He was also enthused about part of a U2 on display. The spy plane was shot down on October 26, 1962, while taking aerial surveillance photographs of Russian missiles planted in Cuba by Nikita Khrushchev. President Kennedy succeeded in keeping the U2 incident under wraps. It wasn’t reported in the papers. The United States decided it would be prudent not to request the return of the pilot’s body, and he was eventually buried in Cuba. His name was Maj. Rudolph Anderson Jr. of the United States Air Force.
—
The four of us strolled over to Il Gentiluomo on Calle Obispo. My friends were interested when I said they could get a perfectly grilled pescado for eight dollars. First they wanted to go into La Floridita for a drink and to bask in the golden aura of the statue of Hemingway. But we were turned away at the door because Christophe was deemed to be inappropriately attired – wearing a tight sleeveless undershirt only, showing off his perfect body. He looked like a sex machine. He took a silk scarf from around Isabella’s neck, wrapped it around his neck, and said, “Is this better?” The Floridita doormen were not amused. No, they said, you still can’t come in. So still wearing the scarf he asked if he could just go in and take a quick picture of the statue, and they happily allowed him to do that. So he took some pictures of Hemingway and off we went to the other restaurant, which had a more liberal dress policy.
Isabella, as if to make up for not liking the paintings, went into ecstasies over the pescado of the day, which was tuna steak an inch thick, and Christophe and Marcel shared with us the pizza, which was excellent, in exchange for tastes of our tuna. There was hardly anyone in there, and I was very pleased to have guided three Parisians to a restaurant they found so much to their liking. I jokingly said to the maitre d’, “This is a lot better than La Floridita,” and he laughed and said, “This is La Floridita!” This was just the Italian arm of La Floridita, with a less-expensive menu for Cubans and impecunious tourists.
Marcel the sleepy skinny restaurateur liked his pizza so much he ordered another one, but we had to help him finish it off. We also split an excellent bottle of Spanish red wine, chosen by Marcel. The maitre d’ was very impressed with the choice. And the whole bill came to fifty-two dollars.
—
Meanwhile, poor Isabella was getting very sleepy. She’d been working hard for the past year and she just thought she needed to lie on the beach and empty her mind for a week or two. It was her fate to meet these two guys on the bus. She was dragging herself along after them. She loved her two new French friends and they loved her, and she was glad she’d met them, but that didn’t stop her from being tired.
For a Corsican, Isabella was very light-skinned, and she is peeling already. After the meal she put cream on her face, while the two guys slapped me on the back and told me I was an excellent guide. We went strolling down Calle Obispo, getting ready to call it a night, and Christophe noticed a very attractive Cuban woman sitting alone at an almost empty bar. There were two guys at one end of the bar, and she was at the other end, looking down in the dumps. Well, this would never do. Christophe saw her and immediately bolted into the bar with no hesitation whatsoever and sat down next to her. I clandestinely watched through the open window as her melancholy evaporated and her frown turned upside down. She was leaving no doubt that she fully welcomed this intrusion into her privacy. Christophe came out a few minutes later with a sly little smile on his face.
“Well, what happened?”
He said, “We made plans to meet later and go dancing, and after that who knows what.”
—
Christophe had earlier taken some photos of kids on the Prado practising the sport of fencing, with their coach. They were serious. They knew this was an Olympic sport. Just as Christophe was about to take a picture, one of the kids had his face mask knocked right off by his opponent, and that’s about the worse thing that can happen in this sport, judging by the look on the kid’s face. He was an Afro-Cuban, about twelve, and he was so disappointed with himself, shocked and humiliated, he was doing all he could to keep from crying. It would have been a great picture, but it was cool that Christophe decided not to take it. He just looked at me and shrugged.
—
Finally, back to the present, I tear myself away from the TV and drag myself out to the street. The first thing that happens is I get involved once again in the “milk for my baby” scam. This is the first time I’ve actually been caught on it. I’ve just lost five dollars on a bizarre scam, but I still don’t completely understand it. Marcel got approached yesterday, and it never occurred to him it was a scam. He said it was problems with the ration books, and he was happy to help out. It’s always Afro-Cuban males, who tell you they need milk for their baby. But they won’t take the money, they insist you come to the store with them and buy the milk for them.
