"He didn't send for me, I just came." Arkady tried to get the conversation back on track.» Did you ever see Pribluda with a Sergeant Luna from the Ministry of the Interior?"

"I know who you mean. No." Isabel awarded him a smile.» You stood up to Luna last night. I saw you."

"In a feeble way." What Arkady remembered of the encounter was being saved by Detective Osorio's arrival.

"And you are going to save me." She placed her cool hand on his and said as if they'd reached an understanding, "When the letter comes from Moscow I will immediately need an invitation to Russia. Pues, that you must organize through some cultural entity, a dance company, a theater, anything. Do you see where Cubans are dancing now? New York, Paris, London. It doesn't have to be the Bolshoi at the start for me, if only I can get out."

Over Isabel's shoulder Arkady saw George Washington Walls almost trip and recover as he entered the courtyard from the street. His light complexion was even lighter for a moment before he regained momentum, the street stroll of an American slowed to a Cuban pace and an actor's self-consciously casual style: pressed blue jeans and a fastidiously white pullover over brown biceps. The man had to be fifty, Arkady thought, and Walls could almost play himself as a young man if there was a movie. Why not? As Arkady remembered, there had been the war protests, the march on Washington, the plane. As he crossed the courtyard he distributed a pat on the shoulder here, a smile there. The only one impervious to his charm was Isabel, who recoiled from a kiss. He sat and told Arkady, "Oh, oh, I am on the outs. Arkady, you seem to be the new boy in town."

"Comemierda" she leaned across the table to say, then twisted out her cigarette and marched back to the rehearsal room.

"Do you want me to translate that?" Walls asked Arkady.

"No."

"Good. She is as mean as she is lovely and she is a lovely lady." Walls sat and gave Arkady his full attention.» Are you interested in ballet? I contribute to the cause here, but I'm actually more of a fight fan myself. I go all the time. You?"

"Not too much."

"But sometimes." Walls eyed the repair work on Arkady's head.» So, what happened to you anyway?"

"I think it was baseball."

"Some game. Look, I wanted to thank you for stopping Luna last night."

"I think you helped."

"No, you did it and it was the right thing. The sergeant was out of line. These things happen in Cuba. Do you know who I am?"

"George Washington Walls."

"Yeah, that says it all, doesn't it? Here I am like a kid checking out everyone Isabel talks to. You surprised me, I admit it. Last night I didn't come on too well, either. The problem is, I'm the elder statesman of radicals on the run in Cuba but I'm like a kid when it comes to Isabel."

"That's all right." Arkady changed the subject, "What was it like to be 'on the run'?"

"Not bad. In East Germany, the old Democratic Republic, the blonde Hildas and Uses used to line up to serve under the black commander. I thought I was a god. Here I am trying to wring one little smile from Isabel's lips."

"You've been here a while."

"I've been here forever. I don't know what the fuck I had in mind. The truth is, I always let my mouth get away from me. My mouth said, 'I'm not going to war, I'm not going to let you push around my black brothers in the South, I'm hijacking this fucking plane.' And the rest of me's going, 'Jesus Christ, I didn't mean that, please don't hit me again.' I didn't really think they'd take me to Havana. But my eyes were popping, I was totally dosed on speed and waving a big cowboy gun in the cockpit, they must've thought I was one fucking dangerous dude. I got out of the plane here and one of the stewardesses hands me a little American flag. What was going on in her head? I don't know. Fuck, I burned it. What else? That picture was everywhere. Drove the FBI straight up the wall. They made me a Most Wanted and, at the same time, a hero to half the world. So that's what I've been for twenty-five years, a hero. At least, they tried. They thought they had a hardened revolutionary and they sent me to camps with Palestinians, Irish, Khmer Rouge, the scariest men on earth, and it turned out that I was really just a loudmouthed boy from Athens, Georgia, who could spout a lot of Mao and play a little ball and probably would have ended up with a Rhodes Scholarship at Oxford if I hadn't come to Cuba instead. Those guys were scary. Eat-the-snake scary. Know the type?"

"I'm trying to imagine."

"Don't. They finally gave up and brought me back to Havana and gave me a cushy job translating Spanish to English. It was a comedown, but I was still full of revolutionary zeal and I would translate thirty pages a day until my Cuban colleagues took me aside and said, 'Jorge, what the fuck is the matter with you? We're each translating three pages a day. You're upsetting the quota.' I think the day I heard those words I understood what Cuba was all about. The light dawned. Karl Marx had hit the beach and all the mother wanted was a cold daiquiri and a good cigar. You know, when the Soviet Union was paying, it was kind of a party here. The problem is, the party's over."

"Still..." Arkady tried to align the images of the world-shaker and investment hustler.

Walls caught the look.» I know, I was somebody. Look, so was Eldridge Cleaver and Stokely Carmichael. Brother Cleaver crawled back to the States to do time, and Stokely ended up in Africa mad as a bedbug, dressed up in his uniform and gun in Kissidougou waiting for the revolution to come knocking on his door. So tell me, did Isabel ask you to get her out of Cuba?"

"Yes."

"Well, she obsesses on this, she obsesses on men she thinks can help. And she's right, they'll never let her be a prima ballerina here and they'll never let her out. Do you love her?"

"I just met her."

"But I saw you two together. Men fall in love with her very fast, especially when they see her dance. Sometimes they fall all over themselves to offer to help."

"I would help if I could."

"Ah, that means you have no idea of the situation."

"I'm sure of that," Arkady admitted.» Do you know Sergei Pribluda?"

"I did. I heard they found him in the bay. Are you a spy too?"

"Prosecutor's investigator."

"But Sergei's friend?"

"Yes."

"Let's talk outside." Walls led Arkady past the reception desk and through the fronds of a small yard to the street where a sleekly molded white American convertible with a red leather interior sat at the curb. On rounded tail fins were silver rings and on the lid of the trunk the mere suggestion of a spare tire. As if he were introducing a person, Walls said, "'57 Chrysler Imperial. Three hundred twenty-five horsepower V-8, TorqueFlite transmission, Torsion Aire suspension. Ernest Hemingway's car."

"You mean, like Hemingway's car?"

Walls caressed the fender.» No, I mean Hemingway's car. It was Papa Hemingway's, now it's mine. What I wanted to talk about is this letter coming from Russia for Isabel. Did she tell you about her family?"

"A little."

"Her father?"

"No."

Walls dropped his voice.» I love Cubans, but they do trim the truth. Look, these people bankrupted Russia. At a certain point Russia was bound to say, 'Let's get somebody sane in charge.'"

Why? Arkady wondered. Russia never had anyone sane in charge. Why pick on Cuba? "What are you talking about?"

"Lazaro Lindo was number two in the Cuban Party, posted in Moscow, a logical choice. It was supposed to be a quiet coup, just a swift transfer of power and a comfortable house arrest for Fidel. Lindo came back from Moscow on a black plane and all the way he was told about troops mobilizing and tanks revving. You can imagine the scene when the poor son of a bitch gets off the plane and there's Fidel waiting at the bottom of the ramp. The same night the embassy in Moscow bundles Mrs. Lindo and Isabel, who's two years old, onto another plane for Havana."