“Some clichés exist for a reason. He was Cuban, and so was the character he played on I Love Lucy.”
“You have to admit that this guy is a much better singer.”
Two men were seated at the table next to theirs. Georgia and Kenny squeezed past them to get to their places and all four customers jockeyed around a bit before they got comfortable in their chairs. For several minutes Kenny and Georgia alternately gazed down at the street and turned to watch the players and listen to the traditional songs.
One of the men at the table next to them looked to be about their age. His jet black hair framed light blue eyes that glowed with warmth. His companion was addressing him, and the tables were so close together that Kenny and Georgia heard every word that was said. “Look, Salvestro. It’s Ricky Ricardo.” Georgia burst out laughing and both of the men at the next table started.
Georgia owned the fact that she was eavesdropping when she questioned them directly, “But he’s a better singer—right?”
“He is a better singer. Great observation. And you are from the United States too. What a relief. I thought I spoke Spanish pretty well, but I have been humbled out on the streets today. Their accent is so different from anything I’ve heard before. How nice it is to meet you fellow Americans. We just arrived from Miami. This is Salvestro and I’m Brad.”
Georgia was intrigued. “What a gorgeous name, Salvestro.”
“Thank you. My parents were from Italy but I was born in Canada.”
“I’m Georgia and this is Kenny.” To her amazement, she found herself giggling when she added, “We’re getting married soon.”
Brad’s eyes widened. “That’s romantic. I love hearing it.”
Kenny took one of her hands to indicate that he agreed. He asked the men, “Where are you guys staying?”
Salvestro said, “The B&B Telefónica.”
Georgia squealed, “So are we!” She hardly recognized herself at this moment and wondered what was making her so excitable.
Brad looked enthusiastic when he touched Salvestro’s arm and gave him a pleased look. “What fun we’ll have.”
All four of them recognized their unusual and instant connection. They scooted their tables together and prepared to discuss the menu.
Georgia put on her reading glasses. “Well, the prix fixe is a heck of a deal.”
Kenny added, “We were told they grow or catch everything served here.”
After some intense scrutiny of the choices that were offered, Brad leaned into their circle a little and asked, “Are we having wine?”
Without hesitation, Kenny answered, “We’re celebrating our engagement, and we’re on vacation. You three go ahead and order any bottle you want. I’m going to have a mojito.”
Thirty-Nine
“The language of friendship is not words but meanings.”
—Henry David Thoreau
The owner of the Paladar Los Mercaderes, David, personally came over and described the prix fixe luncheon, which included a cocktail, freshly caught fish rolled in herbs from their farm, fresh root vegetables, salad, dessert, and coffee. The four were ravenous and enjoyed every bite of their luscious meal.
Service was leisurely, and their interest in each other kept the conversation flowing. By the time they were finishing their flan, Brad and Salvestro knew all about Zelda’s reoccurring drug use and that both Georgia’s and Kenny’s spouses had passed away. Salvestro felt like a kindred spirit as he described his own loss of his partner of thirty-two years. He gestured with his head toward Brad. “Until I met this one, I thought my life was over. I never thought I would meet someone again, let alone fall in love. Never.”
Kenny was deeply moved by their story. He raised his glass in a toast. “To Georgia, and to Brad and Salvestro. What we have found is a miracle. Not one to take lightly.”
They clinked glasses, and the men said, “Cheers.”
Brad was eight years younger than the rest of them, but he too had been tested by life. Three years before, he’d collapsed on a sidewalk in Seattle from a massive heart attack. The doctors told him he had to have quadruple bypass surgery. “I was in shock. I’ve always exercised and stayed thin. I rarely had a cold, let alone heart problems. That’s why I never went to the doctor to have exams and screenings. So, I didn’t know about the blockages in my arteries . . . I mean, I knew I got fatigued more easily, but I put that off to getting older.” The ensuing trauma he described was hard to hear. He reassured them, “I’m lucky to be alive today and, trust me, I never lose sight of it.”
Georgia asked, “How long have you two been together?”
“Almost two years,” Salvestro told her. “But, we are still living in different cities. It’s sad that one of us is going to have to give up his hometown if we want to live together.”
“That is a tough one,” Kenny said, “Georgia and I met as a part of a circle of friends. We live in the same small town, and I just got an offer on my house that we simply can’t turn down. It made the decision for me to move in with her pretty easy.”
Two old women in gold lamé jumpsuits appeared at the top of the stairs and were greeted by the maître d’. They were obviously tourists, and the four friends caught an Eastern European accent when they spoke. Everyone in the restaurant stared at them because they were overly accessorized, excessively tan, and caked with makeup. Both wore large, red-framed glasses with rhinestones. As the waiter led them deep into the back part of the restaurant, out of Georgia’s mouth popped, “Elton John is here to entertain us.”
Brad began to laugh and tried very hard to do it quietly in the event that the old women could hear him, but holding in his hilarity made him choke a bit. He couldn’t stop despite two attempts to quiet himself. If he so much as glanced at Georgia, he would start up again. She had tickled his funny bone, and he finally looked at her pitifully, as if she had the power to make him stop his snorting and cracking up. He wiped tears away and then put his hands over his eyes, as he feared that he was being terribly rude.