What can you say and what can you do when someone tells you his baby is dying from lack of milk? The first time I just knew it was a scam, but this time, because of Marcel’s attitude toward it, I became curious to see what would develop if I went along with it. What developed was I lost my five dollars. The fellow came up to me at the sea end of the Prado; I had asked him for directions, and he asked me the normal questions you get asked by touts everywhere: Where you from? Canada. Quebec, eh? Yeah. Oh, I know somebody who lives in Quebec. Blah blah blah. All the things touts get taught to say. Hotel or casa? Hotel? What hotel are you in? And finally he’ll say, very politely, with a worried look on his face: Could you help me, sir? I need some milk for my baby.
So he takes me into the store where they sell milk. And the woman has a big plastic bag full of milk waiting there for him in the cooler. And she gives me a look as if to say, Oh aren’t you the big sucker today. She obviously knows this guy very well. He says, Could you give her the five dollars, sir? I pulled out a five-peso note and the woman looks very alarmed and starts screaming, No no no no. And he says, impatiently, No, it has to be five U.S. dollars. Wait a minute, five U.S. dollars, you could practically buy the whole cow for that.
All of a sudden it hit me. What they’re doing is a kickback scheme. It’s just like the cars up at the fortress, not real taxis, so they can’t go cruising, but they have to wait till you ask them. Nobody could prove that I hadn’t just asked him for a ride, and so on. So it’s a ubiquitous scam, and it’s just a way of making money for the store. The storekeepers, who are usually white, will get some black guy down on his luck (black for sympathy and to make the story more plausible) to accost tourists and ask for money for the baby. So I gave her the five, she hands the milk to the fellow, I leave, the fellow hands the milk back to the storekeeper, and she gives him his cut. A dollar? Two-fifty? I don’t know.
There is no baby involved, because there is no shortage of milk for babies in Cuba. That’s one thing there is never any shortage of. No rations for babies as far as I know. This is the first scam I’ve knowingly been part of in Cuba, though there have been several semi-scams.
I did give her the five dollars, I couldn’t very well not do so at that stage, it just would have been wrong. I wasn’t 100 per cent sure it was a scam at that point, but I was 90 per cent sure. I could very easily have just walked out, so she was lucky she got the five dollars. But I did plunk down the five dollars rather abruptly, and they could tell I was a bit miffed. The fellow grabbed the milk and took off, saying in the most sarcastic tone, It was very nice meeting you, sir.
So I went next door for coffee. The waitress was very young-pretty-smart, so I was surprised when she said she’d never heard of the “milk for my baby” scam. I watched her eyes carefully and I don’t think she was lying. She’d genuinely never heard of the scam. Maybe because it’s never been played on her, being a Cuban. But she did say that particular store is for U.S. funds only. They won’t take pesos for anything there. So that surprised me, and maybe I’m wrong, maybe it’s not a scam.
And so I sat there reading the paper and drinking my coffee, and keeping an eye open for the young fellow to sneak back with the
bag of milk so he can get his rebate. But he never came. I was there half an hour and he didn’t return. Maybe he was hiding behind a tree waiting for me to vacate the area. I don’t know, but now I’m even more confused, and I don’t know if it’s a scam or not. But the waitress insisted that babies were provided plenty of milk free from the state, up to the age of six, shortages of milk for babies are impossible, and she very seriously told me that when people want to talk to me on the street – and she had a very distasteful look on her face – I should just ignore them, she said.
Also, she said that if you had to ask tourists for help with milk for your baby, then for sure you’d be a lot more anxious than these guys were. None of this laid-back cool-cat “where you from” nonsense. Next time I’ll ask to see the poor starving baby before I get generous.
—
I spent several hours in the Museo de la Revoluçion. It’s a powerful experience, no matter what your politics may be. It’s one of those dedicated museums where you can enter knowing nothing about the subject and leave feeling as if you’re a leading expert.
