The Cat King of Havana

by Tom Crosshill

  My palms, flat down on the table, were slick with sweat. I had difficulty finding the breath to speak. But Ana crossed her arms and looked Valdes straight in the eye. “In America, we don’t abduct people in the street.”

  Valdes gave a short bark of a laugh. “If you believe that, niña, then you’re even more naive than I thought.”

  “We sure don’t abduct someone for blogging about the economy,” Ana said.

  “That’s right. You only shoot people for walking down the street while black. But I’m not here to debate government policy. The point is, you’re guests in our house and you’ve pissed on the carpet and taken a shit in the soup pot.”

  Valdes spoke the crudities with the same controlled ease as everything else, never raising his voice. But there was no missing the very real anger in his eyes, as he looked from me to Ana and back.

  “We intended no disrespect to your country,” I managed at last, though the words came out raspy. “My mother was born here.”

  “She should have raised you better,” Valdes said.

  Hot anger spiked in me, despite everything. I ground my teeth. Said nothing.

  Valdes nodded at last. “The problem remains. What should I do with you?”

  “Just leave us alone,” Ana said. “You don’t need a scandal, do you?”

  Valdes stared at her. “Maybe we don’t. Then again, maybe we need to make an example. A warning for meddling foreigners.”

  “We are Americans—”

  “You think we’re scared of yanquis?” Valdes asked. “You’ve tried to destroy us for almost sixty years, and we’re still here.”

  “So you want to destroy diplomatic relations all over again?” Ana asked. I marveled at how strong her voice sounded, even as her fingers clutched hard at the edge of the table. “Demonstrate to the whole world that Cuba is a tyrannical dictatorship just so you can lock up a couple of American teenagers?”

  Valdes took a long, deliberative sip of his coffee. “In a true dictatorship, they’d do a lot more than lock you up. If this were still Batista’s Cuba, you’d disappear and never be seen again. There would be no scandal. Just two missing kids.”

  “We . . . my cousin Yolanda knows we’re here,” I squeezed out from lungs that refused to work properly.

  Valdes gave me a look of withering contempt. “You’re lucky,” he said. “Cuba is a civilized country. We treat visitors with courtesy. And besides, your aunt Juanita has been a good friend to my boss. So here’s how it will be.” He leaned forward, and his voice fell to an intent hiss. “I will let you leave here today. But if you make another stupid move . . . if you so much as try to avoid my men . . . I will have no choice. If you speak of this whole affair to anyone, even after you leave this country, I will have no choice. There will be consequences for you and for your family. Do you understand?”

  I nodded dumbly. I realized his words were meant to be a threat, but I only heard one thing—even after you leave this country.

  He was letting us go. The relief was so powerful, I shook with it.

  “All you did accomplished nothing,” Valdes said, sitting back. “That’s what I want you to remember. That’s why I’m letting you go. Because the Revolution is strong. Because the noise you make doesn’t matter. Because you don’t matter.”

  He stared at both of us for a long, long time, as if waiting for a response. At last, I realized that I was nodding, my chin moving up and down, though I didn’t recall deciding on the action.

  “Forget all this nonsense,” Valdes said. “Go to the beach. Dance casino. Fly home. And don’t come back to Cuba. Am I clear?”

  I would have simply nodded again. But Ana spoke up, surprising me. “This is Rick’s country. His family lives here. You can’t tell him to not come back.”

  Valdes looked at her for the longest time. “You know nothing about this country,” he said at last.

  It was clear it was all the answer he would give her.

  Valdes got up. Even as the waitress brought the coffee and ice cream, he walked to the door. He stopped before leaving. “Don’t eat here,” he told us matter-of-factly. “You don’t want to spend your last days in Cuba locked in the toilet.”

  For a while after Valdes left we stayed in the café, staring at the bowls of slowly melting ice cream, saying not a word. The mixed wash of relief and fear tasted foul on my tongue, seemed to choke up my throat. When we got up to leave, steam no longer rose from Valdes’s coffee.

