The Cuban

by Kim Rodriguez

  “Rafa, I get it. You mean them, right?” Lisa rolled her eyes in the direction of Eduardo and friends, who were still being complete jerks.

  “Yes,” I said in English. I didn’t want to overstep my bounds, but I was really uncomfortable with the vibe I was getting, and I’d never forgive myself if something happened because I didn’t warn her.

  “Sal, tell her that after a woman is sexually assaulted, she’s never the same again. It haunts her for the rest of her life and can have serious health implications. She has to be careful and take her safety very seriously.”

  “Yo, that’s fucked up. You’re gonna scare her.”

  “Tell her. And stop saying ‘yo’ all the time. That’s not how an architect speaks.”

  ***

  I was back in my cabin by noon ready to sleep. Thankfully my roommate, Eric, was nowhere to be found, which gave me the quiet and privacy I craved. I took a quick shower, turned off the lights and slid into the lower bunk to get some rest. My cabin was no larger than a small closet, and in truth, I was beginning to hate it, not because of its small size or how utterly basic it was, but mostly because the little metal box I lived in now reminded me of the sparse, depressing hospital rooms in Cuba that held nothing but bad memories. I wondered how long it would take before I started to feel like a mental patient myself.

  I hadn’t had any family for a long time, but I did take comfort in my friendships. I missed the other doctors I’d studied and worked with throughout my career, and I hoped one day I’d see them again when Cuba was no longer the prison it had been for so long. The types of conditions we worked in forced us to become close, and no longer having that connection was strange. Irina was probably still in Haiti, and I wondered if she resented me for leaving without even saying goodbye. We’d broken up a long time ago, but she’d remained a loyal friend in spite of my refusal to marry her after five years together. I knew I didn’t want children, so I couldn’t see the point of having a wife.

  My mother, long gone, used to tell me that women were going to fall in love with me very easily, and never to be so cruel as to play with their fragile emotions. “Be clear with your intentions, or you’ll be the kind of man who makes women miserable, like your father. You look just like him. God help them,” she’d said.

  I still hadn’t fallen asleep by one o’clock, and I knew I was going to be exhausted later if I didn’t rest. Tired of fighting it, I rearranged my pillows and allowed myself to think about her. My Amada would be on her way home now, maybe already there if she lived in Coral Gables. I remember that area. It was very fancy and just a few miles away from Little Havana. She had to hate me for turning her down, but there was nothing else I could do. Only a gigolo lives off a woman. She’d offered me a job, but it was certainly just out of pity. I didn’t believe she really wanted someone to cook for her every day. My Amada was light as a feather in my arms. What could a woman like her need from me besides the obvious? There was nothing wrong with that, but where would that leave me when she found someone more suitable? I’d just have to start all over again, but with a broken heart, too.

  Damn, I’d forgotten to tell her to keep putting aloe on that sunburn. She was so goddamned sexy in spite of being redder than a lobster today, but people that fair-skinned can’t be in the sun for hours. Four double vodkas. Ridiculous. That’s got to stop. My God, how rich she must be to wear clothes like that. Why had she ever given me the time of day? Such a beautiful, elegant woman must have men falling at her feet. Her Spanish had been very good for an American, but then again, she probably had to learn multiple languages in school. There’s so much more I’d like to know about her, but it’s too late now. She’s so smart. I wonder if she’s ever had Cuban coffee. Oh, the sex. Those perfect breasts. I’ll never be inside her again. What the hell was wrong with me, fucking her without a rubber and coming all over her like an animal? I want her to read to me in bed naked again.

  The alarm went off at quarter to five, and I shot out of bed hot and disoriented. I was supposed to be in the kitchen by now. Shit. I rubbed my face and felt more stubble than I knew I could get away with. If I rushed, I could shower and shave and still make it on time, and if Sal was up there, he’d make sure things got started for me.

