Jack walked up to the old man behind the desk. He was absorbed in his copy of the Granma, the official newspaper of the Cuban Communist Party—the name “Granma” borrowed from the yacht that had carried Fidel Castro and his band of rebels to Cuba’s shores in 1956, launching the revolution. Jack translated the above-the-fold headline to himself. The oil spill, front-page news across America, was apparently not as big a story as the 88 percent voter turnout in the election of delegates to the People’s Power Municipal Assemblies.
“Josefina Fuentes?” asked Jack.
The old man looked up from his daily. With a jerk of his head he indicated a ring to Jack’s right, where a young woman was sparring with a male fighter. Jack and Theo walked around the weights and mats on the floor and stood outside the ring. It was impossible not to admire the quick hands, sculpted arms, and amazing footwork.
Theo smiled at what he saw. “That girl is ripped.”
Jack took a step closer to the ring. Theo followed, unable to tear his eyes away from her. They watched for several minutes until the sparring ended. Josefina went to the ropes, where her coach gave her pointers as he removed her headgear and unlaced her gloves. Josefina’s trainer was beyond boxing age but looked as though he’d spent some serious time in the ring in his not-too-distant youth. He gave her a fist bump and moved to the next pair of fighters. Josefina was dripping with sweat as she walked toward the watercooler.
“Josefina?” Jack asked.
She stopped, removed her mouth guard, and smiled. Her face was a little puffy from the workout, but she still qualified as an athletic Latin beauty.
“Do you speak English?” asked Jack.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Jack Swyteck, from Miami. I’m the lawyer for Bianca Lopez. Rafael’s husband.”
The ambush was necessary to gauge her reaction. If Jack had caught her off guard, she didn’t show it.
“What took you so long?”
“Can we talk?”
Josefina glanced toward the next ring. Her trainer, though working with another fighter, was watching Josefina—like a hawk.
“Not now,” she said. “And not here. My trainer misses nothing.”
Jack understood. “You name the time and place.”
She glanced again toward the next ring, then back at Jack. “Four o’clock. Heladería Coppelia.”
“An ice cream parlor?”
“The ice cream parlor. El Vedado neighborhood. Packed with tourists.”
Obviously she wanted no one she knew to see her talking to an American lawyer.
“Okay,” said Jack. “It’s a date.”
Chapter 17
Jack ordered strawberry and chocolate, a nod to the famous film Fresa y Chocolate, in which the main characters meet at the Heladería Coppelia in Havana. Theo did him one better and ordered one scoop in every flavor. To his disappointment, only two of the twenty-six sabores on the state-owned menu were available—fresa y chocolate.
The claim of “world’s largest ice cream parlor” was debatable, but Coppelia was both a local landmark and a tourist magnet. The main pavilion was a modernist design, shaped like a flying saucer, and the park surrounding it occupied an entire city block that was within easy walking distance of Hotel Nacional de Cuba and other signature hotels in the relatively expensive Vedado district. Tourists could pay Western prices in CUC to avoid the long lines, but thirty minutes of people-watching and anticipation was part of the Coppelia experience. Jack paid in moneda nacional.
“For twenty-seven cents, I’m cool with two scoops,” said Theo.
Jack wasn’t really listening, his gaze having drifted toward a young Cuban mother. She was sharing ice cream with her toothless infant, one tiny spoonful after another. From the joyous expression on the baby’s face, Jack guessed it was her first taste, though it was more of a multisensory experience, including an all-ten-fingers-in-the-mouth feel. A mother-daughter moment like this would have barely caught Jack’s eye before the morning sickness. Now, it made him miss Andie more than ever.
“Where you want to sit?” asked Theo.
Most patrons seemed to prefer inside seating at the upstairs tables or downstairs stools—again, part of the Coppelia “experience.” Jack figured that Josefina would rather be outdoors, away from the center of activity. They took a patio table beneath the shade of a towering banyan tree. Jack’s ice cream was nearly melted when Theo spotted Josefina on one of the curvilinear paths that led to the elevated flying saucer.