  The waitress stopped us. “That’s five CUC.” Her flat voice showed no sign that she’d heard anything Valdes had said to us. She certainly didn’t care that we hadn’t touched the ice cream.

  We paid up, of course. A service fee for intimidation by a government goon.

  Valdes’s car was gone. Without a word exchanged we started down the deserted street, in the direction we’d come from. The night air hung still and heavy around us, muffling all sound. Even our footfalls became muted, like the rhythmic ticking of some distant clock. The dark houses and gardens around us seemed entirely bereft of life, as though we walked through some evacuated town in Chernobyl.

  The silence seemed appropriate, a match for the quiet inside my head. Not the quiet of peace, but the quiet of absence. The conversation with Valdes had frozen my brain like a modern website might freeze Internet Explorer.

  “I’m sorry,” Ana said at last.

  “About what?”

  “That stuff he said, about how we can’t come back . . .”

  It hit me.

  I’d never get to come back. Never again see Juanita and Yolanda and Yosvany, never again visit the places Mom grew up, the people she knew . . . never walk along the Malecón at night and go dancing at the Milocho and stroll down Obispo on a hot Sunday afternoon.

  I wanted to cry and throw up and laugh at the same time, a bizarre sensation. As if someone had reached inside me and ripped something vital out of me, and I couldn’t function anymore.

  I wondered if this was how Mom had felt, the day she decided to leave on the boat to Miami.

  Perhaps Ana realized what I was thinking, because she spoke again, with forced cheer. “I doubt it’s official, like a ban or anything. I mean, maybe he’s only trying to scare us.”

  “There are consequences for everything,” I said. “I only wish I’d met Ricardo earlier. Then I would have known.”

  Ana was silent for a moment. “Would you do it all again?” she asked. “If Yolanda asked you to help her friend?”

  “You heard him. We accomplished nothing.”

  “But would you do it?”

  There it was. An easy question on the surface, yet when I opened my mouth to say—no, of course not—the words died in my throat.

  Because when I thought about Cuba, about the time I’d spent here, it wasn’t only the dancing that came to mind. I thought of the collapsed buildings on every other corner. I thought of the jineteros on Havana’s streets, making a living the only way they knew. I thought of Mom and Ricardo as kids, walking down the Prado hand in hand, not knowing what was about to happen to them.

  Something else occurred to me. If I published Ricardo’s poems, if I used the inscription he’d requested—for María from Ricardo, with regrets—sooner or later they’d trace them back to me. To my family. And there would be consequences.

  I had a responsibility to Ricardo. But I also had a commitment to my family. The inscription would have to go. And I couldn’t put the poems on my site. I’d have to find another publisher. If MININT talked to him, I’d have to hope that Ricardo would keep his mouth shut about me.

  “So we do what Valdes says,” Ana said. “Dance. Go to the beach. Leave the country. And leave this fight to Yolanda and her friends.”

  I heard the judgment in her voice, but that didn’t change the truth.

  “It’s the responsible thing to do,” I said.

  chapter twenty-four

  TO FEEL NOTHING

  The last days before the competition passed quickly. Pablo kept us
too worn out to think—he grew more agitated by the day. “What’s the matter with you kids?” he’d ask. “You’ve lost your spark.”

  We couldn’t tell him, of course. The days after the car ride were almost a relief, though. The previous week we’d suspected someone was watching us. Now we knew we were being watched. The certainty of it was liberating.

  It wasn’t fear that got me, that final week. It was living my last days in Havana and knowing I might never return.

  I sat down for breakfast with Juanita, and she told me next year I had to come for Yolanda’s birthday. We’d rent a cabin on the beach and grill food and lounge in the sun. I nodded and smiled and said that sounded nice. She laughed with someone on the phone or sang boleros doing the dishes—and I couldn’t understand how someone right next to me, someone breathing the same air, could possibly be so cheerful.