  As I approached the miniscule bathroom, the door to the hall swung open and blocked my path, as it had many times in the past. No two doors could be open at once in a room this size, so when Eric and I were both in here it was very difficult to move around. Eric was just as tall as me, 6’ 3,” but not nearly as nimble. He reminded me of a Viking: tall, square and blond. He plowed into me again for probably the third time this week.

  “Sorry, friend” he said, “but I have to use the bathroom.”

  I tapped my watch to let him know I was late. It would have been so much easier if they’d given me a Spanish speaking roommate, but for whatever reason I ended up with Eric.

  I liked him, but after a few months I was getting very tired of being unable to communicate with just about everyone I came across. I longed to be around my people and my language again.

  “No, don’t worry,” he said, squeezing past me into the bathroom. “We’re delayed until six. Some luggage truck isn’t here yet.”

  I called up to the kitchen and thankfully Sal answered, but it was noisy and he could barely hear me. His speech was almost indiscernible from the clatter of pots and pans and frantic kitchen chaos.

  “Hello? Who is it?” he yelled into the phone.

  “Partner, I’m on my way up.”

  “Good, it’s getting busy. Behind you!” he said to someone else.

  “See you in ten.” The receiver was almost in its cradle when I heard him bellow into the phone on his end.

  “Rafa!”

  “What?” I brought the phone back up to my ear, expecting him to warn me that the chef was on the rampage again. They were like generals in the kitchen and loved to keep everyone in a perpetual state of fear. I was sure that this particular German man we worked with now was suffering from some kind of psychiatric disorder.

  “Ernesto left an envelope here for you. It’s thick, man, maybe a fat tip. Come get it before someone takes it. I don’t have a safe place to put it.”

  “I’m on my way. And stop saying ‘man’.”

  I made it to the kitchen in record time to see about twenty men racing back and forth across the greasy, slippery floor I’d just mopped last night right before I’d gone to see my Amada. It was filthy again, and it never ceased to amaze me how dirty commercial kitchens were. Yes, there were rules that were supposed to be followed, but there was always someone washing lettuce in a dirty sink, peeling fresh vegetables over a putrid garbage can or serving salad in an unwashed bowl. The chefs encouraged this carelessness through their often unreasonable demand for expediency and mass production. It took a while to adjust my thinking to that mentality, because in a hospital a mistake can cost someone their life, but here it was just about getting the food out, no matter what. I was terribly concerned every time a passenger came in with a food allergy, because I knew most of the guys in the kitchen didn’t understand or really care. One day there would be a tragedy in the dining room, and I’d either have to stand by and let it happen or face the consequences for trying to intervene. I hoped I’d be gone before then, because no matter what, I knew I could never let someone die if I could prevent it.

  I found Sal tossing vegetables at record speed into an enormous pot of stock. He pulled the envelope from his apron, tossed it over and gave me a shove with his elbow. “Open it. I’ve got this.”

  I slapped him on the back and stepped to the back corner of the kitchen. The only thing on the outside of the white envelope was my name in a bold, feminine script. I opened it and removed an engraved card folded around a stack of cash. There had to be at least a thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, plus a check made out to me for thirty-five thousand dollars. I opened the card and read the note, starting with her phone number and address at the top.


  Rafa,

  I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’ve been through, and I have to respect your choices. You’re my friend and I want to keep in touch. Please call if you need anything. I’ll miss you so much, but I understand. I believe in you. The best is yet to come.

  Your Amada xo

  Her words unraveled me like a punch to the gut. Why had I been so unkind? What had I done? An enormous wave of regret washed over me and the realization came that I had abandoned her the way I’d been abandoned all my life, and still she forgave me and wanted to make sure I was alright. I knew she’d written the check for that exact amount to show me it was nothing to her and that I should take it. I’d been so wrong. She was giving of herself freely because she wanted to, not because she wanted to control me.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sal watching me with interest. He put a lid on the pot and jogged over, placing his hand on my shoulder with concern.

  “What’s wrong? Bad news?”

  “No, but I need to take the week off.”

