The Cuban

by Kim Rodriguez

  The final night of the cruise was markedly quieter than the raucous theme nights earlier in the week. Instead of a lively orchestra or band, tonight the only entertainment was a pianist at a baby grand piano, but the music was no less pleasing. Late again, I missed the appetizers and arrived just in time for the first course, but Ernesto attended to me right away and made sure I was comfortable and happy.

  “Antonio, double Russian Standard Gold, neat! ¡Rápido muchacho!” he snapped from somewhere behind me. I smiled even though I knew it wouldn’t be Rafa over my shoulder tonight, and I wondered if he was thinking of me as well. My cocktail appeared at once and was replaced by a fresh one as soon as I finished it.

  I made small talk with my remaining tablemates and learned of their plans after disembarkation. Serena and her quiet daughter Jennifer would return home to Boston and then go to Palm Beach for Christmas. Serena was confident the girl would be engaged to her hedge fund baker boyfriend by then.

  “He’s not much to look at,” she snorted crudely, “but he’s so rich!”

  Sam and Judy told us about their plans to return home to New York for a few days and then continue on to Egypt. It had been Sam’s lifelong dream to visit the pyramids, and although Judy confided she wasn’t in perfect health, they would make the trip anyway. Serena told us how she’d dated a man from Cairo a few years ago and highly recommended the Four Seasons, which I had to say sounded wonderfully exotic. I made a mental note to ask Kieran if he would go with me.

  Finally Sharon arrived, and if Ernesto minded her tardiness, he of course didn’t show it. He seated her across from me in the usual place and made the hand signal for service to begin. Not wanting to interrupt the conversation, she looked over and waved hello. Her expression completely changed, however, when she noticed the mark on my neck and gave me a smug, knowing look. I’d completely forgotten about it, and clearly everyone else had been too polite to say anything. Sharon, however, had very little tact, and I wasn’t going to discuss it with her or anyone. If it made her feel better to assume I had been up to something, then let her. I simply ignored all her smirks and remained engaged in the discussion at the table.

  We were all deep in conversation about which ruins we had visited—Chichén Itzá, Stonehenge, the Parthenon—when the food arrived. A trio of waiters set the plates down in front of us simultaneously, as is the custom in formal dinner service, but rather than look down at my own plate first, I saw Sharon’s plate across from me. The filet mignon looked heavy and unappetizing, and I was about to ask the waiter to take my plate away when I noticed what I’d been served, a beautiful arrangement of oysters and caviar. I looked up at Antonio, the middle-aged waiter who’d been bringing my drinks all night. “Compliments of the chef,” he whispered.

  With a lump in my throat, I studied the food prepared just for me by my Rafa. He’d placed a spoonful of the plumpest, blackest, caviar I’d ever seen beside two perfectly cooked oysters in sabayon sauce. I took a moment to admire the dish, then put a forkful of the glossy orbs in my mouth. They exploded on my tongue, salty and mellow, and the room fell away as I went adrift amidst images of hands on bodies, breath on skin, legs and tongues, experiencing it all again. I marveled at Rafa’s ability to sense what I wanted even from afar.

  Antonio brought out plate after plate of unique dishes just for me. During the fish course my tablemates ate salmon, but Rafa sent me seared abalone, and for the pasta course, I had truffles over tagliatelle instead of puttanesca. For dessert, it was coconut flan instead of bananas foster.

  “Oysters and pearls,” cooed Judy, grasping her husband’s hand. “Remember we had that at The French Laundry in Napa?

  “I do,” said Sam, kissing his wife’s cheek.

  “What does a girl have to do to get caviar like that?” Sharon, visibly drunk and barely able to contain her resentment, popped an olive into her mouth and glared at me as she chewed.

  “Request it ahead of time,” I snapped, now sickened by her. I imagined how she must have propositioned Rafa, repulsed by the fact that she’d offered him money. Going by her attitude now, I knew she must have been difficult to deal with when he’d said no, and I wondered how he’d softened the blow. I made a mental note to ask Rafa how one nicely rejects a person like Sharon.