  As for Yosvany, all he talked about these days was his reggaeton CD. His band had gotten studio time, and he talked of winning a Latin Grammy already. Neither Ana nor I saw much point in dampening his spirits.

  “I like him,” Ana said. “I mean, cantidad. But it’s not his political acumen that gets me going, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Which was a conversation that I stopped right there. But still, despite everything, I knew I’d miss my cousin.

  Yolanda had freaked out the night of our conversation with Valdes. We’d only remembered to call her when we got to Avenida de los Presidentes. By that time she’d taken a cab to La Gruta and asked everyone within five blocks if they’d seen us. She’d been about to go home and tell Juanita everything, hoping her government friends could help. When we finally met up on Twenty-Third that night, she sat us down in a small street café, her expression quiet, grave.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I made a mistake getting you guys involved. You have to promise me one thing—for the rest of your time in Cuba, don’t take any risks. Not a single one, okay?”

  We didn’t tell her that we’d already made that same decision.

  The morning before the contest, we walked to Pablo’s for one final practice. In the stairwell to his apartment, the sound of raised voices made us stop—Pablo’s voice and his daughter Liliana’s.

  “—give me a chance, mija. I’m working things out—”

  “Yeah, with Jimmy and Dionisio and those guys every night, don’t you think I know?”

  “Yes, with Jimmy and Dionisio, playing dominoes!”

  “Ha!”

  “Come back and you’ll see. I’m working hard every day, training those yumas for a TV show—”

  “Oh, stop already—”

  “It’s true! You should see them now that—”

  “Grow up, papá. I’ve got to go.”

  Ana tugged at my arm. Up to that point I’d stood frozen on the stairs, listening, not sure whether to go up or retreat. But she pulled me forward decisively.

  We reached the top to find Pablo and his daughter still there, faced off outside his apartment door. Liliana wore the same white outfit as the last time I saw her, and it looked damp with sweat. Her son Lalo hugged her waist and studied the floor between his mother and grandfather.

  “There they are!” Relief washed across Pablo’s face. “Morning, guys.”

  “Morning,” Ana said. She strode right up to them, leaving me to catch up.

  “Hi,” I said with my usual eloquence.

  Liliana acknowledged us with a tight nod. “I’m off, papá. We’ve got shopping to do.”

  “Come in for a minute,” Pablo said. “Watch Rick and Ana dance.”

  “I don’t want to bother them,” Liliana said.

  “It’s no problem,” I said.

  Liliana shook her head. “I only came by for the mail. It’s a busy day.”

  “Well, then, promise us one thing.” Ana smiled cheerfully, as if she really believed Liliana’s words. “You’ll watch us on TV.”

  Liliana’s eyebrows rose. She glanced at Pablo, nodded. “Fine. Let’s go, Lalo.”

  The boy cast a look over his shoulder, waved at his grandpa uncertainly. Pablo didn’t wave back. When they were gone he didn’t move from the door, didn’t say a thing, didn’t look at us—only stared at where Lalo had been moments ago.

  After a moment Ana touched his shoulder. “Come, Pablo. Let’s dance.”

  “I . . . ,” he began, then seemed to gather himself. “I can’t today.”

  “The contest’s tomorrow,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” Pablo said flatly. “I’ve got plans.”

  Ana and I exchanged a glance. Minutes ago Pablo had been ready for a class. I think we both knew what kind of plan he’d come up with.

  “These things take time, Pablo,” Ana said. “They will learn to trust you again, if you only—”

  “Shut your mouth!” Pablo barked.

  I jumped. Ana herself barely even drew back, though I suspected that was surprise more than anything.

  “I don’t need advice from a couple of kids who’ve seen nothing of life,” Pablo said.

  Ana looked at him. It was a steady look and calm.

  I realized I’d been wrong. She wasn’t surprised at all.

  “You’re right. I haven’t seen much of life.” Ana spoke quietly. “But I know this. Your daughter, she wants to believe you. She wants to believe you so bad it hurts. But she’s afraid.”

