Death under the Perseids by Teresa Dovalpage

Author:Teresa Dovalpage
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2021-10-27T10:48:56+00:00

Part III:

Las Perseidas

1: Old Havana

Though I was relieved about Selfa, Javier’s latest revelations and the way he had fled still baffled me. But no way was I going to bring it up again with Nolan. Let sleeping dogs lie, right? No revolver la mierda, que sale mal olor. I also found it odd that my comments about Selfa’s nervousness had been taken at face value. How did that clerk know I was telling the truth? Well, it wasn’t my problem. The Narwhal officers were likely happy to have a reason to dismiss the incident and go on with the program before pissed-off passengers staged a mutiny.

On deck three, we were again divided into “Cubans and other foreigners” and “Americans only.” But the disembarkation process wasn’t nearly as smooth as the previous day’s queue. People had grown impatient. There was some pushing and shoving, and plenty of cursing too. Order wasn’t restored until the burly guys in white uniforms showed up.

I took my place at the end of the short non-American queue. The hippie was first in line, followed by Grateful Dead. Suddenly I spotted Javier in a corner, watching the waiting passengers but not showing any intention to join them.

“¡Oye, comemierda!” I yelled, running toward him.

The Argentinian couple turned to me. So did Grateful Dead.

“Why did you take off like that? Ni que hubieras visto al diablo.”

Javier put a finger on his lips and whispered, “I think I had a panic attack. All the memories and . . . you know. Sorry.”

“Was that it?”

“Ah, yes.”

We looked at each other for a few seconds. He still wore the same scared expression as before.

“It seems like Selfa didn’t come on board after all,” I said.

I would have told him more, but he was clearly uninterested, keeping an eye on the disembarkation line.

“Aren’t you getting out, Javier?”

“What for?” he said after some hesitation. “There’s no point in taking a taxi to Casa de las Américas if Yordanka isn’t there.”

“Are you planning to stay here all day?”

He shrugged. “At least food is free. The library and the bars are open. It’s not like I need to ‘discover’ the city or anything. And who knows? Yordanka may get back to me.”

The non-American line moved. So did the American. With order reestablished, the guys in white uniforms left.

“Bye, Merceditas.”

Javier trailed after the security guys.

When my turn came, the Cuban customs officer took a quick look at my two passports and said, “Welcome back, Mercedes!” Easier than at the José Martí International Airport, where you had to go through two checkpoints.

Three tourist buses waited outside the Sierra Maestra Terminal building. Nolan and I hadn’t bought any shore excursions, but one was offered free “to compensate for the inconveniences.”

The Narwhal program director, a frazzled woman who introduced herself as Liz, encouraged everybody to board the buses.

“This is a fantastic opportunity to discover Old Havana,” she gushed. “You’ll get a ride to Cathedral Square—a very short drive, but with amazing views—and participate in a guided tour of the cathedral itself, then visit a nearby gallery to chat with local artists.

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