Havana Twist

by Lia Matera

  I was lucky. I ended up on top of him. But he landed hard, taking his own weight and mine. He landed on his head.

  I scrabbled off him. I could see that he was out cold, blood trickling from his nostrils and shallow gashes on his face.

  I backed away. Had I killed him? Had I killed a Chinese soldier in Cuba?

  I broke into a cold sweat. What would the State Department say? What would WILPF do to me at the next rally?

  That got me moving. I went up the rungs so fast Spiderman would have been jealous.

  I went up too fast to listen for the Chinese soldier, to decide if he was following me, to worry about whether he was stunned or dead. I climbed to save my skin.

  I reached the top and pulled myself out. I was on an oily floor in a basement garage. Beside the opening was a metal grille, the kind that fits over crawlspaces and heating vents. I left it off. If the soldier was dead, perhaps his Cuban companion would assume he’d fallen.

  The garage showed a row of small sedans with antennae sticking out the fronts and backs. There were also a few military trucks resembling jeeps. And there were shelves of radios, walkie-talkies, and flashlights. Gasoline jugs, jacks, tools, and other pieces of hardware lay in organized piles on the concrete floor.

  I quickly walked through the dark room to a rolled-up corrugated door leading to another garage level. There were a few cars parked there, too, most of them up on blocks, with one or more tires off. That room led to a huge opening flanked by a yawning metal grate. There were four Mercedes sports cars parked beside it.

  I slipped through the open grate and dashed off. I was in some kind of business district. Wide boulevards curved past modest monuments and short office buildings. Palm trees lined the streets. The humid air seemed cool and wonderfully fragrant after my hour underground.

  I saw a group of preteen children in school uniforms, and I asked them what these buildings were. One of the girls said, “Are you looking for the theater? You are looking for the film festival?”

  I said yes, and she gave me directions.

  It took me less than ten minutes to reach the theater, a low building with an abstract mosaic embedded in its stucco.

  The tour bus was still parked in front. I waited in the building’s shadow perhaps half an hour before I started hearing American, Mexican, and German voices in the lobby. Someone was exclaiming that the director got better every year. Someone else was saying the films were just a rehash of Death of a Bureaucrat, a shallow attack on didacticism instead of a genuine exploration of artistic vision.

  I pulled off my head scarf and wiped my face with it, shaking my damp hair free. I rounded the corner as people began filing out of the lobby toward the bus. I recognized some as passengers on my Cubana Airlines flight.

  A moment later, the tour’s “minder” spotted me. She was a tiny Cuban woman in a print dress and low-heeled wooden mules.

  She motioned to me, saying, “No, no, this way. We have just enough time for the farm. Come, come.”

  I asked her where the rest room was, and she directed me inside, telling me I must hurry. By the time I returned to the bus, I hoped I wasn’t so smeared with dirt and perspiration that I’d cause comment.

  A couple of people on the bus smiled at me, recognizing me from the plane. A couple more looked puzzled, obviously realizing I hadn’t been with them on the bus earlier.

  Toward the back, heads bowed together, talking intently, were Cindy and Dennis. Cindy stopped midword when she saw me. Dennis frowned and followed her gaze.

  They were again unrumpled and cool-looking in natural undyed fibers. I dropped into the seat in front of them and said, “There’s a problem.”

  Cindy said, “The minder will do a head count before we leave.” She stood. “I can find my way back. Meet you there.”

  She walked up the bus aisle, scooting past incoming passengers. With her head bowed, she ducked off the bus right past the minder.

  Dennis called out, “Compañera.r

  The minder looked at him, startled, while Cindy dashed back into the theater.

  “Compañera,” he said again, “is there time for a bathroom stop?” As he said this, he rose and took a step forward, disconcerting the people trying to get to the back of the bus.

  The minder looked all too patient. “There is a bathroom on the bus, Señor.” She emphasized the word Señor as if the Spanish version of “comrade” had fallen out of favor. “I think we should go now if we are to have time to tour the citrus plantation.”