Georgia’s response was to circle her thumbs and forefingers and hold them up to her eyes with the other three fingers splayed out. She patiently waited for Brad to look up. When he uncovered his eyes and saw her, she quietly sang in a goofy, high-pitched voice, “Ba, ba, ba, Benny and the Jets.”
With that, Brad lost his poise entirely. He put his head down on the table and guffawed while Kenny and Salvestro shook their heads in disapproval of Georgia’s antics, despite the fact that they too were in stitches.
Their group had been sitting together for over two hours, though it had gone by in a flash. The hardback chairs had caused them to stiffen up, and all had to stretch their necks and backs dramatically before they walked down the stairs. Together they meandered back to the Telefónica and sat in the front room with Alejandro. When they were settled in, he asked them seriously, “Who will be the next president of your country? We are worried. We hope President Obama lifts the embargo before he leaves office. It would change everything for us.”
As the group discussed potential candidates and debated their qualities and flaws, two female employees of the inn came in to listen. Alejandro brought in chairs from the kitchen table for them to sit on, translated English to Spanish and helped them ask the Americans questions of their own.
One of the women, Magdalene, brought in a photo album of her daughter’s quinceañera, a coming of age party celebrated on a girl’s fifteenth birthday. Brad accepted the large book from her and was flipping through it when he came across a picture of her entire extended family. He asked the room at large, “Am I wrong or are Cubans the most beautiful people in the world?”
Kenny and Georgia started chuckling. “Georgia asked me that exact question earlier today,” Kenny told them.
They were having a wonderful time, yet Kenny’s good mood suddenly slipped away. The sensation actually made him catch his breath. His friends didn’t know what was wrong with him, but it was obvious to everyone present that something wa
s up because he closed his eyes and let his head drop. He sounded alarmed when he finally looked around and said, “I’m so sorry. Since we’ve gotten here, my feelings have been all over the place. It’s amazing how quickly I can go from elation . . . meeting all of you has been wonderful . . . I find it hard to believe how comfortable I feel with you already . . . but then my concerns for Zelda come flooding in. I’m trying to get her completely out of my mind because there is nothing I could do at home but wait around for a few more weeks, but all of a sudden I’m unnerved by being out of touch. If something happened . . . if she panicked and left rehab and went back out on the street . . . I wouldn’t even know about it. I’ve never had a panic attack but I wonder if it feels something like this.” He turned his face away.
Georgia added, “It’s funny. This morning we were thrilled that we were out of touch and alone. It made us feel free. And we’ve had a blast today. But the reality is that between us we have four grown children, and there are some problems that we can’t help but worry about.”
Before anyone else could react to her disclosure, Alejandro handed Kenny his cell phone. “Call your family and tell them if they need to talk to you, they can call this number. I will find you immediately. Just give me an idea where you are headed when you go out.”
Overwhelmed by his generosity and the trust he showed by handing over such a valuable black market item Kenny hugged the young man. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Alejandro was totally sincere in his offer, and Kenny let out an audible sigh as if a great weight had been lifted from him.
“Honey?” Georgia said. “Make sure you call Linda and Peter and give them the number, too. They will know what’s important to us.”
The little crowd was respectfully quiet for a moment. Eventually, Brad filled the void by saying, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s go hire one of those fifties convertibles that park over by the Plaza de San Francisco de Asis. I saw an aqua and white one with huge leather bench seats. Did you notice they have set up the plaza for a full orchestra for this evening? We’ll ask around and find out what’s going to happen there. Then, we’ll have the driver take us around the whole city so we can get our bearings. We can come back here later and nap and get cleaned up. After, we’ll go to the rooftop bar you told us about. About seven o’clock? Will that work? I have just the place for us to do dinner.”
Salvestro’s face lit up as he looked at Brad. “You two better prepare yourselves,” he said to Georgia and Kenny. “A guy came up to us on one of the rougher streets today. He tried to give me a slip of paper but I kept walking. I’m afraid I always assume the worst in any city. Brad is so much more open to new possibilities. He took a flyer from the man, and when he realized it was a dinner menu, Brad asked if he would show us his restaurant.”
Brad continued for him, “His name is Vladimir. He took us into a building—I guess you’d still call it a building, but the whole front exterior wall has fallen down, so you walk into what looks like a war zone.”
As a quick aside, Salvestro added like a stage whisper, “Think Spanish Harlem in the seventies.”
Brad nodded. “Yes, but the stairways are intact, and people are living in there. We followed him up to his place, and I must confess that I had a few moments where I was worried it might be a scam of some sort, or we might get mugged, but when we reached the third story, everything changed. The walls began to display a progression of carefully thought out decorations. All kinds of memorabilia were arranged. It started rather spread apart in the outer hallway, but became more concentrated the closer you got to his apartment door.”
