Disclaimer: J M Straczynski, Babylonian Productions ™ and Warner Productions ™ own the rights to all of the characters contained in this story.

Author's Note: This is the follow-up to The Deep Sleep and is shaping up to be ... lengthy. I aim to post updates once a week.

Babylon 5

The Dark Curtain

By Laurie


A note from the Editor:

As our readers of the more recent volumes of The History of the Inter-Stellar Alliance will be aware, the incident in 2260 on board the station Babylon 5, which has already been published in Volume Three under the title The Deep Sleep, has led our researchers down various avenues. The discovery of personal papers, journals and official documents has led to a certain amount of speculation that the persons of Della Nicole Ramir and John James Sheridan were in fact previous incarnations of the late Presidents John Sheridan and Delenn ra'Mir of the I.S.A.

Such speculation is beyond the remit of the collators of fact for these chronicles; nonetheless, the Ramir-Sheridan papers do frequently reflect aspects of the lives and personalities of the personnel of both Babylon 5 and the Alliance. The public interest in these papers has resulted in the publication of this current volume: our most recent acquisitions from the Ramir-Sheridan archive were a series of journal entries written by both Mr and Mrs Sheridan at the time of their honeymoon. Individually, neither journal is complete (we hope to recover the missing pages at some point); yet, when taken together they provide the full story of what occurred during two weeks in Havana, Cuba. The story is best left to be told by the lady and gentleman in question.

ooOoo

1

ooOoo

Havana, May 1948

The band was playing a Cuban melody that evening as I walked across the hotel lobby. That came as no surprise as we were, in fact, actually in Cuba. Havana, to be precise. It was an upscale place – one of those set-ups with lots of potted plants and ceiling fans moving the balmy air around. Cloud had moved in earlier in the evening, thunder rolling around the foothills and the air was heavy, sultry. It made everything move at a slower pace, which takes some getting used to after New York. I paused long enough to put out a cigarette in the marble sand jar and continued across the lobby, scanning the area as I went. I wasn't trying to pretend not to look and one of the bellhops who was a little more on the ball than his colleagues popped up in front of me and grinned broadly.

'Can I help you, sir?'

Ruben was a nice kid, probably not even twenty-three, and good-looking. And didn't he know it. And he made sure that all the bored married women (and the bored unmarried ones, at that) knew it too. But I couldn't blame him for trying to make the best for himself pretty much the only way he could.

'Nah, I'm just looking for a stray brunette,' I said.

His grin broadened. 'Isn't everyone?'

I grinned back and gave him a tip because I could afford it and because I thought I might as well.

'You might try the bar,' he said helpfully, pocketing the scratch along with all the other tips he'd been given.

'My thoughts exactly.'

The bar was as nicely packed as you could expect a place like that to be at that time in the evening; and as I eased my way through it soon became apparent that Havana had more than its fair share of stray brunettes. I was practically falling over them. Younger and older, curvy and not-so-curvy... Well, you get my drift. From about twenty feet away most of them looked like class acts; from about ten feet away they looked like they'd look much better being seen from twenty feet away. Some of them had that predatory look, others looked like they'd come to the conclusion that if they threw themselves at something enough times they were bound to stick eventually; they watched me with hardened eyes and I don't flatter myself that it was because there was anything special that marked me out – I just happened to be the sole representative of the male of the species who could get one foot in front of the other without help passing by at that particular moment. Most of them hadn't quite come to terms with the fact that just because they were female didn't mean that they were irresistible – and their resentment at my indifference was obvious.

There are, of course, exceptions to that rule. Every now and then you meet a woman who can make any man trail after her whether he wants to or not – and whether she tries to make him or not. Actually, the not trying is probably part of her charm. And in a room like that it's pretty easy to find where that kind of woman is – just look for the biggest knot of tuxedoed shoulders in the place and she'll be in the middle of them.

I took a good look around and, sure enough, there they were – a solid wall of black. Broad-shoulders and some shoulders too skinny to be worthy of the name all clustered together. I strolled over and prised some of them apart; they didn't look too happy about having some new guy muscling in on the act but I didn't give them much choice in the matter. Most of them were shorter than me, anyhow, which helps in these situations, I find. The source of all this fascination was sitting at the table, leaning forward enough so that some fortunate soul could light her cigarette for her. He looked like he'd reached the pinnacle of his existence in that one moment. If I'd been more charitably inclined I would have told him to enjoy it while it lasted, it would all be downhill from then on. But I wasn't, so I didn't. Instead, I put my eyes on the brunette. She blew out a stream of smoke, silver-grey rising in the air, and watched me through it. Her eyes were also grey: just enough humour to make them warm and more than enough depth to make you feel like you were falling straight into them. I put my hands on the table and leant towards her.

