I wandered into a Broadway honky-tonk to find the place filled with sailors, GIs, young folk in sweaters and tight pants, gyrating –the eternally young Col Serge Obolensky joined in the fray. The next day I wrote it up and it is now the hottest place in town. The dancers scarcely touch or move their feet. Everything else, however, moves. The upper body sways forward and backward and the hips and shoulders twirl erotically while the arms thrust out up and down with the piston-like motions of a baffled bird-keeper fighting off a flock of attacking blue jays …
Though a solidly built fellow, Bob Silvers was a topping twister. He counselled me to imagine I had just stepped out of a bath and was briskly towelling my buttocks, but one only had to be seen motionless on the crowded dancefloor to get a reputation of ‘livin’ it up’. My main task on the ‘Society’ column was to take down particulars of forthcoming deb marriages over the telephone (an instrument I generally shun), confining conversation to the minimum. There was such a jabber going on in the crowded room I often lost track of an essential detail. Anxiety led to inaudibility. I couldn’t hear what anybody was saying. One day, because of this, I omitted to pass on a message to Jo from his broker, advising him to sell some stocks quickly. Jo never forgave me, even after I had humiliated myself by begging to be kept on in the job. Instead, he rendered me totally ridiculous by writing an over-laudatory reference.
As my alter-ego it was Miss Skelton’s considerable task to edit all copy, develop story material, supervise the special débutante issue, show the flag at myriad charity affairs, all of which she accomplished with ease, imagination and flair. She has had a varied spectrum of experience, ranging from wartime code clerk to Cordon-Bleu cooking. Her first book won the immediate respect of the London literary coterie, of which she is still a member in good standing …
This led to no further employment.
Though strictly out of bounds to Americans since the Bay of Pigs, I planned a trip to Cuba. Gerda had moved to Washington where her husband had become aide to Senator Dodge. While applying for a visa from the US Department of Justice, I went to stay with her in Centreville where one day a letter arrived: ‘Permission to depart for Cuba from the United States is not authorised. Sincerely, Supervisory Immigrant Inspector.’ So I decided to fly in from Jamaica.
* Matthew Smith was a painter.
† Pseudonym of Hearst-syndicated gossip columnist.
Chapter XIII
Cuba
‘Don’t expect to eat much where you’re going,’ said the girl in the Kingston KLM office, as she filled in a return ticket to Havana. After eating a quick lunch of curried goat, I rushed to the airport to find the runway swarming with British officials armed with swords, awaiting the arrival of the Duke of Edinburgh. I boarded the plane feeling like a criminal. Then, to the ominous words, ‘We’d like to say goodbye to our disembarking passengers,’ two Germans, a French diplomat and myself stepped on to Jose Martin runway as, with frightened, averted eyes, a Cuban family hurried past to occupy our vacant seats. The customs check was courteous and thorough. Any dollars had to be handed over and changed into pesos, jewellery declared and its value assessed. Fleeing Cubans were not allowed to take out any money or jewellery, and were limited to two pairs of shoes and two dresses. Where was I going to stay? The Inglaterra.
‘We’d prefer you to stay in the Hotel Colina,’ said the ground hostess.
The Hotel Colina was dingy. There was no soap and the basin had no stopper. A previous visitor’s cigarette stub lay under the bed. It was drizzling and there was a strong north wind. I asked the way to the sea. It was bashing the wall that bordered the waterfront and spray spattered the pavement. Every few blocks a militia man dozed over a rifle. On the corner of the main shopping street was a billboard with the message ‘Construct and Defend our Socialist Fatherland’. Posted outside a large office building were a group of militia girls in short-sleeved, sky-blue shirts, khaki trousers and boots, each one taking a turn to comb her hair before a mirror propped on a rifle butt.
That evening, for an hour, I walked in search of a bar. Should it be the Club La Red or the Tokao? Descending some steps I entered a dimly lit cavern. To enliven the place, the barman put on a rumba. Cuban Coca Cola accompanied the Bacardi I ordered. At the bar I tried to read. No candles? A nightlight was produced. The waiters were curious to see what I was reading. They inspected the KLM matches, as Cuban matches did not strike. There was usually a band in the evening, they said, but the permanent staff were off. They have a holiday on Mondays.
