That Time in Caracas: A Valáiria Hernández Mystery

By Carolina Cositore

That Time in Caracas is the third in the Valáiria Hernández Mystery series that also includes That Time in Havana and That Time in New York. An outspoken Cuban social worker who is proud of her country; she is a Cuban most folks in the United States may not get to meet. Laira (Valáiria Hernández named for Vladimir Lenin) is befriended by an ambitious neophyte journalist, who embroils her in her attempts to ferret out a movie star's secret. Along the way, she meets a number of Venezuelans from street sellers to government types, business people to film stars, travels to other cities, learns the Metro, and completes the satisfaction survey of Cuban volunteers, and in the end solves a couple of murders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098325626

Book preview

978-1-09832-562-6

PROLOGUE

The slender blonde stuffed her notebook deeper into her briefcase before slinging its strap and that of her camera behind her, leaving her hands freer to cope with the large drooping flower offering. Regrettably, the briefcase and camera bounced together and both thumped uncomfortably on her back as she stumbled across the beach to keep Celeste in sight.

Katie muttered to herself that the slinky actress was certainly making good time, but she’d emerged from a luxury beach cabana, not a barely one-star hotel, and citified Kati, never a morning person much less a before-morning person, had to push to keep up, sloshing through sand hiding who knew what sort of creature, across what she considered the aptly named Devil’s Point.

Celeste seemed to have undergone a complete change from the haughty star from whom Kati had been begging an interview these last months since her marriage. Not only what she had done to her trademark long, long hair that was now in some sort of head-hugging twenties do, but she’d apparently become a devotee of the Cuban Santeria goddess Yemaya, called Iemanjá here in Uruguay. This new Celeste seemed insecure and vulnerable and Kati was determined to find out what had caused the transformation.

Beginning at dawn today, February 2, worshipers would leave their offerings either in the sea waters sacred to the goddess or in baskets onshore for fisherman to take out to sea. If she had to go to a beach, why couldn’t the silly actress go to Punta del Este like all the rich Porteños, or at least worship with the thousands in Montevideo instead of this hippie fishing village, Katie grumbled to herself.

In spite of the uncomfortable hotel and her failure to locate the actress’s cabana last night or obtain coffee this morning, Kati was unwavering in her resolve to be here to get an exclusive. This was an unexpected special, not the dull interview of a newlywed actress, although that type of article normally constituted her job for the Venezuelan magazine, El Voz de Todas Las Importantes.

Still a novice, Kati knew that her boss, Jorge Vicente, allowed her to follow Celeste to this goddess-forsaken spot to incorporate Cuban Santeria into her story, but she didn’t care very much about that. She understood that Jorge was pursuing anything to do with Cuba in hopes of wrangling an interview with Fidel, but it was most unlikely she’d be invited along to Havana even if he succeeded.

One interesting factoid about this unexpected jaunt of the Venezuelan actress Celeste Millan, after the admittedly disappointing photo shoot for Chinese New Year in the Buenos Aires Chinatown, was that it was without her new husband, actor Gabriel Salazer. This gave credence to the rumor they were already on the verge of splitting up after less than a year of marriage. A split could wreck havoc with their careers because, although the Bolivarian government was progressive, Venezuela was still a Catholic country and their Catholic fans would not approve.

Kati paused as the easy image of the handsome Gabriel, with whom she also hoped to schedule an interview, slipped warmly before her mind’s eye, then shook her head sending her long blond hair flying straight back behind her as she set her professional journalist persona back into place, ignored her aching back and took off slogging again after the speeding Celeste Milan.

Continually stymied at securing an interview, Kati had cultivated everyone who had anything to do with the actress from her chauffeur to her manicurist and had reaped intriguing, if conflicting, possible motives for the actress’s changes. When she learned that Celeste would be here today, Kati not only got permission to follow her, getting up at this ridiculous hour, but also bought flowers for the goddess, which, without adequate hotel facilities, were now appearing pretty pathetic. Kati knew that Yemaya/Iemanjá was petitioned by those hoping to become pregnant; wouldn’t that be boring if Celeste was simply trying to keep her husband by getting pregnant. However, assured by a Santeria holy man consulted that Yemaya/Iemanjá was a goddess for the intelligent and career minded, not simply for fertility; Kati considered contributing her favorite rosy pink lipstick – on the outside chance Iemanjá would see her way clear to give her a boost up the journalist ladder.

