Escape to Havana

by Nick Wilkshire

  “Su casa,” Landon said, swinging the door open and letting Charlie go first. Stepping inside, all he could think to do was offer a silent prayer that no one with a family would be assigned to Havana for the duration of his posting. Despite the intense heat outside, the interior of the house was cool, likely because of the high ceilings and tile floors, which combined to give it an airy feel.

  Landon led the way through the furnished dining room, family room, and study, before heading upstairs to show him the four spacious bedrooms. Arriving in the master, Charlie glanced at the massive wrought-iron bed before noticing that a little balcony lay beyond the floor-to-ceiling French doors on the other side of the room. Opening the doors and stepping outside, he gasped at the sight of the shimmering azure rectangle of water below.

  “It has a pool?”

  “I told you it was nice.”

  “When do I move in, again?”

  Landon laughed and looked to Carlos. “When’s the electrician coming?”

  “He say tomorrow.”

  “He’s been saying that for a week.” Landon grimaced.

  “Mañana,” Carlos repeated, with a nod of assurance. “For sure.”

  “What’s wrong with the wiring, anyway?” Charlie asked.

  “Nothing major, just some of the lights are on the fritz in the basement,” Landon replied. “We’ll have you in by the weekend; Monday at the latest.”

  They returned downstairs to complete their tour of the house, with Charlie marvelling at the spacious kitchen and the lush greenery surrounding the pool in the garden. It was with great reluctance that he accepted Landon’s apologies for having to bring the tour to an end, due to some unfinished business back at the office.

  “We’ll probably get you in to see the ambassador tomorrow morning, around ten,” Landon said, as Carlos pulled the van away from the curb.

  “Hmm?” Charlie had barely heard him, focused as he was on watching the villa — his villa — disappear in the rear-view mirror. “Sure. That sounds good.”

  “There are some decent restaurants in that little mall next to the hotel. I’d offer to take you into town, but I’ve got some stuff to do tonight. Maybe I can show you around Old Havana on the weekend?”

  “I’d like that.” Charlie felt re-energized by the brief visit to his new house. It was almost enough to make him forget the sight of his office. “If you want tickets to a show, you tell me,” Carlos was quick to offer. “Or maybe cigars?”

  Charlie found himself wearing one of Carlos’s infectious grins. “Thanks, Carlos, I might just take you up on that.”

  Charlie sat at one end of a long, polished boardroom table. Sharon and her divorce lawyer James Leitch, nicknamed (aptly, in Charlie’s opinion) Jimmy the Leech, were seated in the distance at the opposite end. They were smiling and whispering together, while Charlie sat alone. Every few seconds, the lawyer would shout a new demand across the space between them and Charlie would nod in agreement, unable to respond in any other manner.

  “We want your share of the house,” he demanded with a sneer. Charlie nodded slowly. “And all the furniture,” Leitch continued, clearly relishing each new demand and the automatic nod from the other end of the table that it produced.

  “We want your pension too, Charlie — all of it.” He was laughing now, and Charlie could see that Sharon was enjoying herself, too, but he remained powerless to resist.

  “Okay, but where’s my lawyer? Um, shouldn’t he be here?”

  “I killed him,” Leitch replied, as he and Sharon burst into manic laughter. “We want your car, your salary, and all of your underwear,” he continued, dabbing away tears, as Charlie nodded again. “Oh, and Charlie,” he added, the smile disappearing from his face as he looked at Sharon and pulled what looked like a machete out from under the table. “There’s one more thing she wants.”

  Charlie sat bolt upright in his bed, his body bathed in sweat, his heart pounding in his ears and his hands clasped around his crotch. It was several seconds before he recognized his surroundings and began to breathe again. He got out of bed and padded to the mini-bar, squinting at the inter­ior light as he fumbled for a bottle of water. He gulped at the cold liquid in the dark until the bottle was empty, his nerves still jangling from the nightmare.

  Stepping out onto the balcony, Charlie took in a lungful of the musty, salty air and leaned on the railing. Though he could see nothing but inky blackness past the lights of the pool below, he could hear the waves crashing along the ragged shoreline beyond the grounds of the hotel. A few stray notes of Spanish guitar rose above the sound of the swell, though it seemed too late for the hotel bar to be open. He peered over the rail at the still waters of the enormous pool, with its lagoons and swim-up bar, and thought of the happy couple on the plane. Perhaps they were somewhere in this very hotel, resting naked in each other’s arms, their only concern whether to tour the old city or hit the beach in the morning.

