by John Molloy
“I must tell you Enrique, I am a retired detective and I spent my whole life except for a brief period at sea, working in England. I came here on a ship on the last days of 1958 and if you have the patience and time, I will tell you why I am back here again.”
Henry stubbed out his cigarette, then looking up he noticed two policemen standing a short distance away. They seemed to be engaged in some kind of surveillance activity. Enrique also noticed them.
“Henry, we are being watched for no reason except you are a tourist and I am Cuban.”
“That’s not good.”
“Ah, here comes my son now.”
Enrique stood up and greeted his son as if he had been gone for months instead of some eight hours.
“Rafael, I want you to meet my new friend, Henry.”
Rafael put out a nervous hand and shook Henry’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you Henry. I’m sorry, I must hurry,” he added, glancing at the two policemen.
“I will see you back at home Papa.”
Rafael walked quickly away as both men sat down again.
Enrique spoke softly to Henry.
“I will have to go now. If you wish to come to my house you are welcome. You see our two policemen are leaving but we have another unwelcome guest coming across the plaza.”
Henry turned to the direction Enrique nodded, and standing under the palm trees with his German shepherd dog on a chain sitting at his feet, was a policeman wearing a black beret and khaki shirt over a belted black britches; his heavy black boots added to the ominous presence.
“You walk with me now Henry.”
Enrique stood up and began to walk away. Henry let him go a short distance and followed. He looked back at the Gestapo style policeman and saw he was busy with three youths - he was examining their papers. Henry passed a large imposing building faced with a pale green marble sporting in large letters the brand name, ‘Bacardi’. This was a buzzing metropolis when I was here last, but on its narrow road to socialism and with American sanctions, any vibrancy has long faded. What a shame for a wonderful country and her fine people, he lamented. Thoughts of 1958 were running through his mind and memories of Alicia and their brief but passionate liaison seemed to grab him and awaken a reality of purpose and desire to grasp at something real - an impossible dream. I’ll go and find her out. But what if she is married which more than likely she is. Could I do it discreetly? he pondered. I’ll talk to Enrique.
Enrique had slowed down to wait for Henry as they walked down O’Reilly Street.
“The special policeman you see, he could be very, how would you say, nasty. He could take me to the police station for no reason and question me about stupid things I know nothing about.”
“I don’t want to get you into any trouble. I will go back to my hotel now. Thank you for your company.”
“No Henry,” Enrique protested with an air of defiance.
“There is no need. If we give in to all their stupid little laws they have won. I have to keep some little resistance and independence even if it does mean spending twenty four hours in their custody.”
As they walked down a side street Henry again began to think back to 1958 and he recognized some of the ornate buildings he saw. They strolled on in the fading evening light on the dimly lit streets with cracked and worn pavements, where loose and broken stone slabs could trip a less than careful walker. There were few cars or other traffic on the streets except for the big old classic 1950s American taxis, patched up and preserved, still plying their trade. These pre-revolutionary automotive dinosaurs were now a major tourist draw.
Enrique stopped and took a key from his pocket; he turned the lock and opened a large paneled door with peeling blue paint and splits through the distressed timber.
“Here we are. Welcome to my humble abode.”
They walked through a dark hallway and pushed open a door into the modest parlor. Rafael was relaxing in a large lounge chair, listening to loud lively salsa music. Then he jumped up, a little surprised to see Henry.
“Come in and sit down. I didn’t expect you would come home with my father.”
He turned the music down.
“We like our music loud, that and baseball are our major entertainments.”
Enrique went to sit at the table where a place was laid. He took the cloth off the plate and looked with relish at the fried rice, sliced chicken and bacon.
“Have you eaten Rafael?”
“Yes father, I ate at the hotel. Would you like a cup of coffee, Henry?”
He seemed a little embarrassed as he searched the very bare cabinets.
“Ah, yes we have some coffee left. It’s very hard to come by sometimes but we manage a little from time to time. It’s one of our major exports and that’s why it’s so scarce.”
Henry felt he had intruded into the very private lives of these two people who offered him coffee - a rare treat they could not really afford. He was humbled by their generosity and visualized them in a western country living an affluent lifestyle.
“Thank you Rafael. I love your Cuban coffee and could become addicted to it very easily; it’s one of the finest coffees I’ve ever tasted.”
Rafael looked at the small bag containing the remaining coffee before he placed it back into the cabinet.
“I apologize for being a little curt when I met you first, but you see what my father is eating, that is food I sometimes get from the hotel kitchen. It’s not every day I can get some, it depends which chef is working, but when I saw the policeman nearby I had to keep moving as he could stop and search me. If he found I was taking food from the hotel I would be arrested and charged with theft against the state, and if found guilty I could be jailed and also lose my job at the hotel.”
Henry was flabbergasted at such revelations and the seriousness of taking food which was probably surplus to requirements.
“I seem to be a bit of a nuisance to you. I’m so relieved I wasn’t the cause of getting you into trouble.”
