Havana Jazz Club by Lola Mariné Page B

in a long time. He would reunite with his charming family in his warm house full of love and children’s laughter, and she would have to face an uncertain destiny alone.
    Night was starting to fall over the city.
    “We’re here,” Mario announced when he realized she was awake. “Where would you like me to drop you?”
    “Wherever you’re going,” she replied doubtfully, shrugging her shoulders.
    “Do you have somewhere to go? Do you know anyone here?”
    Though Billie nodded, Mario knew she was lying. He felt so sorry for her, but what could he do?
    “If you like I can leave you downtown. From there, it’ll be easy to get . . . wherever you’re going.”
    “Okay,” Billie said, and felt tears forming in her eyes again. She didn’t want to cry. She had to be strong. At least until she got away from Mario. She didn’t want to make him more uncomfortable.
    They both stayed silent as the car passed through the dense city traffic. Both curious and nervous, Billie studied the streets, watching the crowds rushing around, though they didn’t seem to move quite as quickly as in Madrid. The heat was humid and settled on her skin. She swallowed the despair that pressed against her chest. At least the hell she had lived through was behind her, many miles away. Maybe it would be easier to forget that way . . .
    Mario stopped the car at the corner of Catedral Avenue and Via Laietana.
    “Well,” Mario said, turning toward Billie and forcing a smile, “I think you’ll be fine here. It’s a nice central spot with plenty of metros and buses. I have to turn off here.”
    The man pointed to the left, toward Princesa Street.
    “Okay,” Billie said, her voice wavering as she prepared to get out of the car.
    “My wife and children are waiting for me,” he added as though to justify himself.
    She nodded again and hurried to get out.
    “Thank you so much for everything,” she said from the sidewalk, through the window.
    “Wait,” Mario handed her a folded slip of paper. “Here’s my phone number. Call me if you need anything. Good luck, Billie.”
    She took the paper and nodded with a weak smile as Mario gave a final wave and his car disappeared in traffic. Billie unfolded the paper and discovered that, along with a phone number, it contained a thousand-peso bill. She looked up with a protest on her lips, but his car was already out of sight. “Thank you,” she muttered. She folded the bill and the paper again and clenched it in her fist. Then she took a deep breath and turned toward Catedral Avenue. As her gaze landed on the magnificent Gothic facade of the illuminated church, she felt overwhelmed by its beauty.
    Unable to take her eyes off the cathedral’s front doors, she walked decisively toward the wide stairs, as if drawn by a magnet.
    As she stepped into the dimly lit interior and inhaled the scent of incense and wax, she felt an immediate sense of calm. She dipped her fingers in the stoup of holy water and blessed herself fervently. Billie had inherited her mother’s religious syncretism, and since there was no venerated image of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre, who presided over the family home in her house in Cuba, she prostrated in front of the sorrowful Holy Christ of Lepanto. Many candles lit by the pious burned at the image’s feet, and she lamented not having any coins to light her own. Instead, she murmured a prayer to ask the good Lord to light one for her to change her luck.
    She felt calm and safe there, the silence broken only by the respectful whispers of prayers.
    “Excuse me,” a voice whispered to her.
    She looked up. A young priest in a black cassock was leaning toward her with a friendly smile.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’re closing soon.”
    Billie looked around. The church had completely emptied out.
    “Father, I need to confess,” she said impulsively.
    “I’m sorry, my daughter, but that’s not possible now. Come back tomorrow. And be calm. Jesus has already