She was breathing hard now and the large sagging bouquet was in her way. Once they got there, Kati would have to juggle note and picture taking in the sea mist on the rocky beach and she dearly wished she rated a photographer, or at least a recording device.

At last Celeste stopped briefly for prayer at the edge of the water and then entered the shallows, turning to smile professionally at those few people already gathering on the darkling beach. Kati grabbed her camera, trying to keep it out of the spray, and shot photos of the actress in her flowing gown, ankle deep in the surf with a huge basket of non-droopy flowers in the foreground and the sun beginning to rise behind her. They were good shots but she couldn’t help thinking if there was something interesting afoot with Celeste and she could expose it, at very least she’d merit someone to take notes for her.

Her reporter’s instincts had worked so far, she thought, musing on a tidbit that just might be the story to make Kati’s career. A potential story, Kati admitted to herself, she mustn’t jump too far ahead and she’d have to check it out thoroughly. The bits of gossip she’d unearthed agreed that Celeste had a secret, but the rumors ranged from something very personal to being privy to an important political confidence.

Either one could make Kati’s career if she broke the story. Personal secret was more likely, oh I hope it isn’t just that she can’t get pregnant, but a political one would net Kati more attention. Could Celeste know something important? Kati wondered. Celeste wasn’t known for her intellectual acumen nor was she a usual companion to important political people. But she had moved up the social ladder since her marriage, was decorative and quiet, so people might speak unguardedly in front of her and, as an actress, Celeste had a good memory. All considered, there was just a chance such a story might be true.

As the sun began to brighten the beach, Kati turned her camera to the crowd collecting there. They were a photogenic mix of hippies, poor fisherfolk and the very poor carrying offerings, with a sprinkling of the slightly more affluent, the bread and butter readers of El Voz de Todas Las Importantes. Kati looked around and saw that Celeste was leaving the water. I wonder if the silly woman knows anything at all, Kati asked herself as she saw the star set her basket onshore for the fishermen to bring out.

Snapping away, she continued ruminating: I’ll definitely have to try and get her to tell me the story…then verify it, maybe Gabriel will help with that, which thought brought a smile, then a fleeting scowl at the huge basket and the qualm that Yemaya would certainly prefer Celeste’s unknown plea to hers and even squash the story – if goddesses ranked such hings.

That about wraps this up, she thought morosely as she stowed her notebook back into her briefcase and considered how she could approach Celeste. As if the actress, or goddess, was reading her thoughts, Kati looked up to find the star at her side. She put on a wide, welcoming smile and asked Celeste seriously if she believed prayers to Yemaya would be efficacious. As they moved off comfortably together along the beach, Kati tossed her lipstick over her shoulder into the surf, just in case.

CHAPTER 1

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 2006

Laira

I shifted forward on the seat and tried to bend enough over the sleeping woman next to me to see out the window at the Venezuelan coastline, but my wanting out of the plane didn’t make us close enough yet and all I gained for the movement was the seat belt cutting into my stomach. I stopped immediately. I’d already gone twice to the tiny airplane toilet and didn’t want to have to go again. The physical discomfort in turn triggered uncomfortable mental and emotional feelings.

I am not a flighty woman, nor one easily discombobulated. Six months ago, I was not at all confused. My position as head of Havana’s psychiatric social work unit was fulfilling, if time-consuming, my familial relations were stable and pleasant as my father could be relied upon to cook, a skill at which I am not an adept, as well as help with Miguel, my dearly loved nearly adolescent son. I dated very occasionally with no strings attached. The one thing I felt I lacked, besides my daughter Mercedes, Miguel’s twin, who was stolen from me by her father when she was a baby; the one thing I felt I lacked was the opportunity to travel.

So I’d applied to do an experimental psycho-sociological survey of the Cuban medical teams volunteering in Venezuela concerning the stress reported by returning individuals. Both of my brothers had traveled and both to Venezuela. My older brother Camilo, Mio as I still used my baby name for him, had spent a few months in Caracas on a detective exchange two years ago, and my twin brother Ladi had been among the first Cuban doctors to volunteer with the medical teams in Venezuela.

