by Lia Matera
“Could you slow your speaking down a little?” And put some of the consonants back.
But he seemed too excited to vary his pace. “In La Habana we have nothing. No entertainment, no books. Everything we produce is exported—sugar, fish, pork. And we are left hungry, with no electricity, no gasoline or buses, no computers. But the worst is that there is no soap. In this climate to go without soap—I tell you, if there is a riot, it will not be over food. Cubans are accustomed to be hungry. We make the coffee stronger and we try not to notice. But we will never grow accustomed to having no soap. If we riot, compañera, it will be because we are all sticky and cannot bear to smell ourselves!”
No wonder my mother had tried to donate some to the hotel staff. I was about to shift the conversation around to her, when he continued, still at mumbling double speed.
“Girls are lucky. They can go to tourists, old fat men from Venezuela and Canada, and trade for a bottle of shampoo and a night in the tourist clubs, where we are not permitted. They can have drinks and hear music, and come home with bags from the diplotiendas, the big dollar stores. But what can the men do? Stand at the Malecon and try to catch fish. Try to change pesos for dollars, and watch our lives pass by.”
“You haven’t seen an older blond woman down here, have you?” My mother would certainly have emptied her wallet of dollars, though she might have been troubled that the glorious and ongoing Revolution hadn’t obviated the need.
“Many old American ladies here last week,” he offered, in a helpful tone.
“Let me show you her picture.”
The flash of headlights made him step farther away. “Tourist police. If you will put it on the wall and walk away, I will look at it and leave it for you. We can take our spots again after.”
I pulled my mother’s picture out of my wallet. Twice in an hour—that was probably as often as I’d done it in the previous twenty years. One thing about living near your parents, you didn’t get much of a chance to miss them.
I sauntered off, attracting the curious gaze of neckers. They waited for the tourist police car to cruise past. Then one whispered to me, “American lady, you have dollars? You want a date? Go hear real Afro-Cuban jazz?”
A bicyclist zipped by, reaching out a hand as if—I feared—to yank away the handbag I hadn’t brought with me.
I returned to my previous spot along the sea wall, and slipped the photo back into my pocket. The young man was a little farther away and to my other side now. Despite the fact that the tourist police had passed, he seemed reluctant to stand beside me again.
“Perhaps I have seen her,” he said. “There are many friends here I can ask. But,” he shrugged, “we are very desperate for dollars.”
“I’ll pay for information about her, if it turns out be accurate.”
“Then I will ask. I will ask everybody!” He flashed a broad smile, looking almost unbearably young and sweet in his sagging T-shirt and too-large shorts.
My first spy in place, I returned to the hotel. At the door, the tourist police stopped me again.
“You were not molested by the children at the Malecon?” His smile was pleasant and his eyes were like steel. “The youngsters here, they are happy to spend the nights strolling and talking among themselves, falling in love like young people will do. But in their happiness they can be, how do you call them, chatterbugs.”
“No, I didn’t meet any chatterbugs,” I assured him.
Mother’s WILPF companions had made a point of telling me they’d been free to walk wherever they wanted without restriction. (“Fidel wants people to enjoy his city!”) But none of them, it turned out, had gone anywhere but the Malecon or the tourist zone of shops, museums, and restaurants.
Tomorrow, I’d try to slip out a side door to avoid the bossy tourist police, just in case.
I rode an elevator that smelled like a cat box and lurched fitfully up several floors. A grim-looking woman in a maid’s uniform was just coming out of my room. I was taken aback. Housekeeping service at 10 p.m.?
She stood looking at me. Then she held up a plastic bag of hotel-sized soaps and shook it.
Late night soap replenishment—oh sure, they had so much to spare.
But whatever in my room had been rummaged, it had been left roughly in place. There was a dead moth and a huge dust ball in the middle of my bedspread, though. I didn’t think it had been there before. I looked above it. On the ceiling, a light fixture was slightly askew.
