Dolores was transfixed. A religious fervour crackled in the air of the mouldy hall. She leaned forward in her seat, hands poised to clap. Elegant hands with a fresh manicure that she noticed even if others didn’t.
Beneath a golden banner bearing the words ‘Libra Coin,’ a stocky man with a shaven head strutted on stage. He wore a dark suit with sharp lines. His cufflinks sparkled in the spotlight, and his teeth matched his shirt.
‘Do you want to be rich?’ he appealed in pleasing Creole, sweeping a hand around the audience.
Nobody was in any doubt. The hall resounded with the reply: ‘Wi! Wi!’ ‘Yes!’
‘Do you want to be rich?’ he repeated, and the hall exploded. ‘Wi! Wi!’
The path to riches was an easy one, the man assured them in a calmer tone. He was living testament to that with the rock of a Rolex that flashed when he twitched a starched cuff, and his fine-soled Louis Vuitton loafers that slapped the wooden boards. His grin was all they needed to embark on the journey to riches with him—if only he would take them with him. A villa with a swimming pool and working air-conditioner. A Japanese car. Dolores made an effort to tramp her feet in rhythm with the others, in her slingback heels. She tried out the dream as she looked around, breathing the stale sweat and seeing the worn-out clothes of her fellow disciples. In modern Cuba it was possible to be rich like the Western tourists who gathered like paradise birds in the Hotel Nacional for cocktails. Her armpits were damp—the air-conditioning asthmatic, barely reaching the back of the hall where she sat. She wriggled in the hard wooden seat. Her bottom tingled.
‘I have a secret I’m going to share with all of you here today.’
‘Di nou!’ a woman cried, unable to contain her enthusiasm. ‘Tell us!’ Was she a plant? Dolores narrowed her eyes, seeking out the voice. She twisted off the cap of a bottle of Cristal water and sniffed at it before taking a draft. It smelt of the mouth of the sinkhole at home. She left a reluctant crimson lipstick stain on the neck of the bottle and raised her eyes to the stage.
The man raised a finger in the air. ‘Just for today, and just for the people in this hall. I have negotiated a special price. Our complete education package. You buy this and you will get 50 Libra Coins in the package. Those coins can be worth thousands of dollars in only three months.’ Dolores jerked her head to see who gasped. ‘And what will I ask you for this package?’
Somebody shouted, ‘A thousand dollars.’
The man on stage folded his arms, pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Not a thousand dollars.’
’Eight hundred,’ said a voice.
‘Not eight hundred.’
Dolores heard whispered guesses. A woman in a florid scarf nudged her. ‘What do you think?’ she hissed.
‘Not seven hundred,’ said the man. He held up a glossy-backed, thick-leaved folder embossed with a gold coin. Flapped it in the air. ‘Your passport to riches. What do you want to pay?’
A shout. ’Six hundred dollars!’
‘Warmer,’ said the man, with a wide-mouthed grin.
The room was buzzing. Dolores didn’t know what it could be worth to make her an independent woman—her man was American and he never saw her go without, but this was her chance. She couldn’t help herself. ‘Five hundred bucks,’ she called out, feeling all eyes on her. Her stomach tightened. He pointed at her and laughed—a deep, sonorous laugh. He was like a shaman.
‘Not even five hundred. For today—and only today—I will gift you this package, our bronze package, for only four hundred and ninety-five dollars. A murmur. ‘And it’s only the start of your Libra life—and don’t forget, every Libra coin is saving Cuba from the effects of global warming.’
People were already reaching for their wallets and purses as the Libra Life refrain boomed from speakers in the ceiling.
‘Live your best life.
Live your Libra life.
Celebrate your freedom.
Celebrate your Cuban home.’
A swell of applause arose as the Libra ambassador bounded from the stage, pumping hands and bumping fists.
Dolores thought she recognised the woman who had shouted ‘tell us!’ in the hall, making for the exit, as she took her place in the queue, gripping the golden chain of her fake Gucci handbag.
Two tables flanked the doors. People in threadbare, stale-smelling clothes shuffled forward to lay down bundles of dollars and New Republic Pesos, and walked outside with their bronze-level gifts. Dolores thought of the thousands of dollars that could be hers in just a few months, and hoped there would be enough of the precious folders to go around.
The day dazzled as Dolores stepped into the scrappy parking lot outside the hall, nursing her Libra Coin manual. The sun blinked off the shiny paintwork of two brand new Toyota Hiluxes parked nose to nose, one gold and one silver, presided over by two men in Libra Coin polo shirts bearing identical grins. ‘Like to take a turn in the driving seat, señora?’ said one, like a come-on in a nightclub.
A few people were peering into the interior of the trucks, careful not to touch anything.
‘Why would I want to do that?’ said Dolores.
He flashed a secret look at the shadow of her breasts and she adjusted the buttons of her blouse. ‘Our two top performers will get one of these.’ A badge identified him as ‘Juan Bernito, VP Marketing’.
‘I already have a car.’ She sniffed, pushing back the bridge of her designer sunglasses. The cars had fat tyres, stood high off the ground and looked like they could handle themselves. A heat haze rose from the cracked concrete of the lot. A few scrawny palm trees rustled their leaves in restless angst.
‘Not like these, señora. Latest models. Emissions free.’
‘My car is already free,’ she said, looking past him at the leather upholstery.
Beyond the parking lot a motorcycle buzzed past carrying what looked like a whole family. An ancient Lada trailed a cloud of black exhaust.
‘What do I have to do to win one of these?’
Juan wielded a tablet computer. ‘What’s your name?’ he said, fingertip poised.
Dolores gave him her details. What harm could it do?
‘Top the leaderboard for the month and you’ll win a car like this, Dolores,’ he said, pressing a business card on her. ‘You want a car like this, don’t you?’ He touched the glossy paintwork, like a caress, but withdrew his hand at once, bitten by the hot metal. ‘Our top performer last month was a waitress in Varadero.’
She took the card. There was a QR code and embossed type. The card was bright white in the sunshine. ‘I don’t need a car,’ she said. ‘And I’m not a waitress.’
A scrawny, skeletal dog sniffed at the tyre of one of the Hiluxes and when Juan kicked out with a shiny shoe it skittered away in a flurry of dust.
She wondered what Bob, her American, would make of this. He was a sceptic—he hadn’t been here to fall for Castro’s monologues in the Plaza de la Revolución. She slipped the business card into her purse and walked away with a flutter of her hand at Juan, who she sensed would be watching the swing of her haunches.
