Tropic of Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page A

time till there was no one else around. And then . . . it didn’t take much guessing.
    â€œI like the look of you, man,” the guy kept saying. “I think we could be good friends. I’m the best friend you could have in a city like this. I can get you anything you want. These damn Communists, they don’t know shit. Anything your heart desires, tell me and it’s yours.”
    Jack kept hoping against hope the man would get tired and give up. But there was no sign of that happening.
    â€œWhy are you ignoring me, huh? Tell me what you’d really like. Weed? Coke? Girls? Really young ones? Come on, don’t be shy. I’m like a priest—you can tell me all your secrets.”
    He clapped an arm round Jack’s shoulder. And that was going too far by a good long mile.
    The man was in a wristlock the next instant, being propelled into the cover of a sunken doorway. And when he looked down, Jack’s knife was open, winking by his throat.
    The hustler went up on his tiptoes, trying to escape the blade. Jack pressed his face up close.
    â€œI don’t want you following me anymore,” he said between clenched teeth. “If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll cut you bad. You understand?”
    Sweating, the man nodded.
    â€œGood. Have a nice day.”
    Jack turned the guy around, propelled him out across the worn old cobbles with the flat sole of his shoe. And the fellow kept on going, scrambling down the lane, only glancing back once he had reached the bottom. Then he disappeared around a corner.
    Jack closed the knife and pocketed it, feeling satisfied. He knew how fast the jungle drums sounded among guys like that. Word would be all over the square by the time he returned. He’d not be bothered anymore.
    Except he felt a slight twinge at the edges of his consciousness. A softly spoken question seemed to nag at him. He had grown good, down the years, at dealing with people in that way. He’d learned it since he’d crossed the border. But was that the only thing he had become, a solitary creature with a densely toughened outer shell? Persistence and survival . . . was that all his life amounted to these days?
    He wasn’t sure about it. The feelings put him off his balance, leaving him uncertain. But he wondered if—by this stage of his life—there really ought to be a whole lot more than that. He felt like—ever since the age of nineteen—he’d been somehow missing out.
    But there was nothing he could seem to do about it, so he put the lingering thoughts aside. He adjusted his hat, and then continued into the Old Town, still slightly tormented by the feeling there was someone watching him.
    *   *   *
    La Habana Vieja. Old Havana, with the emphasis on “Old.” Exactly as Jack had imagined it would be. The big colonial buildings with their massive, arched entranceways, their lush courtyards filled with statuary and fountains. The narrow townhouses, some of them with frescos on their walls. The balconies overhanging every street. Churches, more cobbled alleys, the old fortifications, and the verdant squares.
    He had never been to Venice, Italy, but had heard it described in terms of “faded grandeur.” However faded Venice might look, Havana had to beat it into a cocked hat. The little paint left on the walls was cracked and peeling. And the surfaces revealed were pitted, crumbling, heavily weathered.
    He couldn’t tell quite what was keeping some of the homes standing. Perhaps they rationed gravity here, like they rationed everything else. The whole place looked like, if you blew on it too hard, it would turn to dust and simply swirl away.
    A few of the cafes had been restored but, those apart, he’d never seen a city so dilapidated in his life.
    Yet nearly every balcony had someone standing on it. And the street that he was walking down was jammed to overflowing. It was like tens of