If this weren’t the land of magical socialism, I’d have guessed a bugging device had just been inserted there. No matter. El Comandante himself was welcome to hear me snore the night away.
3
I couldn’t face the complimentary breakfast, a buffet of old meats in congealed sauces. Luckily, a couple of cups of coffee as thick as black syrup took away my appetite. After trying without success to make an overseas call, I left the hotel by way of a door near a pool filled with shrieking Canadian kids. Tour buses resembling depression era Greyhounds were lined up in front of the hotel, loading people in for (I assumed) day one of the film festival. Only the rumpled yet elegant couple who’d been seated in front of me on the plane had a car, an odd, plasticky sedan I’d never seen before.
I kept my eye on the tourism police. Several of them were present this morning, as the tourists were being herded. I slipped away, turning as soon as possible down a side street.
I imagined Mother strolling these neighborhoods swapping anecdotes with people on their porches, handing dollar bills to teenagers, kissing babies in their buggies. Surely someone would remember a motormouthed American woman bursting with goodwill—and with cash.
Within minutes, I was far enough from the hotel that no trace of tourism remained. The houses were crumbling old mansions, windows broken and doors unhinged. Peering into their gloom, I could see mattresses and bedding covering much of the floor space.
Passersby were thin, clothed in worn pants and shirts from the sixties and seventies. Not only did they show no willingness to chat with me, most crossed the street to avoid me.
I couldn’t figure it out. Wasn’t it natural to be curious about strangers? And with my blond hair and pale skin, I was clearly no Cuban. So why did everyone keep their eyes averted? Why were they so obvious about keeping their distance?
They were afraid to be seen interacting with an American. No other explanation made sense.
The farther I walked, the more palatable the hotel’s congealed breakfast meats seemed. But I didn’t find any restaurants. And the few stores I spotted were closed and empty, with blackboards listing names and marking rations. When I finally spotted an open store, the line outside wrapped around the block. People stood there stoically, looking too bored to talk. Signs read, “Flour tomorrow” or “Oranges, one per family.”
I began fantasizing about cafés. I was fooled a few times by windows plastered with colorful posters. But they were invariably political slogans—Viva Cuba Libre! or Viva Nuestra Revolución Socialista! The initials CDR—Comité de Defensa de la Revolución, Committee for the Defense of the Revolution—and revolutionary posters appeared as often as ads in a U.S. business district. Which might explain why no one wanted to stop and talk to an American stranger.
I returned to the hotel utterly demoralized. Obviously I’d get no leads wandering the ‘hoods in search of Cubans who’d befriended my mother.
I’d have to begin retracing her steps. The ever-energetic WILPF group had toured a hospital, a school, and a women’s prison; they’d visited nearby beaches and resorts; they’d been fêted by the writers union and the film department of the university; they’d gone to a nightclub; they’d toured a cane field.
I would try those places, hoping Mother had mentioned additional plans to someone there. Perhaps she’d made a date or been given some suggestion.
If that proved useless, I’d be forced to begin c
ontacting bureaucrats, both Cuban and American. The fewer political types on alert, the slimmer the chances of Mother’s ending up under arrest. Given the maximum penalty of ten years and $100,000, I’d delay as long as I could. But eventually, I’d do whatever I had to, to find her.
4
On the hotel veranda, I encountered the couple with the natural-fibers traveling clothes.
The woman said, “Would you like to join us for lunch? We’re on our way to La Habana Vieja, Old Havana.”
“Yes,” her companion added, “please join us.”
“You’ve been to Havana before,” I remarked noncommittally.
“Oh yes.” The man’s tone was dry. In fact, everything about him looked dry. In the sticky noonday heat, I was wiping my cheeks. But his long face looked cool, and his clothes, though wrinkled, were unstained with perspiration. “This is our fourth visit.”
“You’re Americans?” I knew this from our brief conversation in the customs line.
“Journalists. With Associated Press. I’m Dennis. This is Cindy.”