For instance, I used to think the March 13, 1957, attempted assassination of Batista just involved the little red Fast Delivery truck stuffed with forty-two heavily armed students, but it was much bigger than that. Carlos Gutierrez Menoyo was the leader, and it appears that he was a bitter rival of Fidel Castro. They both wanted the top job, and they both knew Batista was vulnerable. Carlos was no kid, he’d already fought in the Spanish Civil War and later in France during the Second World War. The little display on the wall of the Museo lists him as an “anti-fascist combatant.”
Carlos had become leader of the university Revolutionaries about the time that Fidel was establishing himself in the Sierra Maestra mountains. The photo shows a powerful man of great intelligence and ambition. A very tough-looking no-nonsense guy, tall and thin, with a narrow face, square jaw, deep penetrating eyes, and a pencil moustache. Fidel was greatly annoyed when Carlos and the “Revolutionary Directorate” he led, mostly composed of university students in Havana, refused to support the Granma landing. Fidel accused the Revolutionary Directorate of treachery and cowardice.
Carlos was getting fed information from the Presidential Palace about Batista’s schedule, all the details. And a bold and highly detailed plan of attack was worked out. At three o’clock on the afternoon of March 13, 1957, two cars and a van full of well-armed students arrived at the Presidential Palace and started firing. They burst into the building and raced up the stairs. But Batista wasn’t in his office where he was expected to be. Chaos ensued, and the presidential guard launched a counter-attack that lasted for hours. Some of the students escaped but most were killed inside the palace.
Meanwhile Carlos and his smaller group had taken over the radio station and were announcing that the palace was occupied and Batista was dead. Carlos didn’t live to find out that he had been mistaken on both counts. He and his group left the station to head back to the university, which they planned as their headquarters for a new government. But halfway there, an accident ensued. Carlos’s car was in collision with a police vehicle. Carlos lost his cool, jumped from his car, and started firing his machine gun. The police officers returned fire and he was killed. Fidel had no rival. The game was his to win.
Today, behind the palace, one can see on display the Fast Delivery truck, complete with the original bullet holes. Also on display is the Granma, which Carlos and his Revolutionary Directorate maybe should have been there for when they knew it was about to land.
—
Also on display in the museum are numerous highly dramatic photos from the trials of some of Batista’s men in the Revolutionary Court of Justice. Some of these photos are hard to look at. One shows a livid Inés Leal, a very proud and beautiful woman, angrily pointing her finger at former Capt. Jesús Sosa Blanco, as being responsible for the assassination of her husband and eight members of the Argote family. Another shows María Arman García pointing her finger in a similar fashion at former police officer Silvino Junco for having murdered her husband, Hector Molina Real.
There are also some tremendous photos from the Bay of Pigs invasion, showing captured U.S. soldiers, the U.S. supply ship Houston in flames out in the bay, and so on. One learns that the Bay of Pigs was the first imperialist defeat ever in Latin America, and that between 1971 and 1980 CIA agents introduced into Cuba the pig fever virus. More than a million pigs died.
I strongly recommend a visit to the Presidential Palace. It was very crowded when I was there, but there were only a handful of non-Cubans. Most of the visitors seemed to be from distant parts of Cuba and this was their first chance to tour the museum. To me, it’s one of the great museums of the world, and if I heard that someone was flying to Havana simply to spend a day or two visiting the museum, I wouldn’t at all think that was crazy.
—
People who come to La Floridita to snap a picture of the José Villa statue of Ernest Hemingway may not realize it right away, but when they get home they’ll see stuck to the wall above Hemingway’s head an ad for “Restaurant-Bar La Floridita – Havana Cuba.” In every picture, hundreds a day during the heavy tourist season, free ads for La Floridita get e-mailed around the world. Some women will pose by snuggling right up to him and putting their arm through his, because he’s got his bronze hand on his bronze hip, with his bronze elbow sticking out, so it’s a very welcome place for a woman to slide her arm. And his bronze eyes of course keep moving, and flashing.
Most of the married women want their husbands to take a picture of them in front of Hemingway, and most do. But sometimes a man won’t wish to, he will wish to be in the picture too, as if jealous of having his wife alone with Hemingway, even in a photo. So they will ask someone else to take the picture with them. And the woman always looks a bit disappointed, and a bit peeved for having married such a jerk.
