The Opposite of Never

by Mary Kathleen Mehuron

“In Russia.”

  “So you speak Russian? How many other languages do you speak?”

  He thought about that. “I would say that I’m fluent in three and can basically communicate in another two.”

  She said, “Everyone I have met here works seven days a week. When do you get to have fun?”

  The doctor threw back his head and laughed. “Fun is where you make it, miss. We try to always have fun. It is a state of mind, I think.”

  Georgia had plenty of time to think about his comment and observe the truth of it as he drove them around the city. He stopped at important landmarks and indicated that he was in no rush when they started up conversations with other tourists and their drivers. In fact, it appeared that all the drivers knew each other. When another car, a blue Cadillac, stalled out in the lane ahead of him, he apologized to their group. “I’m sorry. I need to pull over. We will just be a short while.” He slid in behind the Caddy and stood with its owner in front of the huge, propped-open hood, working for ten minutes. You would think that such a situation would cause stress if not downright distress, but every time the men turned away from the engine they were repairing, Georgia noticed that they were smiling. They seemed to be having a fine time and the other motorists casually avoided them without a horn being honked.

  When Brad, Georgia, Kenny, and Salvestro returned to the Telefónica, both couples lay down for a short nap. Georgia put her arms around Kenny and said, “Thank you for calling Margot. It really seemed to make a difference to her.”

  He looked down at her in his arms and played with her hair. He whispered, “She’s just a kid. A kid who was dealt a tough break. I believe that we are the grown-ups here, and we are the ones who will lead our family into the future. I know that things can’t always be easy. It’s unrealistic.” As a balmy island breeze blew through their open windows and across their nearly naked bodies, they fell deeply asleep.

  All four friends awoke in a daze about a quarter after six. They ran into each other in the hallway headed for the shared bathroom shower. Salvestro took care of the confusion with a suggestion. “Georgia, men can be in and out in five minutes. Let us go first and we’ll be out of your way.” Once in the shower, they each discovered that the water was cold and its pressure quite low. It was next to impossible for Georgia to rinse all the soap off her skin. Nevertheless, it left them feeling refreshed.

  When they were cleaned up and dressed, the group felt they looked pretty good. Georgia wore a bright orange sundress with red embroidery on its full skirt. The guys all had on dark dress pants and sported the new fine linen shirts they had purchased on Obispo that day. At seven on the dot, they stopped to see Modesto for their rooftop drink at the Hotel Rachel. During polite conversation, he filled them in on the reason the plaza was set up with music stands and orchestra chairs. He stood next to their table making sure that they were comfortable, and approved their order when the waiter came. “Yes, Mojitos for all. Rum is what we do well here. At the plaza tonight is the great Omara Portuondo. She will sing, but there is no rush. I don’t think she will begin until midnight.”

  Salvestro appeared astonished. “Omara Portuondo? Is she still alive?”

  Modesto raised an eyebrow at him, “Very much so. Although, I believe she is eighty-five.”

  Salvestro turned to the others. “Do you know her? She was part of the original Buena Vista Social Club. Omara is an icon, a legend around here. I can’t believe I will get to see her. If it’s Cuban music, I adore it—rumba, Afro-Cuban jazz, salsa.”

  Modesto seemed to be disconcerted by the intensity of Salvestro’s declaration and looked at him askance. Yet he had come all the way upstairs with them to ensure that they were given a good table, and before he left, he gave them a slight bow of his head and made his apologies to all of them. “You will forgive me, I must return to my duties.”

  Brad, Georgia, Kenny, and Salvestro sat contentedly on the rooftop taking in the glow of the fading sunset of Old Havana below them. They tried to identify in the distance some of the places that they had visited. Georgia made a game of asking each one, “What was the best moment for you today? Don’t over-think it. Just tell us one thing.”

  Their memories absorbed them until Kenny glanced at his watch, “Hey, we better hustle if we’re going to make our dinner reservation.” They took the elevator down to the ground floor and waved goodbye to Modesto as they passed the front desk. He was reading a document on a clipboard and although he did not look up, he responded with one raised hand that he fluttered.