I smiled at the relaxing visage of puffy clouds, which was all I could see out the window from my position, but almost immediately they reminded me of my one experience with snow (That Time in New York), which at once brought Bill and my present predicament to mind.

This brief trip to Venezuela as a psychiatric social worker was unusual and had not been at all easy to arrange with the powers-that-be; consequently, I wanted nothing to mess it up. I had originally wanted to accompany a medical team here for a year, but that could not be arranged. The survey was an experiment I’d thought up and mentioned to my family. It had the advantage of being of shorter duration; hence less expensive to fund. That it came about at all was no doubt due to the influence of my brothers, especially my detective brother Colonel Camilo and his superior, Felix, a former lover of mine. Both of them would like me to have new experiences distant from Bill, who is a U.S. citizen.

When I’d applied for this trip, I’d thought the timing ideal. My son, Miguel, at 12 ½ is still malleable enough for my father to manage despite his heart condition; a year from now that might not be true. Of course I knew I’d miss both of them terribly, as they, especially my father, José, would miss me. All of this transitory nostalgia and guilt would have been manageable if not for Bill.

I’d met him, my first foreigner, first U.S. citizen, last summer (That Time in Havana) and the approval to join the team to Venezuela finally came while I was on my first ever out of country trip: visiting him in the United States for a two-week fiancée visit in December; although I had made it perfectly clear that I was not his fiancée, it was the only way we could get the U.S. visa for me.

I loosened the seat belt and squirmed around trying to feel better, earning a scowl from my seatmate as my ample hip bumped hers. I can’t help it, I am plump and these seats are too close together for comfort. All those years mostly without a man, concentrating on my work and my son; except for one brief disastrous affair, only to halfway fall for a foreigner.

I was still in more than like but less than love with Bill, although I had been leaning to the stronger feeling by New Year’s when I first suspected that during the visit I may have possibly become pregnant. While I have just begun to be nauseous a good part of every morning and my bladder seems to have shrunk incredibly, for good and cogent personal reasons, I haven’t checked with a doctor, so technically it is still merely a possibility.

Tiny, developing, blockaded Cuba has one of the lowest maternal and infant mortality rates in the entire world. One reason for this is that Cuban medical authorities prioritize pregnant women, babies and children. There is no way I would have been permitted to make this trip if they suspected I was not only pregnant, but pregnant at the advanced age of 40; no matter how healthy I feel. I knew that if I didn’t go now to Venezuela I might never go. If I am pregnant, it is only about five or six weeks, less than two months anyway, and I’m not showing yet, although with my comfortable figure it would be difficult to tell. My mental ruminations were interrupted by physical ruminations as I had to get up and run again to the uncomfortably small airplane lavatory.

Back in my seat I kept the seat belt off and continued reflecting, not rationalizing I told my therapist self. Abortion in Cuba is free, as are all medical procedures there: it isn’t encouraged, but it’s not forbidden either. Use of condoms and other preventatives are strenuously encouraged and are free. ¡Cuño! I don’t know what we were thinking! Obviously we weren’t thinking; especially that first night, well maybe one other time. I certainly didn’t plan to get pregnant, but aborting is not a comfortable option for me.

The important point is that this must be entirely my decision. No one, but absolutely no one, not Bill, not my detective brother Camilo, not even my physician twin Ladi, knows that I have certain sensations in various body parts that would lead one to believe… well Ladi may suspect, but doesn’t know. And all I knew is that if I didn’t go on this trip now, I might never go. But now that I’m on my way serious second thoughts are looming.

Miguel is now my only child since my ex-husband Luis stole my baby girl, Miguel’s twin sister, and brought her to the United States where she disappeared. As always, thinking of little Merci made me feel her weight in my heart still after all these years. Bill has hired a detective to search for her in the United States, but we aren’t hopeful. If I am pregnant, perhaps this would be a girl. I sighed deeply and shifted again; my now awake seatmate frowned and rattled her magazine.

The pilot announced our approach to Caracas airport – at last – and I leaned forward sans seat belt to catch a glimpse of the coast.