‘For the Revolutión,’ someone said and giggled, as if he had made a subversive joke.
‘Is it considered bad for women to come to bars alone?’ I asked.
‘Oh no. They like to dance,’ said a man seated on the adjoining stool. ‘Here it’s alright’ – meaning at the bar – ‘but not in there.’ He pointed to a dungeoned alcove. He said he was a doctor and worked at the university hospital. He’d learnt English at school. His manner was gentle, he was very tall and, as far as one could see, had several teeth missing. His fifteen-year-old son was in America. His brother, a dentist, had also left Cuba. He disapproved of doctors and dentists leaving; they should stay and care for the people. ‘The barman is saying you are a Czech. We haven’t seen any English for two years …’
We took a taxi and went to several downtown bars. In one we asked if there was anything to eat.
‘I’d like to come to your tourist hotel and get a good meal,’ said the barman.
We walked around the harbour for an hour. Above a wharf, opposite the Spanish Embassy, was a large drawing of a donkey and written across it was the word ‘KENNEDY. Underneath it said, ‘All the world is being educated but me, and you can see what I am, a DONKEY.’
There were billboards everywhere with the word ‘FISMINUTOS’, and Léger-like figures were depicted with rolled-up sleeves as if about to perform gymnastics, and the injunction, ‘¡REVOLUCIONARIOS! Increase Production, Eliminate Absenteeism and Help the Country’.
‘And look at them,’ the doctor jeered, pointing to the militiamen posted every few yards, ‘mostly old Batistianos.’ Suddenly he stopped. ‘Hi there!’ he said, and gave a dozing old guard a playful prod with his rifle. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’ They greeted each other affectionately. ‘Old rogue,’ he bantered, and the guard laughed. ‘He’s against the government, aren’t you? And there he is working for them.’ The doctor said his friend had been imprisoned during Batista’s time. He had fought for Castro. ‘But look at him now.’ We passed another poster. He mimicked the pointing finger. ‘And look what we have for entertainment’: Fatherland or Death was showing at the movie house. We crossed some gardens shaded by giant coconut palms. ‘This is called Central Park, because it’s the centre of the city.’ He laughed. ‘But it’s beautiful.’
‘Certainly it’s beautiful,’ I echoed. He pointed to the old limestone buildings festooned with ‘Long Live the International Proletariat’ and the impressive white Capitol dominating the downtown section, now embellished with Fatherland or Death.
It was one in the morning. He thought he knew of a place to eat, the other side of the park. We entered an open bar with a horseshoe-shaped counter, around which men and prostitutes sat and joked about food.
‘What would you like? Macaroni? Dry rice or potatoes?’ One man crouched over his plate of macaroni, jovially raised his fork and shouted something in Spanish, before filling his mouth with the gluey mixture. Everybody laughed. ‘He said he’s imagining it’s ham.’ The doctor found me a taxi, patted my cheek as he said, ‘Goodnight’ and vanished through Central Park. At the door of the Hotel Colina the taximan asked if I like to dance, as he knew of a very good rumba club.
For breakfast there was orange juice, chunks of guava jelly and excellent expresso coffee. The hotel was full, from families on their way out to the country, who attended meals with shopping bags, to militia girls and students. I took a bus to the British Embassy. The ticket had a little figure of an alarm clock wit
h a face on spindly legs and underneath: ‘Down with Absenteeism. Worker … Arrive punctually at your job, because that is the way we will construct Socialism.’
Cubans then had charming manners. I never had to stand on a bus. And they took a lot of trouble when showing the way, silently walking you to your destination and depositing you right on the doorstep. To attract attention, whether hailing a friend or a waiter, they would go ‘pisst’, lingering on the hiss with an abrupt end on the ‘t’ sound. The Embassy was a solid haven of out-of-date newspapers. They said it was not necessary to report there, but advised me to go immediately to the immigration bureau for permission to leave the country, otherwise my departure might be held up for weeks.
