Free Tropic of Darkness by Tony Richards

is my major, and I read it well enough. But I like to practice my speech.”
    â€œI’d hardly say you needed to.”
    Luis shrugged.
    â€œI was wondering, have you seen Old Havana yet? The cathedral? The museums?”
    Jack figured out, at last, where this was heading.
    â€œUm—no, thanks. I don’t need a guided tour.”
    â€œThe Columbus Cemetery, then? It’s very interesting.”
    A broad smile split Jack’s features.
    â€œUh-huh? And how much would you want to show me this extremely interesting cemetery?”
    â€œTwenty dollars?”
    â€œBut I thought you needed to practice your English. You ought to be the one paying me, don’t you think?”
    That made the young guy stare down at the parquet flooring, resignation etched onto his brow.
    â€œThen I apologize for troubling you, Señor . Please excuse me. And enjoy your stay here.”
    He was turning around to leave when it occurred to Jack he did have a whole afternoon to kill. And what the hell, this kid seemed decent enough and was only trying to make an honest buck.
    â€œTen dollars,” he offered.
    Luis stopped.
    â€œFifteen?”
    And Jack laughed, standing up.
    â€œWell . . . first, let’s see how ‘very interesting’ this cemetery is, okay?”
    *   *   *
    It was worth twenty. Actually no, a good deal more than that.
    The Columbus Cemetery had the entire history of Cuba buried in its parched brown earth. There were governors and generals, priests and martyrs, actors, baseball players, poets, journalists. Even the great chess master Capablanca lay there, out-gambited by death at last.
    Everywhere Jack looked there were marble angels, whole celestial squadrons of them, wings spread out against the sky. And stone crosses in every style imaginable.
    There were signs too, almost everywhere he looked, of practices other than Christianity.
    Laid by many of the graves were little figurines, bowls of spoiled fruit, and even cooked foodstuffs. Arrangements of shells and stones and cigar stubs, and candles in glass jars.
    He had a pretty good idea what this was about, but pretended not to notice it at first, fearful of offending Luis.
    â€œWe’re now entering the oldest part,” the student was explaining.
    He had proved to be an excellent and thorough guide, with not only knowledge of his island’s history, but a sense of pride in it.
    â€œOver here—” he began saying.
    Then he seemed to finally notice the attention Jack was paying to the fetishes and symbols. They were more in evidence than ever in this section of the grounds.
    â€œOh.” Luis peered at them himself, trying to seem nonchalant. “This stuff, this is nothing. Just a local custom.”
    â€œIt’s Santería, isn’t it?” Jack countered.
    He had come across it many times before, although only ever in passing. He had brushed against its outer edges and no more than that, usually in the poorer barrios of some large city.
    Cuban voodoo, pretty much. Its gods each identified with a Catholic saint. It had spread right across Latin America, so he’d heard. But its practitioners were obsessively secretive, especially round Yanquis like himself.
    He cocked his head to one side, peering at the boy.
    â€œHell, Luis, I thought this was supposed to be an atheistic sort of place. How widely is this stuff used here?”
    His guide was looking increasingly awkward, but was honest enough to give him the straight answer that he wanted.
    â€œMost people believe in it a little bit. The poor, of course, believe a lot.”
    â€œAnd what opinion does the government have of that?”
    â€œThey don’t have too much problem with it. Even if they did, there’s not a whole load they could do about it.”
    Jack mulled this over carefully, and then rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
    â€œI’ll tell you something, my friend. Cuba is the strangest and