Spy in a Little Black Dress

XVII



I hope that isn’t a mirage, Jackie thought as a magnificent mansion appeared in the distance, shimmering in the sunlight that slanted down on its red-tiled roof. “Is that where we’re going?” she asked Emiliano.

“That’s it,” he said. “Walter Mitchell’s estate.”

Jackie brushed thick tendrils of sweat-matted hair away from her eyes and let out a long breath. “It looks like a palace. Do all United Fruit Company executives live in homes like that?”

“No, they all have big, beautiful houses on La Avenida, but Mitchell’s is at the end of those and larger and grander because he’s so high up in the company. Wait until we get closer. You’ll see what I mean.”

“At this point, I’d settle for a cot in a tent somewhere. Anything to get out of this broiling sun and away from these damn mosquitoes.” Jackie smacked at her arm, where a new insect bite had just left a swelling, itchy, red welt to add to the others dotting her arms and legs.

After their hair-raising jump from the train, Jackie had been trekking with Emiliano through the dense brush of the Oriente countryside for what seemed like days. Her legs felt leaden, her feet were bleeding, her throat was parched, and her stomach growled with hunger pangs. She was grateful that Emiliano had become increasingly protective of her, often slipping an arm under her elbow to prevent her from stumbling over a rock or covering her head with his hand to shield her from an overhanging tree branch. The tenderness of his touch told Jackie that Emiliano was not just being a gentleman anymore; he was exhibiting genuine caring. A tide of circumstances—the assignment they shared, their travels together, and the dangers they had faced—had propelled them into a closeness that was now inching toward intimacy.

Jackie’s feelings for Emiliano deepened when they passed a shantytown where the cane cutters lived in mud huts that looked like a colony of large ant hills, and he told her that he had grown up there.

“You mean you and your family lived in one of those shacks?” she asked, her incredulity mixed with compassion. “They’re so small, and they have no windows.”

He nodded. “Yes, the area is called a batey, and we lived in a one-room dirt bohío with no windows, no plumbing, and no electricity either. The only light came through the open doorway and cracks in the walls. We slept in hammocks and cooked our meals outdoors, and my parents had to carry water in buckets from a spigot at the edge of the cane fields.” He said it without a trace of self-pity or bitterness, simply as a fact of life.

Jackie looked at the scrawny children running around in the batey, without clothes on their backs or shoes on their feet, and couldn’t imagine Emiliano as one of them. Tears gathered in her eyes as she turned to him. “What a terrible childhood,” she said softly.

“No, actually, it wasn’t,” he told her. “My parents gave me unconditional love, and it was enough to sustain me through all the surface deprivation.” He pointed ahead to Walter Mitchell’s mansion, growing ever closer. “And don’t forget, I had a benefactor. Mr. Mitchell was very generous to me. It was because of him that I was able to go to expensive boarding schools and the University of Havana.”

Jackie was intrigued. “How did he happen to take such a liking to you?”

“He was grateful to me because I got his son, Ricky, out of some trouble.”

“Oh? What kind of trouble?”

“The American kids weren’t supposed to go near the batey, but Ricky was adventurous and liked to play with the Cuban boys. Then one day, some rough boys ganged up on him and tried to steal his clothes. I broke the fight up and brought Ricky back home. He was beaten up, but it could have been a lot worse.”

Jackie looked at him and smiled. “Your heart was always in the right place, wasn’t it? I’m proud of you.”

“Anyone else would have done the same thing. Ricky didn’t deserve that.”

“So the Mitchells repaid you by providing for your education?”

“Yes, and Ricky and I became pals. His parents thought I was a good influence on him, like a big brother. They always welcomed me into their home. Ricky and his sister, Stephanie, are away at college in the States now, so the Mitchells miss having young people around. They’ll give us a warm welcome, I’m sure.” Emiliano glanced at Jackie’s precious camera bag, which he was now carrying for her. “And when no one’s looking, we’ll sneak into their screening room with your reel of the Mexican Dracula and see if we can find Metzger’s treasure map.”

“I can’t wait.”

