ch.nakedcamethemanatee-第14节

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　Seeing　their　rapt　faces；　the　fisherman　looked　slightly　embarrassed。　He　averted　his　glassy　eyes。　〃I　figured　the　police　would　lock　me　in　a　nuthouse　if　I　told　them　this　next　part。　Your　grandmother's　hand　had　moved；　dropped　on　top　of　mine。　And　she　was　still　dead　as　could　be。　That's　the　gospel　truth。　I　looked　down；　and　her　palm　was　wide　open。　I　don't　know　how　she　did　it；　but　she'd　been　holding　on　to　something；　and　it　was　right　there　in　her　hand。　It　was　like　she　wanted　to　make　sure　I　would　find　it。　I　knew　it　must　be　important。〃
　With　that；　the　fisherman　gently　reached　for　Fay's　wrist；　holding　her　palm　upright；　and　pressed　his　hand　into　it。　As　Britt　leaned　over　to　stare　with　unbridled　curiosity；　Fay　felt　something　tiny；　sharp；　and　slightly　cold　pass　from　the　fisherman's　callused　hand　to　the　soft　of　her　palm。
　〃Take　it；〃　he　said。　〃I'm　sure　it　must　be　for　you。〃
　
　9。　SOUTH　BEACH　SERENADE…Brian　Antoni
　Fay　squeezed　the　object　in　her　hand　as　she　felt　a　tidal　wave　of　emptiness　wash　over　her。　She　tried　to　calm　herself　by　staring　into　the　fisherman's　kind　eyes　as　she　felt　her　own　eyes　start　to　water；　and　she　thought　how　water；　this　water　in　front　of　her；　had　been　her　Granny's　life。　The　fisherman　hugged　her；　as　he　whispered　into　her　ear；　〃She　wanted　to　go；　child；　anyone　who　dies　with　such　a　sweet　smile　on　her　face　wants　to　go。〃
　Fay　knew　what　was　in　her　hand。　She　didn't　even　have　to　look　at　it。　She　shoved　it　into　her　pocket。　She　knew　what　she　had　to　do；　but　it　would　have　to　wait　until　tomorrow。
　The　door　to　Marion's　house　was　unlocked；　as　usual。
　Everything　looked　as　it　always　had。　She　went　straight　for　the　refrigerator　and　opened　it。　Two　Joe's　take…out　containers；　a　half…empty　bottle　of　prune　juice；　a　head　of　lettuce　in　a　bag　marked　〃Booger。〃　And　a　big　empty　space　in　the　middle。　No　canister。
　The　phone　rang。　She　picked　it　up　without　saying　a　word。　After　a　minute；　she　said；　〃Jake；　the　head's　gone。〃
　Jake　put　down　the　phone　and　sat　down　at　the　kitchen　dinette；　stared　at　the　canister　on　the　table；　wondered　how　long　before　they　came　for　this　one；　too。
　
　John　Deal　sat　on　the　Havantur　bus；　thinking　of　how　long　he'd　dreamed　of　the　day　he　could　buy　a　big　Hatteras　and　live　happily　ever　after　in　the　Bahamas。　Now　that　his　dream　had　e　true；　he　suffered　from　an　overload　of　fun；　sun；　rum；　sex；　drugs；　suffered　from　too　much　marination　in　gin…clear　salt　waters；　his　head　like　an　olive　in　a　martini。　He　felt　trapped　in　a　picture　postcard；　paradise…overdosed。　He'd　e　to　Havana　to　try　to　snap　himself　out　of　it；　get　a　shot　of　reality。　The　tour　guide；　whose　name　was　Dogma　or　Dagma；　spoke　English　with　a　heavy　Russian　accent。　Deal　couldn't　understand　anything　she　said。　He　gave　up　when　she　pointed　to　a　pineapple　finial　on　a　rooftop　and　said；　〃The　pineapple　resides　on　that　edifice　because　it's　the　symbol　of　tropical　fruit。〃
　As　they　drove　around　the　city；　John　Deal　got　more　and　more　depressed。　I　didn't　need　this　much　reality；　he　thought。　It　was　like　driving　through　South　Miami　after　Hurricane　Andrew。　Buildings；　some　of　the　most　beautiful　he　had　ever　seen；　were　in　ruins。　Everyone　seemed　dazed；　like　zombies。