  Serendipitously, it turned out that the restaurant’s owner, Vladimir, was celebrating his thirty-third birthday that very night at the place he called Café Viejas. He was a very tall and statuesque Afro-Cuban whose powerful muscular physique was tempered by his expressive eyes. At the other table for four in his kitchen were seated two young, and very attractive, Mexican women on vacation. Brad immediately knew that they were from Mexico and on holiday because he had done a semester abroad in Guadalajara and was fluent in Spanish. “You can hear the difference in their inflection. A Cuban would say it differently.” He listened carefully and said, “This is their first night in the country too.” The tables were so close that the women heard what he said and they knew enough English to understand him. Brad comically shrugged his shoulders at them by way of an apology.

  Two older musicians entered carrying their instruments and joked around with the members of the regular band. Kenny asked his table, “Do you think they’ll sit in? They must have been invited here to play. This could turn out to be quite the night.” The two men left the other performers and asked the girls if they could sit down with them as they had empty chairs. The Latinas were welcoming and beautiful, and the men appeared delighted to be able to join them. When the young ladies discovered that Vladimir was more generous with drinks as a reward for entertaining his friends, the girls too seemed elated.

  At the largest table sat six doughy, middle-aged, and obviously Eastern European men. Everyone was drinking rum, and Vladimir walked from table to table in the candlelight with a bottle in his hand and topped off the cocktails. He made it clear that the liquor was on the house as part of his birthday celebration. This room in the old building had two sets of tall double doors with curved tops and wavy panes of glass. They opened in and folded back close to the brick walls where the many flickering lights were reflected. Each French style door had matching, long, green wooden shutters that were pushed outward to reveal small cast iron terraces overlooking what must have been, long ago, a formal courtyard with gardens. The central space was now a pile of rubble, but it was pitch black, as the sun had already gone down. Because the darkness hid the ruins below, one could imagine how elegant it must have looked earlier in the century. The balconies were just deep enough for a large man to stand on, and wide enough for two shoulder to shoulder. Brad got Kenny’s attention and said, “Let’s have our cigars out there after dinner.”

  The waitress approached their table with a notepad and said that her name was Danita. She was a breathtaking ebony-haired beauty, even when compared to her good-looking countrymen. She rushed to bring the Americans bottles of water and handed them highball glasses that were so cold they sweated. Kenny told her, “Thank you but we aren’t ready to order just yet.” When Georgia took a sip of her drink, the aroma of fresh mint filled her senses and the rum warmed her tongue.

  She asked, “Do you think she’s Vladimir’s girlfriend? Watch the body language between them.”

  Vladimir waved to their table from his workstation near the stove. He held up a fish so fresh that the spines on top and the fins along its bottom were moving. They watched him put it on ice, wash his hands thoroughly, and walk back over to them carrying a bottle of dark rum. He poured a little into each of the men’s drinks, but Georgia held her hand over hers. She insisted, “I’ve got to pace myself, guys.” He created a bit of theater out of the moment by going back to the kitchen and finding an eye-dropper that he filled and dripped ove
r Georgia’s glass one drop at a time. The six men seated at the largest table found this hilarious and they laughed at a volume and for such a length of time that Georgia thought them crude and nearly offensive.

  “They’re from Belarus,” Brad announced. When his friends turned to him with questioning expressions he said, “What? I know a few words.”

  Salvestro patted his hand and asked his new friends, “Isn’t he something? I mean really. I don’t even know where Belarus is.”

  Vladimir went to check on the Belarusians, his largest group. When he came back to their table it was to talk about food. Suddenly somber, Vladimir searched their faces with piercing eyes, awaiting their orders. Kenny spoke for all of them, “If you recommend the fish, then we are all having fish.” At this, their host broke out into a delighted open smile, pleased by their unfettered faith in him. He had already proved he was a bit of a showman and, as his work was on display for all, a serious artist. Helping him in the cooking area were a man and a woman whose job, it appeared, was to clean up constantly behind him. All of them were in continual motion.

