The Cat King of Havana

by Tom Crosshill

  “Of course,” Rodrigo said. “That’s why I’m happy to meet you. Have you heard of Casinero Mundial?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a TV program,” Rodrigo said. “A big casino competition. This year we will film at the Cabaña fortress, in three weeks.”

  “You will?”

  “I’m the organizer,” Rodrigo said. “How would you like to participate?”

  I thought I’d heard him wrong. “Us? On TV?”

  Rodrigo nodded. “We invite a few foreign couples every year. People love it.”

  I’d thought I was past feeling fear today. Now it rushed over me like a long-lost friend. I had to clamp down on all sphincters to keep my pants clean. “Uhh . . .”

  Yosvany’s voice came back to me: Really, primo, you’re not that bad anymore.

  “Sure,” I said. “I mean, I’ll talk to Ana.”

  “Excellent.” Rodrigo slid a card across the table. “Call me next week and we’ll talk details.”

  When Pablo returned, I got up to find Ana and tell her the news. I couldn’t wait to see Yosvany’s face when he heard we were going to be on TV.

  But they were nowhere to be found. It had been four or five songs, and I saw neither her nor Yosvany on the floor. I wandered through the Milocho’s garden, weaving my way among the packed tables, pushing through the mass of bodies where necessary, searching, but no luck.

  At last I found a quieter spot to the side of the stage and leaned on the white stone balustrade overlooking the water. That’s when I spotted them.

  They were in the back of the garden. Coming back from the faux stone castle, walking side by side, so close their shoulders touched. They glanced at each other from time to time. It looked as if they were struggling not to grin.

  Ana stopped. It seemed she’d realized her blouse was untucked. She glanced around, stuffed it hastily inside her jeans.

  Yosvany said something. She laughed and swatted familiarly at his arm.

  He leaned in and kissed her on the lips.

  I don’t remember leaving the Milocho. I think I walked all the way home along the Malecón—staring blindly ahead, not feeling the spray of the waves—but perhaps I took a máquina at some point.

  What I do remember is knocking on Rafaela’s door, well after midnight. Knocking insistently until at last she cracked it open a hand’s width and looked out balefully.

  At least it started out baleful, that look, complete with a harsh, “Who is it?” Then she saw me and her expression softened. “Rick! Mijo, what happened to you?”

  I guess I looked like something had happened to me. I guess something had happened to me.

  “I’m sorry, Rafaela,” I said. “I need the address. Ricardo, my mother’s friend. Where does he live?”

  For a long while Rafaela studied me, biting at her lip. Then she said, “Hold on,” and disappeared, the door still ajar. Mere moments later, she was back with a slip of paper in her hand. She handed it to me through the grate. “I was going to give you this, but I thought you weren’t really interested.”

  “I need to make a trip,” I said. “Get out of Havana. Visit my mother’s birthplace.”

  Rafaela nodded, but she didn’t hurry to open the door for me. I got the distinct impression I was making her uneasy. For a brief, fleeting moment I wondered what I looked like—then the thought was gone, swept away by the dark torrent inside me.

  “Thank you, Rafaela. Sorry to disturb you. Have a good night.”

  “Rick,” she called after me before I was halfway down the hall. “One thing.”

  I looked at her without speaking. She shrank back into her apartment, but didn’t close the door.

  “When I last saw him, Ricardo was a dangerous man to know,” she said. “This is Cuba, don’t you forget.”

  Lolcats for the Revolution

  chapter seventeen

  NICE GUY

  My bus to Trinidad was on the hottest day of the summer.

  Every fan and air conditioner (they worked!) in Juanita’s apartment was going. All the blinds were down. It was ninety degrees inside. I spent the morning sprawled on the cool stone floor by my sofa with a wet towel on my face. When I dragged myself to the kitchen in search of papaya juice from the fridge, I saw that the decorative candle Juanita kept above the dish cabinet had drooped to one side like a limp garden hose (actually that’s not the first comparison that came to mind).