Enrique turned with his jaws still working. “This is a delicious meal, much superior to the food we get at the government co-op shops. Do you know, Henry, our whole system is full of little quirks. The people in the cigar factories steal cigars and sell them on the black market to the tourists. The rum makers do the same and you can buy coffee if you know the right people; it’s all just about border-line legally. The girls, especially the pretty ones, sell their services to the tourists to buy their new clothes and little luxuries. This is also illegal but tolerated. So Henry, we carry on from day-to-day hoping things will improve. We are somehow happy, and as we say in Cuba, we have nothing but also we have everything.”
Henry was much in awe at their resilience to a system they were hopeful of changing one day.
“You have a beautiful country and I hope to see much more of it than when I was here on my last visit.”
Enrique finished his meal.
“You know Rafael, I feel much better now I’ve had my fill. Henry has a story to tell about his last visit here. Would it bore you if I were to ask him to relate it to me now?”
Rafael turned off the salsa playing in the background.
“I would like nothing more than to hear Henry’s story. I’m sure it is very interesting.”
Henry smiled and shifted himself in the big comfortable chair.
“Right here goes, I’ll start the boredom, he said with an impish grin.”
He went on to tell them the whole grim story of the last time he was in their land. He also recounted his meeting with Alicia.
Enrique knew well the turmoil and lawlessness that existed in Havana for some days after Batista and his officials left. He was amazed at the capacity of Tukola to commit such brutal crimes and was shocked to find out that in such a short time he had murdered three people in Havana.
“If he ever comes back to Cuba he could still be charged, although there was so much killing that time it would be hard to get any records, but the Americans deaths
would have been recorded and also where they were buried.”
“Yes Enrique, the records could still be resurrected but he will never come back here again. I think he is on some Caribbean island, living a life of luxury. He had so much money. He probably has some business like a hotel or a large land holding.”
Rafael who was born into post-revolution Cuba was astounded by the stark revelations of the two older men. He knew how many so-called anti-Castro Cubans were jailed and also the hundreds who were executed. These statistics were proudly taught to school children.
“These people, do you intend to look for their death certificates and burial places?”
“No, I have no intention of trying to find out anything about them. It’s Tukola I’m interested in. I would like to know about the girl Alicia but I’m sure she has probably left her home and gone away. I would like to thank her and apologize nearly forty years later for not keeping our appointment on that fateful night. I’m sure it would be ridiculous to try and find her.”
Enrique smiled and sat forward on his chair, bending over close to Henry.
“I will take you to the house where you said she lived. Most of the residents of these houses never leave them because housing is so scarce here in Havana. I’m sure her mother if she is still alive, is living there.”
Rafael warned Henry to be careful. He said if she was married, his visit might cause a jealous reaction which would be the typical response of any hot-blooded Cuban male.
Then walking to the door Rafael turned and said, “Father, I must go, I have to do two hours relief work at the hospital. I will see you later.”
He smiled at the two mature men chasing dreams.
“Be careful the two of you and don’t get into any bother.”
Enrique, feeling happier and more liberated than he had done for years, shouted after him. “We have some young ladies to meet and entertain.”
Henry smiled, pleased at the prospect of finding out what had become of Alicia. It was a long time but life is like a merry go round, where you get off is sometimes providential and happy or wrought with sorrow and grief. With this tumbling of thoughts he opted for the happy ones and believed something like a loose end was coming together.
“It’s not far from here. I will know the street when I see it although it was dark on the night I was there.”
Enrique turned right when they left the apartment. It was dark now but the street lighting was moderately good.
“You said the address was Compostela. It is the next street to our left.”
When they turned the corner into Compostela, Henry recognized the street right away. One house in particular he recognized; it was beautiful and stood out from the rest, its façade needing some repair but it was still a magnificent example of Spanish colonial architecture.
Enrique turned to Henry inquiringly.
“You think you know the house because there are not numbers on all them.”
“Yes, it that one, he said, pointing across the street.”
They stood looking up at the four floored building with its once beautiful balconies now chipped and discolored, clothes lines stretched across them. The plaster was cracked and showing large patches of stone where it had fallen away. There were radios blaring music from open windows and people standing out on balconies chatting to neighbors and observing everything going on in the street below. The two men knew they were being watched with an indifferent curiosity. Then a young girl came out of a blue door and stood for a moment on the step turning her head to look up and down the street. Enrique spoke to her in Spanish. She answered him then saw her boyfriend appear and laughingly she skipped away waving to the pair.
“Isn’t it wonderful to be young carefree and in love? She told me that there’s an old lady who lives on the top floor; hardly your Alicia, but maybe her mother. Come on, we will see what the she has to say.”
They reached the top floor and knocked on the dark paneled door. The lady opened the door wide and took in the sight of the two men with welcoming, warm hazel eyes. Enrique spoke in a hushed tone, before she invited them in and gestured to them to sit down.
Enrique introduced Henry, and the old woman shook his hand.