  “Oh, right,” Dennis said. He dropped into the seat beside me.

  As people continued filing past, he pressed a handkerchief into my hand, murmuring, “You’ve got a bit of a scratch on your chin.” Bending as if to tie my shoe, I mopped my face.

  “Luckily this is the first outing we’ve taken with the group,” he said quietly. “Perhaps no one will notice you’ve gotten shorter and blonder. But after our visit to the farm, you may imprint to the point that you’re forced to go to the rest of these things with me instead of Cindy.” He grinned. “Which would please her no end.”

  “The farm?”

  “We’re going to a citrus plantation. Fruit for dinner, a little rum. To distract us from the fact that one of Cuba’s greatest directors can’t be with us this evening because he’s under arrest.”

  “What for?”

  The bus engine was revving now. Everyone was in their seats. The minder was counting heads.

  “Last year it was still all right to poke a little fun. This year, with the tightening of the embargo, with the restlessness over no food or medicine coming in, well …” He shrugged. “This year El Comandante doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

  All around me, I could hear happy chatter about the movies du jour. A slight breeze through the lowered top halves of the windows cooled my damp scalp.

  I hadn’t learned any more about my mother’s whereabouts, but I wasn’t in custody, either. I wasn’t being interrogated. I wasn’t looking at a choice between Cuban prison and American censure. Not yet.

  I put my hand over my heart, watching the street, half-expecting a bleeding and infuriated Chinese soldier to rush toward the bus brandishing a gun.

  Finally, thank God, the bus pulled out.

  9

  Hours later, when the bus dropped us off at the hotel, I saw Ernesto pacing back and forth across the street, all but wringing his hands. He seemed to be watching for me.

  I stood conspicuously on the well-lighted hotel veranda for a couple of minutes, until I saw him retreat into the shadows of the neighborhood.

  A voice behind me said, “Hi. I’ve got the car.”

  I turned to find Cindy giving me a can’t-wait-to-hear look. She slipped past and headed toward the curb. I supposed she didn’t want lingering tour members, and especially the minder, to get a look at us together and realize there had been a midday switch.

  Dennis angled closer, saying, “Come on, we’ll go get some lobster. Fruit may be all the locals get for dinner, but I’m still starved.”

  “Fifteen minutes.” My toes were bleeding, my hair dusty and oily, and my clothes … Well, I could only be glad I hadn’t spoiled my “fine” ones. “Meet you down at the car.”

  But when I finished taking a tepid, low-pressure shower—a trickle splashing into a rust-ringed tub—their car was no longer parked out front.

  I sat on the hotel veranda, enjoying the sight of palm trees swaying above streetlights. More than ever, I appreciated the magic of outdoor lighting. I inhaled the perfume of a muggy night and trellis-trained jasmine. I kicked off my moccasins and wiggled my blistered toes. I molded myself to the chair back, and I dozed like the middle-aged woman I was becoming.

  I was startled out of a slack-jawed nap by a tap on the arm. A young man with a gnomish face and a ponytail had pulled a chair around to face mine. On his
blue-jeaned knee was a tape recorder. He was hunched forward, apparently trying to charm me with a crooked-toothed smile.

  “Hello,” he said in English. “I am from La Prensa Mexicana. I am doing an article on the film festival. They say you are of the party. May I ask your opinion? Miss…?”

  “Don’t use my name,” I said, blinking myself awake. “And I’ll be honest about the films.”

  In my postnap stupor, I was relieved to hear English. But then, I’d have been relieved to hear Mexican Spanish, every letter and syllable pronounced, and at a speed the human ear could process. I wondered if this man spoke English because I’d recognize his speech as Cuban.

  “I may tape-record you?” Again he flashed me the big smile.

