Naked In Havana (Naked Series Book 1)

by Colin Falconer

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said and slammed the door again. “You see what you do to me? You make me forget everything I want to say.”

  “Papi, it won’t take long.”

  He paced the room. He looked to heaven and brought his hands together in a mock prayer. “Lord, tell me, what am I going to do with this daughter of mine?” Having waited long enough for an answer and received none, he turned back to me. “I’m driving you.”

  I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you, Papi,” I said and ran out of his study before he could change his mind again.

  Reyes lived in a beautiful upper floor apartment in Vedado neighbourhood, on Calle 12. The little cream and white two story villa was hidden from the street behind a high wall and overgrown with bougainvillea.

  We sat in the car outside while I listened to my father’s instructions: I could be ten minutes and no more. I was to deliver the message and leave; stay a second over my allotted time and he would be kicking down the door to get me.

  It had been raining all morning. The sky was slate-grey and rainwater ran in brown torrents down the street. I jumped across the puddles and up to the portico. His maid answered the door. She ushered me through a marble entryway and into an art deco living room with Persian rugs on the floor. There were wood carvings everywhere. I imagined that Reyes had bought them at the markets.

  An old tango tune played on the Victrola in the corner of the room.

  Reyes stood on the balcony smoking a cheroot, his back to me, staring down into the street. “What brings you here?” he said.

  This wasn’t the welcome I had been expecting. “I had to see you,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I never had a chance to say goodbye to you at the wedding.”

  He turned around and fixed me with a hard stare. “Goodbye. There, it’s done. Would you like Inez to show you out?”

  I just stood there, stunned.

  “What’s wrong, princess?”

  “What have I done? Why are you acting like this?”

  “How should I act?”

  You said fate brought us together!”

  “I changed my mind.”

  Then it hit me; the shadow I had seen over Angel’s shoulder, when he tried to force himself on me in the garden, the glow of the cigar...no, it wasn’t a cigar, it must have been a cheroot.

  “You saw me with Angel.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “It wasn’t what it seemed.”

  “No? It seemed like he had you up against the wall with his hand up your dress. Did I imagine that?”

  “You don’t understand, Reyes.”

  “No, I don’t. I thought you’d forget about that boy and accept the admiration of someone who actually wants you. Isn’t it hard loving a man who’s just married someone else and is about to leave the country? Not for some women apparently.”

  “I don’t love him. Not anymore.”

  “Princess, let’s get one thing straight: I have rules for my life and I stick to them. So far the rules have worked out pretty good for me and I don’t intend to break them. Rule number one is never to give a woman a second chance. First time she makes a fool of you, it reflects badly on her. The second time, it reflects badly on the guy she makes a fool of. I’ve known women like you before, and you’re only bad news so I’m going to cut my losses while I can.”

  He turned his back on me and went back to the balcony.

  I started to say something and thought better of it. It would sound as if I was begging, and I had my pride. Besides he knew what a liar I was, why would he believe me when I told him that I only came here today to tell him I loved him?

  There was nothing else for it so I left. He didn’t even turn around.

  Chapter 34

  The New Year’s Eve ball at the Left Bank was a glittering affair; they always were. All the hotels and clubs in the city would be packed with the high end tourists and the rest of Havana would be in the streets.

  Yet tonight wasn’t quite the same. Through the week there had been more rumours of rebel advances. Papi had heard that Che Guevara’s brigade had penetrated the province of Las Villas, on the central highway. It meant they would be in a position to attack Havana within the week.

  “If they win,” I asked him on the way to the club that night, “will Fidel close us down?” I was behind the wheel of the Bel Air, Papi was reluctantly teaching me to drive.

  “They may close the casinos but why would they close the clubs?”

  “Will we still leave Cuba?”

  “I don’t know, cariña,” he sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Papi still couldn’t sell the house. Every week he dropped the price, but Lansky was right, they had left it too late. There were no takers. Whatever happened in Cuba now they would have to just ride it out.

  There was an SIM colonel there that night, Estevez, with his two daughters. He was surrounded by his bodyguards. They took their .45-caliber pistols out of their holsters and put them on the table, covered them with napkins, ready for us. They had never done anything like that before.

  It was the strangest start to a new year I could ever remember.

  Later on we all counted down to midnight and then we ate twelve green grapes for good luck, one each time the chime on the clock struck. Balloons floated down from the ceiling and everyone threw streamers and exchanged toasts and kisses. It was 1959. We all prayed for a good year.

  Ramon fetched a bucket of water and handed it to Papi. Everyone crowded into the foyer to watch him step outside in his tuxedo and dump the water in the street to frighten away evil spirits and bring good luck in the New Year. Everyone was laughing. We had all forgotten about Fidel and Che for a few hours.

  As the night wore on people drank more champagne and danced the rumba and the mambo, and for an hour or two it was like every other year. I was dancing with Papi when I saw a soldier in a green uniform walk into the club and go to the table where the SIM colonel was drinking champagne with his daughters. He leaned down and whispered something in his ear.

