“I’m not saying there isn’t violence,” the woman continued. “But violence and violent are different. It’s the difference between incident and intent.”

She believes that people are born every minute of their lives, and what they are in each of those minutes is what they are completely.

She often went to the Hotel Nacional, to suites flocked in satiny white, with dictators, diplomats, Americans, and on one occasion Havana’s Cadillac dealer, Amadeo Barletta Barletta, an Italian even shorter than she was, with burning eyes, ravaged skin, and currency so freshly minted it seemed like game-board money.

The Admiral, having understood that all elements of discovery had a price tag and would save his reputation and ensure the financing of future expeditions, had marketed the place like a twenty-dollar whore. Everything was usable, sellable, smeltable, shippable, eatable, drinkable, smokable, wearable.

Whatever she was or wasn’t, she looked like a liar and he liked liars.