  Great warmth seemed to spread through everyone in the room. Some would say it was the rum, but in equal measure, it was music that ignited their senses. Guitar players, singers, percussionists, and even a flutist came and went over several hours. They came to pay tribute to the owner of this establishment, who seemed to be having a wonderful time, by wishing him a happy birthday.

  Georgia was beginning to understand how much Cubans enjoyed their sugar, and since sugarcane was their major agricultural product, dessert at every meal was as much a fact of life as their famous dark coffee. The service had been leisurely and the portions generous. By the time she had finished, she found herself in a state of sluggish contentment. It was already late when the restaurant’s workers approached to help them move their table. Apparently, they were clearing space for a dance floor, and the mere idea of dancing gave her a second wind. She asked Vladimir, “Will we miss Omara Portuondo at the plaza?”

  “No Senora, when she takes the stage we will all walk over together.”

  “But Vladimir—how will you know when it is time?” He motioned to all the visiting musicians.

  She said, “Of course,” and let her concern go.

  As Magdalene had explained to them, the lead singer at the café was quite an old man who’d had a brief brush with fame long ago. His sheer talent was shocking, especially as it was confined in such a small space. He encouraged his audience to become involved with his performance, and they warmed to the notion when he sang the handful of songs that he knew in English, and also from Mexico and Russia. As he did so, each table in turn would roar and sing along with him. After he had the little crowd going, he played his only hit, followed by the most internationally famous Cuban songs. By that time everyone was up on their feet, and it was then the old man began to really showcase his enormous gift as a player. Kenny told Georgia, “That guitar he’s using can’t be worth a hundred dollars. He could make a block of wood sound like genius.”

  Kenny didn’t know how to do the salsa, but he grabbed Georgia and faked it quite well. Brad was technically a terrible dancer. He didn’t seem to be able to keep a beat at all with Salvestro, yet no one could take their eyes off his joyous face as he jerked his body around in an effort to do so, threw his arms up in complete surrender, and gave himself over to the rhythms of the night.

  Hours had passed by the time the band took a break. Kenny and Brad picked up their drinks and went out onto one of the balconies to get some air. Georgia stood on the dance floor and watched them lean on the wrought iron railing talking. Someone had turned a lamp on outside, and it framed the two men in a backlight that made them look nearly angelic. She put her hand in the crook of Salvestro’s arm. “Look at our guys. They are having so much fun. It’s just adorable.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m sure that you can tell I’m crazy about him.”

  On the balcony on the other side of the room, almost at the same moment as Salvestro said this, Kenny told Brad, “Despite the fact I was upset earlier today, I haven’t been this happy in years. I feel young. Do you feel it too?”

  In response, Brad patted his shoulder and, overwhelmed by the man’s good will, Kenny did something that he had only ever done to his kid brother. He reached up and cupped the back of his head, and pulled him forward a little, which caused Brad to duck down. Kenny planted a big kiss on the top of his head. Salvestro and Georgia saw the exchange and all four of them were laughing when Georgia, still holding on, and Salvestro literally danced over to the open doors.

  One thousand six hundred and nineteen miles to their north, Zelda returned to her room at the rehab facility from a Narcotics Anonymous meeting in town. The thermometer in the car showed twenty-one degrees below zero. It was brutal. Seven of them had gone, including one of the counselors. Her thoughts were racing when she got into bed. It’s lucky there’s such a nice group here right now. If I didn’t like the people, it would make the hard work harder. She snuggled in under a pile of blankets and turned the light out. Next week, I’ll be allowed to make a phone call with the calling card Yvonne sent me. I can’t wait to talk to Dad. I know I really screwed up. They say this is a disease prone to relapse, but I’m still ashamed, and I want to hear him say that he forgives me.

