Rafael jumped from his chair, struck an absurd caricature of military posture, and made a limp French salute, his hand resting languidly against his ear. "Mais oui, mon général," he said. "Mais oui, oui, oui." He marched stiffly out of the room, posing at the door to make an obscene gesture meant for the men of Vichy.
He glided noiselessly back to the dark office in a few minutes, waved Hall's proffered cigar away. "I can't smoke any more. We had nothing to smoke the last year in Spain, and Monsieur Daladier and Company never sent us any tobacco. Now I just can't stand it. I walk around Havana and everyone offers me cigars, but I've lost my taste for it."
"It will come back, Rafael."
"Why are you in Havana, Mateo?"
"It is a long story, chico. I'd rather tell you in front of Santiago. It's about Anibal Tabio. I left San Hermano two nights ago. Things are serious, there. Falange."
"Is Tabio really so ill?"
"He is dying, chico. He may be dead by now. I think he was killed by the Falange. I came here for the proof. Santiago knows. We've exchanged letters."
"Hola!" Santiago Iglesias was at the door. "Then you got my letters?" He was ten years older than Rafael, tall and powerfully built. He crossed the room in long, athlete's strides, his head thrown back as if to announce to the world that the white hairs which outnumbered the black of his head were merely an accident of the war.
"I knew you would understand," Hall said.
"What happens?"