or twenty-four.

Aurelia just gawked.

I must have gawked just like you, commented Gonzalo. "Don’t you believe me? Aldo asked me.you me."

And did you?

How do I know? … I didn’t recognize Aldo in that guy ratcheting up the numbers. Even if he wasn’t lying, it made me sad. I think something’s wrong with him … That’s an incredible number.

Twenty-four times in four days? Wild animals might … I suppose Aldo’s telling the truth … That’s a lot of passion! Even a galvanized pussy would be hard put to …

She slipped on her psychiatrist’s hat and diagnosed a Pygmalion complex. She couldn’t say for sure, but it was possible.

I’d have to see them together to be certain, get to know the girl, see how he acts in public; but it is one possible explanation.

Gonzalo was acquainted with the myth and knew it represented a clinically pathological state, but wasn’t familiar with the fine print.

Aurelia explained that it was emotional behavior associated with the natural conflicts that come with aging. It usually appears in men over fifty. Sometimes a man feels attracted to a young woman who could be his daughter or granddaughter. The first step in the genesis of the complex is the psychological sleight of hand by which the old guy spares himself all self-critique. To that end, he denies any real interest. He admits to being seduced by the young girl’s sense of humor. Or her natural intelligence. Or her sensitive temperament. Or her artistic talent, which deserves to be nurtured.

Didn’t you say he thought she was a great storyteller?

Sure, he says she sings and dances well, and is quite an original in everything she does … He’s mad about her.

That’s how this complex works; in order to justify such an unequal partnership, the old guy says he will devote himself to her education. He dons a professorial disguise. And seeks out an altruistic motive: The talented girl deserves help. She’s destined for stardom. And, of course, worthy of the old man and his milieu. he fulfills his desire to become her lover.

And erases any sense of the ridiculous?

Naturally, he’d make fun of any other such unequal partnership. He’d be merciless in his criticism. But the pathology stems precisely from the method the guy employs to sidestep any selfcritique. He tries everything to persuade himself that it’s a valid relationship; and via that mechanism of self-deception, he has to exaggerate or invent the young thing’s virtues: He’s sure that the raw diamond, once cut into a jewel, will love him forever, will be faithful and grateful to him even in his old age … Get it?

Gonzalo was skeptical of psychiatric diagnoses, but he thought that in Aldo’s case Aurelia might be right. It was the only way to explain his absurd behavior.

Aldo had also explained how his four days in Havana were astonishingly active, and not only on the sexual front. They walked a lot, went to restaurants, discos, nightclubs, a show at the Tropicana, and even a bembé.

Bini the whirlwind. Aldo had met her voodoo godfather, a babalao from Regla. She introduced him one evening, when her godfather was presiding over a session with the dead. That night, Bini, daughter of Yemayá, goddess of the sea, was possessed by a dead person. She danced wildly to the beat of drums and rolled around on the dirt floor, flailing her limbs, convulsing; and she walked barefoot on the hot coals cooking a broth, and got not a single blister on the soles of her feet. Aldo drank a lot of rum, and when the rumba finally kicked in, he danced into the early hours. During the night, he somehow lost his wallet—almost eight hundred dollars and his credit cards. But someone else found it and gave it to the babalao. And the next day, when Aldo woke up next to Bini in the room they’d been allotted, the old man returned everything.

The babalao threw down the bones and read them, and everything he said about Aldo’s past was true. According to Aldo, it was impossible they’d played a trick on him. He hadn’t told anyone in Cuba what the babalao revealed.

Not even us or Bini, said Gonzalo.

Aldo was captivated by the old black man, the vitality of the ritual, and the incredible drumming of the previous evening. He sang the praises of those people, who were so simple and childlike.

He ended up showering five hundred dollars on the babalao and promised he’d come back and cook them some Argentinian pastries, which he then did with the help of several women there.

The babalao’s family came along with around twenty godchildren. Then came the rum and the rumba, and Aldo put his life and soul into the party. He talked about the old babalao’s dignity. For a man to be a man, Aldo said, he must be a good son, a good father, and a good friend.

It’s not a bad code of ethics, commented Gonzalo.

Yes, and it gives you the freedom to be a thief, murderer, or profiteer, like my uncle Eduardo.

Gonzalo and Aurelia understood why the babalao and the whole atmosphere had dazzled Aldo. They were well-aware of how the magic of Afro-Cuban drums and songs, plus rum and the contagious euphoria, by the side of a wild, beautiful woman, could liberate repressed passions.

Gonzalo remembered how Aldo, when very young, had loved magic tricks.

In Buenos Aires, Gonzalo had originally been a friend of Pepe Bianchi, Aldo’s older brother. They went through grade school together, then met again in the ranks of the Communist Party of Argentina.

When he left the Catholic Church, Aldo got into Theosophy, yoga, and Eastern mysticism, which for Marxist—Leninists like Gonzalo and Pepe was esoteric nonsense, a way to escape reality. Pepe in particular joked cruelly at little Aldo’s expense.

During the dictatorship, Gonzalo emigrated and they didn’t see each other again for many years. In ’88, they met by chance at a mutual friend’s home in Italy. Gonzalo discovered there that Aldo was still very interested in Eastern philosophies.

Aldo met Bini in May 1999. And on three subsequent visits he told Gonzalo and Aurelia more about her, but never introduced them. They waited for Aldo to break the ice, but the opportunity didn’t present itself till July.

On the twentieth, Gonzalo celebrated his sixtieth birthday. His wife had devoted the six previous months to a clandestine labor of love: She intended to surprise him with a colossal party. She drew up a list of his best and oldest friends, in and out of Cuba. She located four in Argentina, and another twelve surfaced in Mexico, Colombia, and Europe. She contacted them and persuaded seven to travel to Havana around July 16. Between Cubans and foreigners living in Havana, she invited another thirty people whose company Gonzalo enjoyed.

Aurelia planned cautiously, secretively. Gonzalo didn’t suspect a thing. Nor did he imagine that Aldo was helping her.

Gonzalo hadn’t had a real birthday party since