At this point, they had reached the palm-tree-lined approach to Walter Mitchell’s estate near the sea wall. As Emiliano had said, the estate stood in singular glory apart from the other beautiful homes on La Avenida, the gated managers’ row. Jackie inhaled the fragrant bougainvillea in the arbor and stared at the stately arcades and columns of the sprawling mansion surrounded by profuse gardens. It looked like Merrywood transplanted in a tropical setting.

Emiliano pulled Jackie aside before they reached the guard at the front gate and said in a low voice that only she could hear, “Now, remember, Walter Mitchell is a close friend of Batista’s. He has no inkling of my involvement with the rebels, so you must never breathe a word of it or say anything favorable about Fidel Castro. I’ll make up some story about who you are and why we’re here in such a sorry state.”

“Got it,” Jackie said.

The private guard, a sleepy-eyed, middle-aged man in a pale green uniform, gave Jackie a wary look but recognized Emiliano and nodded at him. “Buenos días, Señor Martinez,” he said, and opened the gate for them.

Jackie eyed the Olympic-sized turquoise pool on the grounds enviously, wishing that she could tear off her damp, grimy clothes and dive in, but she quelled that urge as she followed Emiliano to the front door. After several loud raps of the brass knocker, the door opened, and there stood a stout, pale, motherly-looking woman with graying hair piled high on her head in a towering beehive and a wide smile on her face.

“Emiliano, how nice to see you,” the woman said, holding her hands out to him. “Do come in.” She eyed Jackie with a look of curiosity tinged with sympathy, as if to say, Who is this poor, bedraggled creature?

“I hope we’re not disturbing you with this surprise visit, Mrs. Mitchell,” Emiliano said in a contrite tone, “but my friend and I had a car accident on the road, and we had nowhere else to turn.”

“A car accident? Oh, you poor dears,” Mrs. Mitchell clucked. “Of course you’re not disturbing me, Emiliano.” She glanced at Jackie. “And who is your beautiful friend?”

Jackie smiled, grateful for the “beautiful,” as she thought how her mother would have disowned her on the spot had she seen Jackie out in public looking so god-awful, no matter how calamitous the reason.

“This is Jacqueline Bouvier,” Emiliano said. “She’s an American journalist on a tour of Cuba. A mutual friend asked me to show Jacqueline Oriente Province. I was happy to be her guide, but unexpectedly, my car had some kind of mechanical failure. It happened so quickly that we went off the road and crashed into a tree. Luckily, we weren’t hurt, but we had to continue on foot until we got here.”

“How awful,” Mrs. Mitchell exclaimed with a little shudder. Then her face brightened, and she returned to being a cordial hostess. “Well, thank heavens you weren’t injured. Make yourselves at home,” she said as she led her guests into the breathtakingly spacious, lavishly furnished living room, an architectural triumph with a stunning parquet floor, marble columns, and vaulted windows. “I’ll have Esmerelda fix you something to eat and drink, and then you can rest up and spend the rest of the day here doing whatever you like.”

“That’s so kind of you, Mrs. Mitchell,” Jackie said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your hospitality.”

“My pleasure, dear.” Mrs. Mitchell beamed at Jackie and Emiliano as if she had some good news. “Actually, you two couldn’t have picked a better time for a visit. Tonight, we’re having a dinner dance for Ambassador Beaulac, and of course you’re invited to join us. Mr. Mitchell is at the club now, but I know he would insist on it if he were here.”

Jackie gulped. “That’s such an honor, but…” She glanced down at her filthy, torn cotton dress, and her voice trailed off.

“Oh, don’t worry about what to wear,” Mrs. Mitchell said quickly. “You can borrow something from the clothes my children left behind when they went off to college. They’re living in dungarees now.” The wistful note in her voice reminded Jackie of Emiliano’s description of the Mitchells as lonely parents who missed having their children at home. “A dinner jacket of Ricky’s should fit you perfectly, Emiliano.” She looked at Jackie with an appraising eye. “You’re about the same size as my daughter, Stephanie, so help yourself to a gown of hers for tonight and feel free to borrow whatever else you need for the daytime.”