One very prim-looking German lady posed beside the statue for a photo, and she began gently stroking his very pronounced crotch area, with the most innocent look on her face. Hope that one turns out well.
Eight Chinese guys in a row have had their pictures taken next to Hemingway, and every single one picks up Hemingway’s daiquiri and pretends to be drinking it. The first one did it, so all the others had to do it. Except for the last guy. He didn’t pick up the daiquiri, instead he looked up into Hemingway’s eyes as the camera flashed.
Every morning the bartender places a fresh daiquiri in front of the statue. He jokingly says he thinks Hemingway would prefer a single daiquiri to a single rose. But these bartenders aren’t stupid, for when you look carefully you see there is no booze in the daiquiri glass, it’s just full of crushed glass, to make it look like crushed ice, with a couple of straws sticking up. The glass will last all day without melting, and Hemingway will stand there all day and all night without getting any tipsier.
There is definitely something magical about this statue. People are wandering around in Hemingway T-shirts, there are photos of Hemingway on the wall, we are located on Calle Obispo, which was Hemingway’s favourite street in the world, but nothing is as much like Hemingway as that statue. Hats off to José Villa! Magic is what you imagine, sir!
—
At the Hotel Lido, I went up to the rooftop restaurant, to see if they served food all day or it was just breakfast. Sure enough they had a dinner menu. I had the three-dollar grilled pescado special. It was right up there with the eight-dollar pescado at Il Gentiluomo. For an extra $1.75 they will even pour half a pound of melted cheese over it, should that be to your taste.
It’s quite the wintry breeze up here, and the Cubans are feeling shivery and uncomfortable. The waitress offered to put me in a protected corner so I wouldn’t feel so cold, but I don’t feel cold at all, I feel very refreshed after a blazing hot and still day. So I told her we Canadians don’t feel the cold. It doesn’t bother us at all. She rolled her eyes, to show she couldn’t imagine living in a cold country, what a nightmare that would be, to be cold a
ll the time.
They haven’t had coffee in this restaurant for two days now. Most of the tourists were just laughing it off, but it disturbs me. So I finally ask the waitress what’s the problem. She says, “Cafetera rota” – which I thought meant cafeteria broken. I looked confused, so she said, “Follow me, please.” Turned out cafetera means coffee maker. She took me into the kitchen, and there she pointed with a rueful smile at a once-proud and very elaborate industrial-size coffee maker. It was blasted, blackened, and beyond repair. It looked as if it had been struck by lightning, or by an awesome power surge, or maybe it had been shot by Hemingway. Various broken springs, dials, and miscellaneous ragged chunks of metal and plastic looked as if they had been swept into a corner next to it. It looked as wrecked as some of those once grand old buildings along the Malecón. Whatever happened, they had put in a request for a new one, but with all the paperwork you can’t expect it to arrive immediately.
When I left I gave her a dollar and said, “Pera la cafetera rota, señorita.” She understood perfectly, but had to explain it to her co-workers. They thought that was the most thoughtful thing any tourist had ever done in the history of tourism, or at least since the coffee maker broke down. Someone pulled out an empty little box from a drawer and put the dollar in there. They’d get a new coffee maker fast if the word got out that the tourists are making contributions toward the cost of one.
DAY TWENTY-SIX
MIMI’S GIFT
Wednesday, March 10, 2004. A crowded rush-hour commuter train has been blown up in Madrid. The TV shows bodies all over the place. Oh my God, what a mess. The Spanish ambassador to the United States is saying it’s “a terrible blow for European democracy” and so on. Immediately upon waking up after a good night’s sleep it’s not a good idea to flick on the TV. Best to have a shower first, get dressed, get acclimatized, have some coffee. The cutest sparrow is sitting on the ledge of this rooftop restaurant, and he’s enjoying a sunny but cool and breezy morning. Now he’s on the floor doing one two three little hops, then he stops and looks around, then three more little hops. Then he spots a crumb and eats it. Then he goes by a whole pile of crumbs and doesn’t even notice it. Now he sees one crumb all by itself, looks like a piece of cheese, and he beaks it up and gobbles it down, oh good good good. He has an evil look around the eyes, but that would be just to scare off the sparrow hawks.
An Innocent in Cuba Page 33