  Fortunately, her change in mood did not spoil what had been a lovely dinner. By the end of the evening we all said our goodbyes and everyone passed along thick envelopes of cash to a very appreciative Ernesto. I had given him about a thousand dollars, and I supposed he would receive similar amounts from the others. Even though he would split it with his crew, it would still be a very nice amount for each person. No doubt there was money to be made here, one way or another. On my way out, I caught hold of Antonio’s arm.

  “Would you give this to him?” I asked, placing Rafa’s watch discreetly in his hand.

  “Of course, Madam,” said Antonio, not bothering to ask who.

  I stopped for a few hands of blackjack and surprisingly broke even, but it was after midnight now, so I thought it best to just go to bed and wait. Back in the cabin I kicked off my Prada stilettos and took off my dress, placing it on top of the one from the night before. I turned off all but one small light in the bathroom and slipped under the covers in nothing but a pair of lace panties.

  That night I dreamed of Egypt. In my dream I rode a camel across a wide desert, and as I traveled I could see the pyramids in the distance. It was windy and sandy, but the colorful scarf across my face offered enough protection for me to breathe. My hearty camel trudged on, tired, but we finally made it to the Great Pyramid. I dismounted and led him by the harness to the base, and as I was about to enter, a mob noticed me and wouldn’t allow me to pass. The men spoke a sharp, ancient tongue that was neither Egyptian nor English and angrily held out their hands demanding coins. I had nothing of value, so I became afraid and looked among the men for a kind face. I saw a young man too proud to beg like the others, and he wore so many scarves I could only see his bright blue eyes. My fear turned to anger as I tried to push past the others to reach him, but the closer I came, the further away he appeared to be until he disappeared. Heartbroken, I sat down in the sand and fed my greedy camel a pomegranate from the palm of my hand.

  I awoke to the sensation of my lover’s lips on my fingertips, and although I was still half asleep, I could make out every feature of his striking face in the darkness. While he was on his knees beside the bed, the scent of Ivory soap and vetiver washed over me, and whatever he had been wearing earlier had been replaced by a crisp white shirt and dark jeans. I ran my hand through his soaking wet hair and then turned on my side toward the balcony, inviting him into the bed. He didn’t bother to take off his clothes, only his shoes, and slipped in behind me under the covers.

  Rafa promptly adjusted himself to fit around my curves, and then wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my hair and positioning his broad, hard chest against my back. After a minute or two, I assumed he had fallen asleep, and I didn’t mind one bit because just being with him was so lovely.

  “You’re hot,” he said, running his hand along my thigh. My skin felt raw, but I didn’t pay much attention to anything except the exquisite feeling of Rafa in bed with me. I’d waited all day in a state of suspended arousal, and nothing mattered except his body next to mine. In spite of our proximity, sensing something was wrong, he set aside any other intentions he might have had and repositioned his open hand from my leg to my forehead.

  “Hm, thank you,” I said.

  “I mean the temperature of your skin, sweetheart.” I winced as he switched on the lamp and the room flooded in light, but it was delightful to get a good look at him. He was exhausted, but even so, I couldn’t help but admire that perfect face and chiseled body. I didn’t think I would ever get tired of the sexy way he moved, especially during moments when he was least self-aware. I noticed the watch I sent back to him on his wrist, and distracted by the masculine shape of his hand, I stroked his long fingers.
He paid no attention to what I was doing, and though his expression had changed into a little frown during sex last night, I was amused to note that it was probably indicative of any attempt at concentration. Maybe it was all the time I’d spent in the sun earlier, or the three or four double vodkas, but I was lethargic and silly. I smiled at him, but he didn’t return it.

  “Let me see,” he said. He got out of bed and dramatically pulled back the covers. To his credit, he kept his composure, but I was horrified. Over the course of the evening, my skin had turned fire engine red. I didn’t look anything like this earlier, but now my arms, chest and legs were ablaze, and pretty much all my exposed skin had fried in the Caribbean sun. Thankfully, my face had been covered by the hat and there was no blistering, but he glared at me in utter disbelief.