“Willa. Sure, I’d love to have to lunch with you.” Though I wondered why they’d offered, I could use a few pointers about getting around this town.
Cindy, her freckled face showing no particular emotion, said, “We’re waiting for the car. We gave it to someone to park for us … trying to spread a few dollars around.”
“Where are you from?”
“Mexico City for the last two years. We’re off to Russia in a few months.”
Dennis said something to her in Russian. When she frowned, he said, “We’ve been working on the language, but it’s not easy.”
A young man trotted up. The couple gave him a five-dollar bill. He looked ecstatic.
As we piled into the car, I tapped the body.
“Yes, plastic,” Dennis said. “A Moskvich. It’s Russian. They imported thousands of them in the good old days before the USSR collapsed.”
“You’re here for the film festival?” I shaded my eyes from the intense silver light of midday sun.
“In theory. But the Cubans rarely give journalists permits to visit—in fact, we’ve never been able to get one. So we attach ourselves to groups like this whenever we can. We come in as Mexican tourists rather than American reporters.” He frowned as he tried to shift a stuck gear. “Every year or so, unfortunately, we have occasion to write another story about how much bleaker the economic picture has become. Even last year there were a few cars on the road. This year, there’s no gas at all for Cubans, only for us foreigners and our rental cars. Most neighborhoods have electrical power less than two hours a day. See the layer of black grime on the buildings? They’re cooking with wood and coal now—dirty stuff.”
Bicycles zipped by us.
“Chinese,” Cindy commented. “Flying Pigeons. They’ve imported probably a million Chinese bicycles on credit. In return, there are Chinese military officials everywhere. We hope they aren’t going to export their prison labor economy.”
“Mm,” the man agreed.
He pulled into a parking spot beside a stone plaza. We were surrounded by castlelike buildings with archways and pillars and porticoes and wrought-iron balcony rails. It looked like old Spain.
We walked through narrow cobblestone streets, alongside well-dressed tourist families. Shops sported signs in English, patio tables were spread with white cloths.
We sat at one of them. My companions ordered mojitos and lobster. Without knowing what a mojito was, I ordered the same. We were brought minty, sugary rum drinks splashed with lime. The air smelled of hot stones and trellis flowers.
“So,” Dennis said, “what brings you to Havana?”
Cindy sipped her drink daintily, but her eyes were intent on my face.
I could trust them with the truth and try to enlist them as allies in my search. Or I could be wary of this couple who’d picked me up in a Havana hotel lobby. I was in no position to decide which was the better option.
“My mother was just here,” I hedged. “She was very impressed with it.”
“Did she come with a group?”
“Yes.” Again I hedged, “ElderHostel, you know, old ladies on the go.”
We were brought lobster so succulent and firm we temporarily lost ourselves in an orgy of enjoyment. With a second mojito in my hand, and a pile of lobster shells in front of me, I leaned back and surveyed the undercrowded plaza. The air was sultry and perfumed. Passing tourists looked prosperous and happy.
“Well,” Dennis said. “We’ve got an appointment with the Yum King.”
“Young Urban Marxist,” Cindy explained. “The foreign press calls them Yummies—party members with plenty of perks. He’s an official of the Interior Ministry and soon to be a member of Cuba’s politburo. He’s got quite an air, a fascinating character.” She watched me. “We’re posing as movie buffs with a message from a mutual friend in Mexico City. I wouldn’t miss meeting him for anything.”
I felt myself stiffen. Was she inviting me along?
Instinct warned me to return to the hotel. But an Interior minister, soon to be a politburo member … Maybe he’d be amenable to questions—general ones, of course—about missing tourists. Maybe, after some mutual-friends chatter, he’d be in a friendly mood. Maybe he could offer a shortcut.
“I don’t suppose …” Danger, Will Robinson, danger. “I’d love to go with you.”
“Well, having you along would make us seem more touristy.” Cindy looked at Dennis.
And he shrugged, almost nonchalantly enough.