  Charlie tried to put them out of his mind as he stared out into the starless night and listened to the waves, until the ghost of a chill on the onshore breeze sent him back inside.

  Chapter 3

  Charlie sipped his lukewarm coffee and tried to find a comfortable seated position. The newish chair he had found behind his desk when he came in was a definite upgrade over the relic from the day before. In fact, the whole office had undergone a transformation, with the windows, floor, and furniture having been scrubbed clean and the dead plants removed. After getting his pass and access code from the security officer, Charlie had been visited by the resident IT expert, who set up his computer account and got him ready for his first real day of work. He was reading an email summary of his first consular case — a tourist from Moose Jaw who had lost his passport on what appeared to be a drunken junket into Old Havana from Varadero — when Landon appeared at his doorway.

  “Ready?”

  Charlie hopped out of his chair and searched his desk for a pad of paper. Michael Stewart was a career diplomat on his fourth posting, his second as head of mission, and he was unanimously described as decent and down to earth. Still, there was something unnerving about having an ambassador as your boss. Finding a pad and donning his jacket, Charlie followed Landon over to the main building, through the secure entrance and up the stairs to the ambassador’s reception area.

  “You can go right in, gentlemen,” Martine said, barely looking up from her computer.

  The ambassador was seated at his massive desk, poring over a report of some kind when they entered. He looked up and took off his glasses. “Come on in,” he said, coming out from behind the desk and shaking Charlie’s hand first. “I guess you’re our new MCO?”

  “Yes, sir. Charlie Hillier.”

  “Call me Michael, please. Welcome to Havana,” he said, as they arranged themselves on facing sofas. Charlie knew from reading his bio that Stewart was in his late fifties, but there was something about the man, perhaps an aura of confidence, that defied age. While Charlie straightened his tie and sat ramrod straight, Stewart crossed his long legs and assumed a leisurely pose, his tan linen suit a second skin. “What kind of housing have we got lined up for Charlie?” Stewart was looking at Landon and his top leg began to swing gently up and down, showing off a highly polished brown Oxford.

  “We’re putting him into the new one. It should be ready this weekend.” Landon looked at Charlie and added. “We hope.”

  “The one around the corner from the residence? Oh, well. You’ll be very comfortable there,” Stewart said. “I wish I could credit that one to your diligent efforts, Drew,” he added, grinning at Landon, “but I think it had more to do with that aid package we announced last month.”

  “And here I thought someone at ImCub must really like me,” Landon joked. “ImCub’s the arm of the Cuban government responsible for leasing property to diplomatic tenants,” he added, turning to Charlie.

  “Well
, let’s hope we have as much luck with a new embassy site,” Stewart said, clapping his hands together.

  Charlie had been briefed on the situation before leaving Ottawa. The current embassy was too small, and in need of a major retrofit. The Cubans had floated the possibility of selling land to Canada for a new building, something they generally didn’t do but seemed willing to consider for some of their diplomatic tenants. Charlie had heard that Stewart was keen on the idea, and on making it happen within the two years left on his own posting.

  “I’ve been reviewing the property file,” Charlie said, wanting to appear just as keen.

  “Then you know we need a new building.” Stewart became more serious. “We’re bursting at the seams here, and if the changes people are talking about come to fruition,” he said, stroking his fingers over an imaginary beard — a gesture that Charlie knew was the universal reference to Castro, “well, you can imagine. I’ve invited the president of ImCub to this weekend’s reception. You can meet him yourself.” Landon had already told Charlie about the reception to be held on Saturday night at the official residence. “I understand you spent some time in property management in Ottawa?”

  “Yes,” Charlie replied, momentarily distracted by a five-by-seven portrait of a Labrador retriever in a gilt-edged frame on the side table. He hadn’t noticed it when he had scanned the office from the doorway the day before, and it seemed out of place in the otherwise formal setting. “I was mostly on the finance side,” he said, looking away from the picture and concentrating on embellishing his property credentials. “But I was involved in some major greenfield projects.” He hoped Stewart wouldn’t ask for much in the way of details. Charlie had authorized a lot of payments to contractors, but he hadn’t exactly been close to, let alone in charge of, the actual projects. A critical path to him could just as easily mean a well-worn trail to the building site’s porta-potty as a key project management term.

