Cuba and the Night: A Novel (Vintage Contemporaries)

by Pico Iyer

  He sat back and rested and drank the beer. There was a photo of Fidel, thirty-five years before, on the wall; a picture of Camilo. There was the sound of the fat boy mumbling something to his gods.

  “I tell you something,” the old man went on. “It ain’t so bad for me. I’m old; I’ve seen worse; I’m not goin’ anywhere. But it’s the kids who suffer. And when they suffer, I suffer twice. So I figure the best thing is not to tell them too much. It’s better they don’t know about the past. Because the more they know, the more they suffer. Already, they suffer. They say, ‘I want a T-shirt.’ But to pay for it, I got to get my hands on eighty bucks. They say, ‘Father, give me an ice cream cone.’ But I can’t get ice cream. You got a hundred dollars, but still you can’t get a pound of rice around here. You got a thousand dollars, but still you can’t buy a chicken. So they cry. And when I see that, I want to cry too. But I can’t. Can’t let them see how I feel. Can’t tell them I still have nights, even now, after thirty years, dreamin’ what those guys could do to them. You know, I still wake up sometimes, and my arms are all shakin’, and it’s because I’m thinking what they could do to my kids.”

  He went out to take a leak, and I tried to see what Hugo was doing. I could hardly see him, it was so dark, but he was sitting very still, and I wondered if he was thinking of his uncle. I was thinking with one part of myself of a picture here; with the other, of our host.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said as he rolled back in, with a sailor’s kind of walk, and settled back into his chair. “I ain’t ’gainst Communism. I ain’t ’gainst nothin’ that will bring some food and good livin’ for my kids. Kids need ideals, somethin’ to believe in. Communism’s the only hope for guys like me—black, not too much education, never gonna be rich. But I’m not for fightin’ five years in the mountains for the same thing we’ve been killin’. It’s like killin’ a snake and then goin’ off and drinkin’ a gallon of snake juice. Where’s the sense in that?

  “Those guys at the top, they ain’t so bad. I know them; I fought with them. Maybe they do want to help us sometimes. But they’ve got their minds so full of Gorbachev and Pan Am Games and perestroika shit, they don’t have any room for me and my kids down here. They’re thinkin’ ’bout pesos next year, and how their cousin’s goin’ to get a job. I don’t blame them; I’d be the same myself. But they ain’t helpin’ no one but themselves.

  “See, Jackie Robinson was always the one I loved,” he went on, and I saw the man from next door coming in. “Bueno. Sientate! Son Ricardo y Hugo. Amigos de José.” We shook hands, and the conversation turned to Spanish. “I was just tellin’ ’em about the old Dodgers. Best team I ever saw. Saw Gil Hodges once, in Havana, and Duke Snider, in spring training. Heard Campy used to go to the Tropicana.”

  The conversation went on to the national team, and Luis Tiant, and José Canseco, and then the neighbor must have figured his curiosity was satisfied, because he stood up and walked out.

  The old man leaned toward us in the room. It was pitch black now. “See, I just talk like this, to you guys, for an hour, and already the hair is crawlin’ on my arms.”

  “I guess you wouldn’t be comfortable with my taking some pictures round here?”

  “Why d’you need pictures? Maybe this time you just keep the images in your head, okay? Remember them. Because pictures won’t show you anythin’ in Cuba. Everyone here is wearing a mask. In the house, in the family, everywhere. For me, there’s nothin’ more important in life than your family. But even in the family here, you can’t talk. Maybe somebody believes one thing, somebody else believes the other thing. It’s like a civil war.”

  His voice was coming to us out of the darkness.

  “Look, my friends.” He lit a match. We could see only the outlines of his face. “Look. I’m lookin’. I’m searchin’. But I can’t see no hope anywhere. Can you? Can you see hope? Even with this light, can you see any hope? Where is it? I can’t see it.”

  He shook us back into the dark.

