“Think about it, Miguel,” she called over her shoulder. “The paladars are for foreign tourists or high government officials. When they figure out I’m a nobody, and they will as soon as I open my mouth—with my Havana accent—they will report me.”
“For what? Having dinner with a friend?”
“For consorting with a foreigner who flashes around money. Technically, the paladars are still illegal, you know. At least for Cubans. Someone will tell the CDR official in that district they saw me. That official will report it to my CDR, and they will start watching me. Who knows? Maybe they already are. They know everybody’s business. So.” She turned back to him. “That is why it is not a good idea.”
Michael opened his hands in a gesture of frustration. Living in Cuba was clearly difficult for many reasons, only one of which was the failing economy. How could people survive in such an oppressive environment? He moved in on Carla, hoping to wrap his arms around her.
But she stepped back. “Why do you play at these deceptions?”
“What deceptions?”
“Who are you, Miguel DeLuca?” Her eyes blazed.
“A man who cares about you.”
She let out a snort. “Que pendejada. Bullshit. We just met. We had good sex. That is all. I am not stupid.”
Surprised, Michael stepped back. He lowered his voice. “I never thought you were. But it’s better that you don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Are you CIA? FBI? Or maybe Mafia? If you are any of those, they will find out. The CDR… the police…” Her tone softened, but worry lines dug into her forehead. “I’m sure they are already watching. I was a fool, una tonta. I should never have let you stay.”
He cleared his throat. “Carla, I’m not CIA. Or FBI. I have a job to do. When the time is right, I will tell you.” He paused. “Look. I understand your concern. If we can’t go to a paladar, why don’t you take us to a more ‘appropriate’ place? I want to buy you dinner.”
• • •
They ate at a small Cuban café with rickety tables and linoleum surfaces that were chipped and marred. The menu, written on a sheet of cardboard tacked to a wall, consisted of rice and beans with a morsel or two of pork, or rice and beans with a morsel of chicken. Michael chose the pork, Carla the chicken.
“They used to have ropa veija,” Carla said wistfully.
“What’s that?” Michael asked.
“It’s a stew. Lamb or beef, slow-cooked with peppers, tomatoes, onions, and garlic. Muy ricos.” She smiled dreamily for a moment. Then she said matter-of-factly, “I suppose we are lucky it is still open.”
“I’ll bet he does.” Michael motioned toward the owner, who was bussing trays at another table. Despite the meager menu, the place was almost full.
He understood when their meals arrived. The food was excellent: generous portions, perfectly cooked, aromatic, and spicy.
Michael watched Carla wolf down her food. He knew food was a scarce commodity in Cuba. The average Cuban had lost twenty pounds during the Special Period, particularly in Havana, where farms and arable land were rare. People had begun to grow their own fruits and vegetables on rooftop gardens and whatever plots of earth they could scrounge, but it would take time before those efforts became self-sustaining. Michael was glad that, at least for today, Carla’s stomach would be full.
It was after eleven when they finished dinner, and they wound through the narrow cobblestone streets of Old Havana. Despite the late hour, it was crowded. Shops that were still in business remained open, although they didn’t have much on the shelves. Jineteros and prostitutes, both white and black, advertised their wares. Stray dogs—and there were a lot—begged for food. A gentle breeze carried the scents of cheap perfume, musky sweat, and body odor, and everywhere was music: guitarists, singers, and percussionists.
Beneath the festive atmosphere, though, it was clear everyone was either looking for a handout or to trying to “resolver” their way to survival. It reminded Michael of what he’d read about Germany during the last days of the Weimar Republic, when the partying grew increasingly desperate, forced, and hollow. Then again, Cuba wasn’t always like that. His mother had walked the streets of Old Havana thirty years ago when Cuba was thriving. He wondered what she’d think of the place now.
Carla, whose good humor seemed to be restored now that she’d been well fed, turned to him with an impish expression. “I have an idea.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.” She led him around a corner and down a narrow passage. She threaded her way around other streets until Michael was hopelessly lost. Finally she stopped halfway down a narrow alley. The odor of incense floated out from an open door.
Carla stuck her head in and spoke to someone. A moment later she beckoned Michael.
The breeze stopped at the door, and Michael walked into a room cluttered with so much furniture, junk, and kitsch he felt claustrophobic. In the middle at a small covered table sat an enormous black woman dressed in white. She wore a white turban. Her wrists and ears jangled with jewelry, and her lips were so red they made her teeth look as white as her robes. Michael blinked. It wasn’t the woman he’d seen in the courtyard near the Cathedral, but it could have been her sister.
“Come Miguel, Yelina will tell you if your job will be a success.”
He hesitated. Many Cubans flocked to Santería priests and priestesses to find out about their health, relationships, and finances. A blend of voodoo, Catholicism, and African-based faiths, Santerías were famous for their prophecies and fortune telling. They were the Cuban version of gypsies, although they were slowly being replaced by machines that spat out fortunes, like the one at Coney Island. In other words, scams.
Yelina, the priestess, must have sensed his uncertainty because she flashed him a wide smile. She was missing two teeth. “Come, my son,” she said in Spanish. “Sit.”