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Juanita said in the afternoon, when I rolled my suitcase into the living room. “Wait a day or two. It will cool down.”

  But I couldn’t bear to stay in the apartment. Not knowing Ana was next door.

  We hadn’t talked since two nights ago at the Milocho. Ana and Yosvany had been back already when I got home, but she’d been asleep. Yosvany took me into our room, shut the door, and gave it to me straight. “Look, you tried, okay? But she’s not into you. And, well, she’s into me.”

  “You didn’t hold off a day,” I said. “Went straight for her, as soon as I was out of the way.”

  Yosvany sighed. “Be a man, primo. I told you my rule, remember? Hay que chingar.”

  The images that came reeling through my mind . . . him and Ana in that stone castle, touching, kissing, and then . . .

  I managed not to punch him. Partly because he was my cousin. Partly because spending years around Rob Kenna had taught me better than to pick a fight I couldn’t win. Mostly because it was none of my business who Ana decided to make out with. Although right then that was hard to keep in mind.

  Except Yosvany kept talking. “Look, I’d promised we’d find you someone. But you have to mix it up. Get style.”

  I stared at him. More accurately, I stared through him, trying to pretend he wasn’t there.

  “Like, it’s how you walk,” he said. “All mousy, shoulders slumped, always getting out of people’s way. Straighten up, let others move aside for you. If you don’t believe you’re the best, no one will.”

  I tried to keep staring through him, but his words picked at my brain. I can’t help it; I’m a sucker for self-help advice. Send me a link titled “Five Ways to Wiggle Your Eyebrows” and I’ll spend the rest of the day in front of the mirror pretending I’m Jim Carrey.

  “And then,” Yosvany said, “you’ve got to pay attention to people. Even now I’m talking to you and I can tell you’re thinking about your website or something. People can see when you’re not listening. It makes them feel like you don’t care.”

  I flushed guiltily, and then reminded myself I had nothing to feel guilty about.

  “And here’s the last thing,” Yosvany said. “Once you straighten up, once you start paying attention to people, you’ve got to turn on the heat. Show people you like them, you know.”

  I scratched my neck.

  “Smile, primo!” Yosvany said, exasperated. “And mean it, all right?”

  So yeah. That was the pep talk Yosvany gave me after hooking up with the girl of my dreams. I walked like a mouse and didn’t pay attention to people and smiled too little. Cheery.

  Except, in a strange way, it did cheer me. It was what helped me fall asleep that night, hours after that conversation.

  There’s this trick Mom taught me. If someone points out that you suck at something, you’ve got a choice. You can tell yourself you’re a failure and feel bad about it. Or you can go, huh, so here’s another way to level up (okay, that’s not how Mom put it, but you get the point).

  There was nothing I could do about Ana getting with Yosvany. But there was something I could do about carrying myself straighter and smiling more.

  I still wasn’t about to spend day after day watching Ana and Yosvany make out. So now I sat in the living room with my suitcase—perfectly still in my chair, sweat running freely down my body—and watched the wall clock tick the minutes away.

  At the door, Ana caught up to me. She wore a light summer blouse—the fabric already dark with moisture—and stylish shades. “I’ll walk with you,” she
said.

  “It’s hot out there,” I said.

  “Really? Huh.”

  Emerging onto the street felt like walking into some giant, world-encompassing furnace. The sun seemed an open flame against the skin. Even the shade offered little protection because there was no breeze.

  The street was deserted. Not a bicitaxi in sight. Nobody wanted to pedal in weather like this.

  I took a deep breath and started down the street, pulling my suitcase after me. Ana walked beside me. For a while, we proceeded in silence.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Ana said eventually.

  “I know.”

  “You’ve got no right to be angry with me.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “Really, Ana, you’re right. I get it.”

  “You’re not acting like you get it,” Ana said.

  “I’m not feeling too happy,” I said. “You can’t blame me for that, can you?”