  “Like I say, I don’t need so much. For me, it’s not important. But it’s my kids: what have they got to look forward to? José, he’s crazy, talking to foreigners, speaking English, all that. But how can I tell him not to do it? It’s the only thing he’s got. What else has he got to hope for? More voodoo? A job with the Party? We needed change before, sure. Before, during Batista, there was plenty that was hurtin’. But they changed it too much. Now it’s crazier than Batista’s time. Then, if you had money, you could get something. Now, even a millionaire is broke.” He laughed again, a tired old man’s laugh.

  “So it was lousy during Batista too?”

  “Sure. It was shit. Real bad. Prostitutes and drugs; gambling, everything. No question Fidel made things better. But right now, you can’t talk about better or worse. It’s like choosing between death by gunshot and death by starvation. Maybe the gun’s better ’cause it’s quicker. But seems to me like we got liberation from craziness so we could get nothingness instead. Many more bargains like that, and old Fidel’s gonna be more broke than he is already.”

  He looked back, and said nothing for a while. “Okay. That’s enough politics. Let’s eat. Have a fiesta.”

  Somehow, after all he’d said, I didn’t have the heart to go through with the pig: it was like eating the guy’s savings. “That’s okay,” I said, shooting a glance over at Hugo. “We ate at the hotel. Maybe we’ll just stay and have a few more beers.”

  “Make that rum at least,” he said, getting up and asking Pastor to hustle up a couple of bottles. “And from now on we speak Spanish again. Become innocent again.”

  • • •

  Hugo went to bed maybe thirty minutes later, and after the last bottle of rum was finished, I let the old guy show me to my room. Hugo was already asleep in the bed, so I just found an open space on the floor and lay down. But there was no way I could sleep. I was wired, head buzzing, like on one of those nights when I had to go out with the guerrillas on patrol at four a.m., and I was so on fire that I’d wake up at two-thirty, and just lie there in the dark.

  Outside our room, the pig was snuffling, and rooting around in the grass, and closer to home, I could hear Hugo tossing and turning. Then a sigh, and the sound of the sheet being furiously tossed aside.

  “Can’t sleep?” I whispered.

  “Not really. I think it must be the heat.”

  “Or the drink. Or something in the air. Or the story we just heard.”

  “You think it was a story?”

  “Sure. You could tell the guy had it all ready for foreign consumption. Why do you think José sent us here?”

  “You mean you don’t believe it?”

  “No, I believe it. The fact he’s got it down so perfect doesn’t mean it isn’t true. When I listen to José and all the others gripe about the Revolution, I figure they don’t know anything else. They’ve lived all their lives with the Revolution, so everything that’s gone wrong they can blame on the Revolution, and everything that’s not the Revolution, they think is great. But this guy’s seen it both ways. I trust him.”

  “I never thought I’d hear you confess to that.”

  “Doesn’t come easy. Trust too many people in this job, and you wind up getting set up by every group around. Becoming a mouthpiece for anyone with an ax to grind.”

  “So you believe only what you see?”

  “Right. Only what I can catch in my camera. It’s not the whole truth, maybe, but it’s true at that moment. Right then, it’s what’s happening.”

  There was silence again, and a groan from next door. “How about you, Hugo? What do you believe in?”

  “Well, that’s not the kind of thing one usually talks about.”

  “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “I have things I believe in.”

  “But, being English, you can’t say what they are exactly?”

  “I’m a member of the Church of England.”

  “Sounds like one of your clubs.”

&
nbsp; “I suppose it is.”

  “Sign up, pay your dues, and you’re in for life. Only difference is, you don’t need someone to recommend you.”

  “Maybe so. But I believe in something. I believe in fairness. In the rules of those clubs, and the fairness of those rules. It’s the same as with the boys: as long as one lays down some rules, and enforces them without partiality, the boys realize that they will reap the benefits of what they sow. That there’s some kind of mechanism of justice in the world. That if you do good, you’ll be rewarded, and if you don’t, it’s no one’s fault but your own. Without that, you’ve got nothing.”