Michael sat. He told himself he was only doing it to please Carla, especially since they had quarreled earlier.
“You do not want to be here, do you? You are only doing this for your woman.”
He was taken aback. Was it that obvious?
Yelina smiled at his discomfort, then got up and went to another small table covered with a cloth and strewn with beads. Two candles sat on top, as if the table was a tiny altar. Yelina lit the candles, chanted, and made circles with her hands. Michael had once dated a Jewish girlfriend, and had watched her mother do the same thing on Friday night when she blessed the candles.
She picked up a small bag on the altar, came back to Michael, and sat. She opened the bag and spilled over a dozen shiny egg-shaped seashells across the table. Again she chanted. Then she moved a few of the shells around, studied them, moved a few more. She looked up at Michael, then murmured in an unfamiliar language.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I am inviting the saints and disciples of Orisha to join us.” She paused. “You know who the saints are. I can tell.”
She knew he was Catholic. So what? Most people here were. Or had been.
She moved a few more shells, then looked up at Michael again. “You will be lucky at love.” She stole a glance at Carla and smiled. “In fact, you have met the love of your life.”
That was par for the course.
She glanced down at the shells. “You have come to Cuba to search for something. And someone.”
Also pretty easy. His clothes weren’t threadbare or shabby. She probably guessed he was a foreigner.
She went back to her shells. “You have no money problems. Indeed, someone close to you… will be giving you more wealth. Quite soon.”
That could be his mother. Or father. Or grandfather. They were all well off.
She was rearranging a shell when Michael heard a gasp. The woman sat back in her chair, then looked up at him. Her smile was gone.
“What?” Michael asked.
She glanced at Carla. Michael twisted around. Carla’s face registered fear.
He turned back
to Yelina. “What is it, dammit?”
She spoke rapidly to Carla in Spanish.
“I do not want to ignore it,” he said, making sure she knew he understood. “I want to know.”
Yelina’s eyebrows arched, and Carla’s cheeks reddened.
“I apologize, Miguel,” Carla said. She motioned for the woman to proceed.
The woman ran her tongue around her lips. A speck of lipstick ended up on a tooth. “You will meet the person you came to Cuba to find. Very soon. This person has the answers you have been seeking.”
Michael canted his head. “What answers would those be?” he asked skeptically.
“That I do not know.”
“Well, that sounds about right,” he said, figuring he’d wasted a few dollars.
Yelina and Carla studied the shells, then exchanged a glance.
“Why are you looking at each other?” Michael asked.
Yelina hesitated. “Because you may decide afterwards that you did not want to know those answers.”
“Why not?”
She laced her fingers together on the table. “Because the shells say the answers may spell your doom.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Friday afternoon Michael went back to the warehouse in Old Havana. It was hotter than his first visit, and despite the fan, he felt like he was entering hell. Sweat dripped down his neck and clung to his shirt. Instead of music, the radio was blasting out a baseball game with lots of static. Cubans loved their baseball, he recalled his mother telling him. Fidel himself had been a professional ball player once. In fact, many Cubans swore the game had been invented here.
The two men were frozen in the same positions as his first visit. The same bald jowly man and his grizzled partner, both hunched over the press. If he didn’t know better, the scene could have been a still life. This time, though, the men nodded as he knocked, as if they’d been expecting him.
“Welcome back, Señor DeLuca,” the bald man said. “I trust Habana has been good to you?”
“I can’t complain.” The guy was trying to be social. Odd, given his coolness before. Michael went on alert.
“So my friend, where in America are you from?”
Something was up. Michael squinted. “Why do you need to know?”
The bald man let out a nervous laugh. “Just curious. I have cousins in Miami. But I know others in New York, and Chicago.”
Michael smiled. “Refugees from Cuba are always treated well in my country.”
“That is what we hear.”
Michael looked around. The warehouse was as dim as before, and nothing seemed different. Still. “So?”
The bald man spread his hands. “Ahh… Lo siento. Mucho. I tried but I could not find anyone who was in Lucapa or Dundo during the war. I talked to many people.” He nodded vigorously as if it would attest to his efforts. “But no one was posted that far north.”
“Perhaps you didn’t try hard enough.” Michael rolled his thumb and fingers together, indicating the international symbol for money.
The man drew himself up with an air of feigned indignation. “Señor, we Cubans are not that desperate. I tried. I failed. I am sorry.”
Michael would have to start over. Maybe go to the hotel Carla’s friend had suggested a few days ago. Or take an entirely different tack.
The second man flicked his eyes to the back of the warehouse, then back at Michael. Michael caught it.
“How long will you be staying in Havana?”
“I don’t know.”
The bald man cut in. “Well, if one of my contacts does come through, how can we reach you?”
Michael thought about it. He’d told them the other day he was a doctor. “I am helping at the neighborhood clinic in Vedado. If I’m not there, leave a message. They will give it to me.”
“Bueno. Again, I am sorry we could not locate your—associate. But do not give up hope. In Cuba one never knows.”