It took a while to clear Venezuelan immigration and customs because two other planes had landed at almost the same time, and it felt even longer because I had thoroughly emptied my stomach both before and during the flight. A woman always ready to eat, I looked around to distract myself from the wait until I could get food. As I looked around it suddenly, and finally, hit me: I was alone here.

For the last few weeks since I’d returned from the United States, I’ve been agonizing over my job and the people I was leaving for this trip. My family, of course, we Cubans are very family conscious, but also my staff of five social workers and all the people we are committed to helping in Havana. I hadn’t given a thought that this will be the first time in my life I will not be surrounded by brothers, friends, neighbors and coworkers, all of whom have known me for years if not all of my life. While I have wanted to travel, I have never been especially interested in meeting foreigners. I did have to meet new people in December when I visited Bill in New York, but I had him and his friend Mark as anchors and it was just for a couple of weeks. For the first time at forty, I will not be in my milieu and not only will my work here be new, but the people; everyone and everything will be different. I will be the foreigner. That took a moment to sink in. No one is even meeting me at the airport; I’m to call my new supervisor, Dr. Foca, when I get to Caracas. Cuño! What sort of a social worker am I? Why didn’t I prepare myself? What have I gotten myself in for and how will I manage if I am pregnant?

As I agonized over this should-have-been-foreseen development, I became aware that I had been unconsciously staring at someone in the next line over. I guess I was homesick already because the man was almost certainly Cuban. The awareness came about because the guy, in his late twenties wearing a well-washed green tee shirt and very new looking jeans, was looking back at me with that do you know me? look in response to my staring. Go make your first new friend, I ordered myself, although it was probably cheating to start with a fellow Cuban.

Within just a few minutes I learned that newly divorced Leonardo Estrada lived with his mother and grandmother in 10 de Octubre in Havana, was probably some sort of distant cousin or nephew of my late mother, had been in Caracas only two weeks as the Prensa Latina correspondent and had just arrived on a flight from Argentina.

He introduced me to the two Venezuelan journalists with whom he was traveling: Kati Rojas, a slender blond who looked bursting with energy, and Jorge Vicente, a tall, rather professorial looking man dressed in black with a paunch and an unshaven look maybe growing into a goatee. I don’t like goatees…not even my twin brother’s. After a fleeting smile and brief nod, Kati took off after a glamorous couple standing with the first class passengers and Jorge gave me the unwelcome news that it was too late to find a taxi into Caracas this evening.

Leonardo, with all of two weeks’ advantage over me here, was happy to show off, giving me the also unwanted news that the direct route to Caracas over the viaduct from the coast was closed. It had been plagued since the 1980s with landslides and earthquakes but, although other governments had made short-term repairs, the Chávez government closed the highway last month for a long-term solution. Thus in February 2006, the usual 30-minute ride was now a long narrow and steep detour around the viaduct, which it was prudent to avoid at night.

He said there was an inexpensive hotel on this otherwise expensive El Litoral central coastal zone where Venezuelan travelers routinely stayed to avoid nighttime crime before that long commute into Caracas. He told me that he and his traveling companions would spend the night there. Because he said Venezuelan travelers stayed here to avoid crime and I really had no choice, I thought I would try to stay there too. We have very little crime in Havana and I did not want to take a chance. And, because it was a Cuban who said the hotel was inexpensive, I believed him. We are not given a great deal of travel money.

Kati rejoined us with a wide smile this time, most of it probably for handsome Leonardo, as we went through immigration and waited for our luggage and, when properly introduced, not only invited me to join them at the hotel, but after a short discussion, offered to share her hotel room, for which I was extremely grateful; half price at an inexpensive hotel is even better!

As we went outside to find a cab, she again latched onto the first class passengers, who turned out to be the gorgeous young Venezuelan actress Celeste Millan and her actor husband, whose name escaped me, and an older Venezuelan character actor, whose name was Mario something. Unlike some of my friends in Havana, I’m not much of a film buff. They were standing by a large limousine whose chauffeur was loading their luggage into the back. My first surprise was that they would be staying the night at the same hotel as we were, which produced a qualm that perhaps it would not be inexpensive after all. The second was a gracious offer by the older actor for us to share his limousine. We all piled in and in the short ride the younger actor, Gabriel Salazar, proved to be not only attractive, but very warm and down to earth, rather like Bill I thought.