  The colonel spoke softly to his bodyguards who all picked up their revolvers and escorted him to the door, shepherding his daughters behind him. Papi got up from the table and followed him.

  A few minutes later I found him standing outside, staring at the sky, smoking a cigar. The colonel had already left.

  “What has happened?” I asked him.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Who, Papi?”

  “Batista. He left just after midnight. He has taken his family and advisers and flown to Santo Domingo. Castro has won the war.”

  “What?”

  “The maricón waited until tonight, when everyone was busy with his New Year. He flew out on a private plane. It’s all over.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m going to make the announcement to everyone inside, and then we’re going home,” he said.

  But the news had already spread and people were already rushing for the door. One lady tripped and fell over her silk gown in the forecourt in the rush. It was not much more elegant than the night the bomb went off.

  Realising there was nothing he could do now, Papi walked off and stood under the street light in the alley next to the club. The roots of an ancient fig tree had almost totally strangled the surrounding pavement. He stood with his hands in his pockets, one foot resting on a broken pavement, shaking his head.

  He beckoned me over. “You see this tree?” he said. “It was here a hundred years ago when Carlos De Céspedes, a sugar planter, freed his slaves to fight alongside him for a free Cuba. It was here when José Marti founded the Cuban Revolutionary Party, and it was here when four hundred thousand Cubans starved to death in Spanish camps. It was still here when we declared independence in 1902, and it was here when that dog Morales suspended the constitution. It has seen coups and sieges and an endless line of corrupt and venal presidents. But it’s still...here. And it will sti
ll be here tripping up people on dark nights when this Fidel Castro is just a memory.”

  “I hope so, Papi.”

  He sighed. “So do I, cariña.”

  He seemed fine just then. It was only after the club was locked up and he was getting into the car that I saw him stagger. He put a hand to his neck. “What’s wrong, Papi?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “I can’t feel my arm.”

  He clutched at his jaw and then pitched forward on his face. I tried to stop him from falling and he slumped half in and half out of the car. I shouted to Ramon to help me.

  This time it was serious.

  Ramon helped me get him into the car and I clambered in behind the wheel and drove home as fast as I could.

  Maria helped me get him inside the house. He was unconscious, and his breath was sawing in his chest. We laid him on the sofa and Maria ran to call Doctor Mendes. I just prayed that he was home.

  “Papi, please talk to me.” I loosened his tie. His skin was a sickly grey and he was sweating, a cold greasy sweat that had already soaked through his shirt. I heard Maria screaming hysterically to Mendes down the telephone. Thank God he was there.

  She called me to the phone, Mendes wanted to talk to me.

  “What happened?” he said.

  I told him.

  “Is he breathing?”

  “He’s kind of snoring.”

  “Keep him sitting up. And if he wakes up, keep him absolutely still. I’ll drive straight over.”

  I went back and held Papi’s hand, urged him to hold on. Maria was crying. It was 1959, and all the grapes and the buckets of water had done us little good. I fought back my foreboding and prayed that Mendes would hurry.

  Chapter 35

  Mendes put away his stethoscope and shook his head. “I’ve been warning him for months to stop his smoking and drinking. I knew this would happen.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s a heart attack,” he said. “There is not much I can do for him here, we have to get him to a hospital.”

  “Shall I call an ambulance?”

  Mendes sighed. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you want him to die here or die there, señorita. The hospitals are overrun with wounded soldiers being brought in from the front, they always bring them into the city at night so no one can see them. And not all of the staff are there anymore, already some of the doctors have fled. It is chaos. Your father needs urgent attention and I don’t know if he’s going to get it tonight. Amancio has picked the worst possible time to have his heart attack. Not that there is ever a good time.”

  “But we have to get him to the hospital. What choice do we have?”

  “You are right, I suppose. There is no choice.”

  Mendes picked up the telephone. There was no answer. He tried again. Finally he slammed the receiver down in its cradle. “Let’s put him in the car,” he said. “We’ll have to drive him ourselves.”

  “Wait, I have a better idea,” I said. “Will you stay here with my father, please? I won’t be long.”

  The better idea lived a few blocks away on Calle 12. I ran out of the house and jumped into the Bel Air and drove straight over.

  The streets were eerily deserted—there were no cars, no pedestrians, no police. Nothing. As I was turning into Calle 12 a man jumped out in front of me and I had to slam on the brakes. He stood there swaying in the headlights. He was old and skinny and unshaven and his shirt was torn. He was clearly drunk. I pounded my fist on the horn and then got out, grabbed him and threw him out of the way. He lay in the gutter, cackling.

  The whole city had gone mad.

  Reyes was getting ready to leave.

  As my headlights swung into the drive I saw him tossing two suitcases into the back of his Impala. He didn’t look at all panicked; he might have been about to go on annual vacation.

  He shielded his eyes from the headlights and strolled up to the driver’s side. “Well, hello princess, what are you doing here?”

  “I need your help.”