'Well, this is a fine way to behave,' I said, 'and on your first day out of bed, too. You know what the doctor told you – one more week in quarantine, at least.'

Those grey eyes of hers flashed and she tossed her head back. 'I won't go back to quarantine, I tell you! I don't care who catches it!'

The host of black shoulders melted away. I slid into the booth next to her and eyed her severely.

'Say, just how long has this sort of thing been going on?'

'Oh...' She tilted her head. 'Only since we've been married.'

I laughed. 'Three whole weeks, huh?'

Della propped her cheek on her hand. 'Enjoying yourself?'

'Hugely.' I looked at her and the way her lips twitched as she looked at me. And I thought it was a pity that we were in public. 'What are you drinking, plaything?'

'Martini, please.'

I looked around and Ruben materialised at my elbow, moonlighting as a waiter whether he was supposed to be or not.

'Oh, hey Ruben. Can I get two Martinis?'

'And I'll have the same,' Della said.

Ruben sniggered. I raised my eyebrows. 'You heard the lady.'

He grinned again and steered himself towards the bar; in the three days we'd been there we'd become Ruben's favourite customers, mainly because we kept him entertained and tipped big – not necessarily in that order. I turned back to Della; she had moved a little closer, leaning against me enough that I got caught in her cloud of perfume.

'Hello,' she said softly.

'Hello.' It was definitely a pity we were in public. 'Nice evening so far?'

'Lovely,' she said, 'all that hot air floating around.'

I didn't bite at that; I just grinned at her instead and tried to ignore the fact that her foot had introduced itself to mine and was set on making friends.

'How did you know where I was?'

'Well, I knew that a crowd like that could only be attracted by a woman who has at least one thing that none of the others around here have.'

'Which is?'

'A lot of money.'

Her toes pressed hard against my ankle and she wrinkled her nose at me.

'And what are the other things?'

'What things?'

'You said at least one – what are the others?'

I studied the lovely lines of her neck and the one dark curl that had escaped its pin and was clinging to her skin. She looked at me along her eyes, grey glinting beneath her lashes.

'If we were somewhere less respectable I might just tell you,' I said, 'as it is I wouldn't want to scandalise the potted palms.'

'You say the sweetest things,' she said. She'd worked it so that she was resting in the curve of my arm and I have to admit that it had become one of my favourite positions for sitting in a hotel bar. Or any bar, come to that.

We'd stayed in New York long enough to see Della's sister get married off to Nero O'Neill – the hot-headed tycoon who was now my brother-in-law. He wasn't the one that I would have chosen for the position, but it wasn't really up to me who Maya chose to marry. And as I'd only known Maya for a little over a month it's understandable that she wouldn't really be asking for my opinion for things like that. But once we'd seen them safely off, Della and I had decided that we deserved a honeymoon of our own so we'd packed up and hoofed it across the water to Havana.

There's something to be said for delaying a honeymoon – for one thing you actually get to see more of your destination than just the inside of your hotel room. Not much more, but some.

Late in that afternoon I'd taken a walk through the old part of the city to give Della some time to do whatever it is that a woman does when there's no man around to get under her feet – and as both of us had got used to living alone for a long time, it only seemed polite to give her some of the privacy that she's accustomed to. By the time I got back I discovered that my bride had taken the opportunity to disappear, leaving a message suggesting I find her - if I could. I won't deny I'm a man who likes a challenge, which brings us to the Great Brunette Hunt of 1948 and the hotel bar.

My wife's foot was still having a conversation with mine and I enjoyed myself by just looking at her for a moment. She was wearing something silk that draped in places and clung in others and generally made her look like a naiad who had wandered away from her spring.

She looked beautiful and I told her so and her cheeks flushed a little the way they always did whenever I complimented her. You would have thought that someone who looks the way Della does would be used to compliments but she's never seemed to have quite got the hang of them.

Ruben saved her from any further embarrassment by working his way back over to us with a tray. And four Martinis. He was still smirking when he set them down on the table and he finished the production number by pulling something out of his jacket pocket with a flourish and saying, 'This was at the front desk for you, so I thought I would bring it over.'