Walking around Havana remained a continuous source of pleasure, with the streets lined with ceiba trees, and everywhere squares and gardens were filled with exotic plants. At one of the bookstalls in the Paseo del Prado, amongst the paperbacks by Marx and Lenin, and The Diary of Anne Frank, I found a 1953 guide. Sitting in Central Park, I read that ‘cuba’ means jar of oil and that Cuba is the only West Indian island to retain its name; that Columbus loved every island he saw, calling each one beautiful, but Cuba was the most beautiful that eyes have ever seen; and that Havana, founded in 1519, had the oldest university of the Latin-American countries.
On Avenida de las Misiones, a fresh shipload of tractors gleamed in the sun, parked in regimental files around the statue of General Gomez. Students with armfuls of books poured in and out of the Havana Libre, which used to be the Hilton. The hotel restaurant had become a canteen serving macaroni, rice and potato, with an occasional blob of fish. The dessert was always the same – guava jelly or sweetened coconut purée. On the twenty-fifth floor, the highest point in the city, Congress groups surged in and out of the Havana Libre bar, or conversed in whispers.
‘An American,’ one member said, nudging her companion and pointing at me, as if the wonders of Havana would never cease.
At Floridati, the photographs of Hemingway had been removed from the bar and the restaurant was empty. There were no Morro crabs, no menu.
‘Fishermen don’t go out as they used,’ said the waiter, ‘and when they do, they have to be accompanied by an armed guard.’
Albert came into the bar. He was eighteen, very tall, pale and spotty. He spoke a little American. He had come to lend a hand with the drums, as the regular drummer was ill. His father was in Miami and his younger brother in Ohio. He lived with his mother, who worked in a restaurant. Why didn’t he get a regular job? He wanted to be a drummer. He couldn’t get a job in a band, as he lacked cymbals and you couldn’t find them in Cuba any more. Why did he carry a lucky charm? Someone had given it him when he came out of prison. Four years previously he had been one of Castro’s guerrillas and had planted home-made bombs in factories at night. Now he got odd jobs cleaning cars. He was a kind of dead-end kid. He liked smoking thirty-five-cent cigars, said he had $1,000 in the bank, but there was nothing he could buy with it.
‘Supposing you wanted to buy a new car?’
‘The new cars go to the government.’
He was going on to a jazz club. Did I like jazz? His friend Amando had just started a club. We ran into Amando, who was very handsome, with a small blond beard and gentle manner.
‘It’s very existentialist,’ he said, ‘just a converted old movie studio. There are four of us: sax, piano, bass and drums.’
The jazz club was like a stalactite cavern, with dim lighting and midnight-blue walls, and a high, arched ceiling. Bearded militiamen sat with their arms round coloured girls who had peaked-wig hairsets, straight cotton dresses and patent-leather shoes.
‘The trouble is, people won’t come here; being jazz, they think it’s American. Man, I’m hungry.’ The waiter brought Bacardis and a dish with one boiled egg. The three of us shared the egg. Amando asked for another. But the waiter said there weren’t any. Amando had been earning good money in the States. He’d only been back four months. Why did he come back? His wife kept writing to say she and the baby were starving. ‘I don’t get on with my wife, but I love my little girl.’ The sax player joined our table. He wore a beret, came from Chicago and was a nutty American communist. He’d been to London.
‘What were you doing there?’
‘Visiting Marx’s tomb, of course. What else?’
Parallel to the coast, beyond the Havana Riviera Hotel, along Fifth Avenue, was the section where, everyone liked to tell you, the millionaires used to live. It stretched for some miles, a beautiful, tree-lined avenue of small palaces that had been turned into student quarters. The Casino nearby had been converted into a school. Along the sandy coast, known as the Concha, the luxury clubs had been turned into public beaches, the gardens were luxuriant with flowering trees, and bordering each drive was a boathouse filled with jacked-up sailing-boats and motor launches with peeling paint, sad emblems of the departed rich. Lying on the sands in the shade of a dwarf coconut tree facing a palatial, white club building, one could focus on a banner with ‘Viva Internacionalismo Proletario’ strung across the portico. ‘With Fidel til Death’ was notched into the barks of the palm trees. One swam to the continuous strains of the International.
