“You don’t like my car. You don’t like my cigarettes. What do you like?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I took a sideways glance at her. Her mouth always seemed to be on the edge of a snarl, an impression that was enhanced by the strong white teeth that filled it. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t imagine anyone touching her without losing a finger. She sighed and, clasping her hands tightly, pushed them between her knees.

“So what’s your story, Señor Hausner?”

“I don’t have one.”

She shrugged. “It’s seven hundred miles to Santiago.”

“Try reading a book.” I knew she had one.

“Maybe I will.” She opened her handbag and took out a pair of glasses and a book and started to read.

After a while, I managed to sneak a look at the title. She was reading How the Steel Was Tempered, by Nikolai Ostrovsky. I tried not to smile, but it was no good.

“Something funny?”

I nodded at the book on her lap. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

“It’s about someone who participated in the Russian Revolution.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“So, what do you believe in?”

“Not much.”

“That’s not going to help anyone.”

“As if that matters.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“In my book, the party of not much beats the party of brotherly love every time. The people and the proletariat don’t need anyone’s help. Certainly not yours or mine.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Oh, I’m sure. But it’s funny, don’t you think? Both of us running away to Haiti like this. You because you believe in something, and me because I believe in nothing at all.”

“First it was not much you believed in. Now it’s nothing at all. Marx and Engels were correct. The bourgeoisie does produce its own grave diggers.”

I laughed.

“Well, we’ve established something,” she said. “That you are running away.”

“Yes. That’s my story. If you’re really interested, it’s the same story as always. The Flying Dutchman. The Wandering Jew. There’s been quite a bit of travel involved, one way or the other. I thought I was safe here in Cuba.”

“No one is safe in Cuba,” she said. “Not anymore.”

“I was safe,” I said, ignoring her. “Until I tried to play the hero. Only I forgot. I’m not the stuff of which heroes are made. Never was. Besides, the world doesn’t want heroes. They’re out of fashion, like last year’s hemlines. What is now required are freedom fighters and informers. Well, I’m too old for the one and too scrupulous for the other.”

“What happened?”

“Some obnoxious lieutenant of military intelligence wanted to make me his spy, only there was something about it I didn’t like.”

“Then you’re doing the right thing,” said Melba. “There’s no disgrace in not wanting to be a police spy.”