“Damn, she’s gorgeous,” said Theo.
Jack signaled to catch her attention. As Josefina started toward them, Jack gave Theo an under-his-breath warning. “I don’t know what the real deal was with Rafael, but if you hit on a woman who is mourning her dead fiancé, I’ll bust you myself for violating the trade embargo.”
They rose to greet her, and Josefina joined them at the table, Jack and Theo together on one side, Josefina on the other. It had been Jack’s plan to ease into the conversation, but like a good fighter, Josefina went straight on the offensive.
“Rafael was my best friend since I was three. Did you know that?”
“No,” Jack countered. “His wife didn’t mention it.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said, looking off to the middle distance. “I don’t think she ever really liked me, which is so unfair. If you asked her, she’d probably tell you that she doesn’t even know who I am.”
Jack didn’t answer, but as he recalled, those had been almost Bianca’s exact words.
“That’s why Rafael couldn’t even invite me to his wedding. I think Bianca felt threatened, which is stupid. All I ever did was help her.”
Jack pushed his empty bowl of ice cream aside. “How did you help Bianca?”
Josefina sighed, as if not sure where to begin. “When a Cuban national defects to the United States, the way Bianca did, do you know what happens to family members who are left behind?”
“They go work on an oil rig?” asked Theo.
“Actually, the opposite,” said Josefina. “Those jobs on the rig were excellent jobs. A man like Rafael, whose wife turned her back on Cuba, would be lucky to find work sweeping the street. No way could he get hired by the oil consortium.”
“Then how did he get the job?”
“I helped him. And I helped Bianca.”
A boy approached their table, breaking their conversation. He was handing out leaflets for the annual Tras las Huellas del Che (In Che’s Footsteps), a chess tournament dedicated to the memory of Che Guevara. Jack gave him ten pesos to go away.
“How did you help him?” asked Jack.
Josefina paused, seeming to have some difficulty. Then she looked Jack in the eye and said, “I became his fiancée.”
“So you’re saying that your engagement was a . . .” Jack stopped himself, not wanting to say “fraud.”
“An arrangement,” said Josefina.
Theo jumped in. “So you and Rafael never slept together?”
“Theo!”
“What? You think Bianca don’t want to know the answer to that question?”
“It’s okay,” said Josefina. “I like a man who says what he thinks. The answer is no. Never. Look, the whole point was this: Rafael had to prove that he was a good Cuban who still loved his country. The only way he could do that was to show them he no longer loved his wife. He loved another woman in Cuba.”
“But he was still really in love with Bianca?”
“Yes.”
“And he still considered her his wife?”
“Yes. Claro.”
Jack had the letters with him, and it seemed like the time to lay them on the table, literally. “What about these letters that Rafael wrote to ‘Josefina, mi amor’?”
Josefina skimmed them. “I haven’t seen these before.”
“The lawyers for the oil consortium gave them to me in court. I’m told that the Cuban government reviewed all mail sent from the rig. These were still under review when Rafael died.”
“That makes sense.”
“I’ve read the letters,” said Jack. “These sound like they were written to a woman he truly loved.”
“That’s because they were,” said Josefina.
Jack took a moment, confused. “But you said the engagement was just an ‘arrangement.’”
Josefina opened her exercise bag and removed a stack of letters—a dozen or more.
“What’s this?” Jack asked.
“More letters from Rafael. Just like the ones you have.”
Jack took a quick look. “They all are written to you.”
“No. They are addressed to me. They are written to Bianca.”
“I don’t follow you,” said Jack.
“That was the ‘arrangement,’” said Josefina. “The whole reason Rafael wanted the job on the rig was so that he could earn enough money to buy his way out of Cuba and be with Bianca. He couldn’t write letters to his wife saying, ‘Dear Bianca, I can’t wait to be with you again.’ He couldn’t have any contact with her at all.”