　The　bus　stopped　in　Havana　Viejo。　Deal　trailed　the　walking　tour；　looking　into　the　almost　empty　stores。　An　emaciated　old　black　woman　said　out　of　the　corner　of　her　mouth；　〃If　you're　a　reporter；　tell　them　we're　starving；〃　and　kept　walking。　Prostitutes　in　spandex　with　badly　bleached　hair　called　out　to　him。　Some　of　them　looked　so　young；　like　little　girls　masquerading　as　whores　for　Halloween。　Hustlers　harassed　him；　asking　him　what　he　needed。　Cocaine？　Putas？　Muchachos？　He　answered；　〃Nada；　nada；　nada。〃
　Deal　couldn't　deal　with　it　anymore。　He　craved　a　drink　or　two　or　three；　as　he　stumbled　on　La　Bodequita　del　Medio。　The　bar　of　the　cavelike　restaurant　was　covered　with　graffiti　and　pictures　of　Hemingway。　He　wondered　if　there　was　any　bar　in　the　world　where　Hemingway　hadn't　drunk。　He　read　a　sign　that　said　〃Home　of　the　Mojito；〃　so　he　ordered　one；　as　a　tough…looking　young　man　dressed　like　Dick　Tracy　walked　over　and　sat　next　to　him　at　the　bar。　〃I'm　Mike　Weston　from　Miami；〃　he　said；　holding　out　his　hand。　John　shook　it。
　〃You　here　for　the　babes；〃　Mike　said；　〃right？〃　John　just　looked　at　him。　〃Havana　is　the　best　place　for　putas　in　the　world。　In　Miami；〃　Mike　went　on；　〃chicks　think　they're　too　good　for　you　even　if　they're　dogs。　In　Cuba；　for　five　dollars　you　can　get　Claudia　Schiffer。　And　they're　pure。　They　don't　got　AIDS。　Any　fifteen…year…old　chick　can　be　yours　for　five　dollars。　Some　only　want　soap。〃
　Deal　tried　to　imagine　being　desperate　enough　to　have　sex　with　someone　who　only　wanted　to　get　clean；　wondered　how　long　the　embargo　would　last　if　the　Miami　Cubans　knew　what　it　was　doing　to　their　own　people。
　〃Got　to　go　now；〃　Mike　said；　leaving　to　join　a　group　of　men　who　had　just　entered　the　bar。　They　sat　at　a　table　in　the　back　surrounded　by　Cuban　soldiers。
　Deal　rubbed　his　eyes。　One　of　the　guys　looked　like　Juan　Carlos　Reyes；　that　deluded　rich　guy　who　thought　he　was　president　of　Cuba　in　exile。　He　was　sure　the　pudgy　bald　guy　at　the　head　of　the　table　was　Big　Joey　G。　One　other　guy　at　the　table　looked　familiar。
　Deal　tried　to　place　him　as　he　tossed　back　another　mojito；　and　then　it　hit　him。　It　was　that　Cuban　guy；　Hector；　in　Miami。　The　guy　who'd　forced　him　off　the　road　into　the　bay；　then　followed　him　around　when　he　had　the　head。　Hector　didn't　look　too　thrilled　about　being　with　this　particular　group。　And　there　was　a　pasty…faced　Anglo…looking　guy　beside　him　who　looked　just　as　unhappy。
　Deal　faced　dead　ahead　now；　shaking　his　head；　sipping　his　drink。　He　was　gonna　sit　there　till　they　left。　He　didn't　want　to　be　recognized。　Time　went　by　in　slow　motion。　Then　Deal　felt　a　tap　on　his　shoulder。　His　heart　stopped。　He　turned　around。　It　was　Mike　Weston。　〃Hey；　man；　you　want　to　e　with　me　and　score　some　Schiffers？〃　he　asked。
　
　Lilia　Sands　sat　in　her　house　in　Overtown；　on　her　plastic…covered　velvet　settee；　the　one　that　no　one　was　allowed　to　sit　on。　She　was　dressed　in　her　favorite　nightgown；　the　one　with　the　silk　and　feathers　and　lace；　the　one　she　called　her　wedding　dress；　the　one　she　wanted　to　be　buried　in。　Light　from　the　huge　moon　over　Miami　flowed　through　the　window。　There　was　something　in　the　hot　air。　Lilia　could　feel　it；　could　taste　it。　It　was　the　tropics；　it　was　her　youth；　it　was　Cuba。　She　was　sure　the　air　she　was　breathing　had　blown　up　from　her　beloved　Cuba。　Her　fingers　stroked　her　guitar。