  “My God, didn’t you wear any sunscreen today?” he asked, a little more harshly than necessary. I didn’t know him well enough yet to be able to figure out whether his outburst was really anger or simply concern.

  “Well, no,” I stammered, sitting up to look at myself, “I usually don’t go out in the sun, so I didn’t have any. It was just such a nice day that I—”

  “Turn over,” he interrupted. Though he used the same words, it was nothing like when he said the same thing to me the night before. He took at least a minute to examine me everywhere, visibly displeased.

  “Did you bring any Advil or lotion with you?” he asked, frowning again.

  “No,” I said. He pushed a few buttons on the phone and passed me the receiver when they answered. “Ask for ibuprofen and aloe vera.”

  “Are you upset?” I asked, sipping from the Evian bottle he’d given me. I didn’t really like room temperature water on a good day, so trying to get it down now was pretty unpleasant. Large amounts of water tended to make me sick, and I certainly didn’t want to do that with him around, but he insisted I drink it all.

  “No, of course not,” he said, now sitting on the chair beside the bed, “but you have a serious sunburn and you’re dehydrated.” Even as he spoke to me, he never really stopped looking me over, as if he were putting together the pieces of a puzzle. “Were you drinking this afternoon?”

  “I had a few drinks,” I admitted. He unbuttoned his shirt halfway and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Double vodkas, I presume. And then you fell asleep in the sun?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Does ‘a few’ mean two or four?”

  “Four-ish,” I said sheepishly.

  “We’re going to have a talk about that when you feel better,” he said. Without any further conversation, he got up, went to the bathroom, turned on the water and then came back to the bed for me.

  “I want you to soak in the tub for a little while, but never mind about the Advil tonight. You can start taking it tomorrow.”

  “Why?” I asked, knowing I had a tendency to take Tylenol or whatever I had on hand without giving it a second thought.

  “The alcohol.”

  As the tub filled, I started to feel a little more alert even though it was about three in the morning, but I knew Rafa had to be tired and I regretted he had to take care of me instead of getting some sleep. He went in to check the tub, and satisfied there was enough water, came back to get me. “Come,” he said patiently. “Let’s have a nice bath.”

  In the bathroom, Rafa remained expressionless as he watched me step out of my underwear, though I saw a flicker of something wild in his eyes that went away as fast as it came.

  “I’ll take them,” he said, reaching out.

  “Is that so?” I dropped the scrap of blush colored lace in the palm of his hand.

  “To the laundry bag,” he said, his mood still indecipherable.

  He left and quickly returned, but instead of getting in with me, he pulled a chair into the bathroom and sat down beside the tub. The cool bath felt good on my inflamed skin, and it also had the temporary effect of waking me up a little.

  “It’s cold.”

  “It’s cool, and it’s supposed to be,” he said, stretching his legs and intertwining his fingers behind his head. It was as comfortable he could get sitting in a hard chair in a bathroom when he surely would have rather been in bed.

  “Get in with me,” I said, positioning myself suggestively so that my breasts came up above the water line.

  “Uh uh,” he scolded. “You should have thought of that before you baked your lovely skin in the sun.” He gave me a gentle little push back down into the water so that I was fully submerged up to my neck again. It was clear that for the moment I had absolutely no chance of seducing him, so I gave up and settled back to soak. It was different between us tonight, but no less intimate. He closed his eyes, so I closed mine and let my mind wander. I thought of the beautiful plate of oysters and pearls.

  “I loved everything you prepared for me tonight at dinner. You made me feel very special. Thank you.” I meant it.

  “I thought of you all day,” he confessed, a hint of longing in his voice.

  A good minute or two of silence passed between us, but then I just went ahead and asked. It seemed to be a delicate subject, so I tread carefully.