'Thanks.' I injected a bit more enthusiasm than I actually felt and took it from him. Poor kid looked thrilled. He took himself off again and I stared at the telegram he had given me. I hated getting those things; everybody did.

I could feel that Della had stiffened beside me, her hand gripping the stem of her glass a little tighter. Too many people had received too much bad news from those things during the war; I ripped it open and almost laughed out loud with relief when I read it.

'What does it say?' Curiosity won out in her voice but there was still an undercurrent of tension.

' "Weather lousy. Having a terrible time. Wish you were here and I was there. Mike." '

Then Della laughed, relaxing again, her face softening. 'Poor Mike.'

I snorted. 'What do you mean, "Poor Mike"? He'll be having a blast. He can sleep in his chair, insult any clients fool enough to come wandering in and play poker with Susan at three in the afternoon.' That may sound like a condemnation but it isn't. Michael Garibaldi is as solid as they come and the first person you would want on your side in a tough spot.

'They both should have taken a vacation,' Della said. 'The firm is doing fairly well at the moment, isn't it? I know at least one of your clients paid their bill in full not long ago.'

'That client overpaid – we're still waiting for her to collect her one-thousand-six-hundred bucks. Minus expenses.' Della smiled serenely in response; the disputed money had been in contention for a month and I had a feeling that it was something that would never be resolved. 'And I don't think that two guys in an office with a busted radiator, leaky taps and no open cases on the books counts as a firm.'

'All right; what would you call it?'

'Sheer dumb luck.'

'Hm. Yes, I see that. You're no great shakes as a detective, but you are lucky.' Della smiled again and held her olive between her teeth for a moment before biting down on it; she pulled the cocktail stick out slowly and dropped it into the ashtray. Her eyes didn't leave my face.

I cleared my throat. 'We better get you some food – you get cranky when you're not fed right.'

A slight frown appeared between her eyebrows. 'I don't get cranky.'

'Grouchy, then.'

'I don't get grouchy!'

I thought about it. 'Crotchety?'

'I don- Is that even a real word?'

'Uh-'

'I mean, when you think about it doesn't really make any sense.'

'You're right,' I said, 'we shouldn't think about it at all.'

Della had pursed her lips and her head was tilted – I had come to recognise this as the sign of her being deep in thought; it didn't always follow that what she was thinking about was particularly deep.

'Crotchety... It's a bit similar to crochet but I don't see a connection; although, I suppose that that sort of handiwork can make you rather irritable if you're not disposed towards it...'

'Della...' I sighed, hoping to head her off before she took it any further. One corner of her mouth curled up and her eyes widened, all faked innocence.

'Did you mention something about food?'

I blew out a breath. 'Back in the dim and distant past, yes. Come on.' I slid out of the booth and gave her my hand to help her up. She came to rest on my arm in a shimmer of silk and a little half-smile of the sort that gives a man ideas; I wondered if I could sell her on taking all of our meals in our room from then on. We navigated our way through the bar and I spotted a couple of Della's admirers dotted about the place. Some of them had been snared by the predators of the opposite sex, most were just sitting staring into their drinks and looking glum. I had the best-looking girl in the place on my arm and felt like king of the world as we sauntered through to the restaurant. We got put in what was fast becoming our regular table – a nice secluded number that let us see more of the rest of the room than they could of us.

I wasn't particularly interested in anyone in the rest of the room but I took a look around it anyway; it had become too ingrained a habit to break. All the years in the army had taught me to always look for where the exits are before anything else – and that's come in pretty handy ever since I set up shop with Mike. Most of the other tables were occupied and they were mainly couples of various ages. Only one stood out: it was right in the centre of the room, getting the full benefit of the chandelier, so maybe it was supposed to; but it was the attitudes of the three people arranged around it that I noticed more than anything else. A heavy-set man whose restless eyes seemed at odds with the fleshy folds of his jowls; both hands rested on the table and the forefinger of one was beating a regular rhythm. His two companions were much younger and they were a good-looking pair: the man was attentive, a little too attentive, maybe, like he was trying hard to please - his mouth didn't stop moving; the girl said nothing, just sat in her chair in her white lace dress and gardenias in her hair and stared at nothing in particular; she had a pretty face and a discontented expression.

I sat down next to Della and forgot about them immediately.

It was a nice dinner. I'm sure the food was great and if I could remember what it was I'd tell you; what I do remember is that Della wore grey and we talked for a long time. It wasn't anything earth-shattering, just the sort of general talk that you get when two people are getting to know one another. The fact is that Della and I had had what is known as a whirlwind romance. Whirlwind is an understatement, to be honest – it had been more like a hurricane. It's a strange sensation, feeling as though you know someone even when you don't know much about them but that is the way it was: I didn't have to know things about Della to know her.

