Arkady was so disconcerted by Luna it took him a second to respond.» Not that I know of."

The sergeant seemed to have other duties. After consulting with Luna, Walls told his friend with the maple-leaf pin, "The real thing starts in a minute."

"I wish I spoke Spanish."

"You're Canadian, you don't need to. Investors don't need to," Walls assured him.» And all the investors are coming here. Canadians, Italians, Spanish, Germans, Swedes, even Mexicans. Everyone but Americans. This is the next big economic explosion on earth. Healthy, well-educated people. Technological base. Latin is hot. Get in while you can."

"He's been selling me for two days," the Canadian said.

"He sounds persuasive," Arkady said.

"Tonight," said Walls, "we've organized something folkloric for my friend from Toronto."

"I detest this," Isabel told Arkady.

"Isabel, we're speaking English for our friend now," Walls pleaded in the good-natured way of a man who actually means it.» I gave you English lessons. Even Luna can speak English. Can you speak a little English?"

"He says he'll take me to America," Isabel said.» He can't even take himself back to America."

"I think the show's about to begin." Walls ushered people back into the house as drumming hit a new intensity.» Arkady, I missed something. What are you doing here?"

"Just trying to fit in."

"Good job." Walls gave him a thumbs-up.

Each drum was different-a tall tumba, hourglass bata, twin congas-and each called to a different spirit of Santeria or Abakua, a tnaraca to rouse Change, a bronze bell for Oshun, it was all mixed up, like mixing drinks, a little dangerous, yes, Erasmo asked even as he explained. Mongo, eyes shining from wells of perspiration, beat on his blade, his call in a language that was not Spanish answered simultaneously by the drummers and their drums, as if each man possessed two voices. Everyone had crowded into the room and pressed against the walls. Erasmo rocked in his chair as if he could lift it up by the sheer power of his arms to tell Arkady this was the wealth of Cuba, its history of Spanish bolero and French quadrille colliding with the whole continent of Africa, creating a tectonic explosion. The boxes on which they sat and drummed proved the Cuban genius. In Africa the secretive Abakua had "talking drums," Erasmo said. When they arrived in chains to work on the docks of Havana and the slave masters here took their drums away, they simply beat on boxes, and presto! Havana was full of drums. The Cuban musician, like the Cuban fisherman, could not be stopped! All Arkady knew was that in Moscow he had heard a little Cuban music on tape; this was the difference between seeing a picture of the sea and standing knee-deep in the water. As Mongo's deep voice called in a language that was not Spanish, the rest of the room swayed and answered, congas carrying the rhythm, hands on boxes syncopating off the beat. Luna smiled and nodded, arms folded by the door. Arkady tried to plot an escape route to slither through, but Luna was always between him and the exit.

"You know that man?" Erasmo asked.

"We've met. He's a sergeant in the Ministry of the Interior. How can he be involved in a show like this?"

"Why not? Everybody does two things, they have to, there's nothing unusual about that."

"Arranging Santeria?"

Erasmo shrugged.» That's Cuba today. Anyway, it's not really Santeria, it's more Abakua. Abakua's different. When my mother heard there were Abakua in the neighborhood, she'd pull me off the street because she thought they were collecting little white children to sacrifice. Now she lives in Miami and she still thinks so."

"But this is a santero's house, you said."

"You don't do Santeria at night," Erasmo said as if it were self-evident, "that's when the dead are out."

"The dead are out right now?"

"It's a crowded island at night." Erasmo smiled at the idea.» Anyway, Luna must have connections with the Abakua. Everyone is into Santeria or Abakua or something."

"His friend, George Washington Walls. Why is that name familiar?"

"He was famous once. The radical, the hijacker."

Very famous once, Arkady realized. He remembered a newspaper picture of a young American in an Afro and bell-bottom trousers burning a small flag at the top of an airplane ramp.

"What kind of investments can Walls offer in Cuba? When the dead aren't walking?"

"Good question."

Arkady had missed the point when the rhythm had changed and Luna and his golden friend, Hedy, had taken center stage, dancing not so much separately as skin to skin, hips rolling, the sergeant's large hands sliding around her back as she arched, eyes and lips bright, slipping away only to invite him even closer. Arkady did not know if this was religious or not; he did know that if it took place in a Russian church the icons would have fallen to the floor. As everyone else joined in Walls maneuvered Hedy away from Luna and toward the Canadian, who danced as if he were playing ice hockey without a stick. Now it was even harder to reach the door.

Erasmo pushed Arkady.» Get out there."

"I don't dance." He was doing well just standing, Arkady thought.

"Everyone dances." The rum seemed to hit Erasmo all at once. He rocked back and forth in his wheelchair to the beat until he locked his chair, slid off the seat and danced with Abuelita like a man wading energetically through heavy surf. He said to Arkady, "No legs and I still move better than you."

Embarrassing but true, Arkady thought. It was also true that, in his condition, Arkady found the drumming and darkness and mixed smells of smoke, rum and sweat as overwhelming as an overstoked fire. The drums spoke together, apart, together again, breathless, syncopated, off the beat. As Mongo shook the gourd the shells strung across its belly rippled like a snake. The chant went from call and response to Mongo in his dark glasses, his voice volcanically deep. He swayed, hands a blur. The rhythm spread, divided, split again like rolling lava. Maybe it was the effect of fighting rum on an empty stomach. Arkady slipped into the hall and found that Isabel followed.

"I didn't study classical dance for this," she told Arkady.

"It's not the Bolshoi, but I don't think the Bolshoi does this sort of thing very well."

"Do you think I'm a whore?"

"No." He was taken aback. The girl looked more like a candlelit saint.

"I'm with Walls because he can help me, I admit. If I were a real whore, though, I'd learn Italian. Russian is no use at all."

"Maybe you're a little hard on yourself."

"If I were hard on myself, I'd cut my throat."

"Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"I've noticed that few people are good at cutting their own throat."

"Interesting. A Cuban man would have said, 'Oh, but it's such a pretty throat.' Everything with them leads to sex, even suicide. That's why I like Russians, because with them suicide is suicide."

"Our talent."

Isabel looked thoughtfully aside. She had the emaciated allure of a Picasso, he thought. Blue Period. Wonderful, the two most depressed people in the house had connected like magnets. He caught Walls's anxious glances in their direction. At the same time he noticed that Luna remained by the door.

"How long are you going to be in Havana?" Isabel asked.

"A week, then back to Moscow."

"Is it snowing there now?" She rubbed her arms as if imagining them cool.

"I'm sure it is. Your Russian is extraordinarily good."

"Yes? Well, in my family Moscow was like Rome to Catholics, and, before the Special Period, to speak Russian was useful. Are you a spy like Sergei?"

"It seems to have been a great secret. No."

"Claro, he isn't a very good spy. He says if they needed a good agent in Havana they never would have sent him. He was going to help me get to Moscow and from there, of course, I could go anywhere. Maybe you can help me." She scribbled an address on a piece of paper and gave it to him.» We will talk tomorrow morning. Can you come just at that time?"