“Novels. Westerns, I think. He told me he writes under the name of Buck Dexter.”

“Never heard of him. Does he live in Cuba?”

“No, he lives in London. But he always visits us when he’s in Havana.”

“A traveler, eh?”

“Yes. Apparently he’s on his way to Haiti this time.” She smiled. “You don’t see the likeness now?”

“No, not really,” I said firmly, and was pleased when she seemed to change the subject.

“How was it with Omara today?”

I nodded. “Good.”

“You like her, yes?”

“Very much.”

“She’s from Santiago,” said Doña Marina, as if this explained everything. “All of my best girls come from Santiago. They’re the most African-looking girls in Cuba. Men seem to like that.”

“I know I do.”

“I think it has something to do with the fact that unlike white women, black women have a pelvis that’s almost as big as a man’s. An anthropoid pelvis. And before you ask me how I know that, it’s because I used to be a nurse.”

I wasn’t surprised to learn this. Doña Marina put a premium on sexual health and hygiene and the staff at her house on Malecón included two nurses who were trained to deal with everything from a dose of jelly to a massive heart attack. I’d heard it said that you had a better chance of surviving cardiac arrest at Casa Marina than you did at the University of Havana Medical School.

“Santiago’s a real melting pot,” she continued. “Jamaicans, Haitians, Dominicans, Bahamians—it’s Cuba’s most Caribbean city. And its most rebellious, of course. All of our revolutions start in Santiago. I think it’s because all of the people who live there are related in one way or another.”

She twisted a cigarette into a little amber holder and lit it with a handsome silver Tallboy.

“For example, did you know that Omara is related to the man who looks after your boat in Santiago?”

I was beginning to see that there was some purpose behind Doña Marina’s conversation, because it was not just Mr. Greene who was going to Haiti, it was me, too, only my trip was supposed to be a secret.

“No, I didn’t.” I glanced at my watch, but before I could make my excuses and leave, Doña Marina had ushered me into her private drawing room and was offering me a drink. And thinking that perhaps it was best that I listen to what she had to say, in view of her mentioning my boat, I replied that I’d take an añejo.

She fetched a bottle-aged rum and poured me a large one.

“Mr. Greene is also very fond of our Havana rum,” she said.

“I think you’d better come to the point now,” I said. “Don’t you?”

And so she did.