  “You look like you’re in a hurry. What’s wrong? Are you running away from one of your lovers?”

  “Papi’s sick. Please, Reyes.”

  “How sick is he?”

  “Very. I’m afraid he’s going to die.”

  “He didn’t pick a very good night to get ill. This place is going to get crazy very quickly. Where is he?”

  “He’s at home, the doctor says he’s had a heart attack. He’s afraid that if he goes to the hospital he won’t make it. That’s when I thought of you.”

  “Well, I can do a lot of things, but I don’t have healing powers.”

  “No, but I’ll bet double or nothing that you have a plane waiting somewhere ready to get you out.”

  He grinned. “That’s very perceptive of you.”

  “Please,” she said. “Don’t make me say it. Just name your price.”

  “The going rate on Pan Am is fifty-nine dollars. I’ll give you a fifty-eight dollar discount because you’re friends. You better park the car over there and jump in mine. Do you even have a license for this?”

  The news had started to spread. A beaten up convertible was touring the streets, the driver had a megaphone and he was shouting that the dictator Batista had fled. Long live the Revolution! People were flooding into the street.

  “We don’t have long,” Reyes said.

  “Where’s your plane?”

  “Out at the airport. Don’t worry, he won’t leave before I get there. I’m the one who’s paying him.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening. Dios mio, don’t let him die!”

  “Do you have money?”

  I hadn’t even thought of that. “Papi has a safe, but I don’t know the combination. I have a little money in my room, and there’s Mama’s jewels.”

  “Better grab what you can. You don’t know how long you’re going to be away for.”

  “We can come back when he gets better. He will get better, won’t he?”

  “I’m not God, princess, it’s not up to me. Who’s going to look after the house?”

  “We have a housekeeper. Ramon can keep an eye on the club.” I was shaking. This was all happening too fast. I didn’t even know if Papi would still be alive when we got back.

  I couldn’t think. All I could do was pray.

  Chapter 36

  Papi was still unconscious. Reyes winced when he saw him. “He doesn’t look too good.”

  “He’ll be all right, he’s a Fuentes. He’s tough.”

  “If you say so,” Reyes said.

  He helped Doctor Mendes carry Papi to the car. I went upstairs and grabbed as many things as I could and threw them in a bag; Mama’s jewellery, some cash, some clothes. I was too panicked to think. I ran back downstairs, hugged Maria and told her we would return as soon as we could. Then I jumped into the back of the Impala, put Papi’s head on my lap and told Reyes to drive as fast as he could.

  I didn’t even look back.

  It was at least an hour before dawn but people were pouring onto the streets, they were singing and cheering and shouted at us as we drove past. It all seemed good natured enough, for now. People honked their car horns and others were banging sticks on buckets and cymbals, making as much racket as possible.

  Reyes twisted around. “How’s he doing?”

  “The same.”

  I heard what sounded like fireworks coming from the Parque Central. “It’s late to be letting off fireworks,” I said.

  “That’s a machine gun, princess.”

  People had started taking out their fury on the parking meters on the Rampa. Batista’s brother-in-law hadn’t only skimmed the gaming machines, he had used the meters as a personal banking account, and now the Habañeros were taking to them with hammers, lead pipes, and baseball bats. They didn’t seem to care about the money in them. This was just revenge.

  Others were storming the corner bodegas and dragging the slot
machines into the street, smashing them with sledgehammers. Tires had been set alight in the middle of the street. I saw a huge crowd of men headed down the Prado towards the Nacional and the Capri, singing and wielding sticks.

  Kids were throwing stones and bottles at every window they could see.

  “The casinos are next,” Reyes said. “We don’t want to be here in another hour. This is going to get ugly.”

  We passed the house where Colonel Estevez lived. The green uniformed soldiers that usually guarded the wrought iron gates were gone. They were skewed back on their hinges, and I saw people running out with lamps, air conditioners, curtains, even with doors they had ripped off their hinges. I supposed Estevez was already on his way to Santo Domingo with his daughters.

  Someone threw a Molotov cocktail and there was a roar of flame from one of the windows as it exploded.

  “Did you know Batista was going to leave tonight?”

  He nodded. “Maybe.”

  “Was that a sixth sense?”

  “You know they were planning to kill Batista?”

  “The rebels?”

  “No, Lansky and Salvatore. They knew Batista couldn’t beat Fidel, and they wanted to get someone in who could.”

  “But I thought they were in this together?”

  “Lansky had to do business with him, but he hated the guy so bad it made his teeth ache. He said he was a shark, and coming from Lansky, that’s something. They were sick of paying him off.”

  “So why didn’t they do it?”

  “They ran out of time. The Americans pulled the plug on him, the Limeys wouldn’t sell him more planes. It was all over quicker than anyone thought.”

  “So you knew about this?”

  “I keep my ear to the ground. I find that it pays. Yesterday I called a guy I know in Miami--he has his own charter company--I paid him a few bucks to bring his plane over tonight.”