  “Sure.” I thought it would attract more attention to say no. When he clicked on the recorder, I said, “Nothing I’ve seen so far has measured up to Death of a Bureaucrat.” I spoke confidently, parroting comments I’d heard on the tour bus. If this man was really with a Mexican newspaper, he’d throw specifics in my face, talking about directors and actors, quibbling with my opinion. No Mexican I’ve ever met has been able to resist quibbling.

  On the other hand, if the film festival was a pretext, he wouldn’t have a hell of a lot to say. And I would have established today’s alibi.

  “Can you elaborate on that?” he tried again.

  “Another time,” I said. I stood, stretching. Then I hightailed it back into the lobby.

  I’d been stupid to fall asleep outside where anyone could jump me with a tape recorder and a trick question. It had been my fault. But what the hell had become of Dennis and Cindy?

  I crawled into bed and tried not to think about it. I tried not to visualize the Chinese soldier lying beneath me in the tunnel, his mouth gaping and blood smeared across his forehead. I tried to ignore my rumbling stomach—I wasn’t used to grapefruit and rum for dinner. And I tried to ignore the cramps in my legs from the lengthy bike ride.

  Most of all, I tried not to worry about my mother. Nothing had changed, I reminded myself. She had left America a Cuba booster, and wherever she was, she was probably as sold on Fidel as ever. The Cubans wouldn’t be harsh with someone whose cynicism and mistrust was reserved for her own government, not theirs. Wherever she was, she must be there by choice (I prayed!).

  I felt like one of those parents you see wandering the neighborhood at dusk searching for an hours-late child. My face probably showed the anticipation of gratitude at finding the miscreant mingled with determination to administer a hell of a spanking shortly thereafter.

  As tired as I was, it took me a long time to get to sleep. I worried about my father’s reaction to the message I’d left him. I longed to talk to him, to find some comfort in his voice. But Cindy was probably right: Overseas calls were most likely monitored by both Cuba and the U.S. Until I was ready to talk to government officials, I’d better play it safe.

  I hoped I was doing the right thing. I fretted. I tossed and turned. It seemed I’d just nodded off when there was a knock at my door. I was going to ignore it—whoever it was could come back in the morning. But as the knocking continued, I opened my eyes to find that it was morning. The sun was streaming through gaps in the curtains, and huge dust motes were dancing in the light.

  I climbed out of bed and opened my door wide enough to peek out.

  Cindy stood before me in her cool natural fibers, her chin-length hair shiny and unfussed-with. She put her finger to her lips to warn me not to say anything. Then she beckoned me to come out, pointed down to indicate the lobby, then she turned away to leave me to wash up.

  I was downstairs within ten minutes and budgeted in a few more to go into the breakfast room for syrup-thick Cuban coffee. It the perfect morning jolt. Espresso would seem watery to me now by comparison. If only Starbuck’s knew about this stuff.

  Cindy was sitting at a lobby table opposite a woman in a hotel uniform. Behind the woman was a poster of scuba divers in tropical waters dense with colorful fish. Brochures were fanned across the tabletop. Cindy was looking through them, saying, “Too bad I forgot my prescription diving mask.”

  When she caught sight of me, she motioned me over. “I don’t think we have time to do a snorkeling trip today. Plus they don’t have prescription masks there, she doesn’t think.” Cindy nodded toward the woman behind the table. “Weren’t you saying you wanted to tour a hospital or something like that?” She turned so the woman couldn’t see her face, and she mouthed the word jail.

  “A hospital would be interesting,” I agreed. “But I ran into someone last night who was telling me they have a model prison system. He said he’d toured a women’s prison on the west side of the island. He said it was worth a trip.”

  If the woman behind the table found my request odd, she didn’t show it. Instead she said, “Very regularly, people wish to tour our hospitals and our prisons. Our hospital supplies are limited by the embargo, of course, but we have distributed everything to take the best care of our sick and to offer the most humane rehabilitation to those in prison. We do not have the problem of people who make mistakes being turned into hard criminals like it is true in other countries.” She smiled. “I am certain I can arrange a tour for you. But you will need a car. Unless your tour group wishes to go as well.”