“That is what Bianca told me: no contact with Rafael since she landed in Key West.”
“Right,” said Josefina. “That’s the way it had to be.”
“But there’s still something I don’t get,” said Jack. “Instead of applying for a job, why didn’t he just apply for a visa? Cubans can travel now. The law changed after Bianca got off the island.”
“Change of laws on the books doesn’t change the way a government thinks. A man whose wife defected to the United States before or after the law changed has zero chance of getting a travel visa. Especially a man like Rafael, who is college educated and studying to be an engineer in the oil industry. My government is paranoid about the brain drain—the flight of doctors and other professionals. They would never let Rafael leave Cuba if they thought he had any connection with his wife in the U.S.”
“So Rafael sent the letters to you,” said Jack.
“Yes. All these letters,” she said, holding up the stack, “Rafael sent them to me. But in his heart, they are all written to Bianca.”
Another boy with the Che Guevara leaflets approached. Word was apparently out on the street that Jack was an easy mark. It cost him another ten pesos to be left alone.
Jack recovered his train of thought. “I think I know the answer, but you tell me, Josefina: What were you supposed to do with all these letters?”
“It was my job to get them to Bianca.”
“Yer fired,” said Theo, mimicking the Donald.
Josefina didn’t understand the reference to American television, but she got Theo’s drift. “I failed,” she said. “I was afraid to pass them on.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Getting caught. Oye,” she said. Listen. “I have it good here. A real shot at being an Olympian. El Boxeo is my life. If the government finds out I was pretending to be engaged to Rafael, that’s the end for me. So I didn’t pass along the letters.”
“I can understand that,” said Jack.
“Here,” she said, handing them to Jack. “Please give these to Bianca. Tell her I am sorry. I have to get back to the gym now.”
Jack took the letters. He and Theo rose to say good-bye.
“Maybe we’ll see you around,” said Theo.
Josefina slung her bag over her shoulder. “Maybe.”
“We’ll be at La Floridita tonight.”
“Ah, sí, where the daiquiri was invented.”
“That’s what I hear,” said Theo.
“Expensive tourist trap. Have one drink to say you did it, follow Ernest Hemingway’s footsteps over to La Bodeguita del Medio, where he drank his mojitos, and then quit wasting your time and go to La Zorra y el Cuervo. Do you like Latin jazz?”
“Are you kidding me? I play the sax and own a jazz bar in Miami.”
She seemed to approve. “You’ll love La Zorra.”
“Thanks. So . . . see you around nine thirty?”
Josefina hinted at a smile, noncommittal. “Have a safe trip home.”
They watched her walk away, saying nothing until she reached the street corner a half block away.
“I think I got a date,” said Theo.
Jack shot him a look of disbelief. “That’s how you read that exchange?”
“How else would you read it?”
“Dude, we’ll never see her again.”
“Well, that’s not true. She’s your star witness, all the proof you need to show that Bianca is Rafael’s widow.”
Jack shook his head. “First of all, there is no law or treaty between the United States and Cuba that I can use to force a Cuban citizen to sit for a deposition or appear in an American courtroom.”
“We don’t have to force her. Maybe we can talk her into it.”
“Yeah, right. She was afraid to pass on Rafael’s letters, but she’s going to blow her Olympic dream and volunteer to testify under oath that her engagement to Rafael was a fraud, just so Bianca can get ten million dollars from the oil consortium in a lawsuit that was filed in Key West and that the Cuban government doesn’t even recognize as legitimate.”
Theo took a minute, seeming to process the boatload of information Jack had just delivered. “So you’re saying this was a total waste of time?”
“Basically, we got nothing.”
Theo reached for Jack’s bowl and scooped out the final melted spoonful.
“Ice cream was good. That’s something.”
“Yeah, that’s something.” Jack gathered up the empty bowls, rising. There was more on his to-do list.
“Come on. Let’s go collect some wedding photos.”
