The Wilmington Morning Star

Castle of Contentment

Scott began his campaign the following morning over coffee at one of the sidewalk cafes. In a serious voice he addressed Ylena and Rose. "There's more to Havana than Sloppy Joe's and Morro Castle. There's a baker's dozen of these kind of places, and we should have at least coffee at every one of them before we go back to La Madera. There's Castilla de la Punta and the Castles Principe, Cabanas and Atares. You owe it to your historical soul to visit them. And La Merced Cathedral and the Beneficiencia Convent full of orphans. There's Columbus Cathedral, where Columbus is supposed to be buried—although I'll bet he isn't—and the Hershey sugar mills and the cock fights, if you can stomach them—oh, there are ever so many places, Ylena—we're going everywhere!"

They did. And as days followed one after the other, the girl realized there was heart-balm in travel, that her injured feelings were salved in the diligent but delightful work connected with being a tourist. There was no time to brood. Scott saw to that. Time had to be spent planning, in dressing, eating, and in open-mouthed, wide-eyed gawking, as they made their way here and there on various expeditions.

To the several fortresses where Ylena tried earnestly to form mental pictures of the past. To the convent where benign nuns watching over solemn, pathetic little orphans gave soft-voiced Spanish assurance that they were to accept the candy and toys from the visitors. To El Encanto, where Scott bought Ylena an embroidered Spanish shawl, bottles of French perfume, a mantilla, and handkerchiefs of gossamer lace. To the peaceful cathedrals.

Late afternoons, they strolled along the streets, grateful that the upper stories of business buildings projected over the sidewalks and provided shade. And at night they walked along the Prado, where the moonlight sifted through the arched laurel trees and fell upon the patterned marble in silvery patches.

When they had done the town competently, Scott began his familiar tune. "There's more to Cuba than Havana. The tourist bureau is right."

Rose said dryly, "He's started again. I'll begin packing."

"You must admit it's foolish," Hamilton persisted, "for Ylena not to see the island while we're here. Let's go to Mariel. The Cuban Naval Academy is there, and to Batabano over on the Caribbean to watch the sponge fishermen."

"Sponge," Ylena said, "that reminds me. I'm probably the biggest one up to date. We've got to get down to work figuring out my share of the cost of this trip, Scott."

"Wait until we get back to La Madera, where we have an adding machine." He squinted his eyes and continued plans. "Let's hire Pepe to drive us so we can just sit back and relax. We'll go down the Central highway to Matanzas, and see the beautiful Caves of Bellamar. And Ylena," he smiled in malicious good humor, "you haven't really lived until you have seafood at the Gran Paris in Matanzas. We'll drop down to Cienfuegos. It has a gorgeous old cathedral with altars enough for everybody and a nice old colonial cemetery to prowl around in. The countryside is full of rivers and cascades, so you'd better see them while you can. You won't have any water in the rivers when you get back to La Madera. We can go over to Trinidad and scout around. That's the second oldest town in Cuba. Has ancient colonial residences, some paved with old-time coins of gold, Ylena. Be a good stunt for some of your exclusive customers. Tish or old Alkire, either one might go for something fancy like that. What do you say to the idea?" He looked toward Ylena.

"It leaves me breathless," she said. Verbally exhausted, Scott gulped. "It leaves me breathless, too."

The tooth-displaying Pepe, when approached, was rapturous over a trip, but desolated over leaving Josephine, his bride of two weeks. Very quickly he dropped hot tears over the thought, until Hamilton suggested Josephine as a maid for Ylena, whereupon the tears ceased as quickly as they had popped forth. Ylena sent a message to Barker, outlining their itinerary, suggesting that important and personal mail be sent either to Santiago de Cuba or Kingston, Jamaica, and gave her the approximate dates they would be in those cities.

The tour began, Ylena, Scott and Rose back of a pair of honeymooning doves.

In aimless wandering, they lost all track of time and duty. There it was, unwinding before them, rich, lush beauty, inescapable, irresistible. Mountain ranges, dense tropical forests of royal palms, fields of sugar cane, tobacco and pineapple, banana groves. Interesting little historical villages, typically Cuban.

Everywhere, lovely hotels with 18-foot ceilings and tiled floors. A particularly charming one was in Camaguey, the "sugar bowl" of Cuba, a cavalry barracks, originally, a place of spacious corridors and tropical flower gardens. Fat earthen jars were everywhere. Scott informed his companions, these were used to store water during colonial days.

"I thought they were used to store Ali Baba," Rose said. Despite crisp remarks, Rose was enjoying every minute of the trip.

Both she and Ylena were gaining, not only physically, but mentally. From there they made their way on through mountainous splendor, down to ancient Santiago de Cuba, perched on the edge of the Caribbean.

"We'll rest at this jumping-off place," Scott decided for the group, "while we make up our minds what to do next."

Days of doing nothing—just resting, eating, sleeping, swimming, sauntering through the streets, climbing to Bonifacio hill for a superb view of the city. A lapse of memory of a very pleasant, caressing, unrightening sort.

"Having a good time, Ylena?" Scott asked her during one of their meandering walks.

"Of course!" she instantly responded.

He asked quickly, "What day is it?"

"Tuesday," she said, then changed her mind. "No, Wednesday." She looked falteringly at Hamilton and spread her hands in a puzzled gesture. "I don't know what day it is."

Scott laughed. "That just goes to prove how unimportant time is."

On Sunday they watched the "promenade" from the veranda of the Casa Grande hotel, and finally joined it, marching around and around to the music of the band along with the young Cuban men in their white suits and the dark-eyed romantically thrilled girls. After that Sunday ceremony they went to one of the native places where Scott's expert Spanish and experience with the Latins gained them a safe welcome. There they lingered over rum and iced lime juice water and listened to the natives playing and singing either their doleful wailing music, or that spanking, rhythmic kind so typical of the island, beating the cases of their guitars. It was fun to watch the people, to sense, rather than be assured of, the exciting and sinister activities taking place about them.

Ylena's voice was lazily ecstatic. "I could sit in a country like this forever. This balmy comfort, nothing to worry about—it's marvelous."

Scott said, smiling, "You're developing the mañana attitude."

"Mañana attitude, nothing! I'm developing the day after mañana attitude." Idly she looked about the dining room, which was quite large. On the walls were several water colors, native market scenes mostly, in almost glaring colors.

"I like those water colors. Sometime when I get the energy I must get close enough to see who did them."

"Better not," Scott recommended. "Probably came from some factory in Newark, N. J."

Scott's ridicule brought spontaneous laughter from the girl. Her lazy green eyes continued to rove over the cafe. Then suddenly they widened and stayed that way, set and horror stricken. Following her gaze, Scott turned and saw a slim, debonair man entering the cafe.

(Continued On Page Nine)