  We walked for another block without talking. The suitcase handle was wearing a painful groove in the palm of my hand. Sweat stung my eyes.

  “What gets me is that it’s Yosvany,” I said. “I mean, Yosvany of all people. You know his life philosophy? Like, there’s only one thing he wants from you.”

  “So what?” Ana asked.

  I stared at her.

  “What, you think I want to marry him or something?” she asked. “We’re leaving in a few weeks.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “All that stuff he says about loving me, I know it’s bullshit. He thinks he’s clever, but he never met my dad.”

  “But if you see through it . . .”

  “Why shouldn’t I have some fun this summer?” Ana asked. “And Yosvany is fun. With him, I can forget all the crap that has happened in my life this year and just . . . be.”

  “I see.” I wished this conversation were over already.

  But Ana kept charging on. “Besides, you need to drop the nice guy act. You’re not that nice.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You invited me to Cuba hoping we’d hook up. Even after I told you that wasn’t in the cards.”

  There was nothing I could say to that.

  We came to the Parque Central. The area, usually mobbed by tourists, was quiet this afternoon. A lone jinetero ambled down the sidewalk in front of the Plaza Hotel.

  “So what does this mean?” I asked. “We’re not friends anymore?”

  Ana flinched. “It means this is messed up. But we are friends. I mean, I think we are?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  We reached the tourist bus stop in front of Hotel Inglaterra. My ride, a modern-looking blue Chinese bus, waited at the curb already. There were five minutes to departure. I loaded my suitcase into the baggage section. The open door of the air-conditioned bus beckoned. I decided there was one more thing I had to say.

  “We got invited to dance on TV.”

  “Uhh . . . what?”

  I told her what Rodrigo had said. “This show, Casinero Mundial, it would be a nice way to end our time in Cuba. Want to do it?”

  “I don’t think we’re good enough for a real competition,” Ana said.

  I shrugged. “Yeah, but you want to do it?”

  Ana snorted. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I’ll be back in three days,” I said, deciding on the spot to keep the trip short. “I’ll see if I can pick up some moves in Trinidad.”

  chapter eighteen

  TRINIDAD

  Trinidad was a town defined by hills.

  Tall green hills enveloped it and its narrow streets climbed toward one central hill, a steep incline that the bus pushed up sluggishly. The buildings downtown were old, colonial era, one or two stories tall with wooden doors painted green or blue. Enormous full-height windows opened to the street. The windows had no glass, each barred by an elaborate wooden grille.

  The cobbled streets were clean of litter. I saw more tourists around than locals.

  The bus left me on the edge of a sloping town square built into the hillside. Once on the street, I took a moment to compose myself. Straightened. Plastered a smile on my face.

  I was in a new town. Ana was far away. It was time for a new start.

  Beautifully restored colonial buildings rounded the square. An imposing church dominated the far side. Beside the church wide stone steps led farther up the hill. On these steps a band played a slow-moving rendition of “Chan Chan,” what else. People danced and sat around and drank cheap beer (the Cubans) and cocktails (the tourists).

  The casa particular Juanita had reserved for me was on the other side of the square, away from the noise. It was single-storied but built like a mansion, with enormous grilled windows and a massive door painted blue. I gave its heavy metal knocker a bang.

  After a long while, there was a stirring inside. A sliding of bolts, and the door swung open.

  A girl stood on the threshold. She was my age, short and a little plump in blue jeans. Beautiful in a classical sort of way—her face perfectly proportioned, her skin smooth and very dark.

  She examined me with curiosity, then spoke up in American-sounding English. “Can I help you?”

  I smiled at her, thinking of Yosvany’s advice.

  She smiled back.

  I decided to stick with English. “I’m Rick. Juanita from Havana called about a room for me?”

  “Oh, sure,” the girl said. “Welcome. I’m Tania.”

  I dragged my suitcase into an enormous living room—an antique wooden table and a few rocking chairs scattered across a stone-floored expanse more suited to an art gallery than a living space. Wooden beams supported a sloping roof high overhead.