  ***

  I made it ashore just before the ship departed at six, and I was in a taxi by quarter after. It had been several weeks since I’d been in Miami at all, and about six months since I’d first arrived. I’d had no reason to come into town, so I stayed on the ship mostly to save money and rest, but it was no doubt good to be back. Miami is the best city in the world because it’s everything Cuba would be if we were free. It’s a place where people of every color and nationality come together, and every culture is celebrated. In an international city like this, you never know who you’re going to meet, and for me, that was the pinnacle of excitement. With every mile we drove into the city my mood lifted. My Amada must have so much fun living in a gorgeous city like this.

  A few minutes into the trip, my ill-humored Haitian taxi driver turned down the radio and asked for an address. “Where in Coral Gables?” His accent brought me back to that terrible day in Haiti and reminded me of the precautions one has to take there, so I gave him the name of my Amada’s street but withheld the house number. Rule number one is that you don’t give out any information unless you have to. I hoped he wouldn’t try to speak to me any more until we were closer, but no such luck. His interest was piqued. “Shit, that’s a billionaire neighborhood. Guard gated. You on a list?”

  “Gated?” I asked. I wasn’t sure what he meant. There were very few gated places in Havana, and mostly they were for the tourists not allowed to see the realities of the country.

  “Yeah, bro, guards. You can’t get in unless the resident puts you on a list. Gated communauté.” I saw his eyes in the mirror change from annoyed to suspicious. “Damn, you fresh off the boat, huh?” This kid was getting a little rude, and I hoped for his sake he wasn’t thinking about trying to take advantage of me.

  I considered my options. I wanted to surprise her, but if I couldn’t reach her, then I’d be better off going to a restaurant in Little Havana and waiting there.

  “Take me to Varadero. You know where that is?”

  In the mirror I saw my driver roll his eyes. “Yeah, mon, I been there once or twice.”

  I met his gaze in the mirror and gave him my best don’t fuck with me look until he turned away first, a self-preservation measure I’d adopted while traveling overseas in rough places. I watched the road carefully to make sure he was actually going to Varadero and not some abandoned building where a gang would hold me up. I was carrying my Amada’s cash and they’d have to kill me to get it.

  On the way there, I called her number and got no answer, so I texted her that it was me, on the way to her house for a visit if she still wanted to see me. I put the phone away and waited for a reply.

  We arrived at the world famous Varadero Restaurant about five minutes later, and when my Haitian friend asked if I wanted him to wait, I said no. Even if I was headed to my Amada’s house soon, I didn’t feel comfortable with him any more and would rather get there in another cab. Traveling to dirt poor countries on a regular basis teaches you to always be critical of every stranger you meet. I was horrified when she invited me to her home so quickly, but she lives in a different world. I made sure the cab driver left and then went inside.

  Inside that small, shabby little mirrored restaurant, I’d died and gone to Heaven. It’s hard to explain how it feels to be homesick for your country if you’ve never felt that way, but I’d been living with it for so long that it became a regular part of my existence I didn’t even notice anymore. It took weeks to get used to the strange food on the ship, and one of the few things I could stomach now was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. At the beginning, every time I ate that damn peanut butter and jelly I wished like hell it was Cuban black beans and rice. But after a while, I just stopped wishing for it. Walking in here now, my heart hurt, because every food I saw, everything I smelled, and every face I greeted was like coming home. It was so comforting to hear everyone speak with a Cuban accent, a sound so distinct from any other in Latin America. Not that it was any better, it was just the most familiar to me, so it was beautiful.

  A short, heavy-set Cuban lady in her sixties came to the counter and greeted me enthusiastically. She had a motherly air about her that radiated warmth. “Hello! Look at this young man! So good-looking! What are you going to eat? You’re too skinny.” I had to laugh because that was such a Cuban thing to say. She wasn’t flirting at all, it really was just a way of being friendly. She was serious about the skinny part, though. For a Cuban mom, there is nothing worse than a skinny kid, especially a boy. Skinny means sick or poor in Cuba, and a Cuban woman won’t let up on you until you are at least twenty pounds overweight by medical standards.