On Sundays, endless busloads were disgorged at the beaches. The women still seemed uncertain as to how to react to their good fortune and cringed, fully dressed, on the edge of the sea in a state of joyful bewilderment, until the heat drove them into purple celanese bathing costumes. They rarely ventured into the water, but lay giggling on the fringe like basking limpets, while the men flung fistfuls of sand or buried one of their companions and then thrust a stick in beside or on top of him as a phallic symbol. A waiter who used to be a member of one of the luxury clubs said his property had been confiscated and one day I was kept bobbing at the end of a pool for an hour listening to an aristocratic old gentleman telling me about his losses, including his daughters, one of whom had emigrated to Folkestone. He spoke about it gaily. One of their old servants, aged seventy, who had spent her life savings on a small retirement house, had had it taken away and now didn’t have enough to live on. That can’t be right, he said. But he was going to stay, just to see the regime change. After all, Batista had been bad enough.
A retired naval officer who had lost his pension and home described himself as a pauper and laughed. A pauper, he repeated. I said I was too. But I was used to it. Things will change, he said, everyone was convinced of it. They dreamt of being rescued by the Americans one day.
One night, in the hotel lift, an air-force officer remarked on my cold. He said he had had a cold for days.
‘I’m a pilot and fly at very high altitudes, and experience a constant change of temperature.’ Whisky had cured him. He had some whisky in his room. Would I like some? I accepted a toothglass and drank it standing in the passage. Suitably enough, it was Cuban whisky and tasted of cough mixture. He said wouldn’t I come in? He wanted to show me his Czech machine-gun. See how easy it is to handle, he said. Joking, I asked him not to keep pointing it in my direction. He was very simple and charming, and brought out a copy of Playa Girón, the book about the American invasion. It contained references to himself. ‘Here I am, you see, here it refutes all the lies the Americans said about me, that I’m a traitor.’ In 1959 he had been smuggling arms into Cuba from Miami. ‘We used to store them in a disused theatre, the Rainbow. What’s more,’ he said, ‘I know the exiles are using the same theatre right now, for the same purpose.’ He liked the English, he said. What did they think about Cuba? Why are the Americans giving arms to all the Latin-American countries? To invade Cuba?
Over breakfast one morning, a Chilean joined my table; very small with black hair and the excitable manner of a recent arrival, he was wearing tropical army uniform and ‘beaten-gold’ bracelets, bought in Mexico, whence he had come to seek political asylum. He said he was an underground communist and had an American passport. He seemed to have chosen this moment to leave in order to avoid the clutches of the army
. He was aggressive about the Royal Family. Why did England keep it? It was just a question of time … the world would see … Would I like to accompany him to the immigration bureau? First he was going to see a friend. The friend was Guatemalan. He had come from America.
‘I came here six months ago. I knew no one and felt so miserable that I at once fell sick.’ Would I like to visit the Isle of Pines? I said I had arranged to go to Pinar del Rio that day. They were delighted and took me to the bus terminal. ‘The Transportes Populares is a unit in itself,’ the Guatemalan said, ‘they have their own stores, dentists and doctors for the staff and their families.’ Did I know about the LTP services for the people? ‘Well,’ he related like someone telling a wondrous tale, ‘when the rich people left Cuba, all their cars were taken by the LTP, and all the women who had been working for the rich fifteen hours a day like slaves were put in a school and trained as drivers. We gave them uniforms, the cars were painted red and now anyone can take one of these cars for twenty cents.’ Later, someone explained that these taxis follow the same route as the buses, which are always breaking down. And since no more spare parts could be got for American cars, the service would eventually become extinct.
Hairdressers had run out of bobby pins, rollers and hairnets. In order not to deprive them of the satisfaction of using hairspray, which they did still have, I let them tease my hair into a wig. But it was not this, nor the sweetened cigarettes (due to processed sugarcane paper), nor the endless topic of Cuba so much as the monotonous diet of starch that made me glad to leave. There was one good restaurant in Havana, the Miami, with a high ceiling, mirrored walls lined with potted plants, a vase of tuberoses on a white cloth at every table, pale green curtains and chair covers. On one side was a cigar counter and a bar where pineapples and mameys were stacked. I would go there expressly to drink large draughts of fresh pineapple juice with a dash of citron and the pastries were delicious.
'Tears Before Bedtime' and 'Weep No More' Page 37