  I listened to her. Something ached deep in my chest.

  Pablo grunted. He turned away, walked to his door.

  That ache in my chest, it worked its way up my throat. “You made a promise,” I said. “Back when we started out, you promised that you’d keep it together.”

  Pablo stopped halfway through the door. Didn’t turn to look at me.

  “Hold off until tomorrow,” I said. “Come see us dance. You owe us that.”

  He went inside and shut the door. The lock turned.

  Ana sighed.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” Ana gestured dismissively. “People make their own choices. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  I nodded, though I didn’t buy her nonchalance. “Want to go back and practice on our own?”

  “Maybe later. Yosvany’s playing at the paladar this morning. You want to come?”

  That pang in my chest again.

  “Some other time,” I said.

  We both knew there would be no other time on this trip. Or possibly ever.

  By eleven o’clock that night, Ana and Yosvany still hadn’t returned.

  It was a hot, windless evening, and the electricity was out in our building. I sat bare-chested in the dark of the living room, hoping to catch a breeze from the open windows, and stared at the door. I felt like the star of one of those dog-waiting-for-owner videos—not a fitting pastime for the Cat Guy, perhaps, but I couldn’t make myself turn away.

  When Juanita had asked, I’d covered for them, said Yosvany was taking Ana to a concert. In fact, Ana and I had been planning to practice.

  A hundred scenarios floated before my eyes in the dark, a hallucinogenic sequence. The two of them held up by thugs on a dark street in Centro Habana, or locked up in some police cell, or disappeared behind the gray walls of Valdes’s workplace, never to emerge again.

  There was also a different kind of vision. The two of them in some bedroom, going at it loud and hard, in Technicolor and Dolby Surround. Oblivious that I was freaking out.

  At eleven fifteen, I picked up my cell and dialed Ana’s number for the seventeenth time. The tone rang. Rang. Rang. Clicked off.

  It was time to tell Yolanda.

  My cell buzzed.

  A message from Ana. It contained the address of an intersection in Miramar and one word, come.

  I caught a rolling coffin of an almendrón across town. My destination proved a well-lit corner in a residential part of Miramar, home to a mansion-sized night club.

  Kids my age were chilling outside, smoking and drinking and chatting among themselves. Even out on the
street, the music rattled windows.

  I steeled myself, paid the entrance, and went in.

  Dark corridors. Choking cigarette smoke. Cold, cold air from industrial-strength AC—my damp T-shirt became an icy towel about my torso. Kids lounged about by the walls. I scanned the faces in the dark but saw no sign of Ana or Yosvany. A door off the corridor led to a dance floor; I went inside.

  Noise. Louder than anything I’d ever heard. The music blasted at you like a cannon going off in your face three times a second.

  Disco lights flashed on and off in a rapid, dizzying sequence. Lasers painted green patterns on the black-box walls and floor, and on the milling kids. Teenagers all of them, the youngest club crowd I’d seen in Havana, swaying and gyrating, thrusting their chests in and out to the reggaeton beat. Many of the kids danced in couples. The girl bent forward at the waist, swaying. The guy behind her, his crotch up against her butt, thrusting in rhythmic pantomime. A subtle, nuanced dance, reggaeton.

  I looked for Ana and Yosvany in the crowd.

  Not here.

  I left the dance floor, kept going down the corridor outside. It ended in a bar area. The music here, still louder than at any bar in New York, must have been too quiet for the locals—only a few kids were at the counter drinking.

  In the corner, at a plastic table with six Bucanero empties before her, sat Ana.

  She looked up unsteadily when I approached. “Hey.” Her makeup was smudged. She’d been crying.

  I sat beside her. “What happened?”

  Ana didn’t answer for so long I thought she never would. She picked up a can of Bucanero, rattled it, looked at the bar as if weighing the difficulty of getting up. “Remember when I started going out with Yosvany? How I said I just wanted to have fun? That I knew what he was like?”

  “Aha.”

  “Well, I was right about the second part.”