  “Why are you cooking on a ship if you’re a doctor?” I took a peek at him, but he still had his eyes closed and hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “I was a doctor. I’m not a licensed physician anywhere in the world but Cuba, and I won’t be going back, so technically I’m not a doctor anymore and never will be again.” He spoke so methodically, as if it were perfectly normal for a person to switch careers after a decade of specialized education and work. I tried not to be insistent, but I wasn’t understanding this at all. The water sloshed dangerously close to the rim of the tub as I sat forward and turned toward him.

  “So, let me get this straight, you—“

  “Please don’t get excited,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about my growing physical restlessness or my questions, but when the concierge knocked, he shot me a look that said sit back. Reluctantly, I obeyed.

  “I’ll get it when we’re done,” said Rafa. “I want you to stay in there a while.” He pushed his sleeves up a little further and shifted position. He couldn’t be comfortable, yet he wouldn’t leave my side. His hair was almost dry now, but I noticed that he hadn’t shaved. The stubble was very attractive on him, just like everything else.

  “What happened? What kind of doctor are you?”

  “I’m—I was—an Internacionalista. I specialized in internal medicine in Cuba, then I volunteered when they asked for doctors to go abroad. Cuba sends medical teams to poor countries affected by disasters like hurricanes and earthquakes. I’m surprised you’ve never read about it in the news—Castro is famous for it. I worked in Venezuela a long time, but last year they sent me to Haiti to help after a hurricane, and I had a very bad experience. I had to leave. That was six months ago.”

  “You mean you had a … breakdown?” I asked, not really understanding the word he used. Me emocioné, he’d said.

  “Something like that. We were alright in Venezuela because we mostly made house calls in poor villages and helped with very basic care, but when we got to Haiti, things changed. The energy was strange. A lot of the other doctors became unhappy and started talking about leaving, but they couldn’t because they still had loved ones in Cuba and they knew the consequences if they tried. That wasn’t a concern for me, so one night I snuck out of the camp, requested asylum at the American Embassy in Port Au Prince, and told them I wanted to go to the United States.”

  “Did you go alone?”

  “Yes, but only because everyone else had family they couldn’t abandon. During the interview process, the government makes sure all the traveling doctors have plenty of family and children that will stay behind as insurance, but the director of the program liked me and didn’t hold it against me, so I was allowed to go. I told her I wanted to have an adventure, and she believed me. Her instincts were correct because I had no intention of ever leaving, but it just
happened one day.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think a man would have made the exception for you?”

  “No,” he sighed. “I didn’t take her to bed, but I flirted with her for weeks. It was the only way, and if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here today. You do what you have to, Amada.”

  “What if the embassy had said no and sent you back?” I asked, horrified at the thought.

  “The US government has a special program for doctors and nurses who defect from Cuba called the Cuban Medical Professional Parole Program. Everyone knows about it, especially the Cuban government, and that’s why we’re watched so carefully. The program doesn’t offer any kind of assistance, but you’re allowed to enter the country legally and stay. I ended up working at a restaurant in Miami for a few months until I sorted some things out, and then someone I trust told me I should take a job on a ship. It’s worked out. Room and board are taken care of, and I don’t have any expenses here, so I’ve been able to save quite a lot of money.”

  “How could you have no money if you were working as a doctor?” I asked, astonished. “They get quite rich here.”

  “Doctors in Cuba make about twenty-five dollars a month, Amada. Taxi drivers and tour guides make far more. There’s no financial incentive at all.”

  I was awed by what he was telling me, my entire frame of reference reshifting now that it was clear he’d become a doctor for completely selfless reasons. I thought about what I’d paid for the Givenchy gown draped across the chair in the stateroom and cringed. Thank goodness he’d never know.

  “Anyway, even if I’d had any money, they never would have let us travel with access to it. We’re not allowed to bring too many belongings, and they take away our passports as soon as we get to any foreign country. I had to leave everything I owned behind, which wasn’t much anyway.”

  “Who takes your passport away?” I asked, fascinated.