Even so, it was nice just sitting there and talking about all the inconsequential things that don't really amount to much on their own but seem to mean something once you've told them to this other person. We swapped notes on what music we liked and what books we'd read. And then Della talked a little about her father, which isn't something that she does very often. I knew very little about Edward Ramir, except for some of the things that Della had told me and a photograph I'd seen. A slim-faced man with the same startlingly grey eyes as his daughter and a hesitant smile that looked like it was trying for happiness but couldn't quite make it. But I had a good idea of the sort of man he had been: principled, decent and a firm desire to educate his daughters. I've never been quite sure just how much Della actually enjoys the time she spends up in the plant rooms on the top floor of the brownstone that her father kept; but I think it's the one thing she can do where she can still feel close to him.

She tossed the hair away from her shoulder and finished the story she'd been telling me, '...so he told them that he wouldn't be joining any club that wouldn't allow his doctor to join on the strength of his religion. Needless to say, they never asked him again – and when I last checked that club was still restricted.'

'He's where you got your sense of social justice from, huh?'

She laughed a little. 'I suppose - from him and William Powell.'

I choked and put my eyebrows up at her. 'William Powell? You mean the movie star?'

Della laughed again, colour spreading faintly across her cheeks and down the curve of her throat. 'Yes. I went to see My Man Godfrey when I was seventeen. Oh, I thought he was wonderful; I fell head over heels in love with him. And of course there really were all of those poor forgotten men right there in Central Park, living in shacks and cardboard boxes - just a few yards from the house. So, I lectured my father about it and cried... He was already doing something about it, of course: a building project. If there were no jobs, then create jobs; it was rather like the idea behind the Rockefeller Centre, only on a smaller scale; it's how we ended up with the Abernathy Building. But Papa let me think that it had all been my idea and that I'd talked him into it. And I never did get to meet William Powell, but Papa got me a signed photograph of him with a personal inscription. I kept it by my bed.'

I watched her for a moment, the way her eyes turned limpid and for a moment I could see her as the seventeen-year-old kid dreaming of marrying a film star. I put my hand over hers. 'I think I would have liked your father.'

She looked at me fully, her eyes still limpid but even softer than before. 'I know he would have liked you.'

She twisted her fingers through mine; they always manage to feel delicate and strong at the same time. I lifted her hand and kissed the back. We could have stayed like that for a couple of hours if a waiter hadn't decided to sidle over and ask if we wanted anything else; I wanted him to go away, hopefully somewhere far, but as we had to live in the place for the next few weeks I thought it best to keep that to myself. We declined and escaped through the french windows out into the gardens instead.

There's a lot to be said for a night-time stroll in a garden in the Caribbean. The storm hadn't broken and the air was still heavy, the tang of brine sharp behind the scent of gardenias and night-blooming jasmine. It was secluded out there: the lights and music from the hotel seemed a long way off. Old Man Moon had bedded down in the clouds but put in enough of an appearance every now and then to add that nice silver glow to things. Like Della's skin. She drifted along beside me, luminous, looking more like a visiting spirit than an actual person. I had to put my arm around her just to check that she was real. Okay, so maybe that's just the excuse I used...

She leant against me, and when we'd taken a few steps further into an alcove of scented shadow she turned and looked up at me.

'Darling.'

I kissed her. Her lips were warm and soft, like the perfume in her hair.

She tilted her head back and looked at me.

'Shall I tell you something? A confession?' There was a throb in her voice, deep in her throat. I tightened my hold on her.

'Go right ahead.'

We were close enough that when she laughed again – still in her throat – I could feel her breath against my lips.

'Today, while you were out, I actually missed you. I think that means that I must be getting used to having you around.'

'In that case I should go out more.'

'Why's that?'

It was a moment before I answered – I was kissing her again. 'I like you missing me, plaything; besides, reunions are so much fun.'

Her arms went around my neck. 'That is an excellent point.'

We were occupied for a while. If I'd been able to work out which way round I was I probably would have worked out the quickest route back to our suite but as it was I couldn't think in more than two words together. I gave up on thinking and moved from her mouth to the side of her neck, followed the long cool curve of her throat, when another voice cut through the night.

'I'll speak English if I want to!'