  “So you believe in your clubs? In a sense of responsibility? To something, at least.” I had to get going; somewhere, in this city, Lourdes was sleeping.

  “Yes. Insofar as I am able.”

  “And you believe in God? In love?”

  “Yes. Not in the abstract, perhaps, but if I feel it, I believe it.”

  “Well, I have a proposition for you, Hugo. You remember I mentioned a surprise in my letter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, this is it. I know some people would consider it a jackpot.”

  He was silent. The pig snuffled and rooted. There were murmurs, soft voices from next door.

  “This is it: why don’t you marry Lourdes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not for real. But for her sake. To help her escape. Then I’ll take over.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. It happens all the time here. It doesn’t mean anything; it’s just an answer—a convenient answer—to a difficult situation.”

  “That’s absolutely absurd. You’re the one who loves her.”

  “I know. But it’s not easy for me. I’m American, I’m married already, I’m here all the time. If you marry her, no one will suspect a thing. You’re as clean as a baby.”

  “And what about her? You talk about her as if she were a piece of property.”

  “She’s the one who gains most out of this. Anything’s worth a ticket out. Can’t you see that’s what she’s living for? Dying for? This is your chance to do something, for a change. To help out.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I come over and take her off your hands. This isn’t going to be any big hassle for you. Anyway, she likes you.”

  I could picture him going through options in his head. His glasses on the table beside him; his pajamas collecting sweat.

  “Why don’t you live, for a change? Do something daring, something dangerous. W.H. Auden did it.”

  “I don’t believe W. H. Auden had many other matrimonial options.”

  “No, but he did it. Stood up for what he believed in. Put his life on the line.”

  “More like ‘put his wife on the line.’ And besides, what am I going to do when I really do want to get married? Later on.”

  “No problem. Lula’ll be long gone by then. It’ll even give you some extra glamour. Add some spice to your name. Hugo who rescued the Cuban beauty.”

  “Just what a nice girl from Hampshire wants to hear.”

  “You’d be surprised. A woman in your past could lead to women in your future. Just think how the boys at the school would take this. The other teachers too. You’re putting yourself out to help a young woman who wants to be free.”

  “As well as a not-so-young photographer who wants to be free.”

  “Well, maybe that too. Why hesitate about something where everyone stands to gain?”

  “Thank you, Richard. Perhaps I’ll think about it.”

  “Do that. I don’t expect you to decide immediately.”

  “Sleep well,” he said, and turned on his side. From the next room, we could hear the old man relieving himself with his wife.

  I had a strange dream that night. I was walking through the streets of Vedado under a canopy of trees. The city was bathed in apricot light. There was the sound of voices from the buildings, sometimes faint and then remote. The cars standing motionless along the streets. A few black birds scattered through the trees.

  I walked into a room. There were men only there, crouching on the floor. Small cups of coffee at their feet. Somewhere, from inside, I heard her voice. High-pitched and screaming. In ecstasy or pain, I didn’t know.

  When I awoke, I saw Hugo, in the early light, lying on his back, and staring up.

  “So what if I say yes?” he was saying. There was the sound of a rooster outside, and the pig waking up: kids of various ages walking shirtless past our door.

  “Then we can set things up right now. José has a friend in Havana who can make the whole thing go two days from now. In Cayo Largo. The sooner the better; you don’t know when we’ll all be here again. Then we go back to Havana, you take care of the paperwork. I know a guy in your embassy, a cultural attaché, who can help.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it. Easy as one-two-three. They do these all the time. It’s not a real marriage; just an easy way of keeping the authorities off your back. I pay the whole thing up front, and José’s buddy closes the store. All you’ve got to do is show up.”

  “And then?”