Chapter 18
It was Jack’s first look at a Cuban farm. But it wasn’t in the countryside. The taxi pulled away, leaving Jack and Theo at the street curb in southwest Havana. On the other side of a chain-link fence were two acres of green urban land.
“This is a first,” said Jack. “A farm that backs up against the biggest hospital in a major city, with a tavern on one side and a bowling alley on the other. Can’t say I’ve seen that before.”
“Now you have. Let’s go to the bar,” said Theo.
“Business first.”
Jack opened the gate, and Theo followed him down a sandy path that bisected the farm into two separate parcels. They passed a plot of beans, then a smaller plot of sweet potatoes. Marigolds were at the end of each row, which Jack knew from his abuela was an age-old Cuban bug repellent. To Jack’s left, on the other side of the path, men were planting seedlings in neat rows. Their only tools were plastic water bottles with the bottoms cut off, which they plunged into the ground to create a perfect seedling hole. Skinny chickens in a variety of colored feathers roamed freely; a tattered patchwork of wire fencing along either side of the path was completely ineffective in keeping them out of the garden.
“I feel like any minute now I’m going to run into Eddie Albert, Eva Gabor, and Mr. Drucker,” said Jack.
Theo caught the reference to the ancient TV show, adding his own geographically appropriate rendition of the theme song from Green Acres.
“Verde Acres is the place to be . . .”
Green was the operative word, the whole idea behind the rise of urban and suburban farms and gardens in Cuba. More than a hundred thousand small farms sprang up in the 1990s and on into the next decade, when the Ministry of Agriculture distributed use rights (“in usufruct”) to an estimated three million hectares of unused state lands. It was the government’s answer to the collapse of the Soviet Union and Cuba’s loss of its source of pesticides, oil, and other staples of large-scale, state-run farming. People were starving. Of necessity, a campesino-style spirit and Cuban ingenuity took hold in the cities. Families grew what they ate, and their farming methods—no chemicals—caught the eye of environmentalists worldwide.
Bianca’s old friend—the photographer at her wedding—was lucky enough to work on one of the oldest urban gardens in southwest Havana.
“Can you tell me where I
can find Olga Mendez?” Jack asked one of the workers in Spanish.
The man rose from his stooped-over position, arching his back to iron out the kink. He wiped the sweat from his brow and pointed toward the tin-roofed bungalow at the back of the property. It was in the late-afternoon shadow of the hospital that stood directly behind the farm. Jack thanked him and continued down the path. A huge feral cat darted across Theo’s shoe tops as they approached the front door.
“Now, that’s what I call rodent control,” said Theo.
Jack knocked on the door. A young woman answered. Her puzzled expression disappeared as soon as Jack mentioned Bianca. His client had obviously followed through and gotten word to Olga that Jack was on his way. Olga invited them inside, and Jack drew on his every facility with the Spanish language to answer a flurry of questions about Bianca. She led them to the kitchen, where several dozen empty beer bottles were lined up on the table.
“Guess we found the party house,” said Theo.
Olga laughed, obviously understanding. “No, no. Is for our salsa,” she said in English.
She opened the cupboard and showed them the finished product. Hundreds of recapped beer bottles were filled with a red sauce. She handed Jack one of the clear Corona bottles so he could see it.
“Is the best,” she said. “All from el jardín. We sell at the market in Habana on Sundays.”
“Very cool.”
“If you need any help emptying the beer from the bottles, I’m available,” said Theo.
She laughed again. “Botellas from la taberna.”
There wasn’t much in the kitchen, but they tried the sauce on a slice of sweet potato.
“Wow,” said Jack. “There should be a law that requires mango in all salsa.”
“And Cuban limes.”
“Is sour orange,” said Olga. “Like in mojo.”
Jack wanted more, and the Cuban people were so generous that they’d give you every last bit of food in the cupboard, even if it meant their going hungry for the next two days. Jack kept it to a mere sample, cutting himself off and shutting down Theo, the human vacuum.
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