After checking in, the celebrities marched off and my three new friends made plans to freshen up and meet again in an hour for dinner. I looked around the lobby for a computer and a light snack. The computer to let my family and Bill know that I’d arrived safely and a snack because I was so hungry I couldn’t last the hour while everyone changed. Before heading up to the room, Kati gave me a smashed and semi melted chocolate bar; how could she have kept this candy so long without eating it that it melted?

My family and Bill knew I would have occasional access to a computer once I was settled in Caracas, so I just wrote one brief note for all of them telling them I’d arrived and had already met a famous movie star. There were two messages in my in-box, a love note from Bill and a reminder from my son Miguel to try to visit his former teacher Ana Maria Moreno, teaching literacy in an indigenous community in Moríche that was not far from Caracas, he said. I’d have to check how far was not far in his 12-year-old mind. I did not have my motorbike here and would be relying on public transportation. Venezuela is considerably larger than Cuba.

I also used the lobby telephone to call the number I had been given for Dr. Javier Foca, who was head of the Caracas medical team to which I was assigned. There was no answer so I left a message for him on the voice mail telling him I was delayed and would arrive tomorrow.

My smiling and generous roommate Kati, I was soon to appreciate, was full of intelligent conversation; a great deal of conversation. As she moved around the room, Kati kept up constant informative chatter between incessant cell phone calls, and I enjoyed listening when I thought she was talking to me, but it became an effort to keep my eyes and ears open from my very relaxed position on the comfortable bed. Kati spoke quickly, even to Cuban ears, and I wasn’t always certain when she was speaking to me and when to her telephone person, but before falling asleep I gathered that Kati was pursuing an important lead and the actors, or at least Celeste, was somehow involved.

Gabriel and Celeste

As soon as the bellman left with an order for drinks and snacks, Celeste began pacing the length of the room—as much as there was—unconsciously glancing at her reflection and adjusting her posture, hair or other detail each time she passed the large mirror in their suite, what passed for a suite in this hotel, she thought but didn’t say. The room was the best the hotel had to offer, but not what the young movie star had recently become accustomed to; it was merely a large bedroom with an afterthought foldout sofa and reminded her unpleasantly of too many rooms she’d lived in before stardom. The cabana accommodations in the Uruguayan village had been just adequate, although with compensations, but here! She understood that their agent wanted to keep their whereabouts safe from the eyes of the major press until they’d sorted themselves out, although they seemed to be carrying their own mini paparazzi around with them, but was this the best he could do?

Will you please stop pacing and pay attention? I need to talk with you. At least look at me. We need to talk, Gabriel strove to merge into his understanding lover role from the successful soap opera "From Here to Zanzibar" in order not to show his exasperation, but she wasn’t cooperating; she’d probably been too young when it was popular. Seemingly without trying lately his immature wife could easily trigger …something; the anger he had worked so hard to master and that was no longer part of him, at least he thought she didn’t do it intentionally.

After the bombshell she’d dropped in Argentina, she’d avoided being alone with him as much as to sort herself out, or at least calm sufficiently to interact with her fans, by going off suddenly to Uruguay and now she was avoiding even looking at him. He stood in front of her, preventing her forward march. We must talk, he repeated softly, placing his hands gently on her shoulders to stop her. I am trying to understand, he enunciated carefully.

What’s to talk about? What do you need to understand? she mimicked his enunciation. We don’t belong together.

Esti…

She interrupted, Don’t call me that!

Celeste then. He focused on his diaphragm breathing for a few seconds, putting his emotions to one side before he resumed.

When we married… he stopped and started again. When Luis came up with the idea of pairing us off; we both knew our marriage would be a fantastic publicity stunt…a most enjoyable publicity triumph, he hastened to add as she scowled. The most eligible bachelor actor in his prime with the sexy young actress who was shooting up to stardom. They both smiled.

Encouraged, he went on, And we, at least I, did…do enjoy our time together, but because it was a marriage of professional convenience, it was only a matter of time before something happened, he paused for her response.

"Gabriel, this isn’t just ‘something