  “You just go back to England, the way you’re planning to do. She comes over there as soon as the papers are processed. I wait around until the coast is clear. Then we have a big reunion at the Dorchester. My treat.”

  “You still won’t be able to marry her.”

  “Not yet. But I have ways of getting round that. As soon as we’re together, it’ll be plain sailing.”

  “It just doesn’t sound right. Or even very possible.”

  “Just live for once, Hugo. Come into the real world.”

  “I appreciate your solicitude.”

  Before we left that morning, I took the old guy aside.

  “You mind if I ask you something—something private—before I go?”

  “No problem. Fire away.”

  “You know Lourdes?”

  “Sure. That pretty girl from Havana? José brings her here sometimes. I know her.”

  “You think she’s on the level?”

  “She’s a nice girl. Pretty, goodhearted, speaks good English. What more can you ask?”

  “I’m thinking of marrying her.”

  “Sure. Why not? Where are you going to find better?”

  “You trust her, then?”

  “Trust?” He chuckled hoarsely. “Don’t ask me about trust. I don’t even trust my own wife.”

  A couple of kids came out then, and I could tell it was time for us to go. “Good talking with you guys,” he said. “First time I’m speaking English in maybe two, three years. If you see any of those baseball magazines at home, maybe you could send me a couple? I got a sister in Boston, an aunt down in Hialeah, but they don’t never send me nothin’. Take it easy,” and then we were out the door, and he was back in his room of shadows, speaking Spanish.

  We met José and Lula at the hotel ten minutes later, and as soon as she saw Hugo, Lourdes came up to greet him.

  “Look,” she said excitedly. “Look what I found in my altar!” It was a clipping, from some old American magazine, and there was a picture of an English guy called Ogilvy, and there was a long story about how he’d been framed in some liaison by the Communists.

  “You understand?” she said.

  “My uncle,” said Hugo, reading it more closely.

  “So we have another historian here,” I said. “Another thing you two have in common.”

  “Set up by the guerrillas,” he repeated to himself.

  “Look, Hugo, José has something he wants to talk to you about.” I steered him off in the other direction, so I could take Lourdes aside.

  “I think we’re on,” I told her, as soon as they were gone. “This week.”

  “He’s so kind to me.”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s true. You wouldn’t do this for someone. Not unless you got money for it.”

  “Sure. I guess this i
s the only way he’ll get to spend a night with a woman.”

  “Very funny, Richard,” she said. “You are a comedian.”

  “Just imagine him on the wedding night,” I went on.

  “I won’t have to. I’ll be there with him. Keeping the police occupied. Proving to them that this is a true wedding.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I guess you will,” and went up to collect my camera case.

  We drove out of town then, all four of us, past the cashew trees and the trucks loaded with date palms, past the ancient sugar mills and the lookout posts, standing lonely sentinel on the hills, and up into the sun-baked village of El Cobre.

  Lula was looking glamorous—she’d worn her best pantsuit for the visit, the one she’d worn our first time, on the way to Artemisa—and she’d brought a ring, she said, to give to the Virgin, to bring good luck to her marriage. It felt strange for me, her saying it like that: as if her wedding was real, as if she needed good luck for it.

  Up in the famous Sanctuary, it was again like the Southwest: charged, elemental, with that kind of supernatural, underground force like you feel in Anasazi country. Blue skies, empty spaces, a spire reaching into the heavens. A sense of strength, a hint of magic. “Virgen de la Caridad. No me abandones,” read a message on the wall. Virgin of Charity. Don’t abandon me. By the altar was a Cuban flag.

  The room where they kept the Virgin was one of the most crowded places in Cuba: it was as if the emptier the rest of the island got, the fuller this space became, as if the more real life faded, the more the faith in magic got worked up. The place was packed with every kind of gift and offering you could imagine. Pablo records, eggs, a model Citroën. A ship in a bottle. A life jacket. A pair of spectacles. A Mickey Mouse pendant. A meal voucher.