　Lilia　drifted　back；　flowed　with　the　air　back　to　Cuba；　back　to　the　day　her　parents　had　given　her　to　the　nuns　because　they　had　no　food　to　feed　her　because　of　Batista；　back　to　the　day　the　nuns　had　shaved　her　head；　and　taken　her　one　dress；　the　one　made　from　the　train　of　her　mother's　wedding　gown。　She'd　sat　naked　in　front　of　the　convent　window；　tears　streaming　down　her　face　as　she　touched　the　luxurious　pile　of　black　hair　on　the　floor　that　would　soon　be　made　into　a　wig；　unable　to　make　herself　put　on　the　coarse　black　habit。　She　remembered　caressing　her　long　swanlike　neck；　her　perfect　soft　breasts；　her　hand　following　the　flow　of　sweat　down；　caressing　her　belly；　touching　the　only　hair　she　had　left。　But　before　she　could　escape　into　herself；　a　cold；　hard　hand　had　clapped　over　her　mouth。　She'd　tried　to　scream　but　nothing　came　out。
　As　the　man　in　the　trademark　olive　fatigues　bounced　along　Miami's　potholed　Overtown　streets　in　the　back　of　the　white　stretch　limo；　he　strained　to　remember。　He　wanted　to　get　the　details　perfect　by　the　time　he　arrived　at　Lilia's　house：　He　had　seen　her　in　the　moonlight；　an　image　so　beautiful　that　it　hurt；　causing　a　throbbing　pain　in　his　groin。　She'd　looked　like　some　kind　of　angel；　some　kind　of　Madonna；　some　kind　of　whore　sitting　in　the　convent　window。　She　was　everything；　she　was　nothing；　she　was　Cuba。　And　as　Columbus　had　said　when　he　landed　on　the　island；　〃No　man　has　ever　seen　a　land　as　beautiful　as　this。〃　No　man　had　ever　seen　a　woman　as　beautiful　as　Lilia。　He　couldn't　help　himself。　He'd　stripped　off　his　clothes；　his　body　the　white　of　sweet　condensed　milk；　hard；　trembling　with　anticipation。　He'd　climbed　the　statue　of　the　Virgin　de　la　Caridad　del　Cobre；　grabbed　a　rose　trellis；　not　even　feeling　the　thorns　of　the　rosebushes　cutting　into　his　skin；　and　left　tiny　dewdrops　of　red　blood　on　the　white　window…sill　as　he　climbed　into　Lilia's　room。
　Now　the　limo　was　passing　the　vacant　lot　beside　the　small　house　where　Lilia　lay　back　on　the　settee；　strumming　the　guitar；　singing　to　her　memories；　to　the　moon。
　Lilia　remembered　that　at　the　exact　moment　she　had　felt　the　hand　on　her　mouth；　she　had　felt　the　lips　on　her　bald　scalp；　then　a　warm　tongue　licking；　licking；　licking　like　a　kitten　licking　cream。　And　with　each　lick　she'd　melted　with　pleasure；　so　much　pleasure　that　she　knew　in　her　heart　that　there　was　nothing　she　wouldn't　do　for　this　nameless；　faceless　man。　And　he'd　removed　his　hand　from　her　face　to　swallow　her　mouth　with　his　and　he'd　tasted　of　the　brown　caramel　sauce　on　flan。　Then　he'd　pulled　away　from　her　and　held　out　his　arms　and　he　looked　like　Jesus　on　the　cross；　those　same　suffering　eyes　and　the　blood　dripping　from　his　rose…pricked　body；　and　he'd　said；　〃I；　Fidel　Castro；　on　this　Good　Friday　in　the　year　of　Our　Lord　one　thousand　nine　hundred　and　fifty；　will　turn　you；　my　queen；　into　a