  “You’ve got a nice place,” I said, the way you might when visiting someone’s two-bedroom on Central Park West.

  Tania only smiled and led me farther into the house. Which went on and on. Beyond the living room was a long, narrow dining hall with a carved table big enough to seat twenty. Bookcases lined all walls except one, which opened directly onto a great big white-tiled patio.

  I wondered if this was the house of some government minister. But the furniture, if antique, was simple and worn. Many of the tiles in the patio were cracked. And the walls looked like they could use a new coat of paint.

  Tania told me to sit down at the dining table and left through a side door. She reappeared with a man in his fifties. On the heavy side, he had a lined, weathered face.

  “It’s the American,” Tania was explaining, in Spanish. “I thought you said he was this geek.” (She used the English word for “geek.”)

  I was still processing this—first, what the hell had Juanita told them? And second, hey, she thought I didn’t look like a geek!—when Tania turned to me. “Rick, this is my father, Eduardo.”

  Eduardo smiled at me. “Hola, Rick,” he said, and continued in rapid Spanish. “Juanita says you speak castellano.”

  “I do.”

  “I—” Tania stammered. “Um. Oh.”

  “Welcome to our house,” her dad said. “We’ll take good care of you.”

  “Even if I’m a geek?” I asked, grinning.

  This time Tania didn’t stammer, but grinned too. “Especially if you’re a geek.”

  That grin, it made me wonder. Tania was cute . . . I didn’t get all antsy looking at her like I did with Ana or Rachel, but hey, maybe . . .

  Her father’s watchful eyes lingered on me. They put an emergency brake to my train of thought.

  Tania showed me to my room. It was small but clean, with its own bathroom and, best of all, AC. Everything in the room looked better, cleaner, newer than the rest of the house.

  “We save our best for the guests,” Tania told me.

  At which I straightened up again. I kept forgetting Yosvany’s advice. “Want to go for a walk? Show me Trinidad?”

  On the inside, I marveled. Days ago I wouldn’t have dared asked the question.

  Tania smil
ed. “Sure. If you tell me about New York. The Statue of Liberty. The subway. Times Square.”

  “The first thing you have to know is, stay away from Times Square.”

  Tania leaned against the wall. “Why?”

  “You know Obispo in Havana?” I asked. “How busy it gets?”

  “I’ve never been to Havana,” Tania said.

  I stared at her.

  “It’s not easy for Cubans to travel.”

  “Well . . . ,” I said. “Times Square is to New York what ‘Chan Chan’ is to Cuban music. You know, it’s cool, except there’s a million clueless tourists all over it.”

  Tania looked like she was holding back a laugh. “I know clueless tourists, all right.”

  I unpacked some things and put on a new shirt. Then we headed out.

  Tania took me away from the city center, led me to quieter parts. Dirt roads replaced the cobbles, and the beautiful colonial houses of the center became dilapidated huts of stone or brick. Kids in ragged clothes kicked around a semi-deflated soccer ball in the dim light of a corner streetlamp.

  “Did you study English in school?” I asked Tania. “You’re really good.”

  “I learned from Law & Order,” she said. “And Game of Thrones. And Downton Abbey.”

  “Huh. I didn’t know they showed those on Cuban TV.”

  “I watch them on my laptop,” Tania said. “It’s like this whole other world, you know. Like nothing here in Cuba.”

  “You get cheap DVDs here?” I asked.

  “Torrents,” she said, in English.

  This wasn’t a word I was expecting to hear in the middle of Trinidad, Cuba.

  “We’re not in the nineteenth century here.” Tania said this as a man on horseback clomped past us on the narrow dirt street. “Some people who work for the government have access to fast internet. Every week they download all the new shows to a portable hard drive. Then you pay them one CUC to copy anything you like.”

  “I guess it’s sort of like a community internet.”

  Tania nodded. “We’ve got a lot of stuff like that. We use flash drives or copy stuff between phones with Bluetooth.”