  It’s funny, I never realized until now that his is the only opinion that matters to me now that Mom is gone. His more than Spencer’s even. By the end of March, he’ll be allowed to come for family day. Her heart raced with happiness at the thought of seeing her father again. I just have to keep doing the next right thing. All I have to do is the next right thing. That and not use ever again. It really is that simple. And that difficult.

  She was confident that Kenny would give her another chance. Zelda burrowed down into her down pillow and reached down to massage her aching calf muscles. She knew from experience that the cramping pain would stay with her for a while.

  On the West Coast it was only eight thirty, and the meeting of twenty-five people that Spencer was attending was just breaking up. He put his partial arm around the NA member on the left of him, held hands with the person on his right and recited, “Keep coming back. It works if you work it, so work it ‘cause you’re worth it.” When they let go of each other, he and his sponsor immediately began to fold and stack the chairs.

  Juan spoke with a barely perceptible Mexican accent, as he had come to San Diego as a child. Spencer recognized a certain lilt in his intonation when his sponsor told him, “You got to cut that chick loose, man. Every time you’ve gotten into trouble, it was because of her.”

  “That’s not fair, Juan. I’m a grown man. I made my own decisions.”

  “I want you to go to some Al-anon meetings, Spence. You have to learn that relationships can be toxic too.”

  “Juan, my parents have good friends who met in AA. They’ve been sober my whole life. I’ve never seen either one of them have a drink. They say that their marriage is a built-in support system. Didn’t you meet your wife in a meeting?”

  “She’d been clean for five years when I first met her. She was a really good influence on me.”

  “Maybe if you got kicked in the stomach by a horse’s hoof, you be looking for something to ease the pain too. You’re too hard on Zelda.”

  “You have to be mindful. What’s the point of going through all this if you go back to her and start using again?”

  “I promise you that I’m never going to use again. And I’d bet everything that I have that she’s done with it too.”

  On Vladimir’s little balcony, all four friends were squeezed together sideways against the wrought iron railing looking out into the night.

  “These people have nothing, and yet they’re happy. Bearing witness to the differences in our cultures is having an impact on me. What am I doing wrong in my own reality that I can’t be more lighthearted? What are we learning here?” Georgia asked the men.

  It was Brad who answered her.
“It’s almost like a visitation to what life could be if we let it. Happiness has nothing to do with wealth, or possessions. I feel like I have to go home and rethink everything.”

  They didn’t see one of the young Mexican women walk across the room to address them. She was standing behind them and they were facing away from the room, so she tapped Georgia on the shoulder. It took some maneuvering, crowded in as tightly as they were, for all of them to turn around.

  Georgia greeted her: “Hello.”

  “I want to say something to you.” She motioned with her arms wide to indicate all of them. Her English was heavily accented, but understandable.

  “Of course. Please.” Georgia’s encouragement was evident in the tone of her voice.

  “It is said among my people that you cannot visit Cuba. Instead, you have to live Cuba. You have to live it, and I think that you and your friends understand this.”

  Salvestro brought the fingertips of both his hands up to his collarbone when he asked, “We do?”

  She nodded her head and looked intently at the four of them, scanning her eyes back and forth across their faces. “Oh yes. I see you. I see you live.”

  Just then, Vladamir flicked the lights above his work space on and off several times, which got everyone’s attention and caused the crowd to quiet and look toward him. He solemnly announced, “Omara! She is ready. I will lock the door behind us.” They quickly gathered their things.

  Georgia asked the young woman, “What is your name?”

  “Araceli.”

  “I am Georgia and this is my fiancé, Kenny, and our dear friends, Brad and Salvestro. Araceli, I think that you are living Cuba too. Aren’t we lucky to be here?”

  When she said, “Yes, before the Starbucks comes,” Araceli got a big laugh.

  They carefully descended the stone stairs in semi-darkness and made their way down an alley to reach Calle Amargura or “Bitterness Street,” and the four friends traveled arm in arm making a wide swath. Kenny noticed the cobblestones shone brightly, even though the streetlights of Habana Vieja were quite subtle. “It must have rained at some point tonight. The street is still wet.”