  “We have a free day,” Cindy said. “But I’d rather beach-comb or something. How about if we drop you at the prison, and meet you back there later with the car?”

  “You would enjoy it, too, Señorita,” the woman said to her.

  “No, I don’t want to spoil anyone’s plans,” I said, “just book the tour for me alone. If you can.”

  “Of course.” The woman showed a bright smile and white teeth. While she made phone calls, I whispered, “What happened to you last night?”

  “Interior Ministry people all over the lobby. We thought we’d better decamp rather than have them associate you with us. Something’s definitely up.”

  “The Chinese soldier?” I assumed Dennis had filled her in.

  “Maybe. But I wouldn’t worry—it doesn’t sound like he could identify you, not if you were wearing a scarf.” But she didn’t look entirely convinced.

  Within ten minutes, we’d gotten approval to visit the women’s prison. The woman drew us a map and told us to enjoy ourselves.

  We walked out of the hotel and turned right, away from the ocean and the sea wall. We passed groups of Cubans standing at a bus stop. They looked bored and patient as if they’d been there a very long time already.

  “That was awfully easy,” I commented.

  “The credibility of the revolution rests on the appearance of having an open society. But nothing could be farther from the truth—the level of censorship, the total management of the news, the restrictions on travel … So instead they’ve got model versions of everything—a model school with extra supplies, a model hospital with their most innovative features, a model prison with well-coached, quiet inmates.” She wiped perspiration from her forehead. It was muggier and hotter today. “For years, they secretly sold tons of seafood through Panama, exchanging the profits for under-the-table food shipments for the diplotiendas, the dollar stores. In essence, those were Cuba’s model stores. The shelves were crowded with Cheerios and Tide so the tourists would think, How bad off can they be? Noriega’s arrest was almost as big a blow to Cuba as the USSR’s collapse.”

  The air was buzzing with bees as we passed tangles of vines overrunning a wrought iron fence. A group of girls in school uniforms screeched and giggled, brushing bees off one another.

  Dennis pulled up beside us.

  With a sigh, I climbed into the back seat of the Moskvich. I wished the tour were already over. I hated prisons, “model” or otherwise.

  Miles of lush countryside lay between us and Women’s Prison West. Dennis pulled over before the building came into view.

  “Better i
f you approach alone,” he explained. “Just meet us back here when you’re ready.”

  “But—”

  “We can’t have our names reported to the Interior Ministry too often—it raises too many flags. We went to see the Yum King. Now we have to be circumspect.”

  I watched them climb out of the car. Dennis opened my door. I sat there a minute, not wanting to do this.

  Finally, I climbed behind the wheel. The plastic-bodied car was the least responsive, crankiest vehicle I’d ever driven.

  A few minutes later, I entered an area fenced with fifteen-foot chain link topped with razor ribbon and barbed wire. It was crawling with men and women in military fatigues, machine guns slung across their backs. Camouflage-painted trucks intercepted me. I felt trapped in a Costa-Gavras movie about a Latin American guerrilla war.

  I talked to a uniformed woman flanked by Chinese soldiers. I explained that someone from my hotel had phoned ahead and arranged for me to tour the prison. In the distance, I could see a convey of trucks driving away.

  “We were told to expect two women. You have identification?”

  “The person arranging the tour must have made a mistake.” I handed over my passport.

  She took it and left.

  A few minutes later, she returned, handing me back my passport, and motioning me to walk with her. She looked about nineteen, with a thick ponytail and a bouncy walk bespeaking perfect muscle tone. We hustled through the fenced area, then crossed a parking lot with very few cars in it. They were like the small sedans I’d seen in the garage above the tunnel. Their emblems read Lada. Russian, I thought.

  Outside the building, a woman in a more formal, light brown uniform waited to greet us. Her jacket had epaulets and ribbons, her skirt was tailored, and she wore heavy stockings despite the heat. She was round-faced and middle-aged, and she looked more than a little confused.