• • •
After Michael was gone Luis Perez stepped out of the shadows. He knew who Michael was the moment he saw him. A younger version of both him and Francesca, right down to the dark eyes, prominent nose, and high cheekbones. Even his posture, straight with his head canted a bit to one side, was like her. Seeing his son, however, didn’t prepare him for the wave of sorrow that washed over him; a feeling so raw it was as if Francesca had been taken from him only yesterday, not thirty years ago. He tried to erase the image Michael’s presence had conjured up. He couldn’t.
The two men’s faces filled with curiosity. “So?” the grizzled man said. “Do you know this man?”
Luis tried to focus. Why was his son here in Cuba? Did Francesca send him? Was she delivering a message? And if she hadn’t sent him, who did? His mind was suddenly reeling with possibilities. But prudence dictated he keep his thoughts to himself. The bald, jowly man had been under his command, but Luis trusted no one.
“Gracias, Sargento. I appreciate that you contacted me. It has been a long time since Lucapa, no?”
The bald man nodded. “When he mentioned Dundo, I knew I should look you up.”
Luis nodded back. “You were right to do that. It is an interesting situation. Unfortunately, I do not know this man. I have never seen him, not in Angola, not here, not anywhere.”
The bald man cocked his head. “But he is so certain he knows you.”
Luis turned up his palms. “That does not change the facts. I fear he has made a long journey for nothing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Michael stood in line for hours to get Carla’s food rations for the month. He was fortunate to snare a scrawny chicken and a few fresh vegetables that had been trucked in from Camaguey. He plucked the chicken, peeled the vegetables, and put everything in a pot to simmer, as Carla instructed. The meal turned out to be quite good. After dinner, they went for a walk.
As usual, the Malecón was crowded with people: boys in shabby clothes and sneakers with no laces, prostitutes in tight shorts and tank tops, musicians playing for food. The light from their candles threw a muted glow up from the rocks. Many were living on the other side of the seawall, Carla said. As night fell, masking the despair, they saw dark smudges bobbing on the surface of the bay.
“What are those?” Michael pointed.
“Neumáticos,” Carla answered. “People lash together the inner tubes from tractor wheels, throw a board on top, and use them as fishing boats.”
“Tractor wheels?”
“They are no longer being used to farm. At least they are being put to use.”
Another case of “resolver,” Michael thought grimly. He watched the fishermen paddle the neumáticos farther out into the bay. “The doom… it’s right here.”
“¿Que dices?” Carla asked.
“Remember what the Santería priestess with the shells said?”
“Of course. But what is this doom?”
“The jineteros, the hookers, the neumáticos… all of them were probably teachers, engineers, technicians before. But now…” His voice trailed off. “Where is your family?” he asked.
“My father is sick, so my parents went back to Santiago de Cuba. That’s where they came from. There is family there to help them.” She was quiet. “He has cancer,” she added.
“But you stayed here?”
“I have my job. And the apartment. At least for now.”
“What do you mean ‘for now?’”
“The house originally belonged to a man who got out of Cuba thirty years ago. His son was a friend of my mother’s. My parents moved in to be the ‘caretakers.’ Of course, it belongs to the state now. They can reclaim it anytime they want.”
“But they haven’t?”
“Most likely because I am a doctor.” She snorted. “At least it is good for something.”
“What happens if they do take it one day? What will you do? Where will you go?”
“I will ‘resolver.’” She paused. “But let’s not dwell on unhappy subjects.” Carla smiled. “C
ome. We will go to La Perla, so you can see where your mother lived.”
• • •
The tour of La Perla was bittersweet. A convention center now, the place was locked and they couldn’t get in. Instead they peered through glass doors. Michael saw an expansive lobby with floor to ceiling mirrors and plenty of chandeliers. Carla said it was one of the first resorts to be fully air-conditioned.
Michael imagined what it must have been like thirty years earlier when it was one of the jewels—the pearl, in fact—of Havana’s resorts. Again, he wondered about his mother’s life. Cuba had been her home for nearly fifteen years. She’d grown up here. How did she feel about leaving? Did she have regrets? Is that where his restlessness came from? She’d never spoken much about her life here. Then again, he hadn’t asked.
They turned back towards Carla’s apartment. As if she knew he needed a distraction, she started to chatter. “I like the dry season better than the wet. It’s not so hot. And the breeze is so lovely.”
“What is it now… December?” Michael went along with her. “I’ll bet it’s snowing back home.”
“Where is home?” Carla asked.
Shit. It had slipped out. He didn’t want her to know. The less she knew about him, the better. Although with every passing day, that was becoming more difficult. He tried to cover his gaffe. “If you were in the States now, you’d see a frenzy of materialism. Lots of men dressed like Santa Claus, Christmas trees, lots of money being spent. They call it ‘the holiday spirit.’”
For his mother Christmas was the most important holiday of the year. She always made sure there was a ridiculously huge pile of presents under the tree. And there was the party. His mother threw an annual Christmas Eve party with lavish decorations, a catered dinner, and a band that played swing music in the early hours, switching to rock and roll later. His grandfather and father would each wear a tux. Now, though, as he strolled down the Malecón, comprehension dawned. The frivolity, the food, the music—it must have reminded his mother of Havana; of the time when there was a party at La Perla every night. Michael slowed his pace, so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t hear Carla.
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