“I am Martha.”
She took Enrique’s hand holding it while she spoke with her clear diction and precise pronunciation. Enrique apologized to Henry as he would now have to speak mostly in Spanish, but to his surprise the octogenarian straightened her skirt and brushed her silver silken shoulder length hair back from her face and said, “I can speak good English. I haven’t spoken very much since the big change when all the Americans and foreigners left and the hotels remained closed for years. I worked as a hostess in the big gambling casinos and I met all the wealthy influential Americans. I think they were called Mafia people. It was a wonderful life. I also had a serious boyfriend; he was German and owned a tannery business in Camaguey. He was a fine man, his name was Richard Hamm. He had a wife back home in Germany and she would not come to Cuba.”
Henry was astounded at her perfect spoken English and could visualize the world of glamour and affluence that was reflected in her bright eyes and beaming countenance as she lived again in her beautiful world.
“Martha, firstly I must thank you for welcoming us into your home, especially me a foreigner and stranger. I was here in Havana on the eve of the revolution, the last days of December 1958, working on a ship waiting to load a cargo of sugar. I had more important business than just being a crew member. I was an undercover detective and I was trying to catch a serial killer who was also a crew member. As you no doubt remember, the Cuban police force at that crucial time was in disarray, so I could not have this man arrested. I wanted to get a letter to the British Ambassador here in Havana to ask for his help but I had no way of getting enough time off to do that. I met a beautiful girl named Alicia and we went for a drink.”
Henry stopped speaking and glanced at Enrique. Martha shifted nervously in her chair and brushed back the silver tresses from her face, she stared at Henry in anxious anticipation of some revelation to piece together a huge void in her family’s life. She spoke and her voice was strained with emotion.
“I have a daughter named Alicia.”
“Alicia took a letter to the ambassador for me and brought back a reply. I walked her home to this house on the night we met. I made a time to meet her again but circumstances changed and the murderer jumped ship and I had to follow him. Is it too late to apologize for a broken appointment and to thank her again for what she did for me?”
Martha stood up.
“I have some photographs to show you.”
Henry looked at Enrique and neither spoke but puzzlement crossed their faces as they waited for Martha to seat herself.
“Here is my Alicia.”
She handed Henry a framed photo of a girl of exceptional beauty and Henry’s heart skipped a beat. He stared for what seemed an eternity but was only about a minute.
“This is the Alicia I knew, she is so beautiful.”
“She is the daughter of my German man. She is my only child and I suppose her beauty and light skin came from her father.”
Then she handed around the pictures of herself when she was in her early twenties; there was one of her in a bathing costume with a handsome man in swim suit with an arm around her.
“This one is of me and Richard. I had just discovered I was pregnant, and this one is Alicia when she was just walking.”
She showed her photos and smiled with dancing eyes and laughed, her life of love and happiness cascading around her.
“Alicia’s doting father lived until she was three years old, but was lost in the war after he returned to Germany. I never wanted for money; he left me shares in his business but that all changed when our Fidel and his revolutionaries took over. Alicia had a good life growing up, she was well educated, spoke French and English, but could not find any work after the revolution. You see Henry, I was on the wrong side of the rail tracks because
of my affair with Richard.”
Enrique handed her back the photos. “You are like me Martha. I lost everything. I had a fine tobacco growing farm but soon I also could not get a job.”
She turned to Henry.
“Alicia had a son.”
She pulled out a colored photograph of a boy of about six years old with his mother. He had blonde hair and blue eyes.
Henry stared, his hands trembling as though he was looking at his own family album. Martha noticed every move and twitch in the muscles of his face. He held the picture in a stare of awesome wonder.
Enrique looked over at the picture now resting on Henry’s knees.
“He’s a handsome boy.” Then, looking into Henry’s eyes, he added, “the image of his father.”
“His name is Juan, and he was born on the twenty seventh of September 1959.”
Visibly shaken, Henry handed back the picture of the child he thought could only be his son.
“Are they living in Havana now?”
Martha put back the photo in its right place in the album and sorted some letters and photos laying them on the table.
“Alicia and Juan lived with me here. Alicia always wanted to go to the U.S. so she made plans to try and go on one of the yachts that visit here. She met some people who were willing to smuggle her out when they were returning to Florida. All went well and she was going to make plenty dollars and try and get me a visa to visit her. My heart broke the night she left with Juan and my whole world fell asunder, but I thought she is a strong girl and will do well in America. The next day we had very strong winds from the tail end of a hurricane. I watched for news but there was nothing, then after a month I got a letter. This letter had been censored by the government, so I didn’t know where it came from; the envelope was changed and any mention of where she was had been blacked out. She wrote that the yacht sank in the storm and they were in a life raft for two days when a ship picked them up. They were landed on some Caribbean island, but where I just don’t know. Look, I have this photo she sent me years later. You see Juan is older, about twenty. There’s a hotel in the background. I think you could just make out the name if you got it made bigger.”