Salvestro jumped in to continue the story, “Nothing was framed, mind you. These people don’t have that kind of money. The pieces themselves and the design put into the display is what made it exceptional. Old vinyl records, photos, sketches, signs . . .”
“And flags,” Brad added. “And that’s just the hallway. Vladimir led us through his front door and took great pride in showing us around. He spent a long time pulling out fresh fish and meats from his refrigerator and trying to describe his cooking as best he could with the language barrier and all. He makes all his own sauces. There are only three tables and they are in his kitchen. We made a reservation for tonight at eight. There’s one large table and both of the small ones can seat four people. I’m certain that you can come along. Oh, and he always has music. Every night he told us. He calls it Café Vieja.”
“He has musicians in his kitchen?” Georgia marveled. “Is there room for that?”
Magdalene, with Alejandro’s help, managed to explain, “Cubans live for music. They will push back the furniture and dance anywhere. I would dance right here if someone was playing. Oh, and this man Vladimir? I have heard of him. He has that famous, very old guitarist at his place now. He did that song long ago . . .” She composed her thoughts, made an O-shape with her mouth, and started singing “La Cucaracha” in Spanish. She was pretty good. When she finished a verse she stopped, and Alejandro laughingly translated the reason for her abrupt ending. “She says she forgot the rest of the lyrics.” They gave her a round of applause anyway, and she took a bow.
Brad clapped his hands together and announced to Kenny, “So, it’s settled. You go make your phone calls so your mind can rest easy. Then, we’ll walk down to the plaza and enjoy this perfect afternoon.”
The Cubans they had met during the day were openly affectionate, and it was rubbing off on the four Americans. Kenny had already surprised himself when he hugged Alejandro, who was virtually a stranger. Now he decided that there was something intrinsically comforting about Brad, as if his soul were visible and it radiated tenderness. He thought to himself, When have I ever had such poetic thoughts? Is it Cuba or our new friends? Maybe it’s the combination. Kenny was grateful that he could be totally honest, and he was thankful he didn’t have to hide his fears from Brad. He raised both his arms toward him, in the universal gesture that asks to be embraced and said, “Bring it in, you.” Brad reached back to him in the awkward way that men sometimes do, with only his arms and shoulders touching. Though he couldn’t see Kenny’s face, Brad suspected that he needed reassurance and he patted him on the back.
To lighten the mood, not wanting to ruin the rest of their day with his emotional outburst, Kenny released Brad, wiped a tear from his eye and tried to make a joke out of the moment, “Thanks, man.”
With a gentle smile on his face, Brad punched him lightly on the shoulder, “No problem bro.”
Kenny walked into his and Georgia’s bedroom where he had a small telephone book stored in the outside pocket of his leather duffle bag. He opened it and dialed a number adding the country code 001 for the United States. The call was picked up immediately, “Hello?”
“Margot, it’s Kenny.”
“Kenny? Is everything all right? I thought that you couldn’t use your cell phone over there. Mom said to call CubaToDo in Boston if we had to get an emergency message to you guys.”
“We made a friend here, a Cuban national, and he lent me his phone for a few minutes. Being cut off the way we are, I was so happy to have the chance to check in.”
“Oh . . . thanks for calling. How is it? How was the flight?”
“From Miami, it takes less than an hour to get to Havana—can you believe that? Yet, I feel a world apart, and maybe a century behind too. But how are you? I’ve been thinking about you. How is work going? Your mother is in the other room if you want to talk to her.”
Margot wasn’t ready to let him off the phone just yet, but she said, “Sure I’ll talk to Mom in a minute.”
“Listen, can you let the boys know that we got here safely?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m going to make one more call to Linda and Peter when we hang up. They can tell Yvonne and Rolland and, at least, get a message to the other kids. You can use this number if you find you need to get a hold of us. It belongs to a young fellow named Alejandro. He will always know where to find us if he needs to.”
“We’re going out with two friends, another couple . . . it’s funny, we just met at lunch, but it seems like we’ve known them all our lives. I have a feeling that you’ll meet them at our wedding. We get on that well.”
“Oh . . . I look forward to it. What are their names?”
“Brad and Salvestro. Margot, it’s the strangest thing, Brad has the same sense of humor as your mother, exactly the same. I’m telling you, they could be brother and sister in that regard.”
“Well, that must be pretty hilarious.”
“It is. It really is.”
Forty
“The most incredible thing about miracles is that they happen.”
—G.K. Chesterton
The two couples followed Brad’s proposed itinerary by touring the city in the aqua-and-white, antique convertible that he’d talked about. It was a 1956 Ford Fairlane, and it turned out the driver was an endocrinologist during the week who drove his car for tourist rides on Saturdays and Sundays. Their driver–doctor told them, “Here in Cuba, a physician only earns, maybe, eighty dollars a month. And that is Cuban dollars. It is not enough to really take care of my four children and my wife.”
Georgia sat in the front seat with him, and the three men sat in the back where there was enough leg room for them to stretch out. “Where did you go to medical school?” she asked.
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