Mrs. Mitchell left Jackie and Emiliano comfortably ensconced on a plush, hibiscus red sofa and went off to tell the cook to fix them something to eat.

It didn’t take long for a white-jacketed butler to appear with a tray laden with omelets, breads, assorted fruits, pastries, and a steaming pot of coffee. “Ven acá, por favor,” he said, and escorted them out to a table on the patio, shaded by a portico and overlooking the exquisite gardens.

Suddenly, the thought of poor Gabriela being held hostage by Sanchez and suffering unspeakable indignities at his brutal hands came back to haunt Jackie. “Emiliano, what about Gabriela?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Do you think Fidel will have her rescued?”

Emiliano reached for her hand and held it. “Yes, I do,” he said with conviction. “Fidel is not going to rest easy with so many of our people captured. He’ll figure out a way to get them back.”

Jackie felt reassured. From the little she’d seen of Castro, he had impressed her as someone who could achieve whatever he set out to do.

“Good,” she said, and dropped the subject.

Jackie thought she would want to take a nap after breakfast, but the jolt she received from the thick, high-voltage Cuban coffee gave her a second wind and the urge to enjoy these beautiful environs. “That pool looked so inviting,” she said to Emiliano as the butler cleared the table. “Why don’t we change into swimsuits, loll around for a while, and take a dip?”

Emiliano nodded. “Yes, I would like that. We could use some relaxation.”

Jackie jumped up, not even waiting for Emiliano to perform his usual gentlemanly custom of helping her out of her chair. “Good; then I’ll meet you at the pool.”

A uniformed housekeeper directed Jackie up the winding, mosaic tile staircase to Stephanie’s bedroom, one of many on the second floor. The embroidered silk bedspread, French mirrors, lace curtains, and hand-painted antique furniture provided a décor fit for a princess. Jackie had to admit, with a twinge of remorse, that it put her bedroom at Merrywood to shame.

After a fast shower, Jackie found a bathing suit in a bureau drawer and slipped it on, breathing a sigh of relief that she was indeed about the same size as Mrs. Mitchell’s daughter.

“Waiting long?” Jackie asked when she met Emiliano at the pool.

“No, I just got here myself.”

Jackie couldn’t take her eyes off him. In bathing trunks, a state of undress that she had never expected to see him in, Emiliano revealed the broad shoulders, muscular torso, and flat, hard stomach of a male model or a professional athlete. “Beautiful” was not a word that Jackie normally applied to a man, but after they’d rested a while, and Emiliano dove into the pool and began to swim, “beautiful” was the only word she could think of. He was all sinewy grace, tan arms rotating through the water with smooth, even strokes that had a hypnotic effect. Soon, Jackie leaped up from her chaise and joined him. Over and over again, they did laps together from one end of the pool to the other, moving side by side in perfect rhythm, attuned to each other like twin creatures of the sea. It was, Jackie thought, incredibly sexy.

“You’re a good swimmer, Jacqueline,” Emiliano said when they were toweling off. “Is that your favorite sport?”

“No, horseback riding is. I’ve been riding and competing in shows since I was a little girl. I’ve won trophies, but that’s just the icing on the cake for me. I’m passionate about riding for the pure pleasure of it, the feeling it gives me of running free.”

Emiliano’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “That sounds like you have the makings of a rebel, Jacqueline.”

Jackie smiled back. She liked this playful side of Emiliano, which he had rarely shown her before. It made her feel more attractive to him and more willing to share who she really was. “Yes, I do have a rebellious streak, but not in a political sense,” she said. “I have a sense of adventure, a curiosity about the world, and I refuse to be tied down by all the rules and regulations of someone in my social position. When I’m out riding, I feel as if I’m leaving all that behind.”

“You’re fortunate to have an escape like that,” Emiliano said with a touch of envy in his voice. He dropped his towel on the chaise and gave her a questioning look. “How would you like to go riding now? The Mitchells have horses, and they’re probably bored being cooped up in the stable without Ricky and Stephanie here to take them out.”