  “Yes, I’m hungry,” I said, just to make her happy. I ordered big portions of picadillo, a Cuban beef hash, fried sweet plantains that we call platanos maduros, Arroz Imperial, a dish I’d never seen in Cuba but was some sort of delicious Miami chicken and rice casserole, and of course my beloved black beans and rice. I asked her to put an assortment of pastries in a box for me, too.

  “Please make sure you put in at least six guava pastries,” I said politely. “They’re my favorite.”

  She immediately yelled across to another woman filling the box, “Don’t forget the pasteles de guayaba, Mirta. That’s what he likes! Put six—no, put a dozen in there!”

  “Here,” said the Cuban lady, “drink this and wait over there. I’ll bring it all out to you in a few minutes.” She handed me a Cuban coffee that I hadn’t even asked for and sent me to wait at a table. I sat down to enjoy all the hustle around me, especially the old men at the take out window arguing politics. I had to laugh out loud when I heard a female voice in the back yell out to ask me whether I was single. These ladies were cracking me up, but it was still so much nicer than being chased around by sex fiends like Sharon on the cruise ship who only had one thing on their minds. Here I was regarded as prime husband material, not a toy to be used like Kleenex and then thrown away. It didn’t even matter what I did for a living. I was young, tall, healthy and Cuban, and that’s all there was to know.

  The Cuban lady peeked around the corner and asked me with no shame whatsoever. This was need to know information, and the older women didn’t mess around when trying to find their daughters a husband.

  “Are you single? I have a very pretty daughter studying to become a lawyer.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” I said with a wink.

  “What a shame,” she said, unable to hide her disappointment. Going back into the kitchen she said to someone, “No, he’s not. And, boy, does he have beautiful eyes.” Que pena. No, no es soltero. Y mira que tiene unos ojos preciosos. It was just so amusing, because if I’d said yes, I’d be interviewed and then set up on a date with her daughter right away. She no doubt was already imagining blue-eyed grandchildren. Well, that’s just how it works: husband, children and family are priority number one to Cuban women, and they make no bones about it. I don’t know how I’d managed to keep my single status for so long. It
had to be all the traveling. I relaxed, took a sip of my delicious Cuban coffee and enjoyed how good it was to be around people I understood.

  Just before the food came out, the phone vibrated in my pocket. Already in a fantastic mood, I couldn’t wait to hear her voice. It had only been a few hours, but I missed her already.

  “Rafa?” said a small voice on the other end of the line. I thought it was her, but I wasn’t sure. I covered my other ear and leaned down a little to see if I could hear her better.

  “Amada?” I asked. She didn’t sound like herself.

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m so glad you called. Where are you?”

  “I’m at a restaurant in Little Havana, very close. I took the week off to spend it with you.” A pause. “Do you still want me to come? If you changed your mind—”

  Without warning, she erupted in sobs. I was floored. What could be wrong with her?

  “Sweetheart, calm down. What’s wrong? You’re scaring me. What happened?” Now I was really concerned. What if she never made it home? I glanced up at the takeout bags on the counter. The nice Cuban lady was putting all sorts of things in the bags I hadn’t ordered, like fresh bread and a bag of crackers.

  “Rafa, I’m OK. I had a bad day.” I heard her sniffle a few times. “Just come over, please.” I understood now. It was about us. Once I realized I could make it better, I stopped worrying.

  “Look, I just bought enough food for an army. We’ll relax, have dinner, and everything will be fine.”

  “That sounds perfect.” Amada gave me the code to her gate and I told her I would see her in fifteen minutes. The Cuban lady had been watching me and came around the counter with the food when I put the phone down, so I stood up and met her halfway. I took the bags and gave her a generous tip, but not before she patted me on the arm as if to check and see how solid I was. She was pleased, but it was also her way of letting me know she liked me, and I had to say I liked her, too.