It was a woman's voice, shrill and with an edge to it that held a note of mania.

'Keep your voice down!' A man's voice then - also in English but heavily accented.

'I will speak as loudly as I wish in whatever language I choose.' But she had moderated her tone.

We didn't move, still staying back in our nice, convenient alcove; the voices were coming from ahead of us and I suppose that we could have retreated back the way we'd come but somehow we didn't. Curiosity and embarrassment can be paralysing.

'You have no right to tell me what to do. I'm an adult, I-'

'I have every right as long as you remain living in my house.'

'Then perhaps I will not be living in your house for much longer.'

There was a hiss, like someone sucking in a breath. 'Do not think that I will stand back and permit you to marry that man.'

'That man? You were the one who brought him to the house! He was your friend. And now...'

'Bah! He is not one of us. He's an American.'

'My mother was American. I am American: I was born there, I went to school there. It was good enough for you then.'

'Enough, Rosa!'

'No! It is not enough, Papa. I will not marry some man that you choose just because he is Cuban; and you will not stop me from seeing anyone I want to see!'

There were footsteps, quick and light and then a flash of white lace. The girl was still pretty but she didn't look discontented anymore. She saw us and stopped suddenly, her dark eyes wide.

'Don't mind us,' I said pleasantly.

She started and then all but ran down the path back towards the hotel.

Della sighed, frowning. 'That poor girl looked dreadfully unhappy.'

'Hm.' The white dress gleamed against the darkness until it was lost when she turned a corner.

'That's right, darling, you examine the case from every angle.'

I looked down and found Della watching me, one corner of her mouth curving up.

'Professional interest, Mrs Sheridan.'

'Hmm. But just what profession would that be, Mr Sheridan?'

I laughed and moved my arm from her waist to her shoulders. 'Come on, plaything – the mood has officially been ruined.'

We made our way back to the hotel lobby and stood blinking against the lights for a moment.

'Not exactly lively, is it?' Della said, looking around.

'They could use it as a museum exhibit.' I had barely finished speaking when Ruben materialised at my elbow. 'Oh, Ruben – just the man. Mrs Sheridan and I want to rid ourselves of the taste of respectability – got any suggestions?'

Ruben grinned. 'Well, sir, there is the Harbour Club in Miramar – very popular with the Americanos.' I looked at him; he shrugged and tried again: 'But for you I would recommend Club Estrellita, in La Habana Vieja.'

'Is it a respectable establishment?' Della asked.

'Oh no, señora, not very.'

'Sounds perfect.' She disengaged herself from my arm. 'I'll only be a moment.'

She floated across the floor; I lit a cigarette and offered one to Ruben who had opted to keep me company. He took it and put it in his pocket for later. I scanned the lobby and caught sight of my jowly friend from dinner: he was being helped into his coat by the talkative young guy.

'Ruben.' He looked at me expectantly and I glanced casually at the two men. 'The man over there, you know who he is?'

He looked over – not casually – and straightened up. 'Oh, yes: Alejandro Sandoval – he is one of our local entrepreneurs.' He pronounced the word with pride, showing off his vocabulary.

'Uh-huh. And the young couple with him?'

'His children, Ignacio and Rosa.'

I'll admit that surprised me; I had thought that the enthusiastic conversationalist was the rejected Cuban suitor for the lovely Señorita Sandoval. I watched them: the younger man fussed and his father looked irritable. Della had been right when she said that Rosa Sandoval looked unhappy but there had been something more than that in her face – something hard and wild. Dangerous. It had given me that uneasy feeling, like all the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

Alejandro Sandoval was starting to look more than irritable; his son held out a silver-topped cane and the old hard-ass snatched it out of his hands – a bit like a spoilt child with a bag of sweets. Then he looked at his watch and grumbled something.

'I think that they wait for the lady,' Ruben observed helpfully.

I put out my cigarette in my old friend the marble sand jar. 'Ruben, you'll find that a man spends many hours of his life waiting for the lady.'

'Well, you didn't have to wait too long for yours.' Della's arm slipped through mine again and she smiled up at me; she'd added to her ensemble a wrap of material so fine you'd barely notice it. She turned the smile on Ruben and his ears turned pink – I figure it did the kid good to be knocked-out by a woman once in a while, just to ring the changes. Ruben gave us directions and then I played the usual ritual with him and he put the jack away with the rest of it. At that rate we'd have to get him bigger pockets in his uniform. He melted away again and I looked down at Della.

'Right. Shall we go?'

TBC