5
We drove through a neighborhood of plain high-rises, fifties style, to a building that resembled a suburban grade school, low and L-shaped. “They never meet with you in their own offices,” Cindy explained. “They always say they have business somewhere else, and have you join them there.”
We were greeted in the nearly empty parking lot by a Cuban writer—a bestseller in the days when paper was available, he explained. He showed us into a meeting room with rows of rusty metal folding chairs facing a larger wooden chair. He seated us in the first row and offered us pineapple juice in demitasse cups. Dennis gave him a half-dozen pens and traded addresses with him. Then the man Cindy and Dennis called the Yum King entered. He had long curls that spilled over both shoulders like a Louis XIV wig. He was tall and pale-skinned, with an arrogant mouth and impatient brows. He wore a guayabera shirt, the four-pocket style often seen in photographs. His was starched and pressed, impressive for its blinding whiteness and seeming newness. And he wore a wristwatch and a pinkie ring, the first pieces of jewelry I’d seen on any Cuban.
He shook our hands, looking very sour.
“I’m happy you could see us, Señor Emilio,” Cindy all but gushed. “Martin sends his regards. He was so glad we’d be able to take home news to him. And this is our friend from the film festival.” She didn’t offer my name. “Martin was anxious to let you know his wife is having a child. And he wanted us to be sure to find out what’s new in your life.”
The Yum King nodded, as if Martin’s interest could only be expected. “All is very well, tell Martin. The politburo has taken my advice regarding preserving our cultural traditions. And our literary community deeply appreciates Martin’s support.”
Cindy blinked innocently. “He does love literary people! We’ve been hearing rumors, you know. I know Martin will be glad there’s no basis for them.”
“Rumors?” He smiled ironically. “When are there not rumors about Cuba? What are we said to be doing now? Stifling speech? That’s a laugh, isn’t it? You have seen our brilliant and internationally acclaimed movies at the festival. The only impediment to speech here is the lack of goods occasioned by your government’s embargo.”
Cindy nodded. “So true. But you know how Americans misunderstand. The government gets so much mileage out of reports like the one a
bout Lidia Gomez.”
Emilio scowled. “What reports?”
“That she was attacked by a mob outside her home—a mob incited by the Interior Ministry to stage a repudiation act. That they forced her to burn all her poetry, and that they dragged her through the streets and beat her. That you have her under house arrest now.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where have you heard these rumors? Certainly not from Martin?”
“Oh no,” she assured him. “Just at large.”
Señor Emilio waved an impatient hand. “They are only rumors.”
Cindy’s smile was looking a little strained. “How do you suppose these rumors get started? I assume Gomez has been publicly complaining?”
“I suspect that foreign journalists have embellished and misreported for the sensationalistic conglomerates that run your so-called news agencies.” He rose abruptly. “I regret that I have another appointment. Please tell Martin I shall expect him to name his new child after me.” He smiled graciously. “Tell him I have not found the right woman yet, but that one condition of marriage will be that she like the name Martin.”
Offering the top of his hand as if we were to kiss his ring, he gave us limp handshakes and departed.
Cindy and Dennis were all smiles and cheery, “What a lovely person,” “What a nice place,” kinds of comments—until we reached the car.
Then Dennis said, “Jesus, what an ass.”
Cindy looked troubled. “It’s worse than I thought. I wonder how bad off she is.”
“The poet?” I asked.
Dennis explained, “If she were okay, he’d have denied everything and told us to feel free to go speak to her. Of course, he’d have had her spirited away so we couldn’t talk to her, but he’d have given us the impression we could. And that we’d be satisfied by what she had to say.”
“I wonder how badly she was beaten.” Cindy sounded shaken. “I wonder if they’ve got her at home or in prison.”
“Either way,” Dennis mused, “it’s odd he didn’t go with complete denial. If we were really harmless friends of Martin’s, we’d have no way of tracking her down. No way of checking up.” He started down the palm-lined street.