“Oh, what a great idea,” Jackie said. “I’d love to.” Something in her did a little cartwheel. She was still feeling the aftereffects of swimming in a kind of sensuous aquatic dance with Emiliano. If he’s as sexy a horseback rider as he is a swimmer, this is going to be good.

It was better than good. They started slowly, trotting at a leisurely pace, then advanced to a medium trot, and once they were out in the countryside, went full speed ahead in a thundering gallop. Jackie’s heart was racing as fast as her horse’s hooves. At Merrywood, she usually went riding alone, but now, having a partner to keep up an exhilarating pace and even prod her faster and faster filled her with a glorious sensation. With Emiliano at her side, the feeling of liberation that riding always gave Jackie was magnified tenfold.

When it looked as if they were approaching a town, Emiliano turned his head to her and shouted, “Are you ready to go back?”

“Yes,” Jackie called out at the top of her lungs, wanting to make sure Emiliano heard her over the loud stomping of the horses’ hooves. Although she felt as though she could have ridden forever with Emiliano, disappearing into the sunset like Roy Rogers and Dale Evans in The Cowboy and the Señorita, she was sweating profusely and in need of another shower. Besides, if Emiliano had been testing her to see if she could keep up with him on this ride, she had passed the test with flying colors. Now it was time to discover what else might bring them even closer.

It was lunchtime when they arrived at the estate, and Emiliano had an idea. “After we freshen up, why don’t we go on a picnic?”

“A picnic? Oh, I’d love that. I couldn’t think of a better place to have one.” It sounded so romantic, Jackie thought, as if Emiliano was actually starting to court her.

When they set off on their picnic, Emiliano had another surprise for Jackie. Instead of taking her somewhere on the grounds, he led her to a cove where a gleaming white yacht was docked, gently rocking in the water.

“Mrs. Mitchell said we could take their boat to Saetía for a couple of hours,” he said, “and have our picnic there. It’s a beautiful island with a private beach. United Fruit Company owns the property, and Cubans aren’t allowed to go there without the company’s permission.” He jiggled the cooler he was carrying. “I have something to drink in here, and if you like fish, I can catch some and cook it on the outdoor grill. All the equipment I need is on the boat.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Jackie said. A New England clambake, Cuban-style.

Wearing her oversized sunglasses and a kerchief around her hair, Jackie sat on the deck of the beautifully appointed yacht and watched Emiliano steer the craft through the clear turquoise water. When they approached the island, she admired his skill as he maneuvered through an opening in the reef, entered the bay, and docked.

“This is like paradise,” Jackie said when she saw the iridescent pink sand of the beach sparkling like champagne, and beyond that, the tropical fruit trees laden with mangoes, papayas, avocados, and huge flowers bursting with color.

“I won’t be long,” Emiliano said as he left Jackie at a picnic table in a secluded spot and went off to join some boys fishing from the reef.

“We’re in luck,” Emiliano said when he returned. “I caught us two beautiful red snappers.”

“Great,” Jackie said, turning her eyes away as Emiliano went to work cutting and filleting the fish with the precision of a surgeon. She busied herself setting out the picnic dinnerware they’d taken from the boat and opening a bottle of the vintage wine that Emiliano had brought in the cooler.

“Dinner is served, señorita,” Emiliano said as he set down two plates of beautifully grilled fish accompanied by slices of some avocados that he had plucked from a tree.

“Oh, Emiliano, this is delicious,” Jackie said, biting into the succulent snapper with the taste of the sea still on it. Even more delicious than the fish was her delight at being waited on by this latter-day Robinson Crusoe, who combined manly strength and resourcefulness with old-fashioned chivalry. She felt that they were like two castaways on a remote, idyllic island, sharing a private world of their own.

After their meal, they sat down on a blanket that Emiliano had spread on the ground. Woozy from the sun and the wine, Jackie stretched out with her head in Emiliano’s lap. Dreamily, she thought of how his awkward tentativeness toward her at first had gradually evolved into open affection and a strong bond throbbing with sexual tension. They had even gotten to the point where he felt comfortable calling her Jackie.

Gazing at the lush beauty of their surroundings, she wondered how Emiliano could give up access to all of this by joining forces with the rebels. When she asked him that, he said, “The Mitchells have been very good to me, but I’m still an outsider. As a Cuban, there’s a line I can never cross with them and an equality that I can never hope to achieve. Yes, they let me visit their estate and take their boat here on occasion, but that’s an anomaly. It’s only because I happened to be in the right place at the right time, or the wrong time for Ricky, that I’m not barred from La Avenida like all the other Cubans.”

He looked down at Jackie and sighed. “I don’t think you can understand what it’s like to be dependent on the kindness of a family that isn’t your own, knowing that whatever they’re giving you can be snatched away at any time.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Emiliano,” Jackie said. She explained how tenuous her financial situation was as the stepdaughter of Hugh Auchincloss, whose five direct descendants were the only ones legally allowed to have the family trust funds.

“So you see, as the ‘poor little rich girl,’ I have more in common with you than you think,” she concluded. The sight of the primitive dirt shacks in the batey came back to haunt her, and she quickly added, “But of course, I could never compare my circumstances to yours.” She reached up and stroked his cheek. “Honestly, Emiliano, even with help from the Mitchells, it’s amazing how far you’ve come. It seems to me that you could reach the heights if you wanted to.”

When he was quiet, Jackie said, “Maybe I shouldn’t bring this up, but I’m worried about you. What will happen to you if this revolution doesn’t succeed? I just hope you’re not throwing your future away.”

He shook his head. “But I don’t want a rosy future if it means toadying up to imperialists who have taken over my country,” he asserted. “The Mitchells are good people, but they’re company people. They have no problem exploiting slave labor for United Fruit, I’m sorry to say.” He took a gentler tone, as if he was trying to enlighten her. “You see, Jackie, that’s the difference between Batista and me. He was born in a dirt shack the same as I was and grew up always having the iron gate of managers’ row shut in his face. That made him want to gain the acceptance of the ruling class. So when he came to power, he groveled for them, accepted their bribes, and did their bidding while he kept his own people crushed underfoot. But I’m like Fidel Castro. I don’t want to curry favor with the overlords. I want them to leave. They’re not my heroes; my people are. When I read those passages from Los Miserables to the cigar-factory workers, I meant every word of them as if I had written them myself.”

“I know that, Emiliano,” Jackie murmured. She remembered how moved she had been listening to him read, and now those same sentiments welled up in her again and filled her heart to overflowing. She knew, suddenly, that she loved him, that she wanted to be one with him, if not forever, at least right here, right now. She was humbled by his passionate idealism, so pure and strong that he was willing to forgo everything and give his life for it. He was everything she admired in a man—intelligent, brave, loyal, and true. The setting was so perfect, the moment so right, that what she sensed was about to happen seemed inevitable.

She sat up, and they both moved toward each other at the same time. She looped her arms around his neck, and he held her in his arms while their lips pressed together and their mouths opened in long, deep, probing kisses that flooded her with pleasure. She pressed her body against his as the heat between them mounted and she felt herself being carried away on waves of passion relentlessly rolling out to a point of no return. With a low moan, she melted in his arms, beyond thought or caring.

Suddenly, Jackie felt Emiliano draw back from her and snap his head away. “¡Jesucristo!” he muttered angrily.

Her eyes blinked open, and she saw him leap up and yank a large branch from a tree. “What is it?” she asked, terrified that he had seen a snake. Her body began to tremble uncontrollably. Then she heard the noisy chugging… chugging… chugging sound of the boat’s motor starting up in the bay.

“It’s those kids who were fishing on the reef. They’re taking the yacht,” Emiliano cried, brandishing the tree limb like a club and shouting “¡Vete! ¡Vete!” as he ran toward the bay.

Jackie jumped up and ran after him. She stood on the beach and watched, ready to help Emiliano if he needed her. But luckily, the boat was still anchored, and the three boys, who looked like Cuban guajiros who had snuck onto the island illegally, jumped into the water and began swimming away when they saw Emiliano coming after them. They were probably pranksters, Jackie thought, who had just wanted to take the boat for a joyride. A rueful sigh escaped her. Little did they know that the joke had been on her.