  “Well, that’s excellent news,” Stewart said, leaning forward on the sofa and gesturing with a manicured hand, “because I intend to make this a reality, and I’ll need your help to keep Ottawa on side.”

  “Of course.”

  Stewart spent ten minutes on other priorities, none of which seemed even remotely as significant to him as securing a new embassy site, before returning to the property file. Charlie kept his reservations about having the whole thing built in two years to himself, and the meeting concluded with a personal invitation to attend the weekend reception at the official residence.

  “He seems like a decent guy,” Charlie said, as he and Landon made their way back to the administration building after the meeting.

  “I told you.”

  “What’s with the picture of the dog?”

  “That’s Teddy.” Landon laughed, but only briefly. “The ambassador’s a serious animal lover — so is Mrs. Stewart. The last gardener got the boot because they didn’t like the way he talked to the dog.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind for Saturday night.”

  As they reached the secure door and Charlie punched in his code, he turned to Landon. “You said you hoped I’d be in my house by the weekend. I thought you tracked down that electrician.”

  “I did.” Landon sighed as they went into Charlie’s office and sat down. “And he swore he’d be there on Saturday morning, but you just never know when it comes to local labour.”

  “Is it a safety issue?” Charlie asked. “Because I can probably live without basement lights for a while.”

  Landon shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think so, but I can double-check the inspection report the guy from Ottawa did up a couple of weeks ago, if you like.”

  “Would you mind?”

  What little furniture and personal effects Charlie had shipped from Ottawa had arrived ahead of him and were sitting in the garage downstairs, and he was eager to get settled. His new place was fully furnished and Sharon had grabbed most of the furniture in the settlement anyway, but there were a couple of items that she and Jimmy the Leech had let him keep, including an antique desk and chair that he especially liked. He saw no reason to delay his moving into what would be his new home on account of a little electrical problem.

  Charlie stood in the expansive backyard of the official residence, a glass of champagne in his hand, listening at the edge of a cluster of guests for the punchline to the Australian political officer’s joke about his first week in Havana. The blue water of the pool shimmered behind him, and the sound of crickets filled the night air, cooled to a comfortable temperature by the gentle breeze that stirred the tops of the trees. It was such a perfect evening, or would be, if Charlie weren’t so preoccupied with wondering what he was doing there. He jumped as the crowd burst into laughter, and took a sip of the champagne. He was already halfway through his second glass and he would have to watch it, in case he had to make small talk with the ambassador, or worse, some Cuban official. He scanned the crowd again for Drew Landon, or any other familiar faces from the embassy. Seeing none, he briefly considered a stroll to the other side of the patio, but the thought of trying to incorporate himself into yet another group of strangers was more than he could bear at the moment. So he stayed where he was, pretending to be relaxed.

  Social situations had always been difficult for Charlie, for reasons he could never fully understand. Whether it was some innate flaw in his physiological makeup, or an acquired tic, he always seemed just a little … off, as though he were operating in a parallel world just slightly out of synch with everyone else. He had struggled with it through university and law school, thinking the awkwardness would eventually fade, but it still plagued him twenty years later. Standing there in silent agony, he could only marvel at the irony of his current situation. A lawyer who hated to argue, Charlie had successfully abandoned his legal training years ago and settled in to a perfectly bland bureaucratic career. How fitting that his role as faithful husband to an unfaithful wife would eventually force him to transform himself into a diplomat who couldn’t schmooze. Was it any wonder he was so screwed up? He tipped back his glass and was looking for a waiter when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Charlie Hillier,” Landon said, gesturing to the woman at his side. “I’d like to introduce you to Martina Blanco, Argentine special envoy for trade.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Charlie said, shaking her hand and feeling a combination of relief at Landon’s arrival and pleasure at Blanco’s warm smile.

  “Martina’s specialty is agriculture.”

  Charlie guessed she was in her early twenties, and was about to ask whether this was her first posting when they were joined by another woman, who pecked Blanco, then Landon, on both cheeks as Charlie looked on. While Blanco was attractive, her acquaintance was stunning. Charlie found himself so absorbed by her smouldering brown eyes that he barely registered that Blanco was speaking.

  “This is Amirjit Saini,” she said. “She’s with the Indian embassy. Amirjit, meet Charlie Hillier.”

  “Pleasure,” Charlie said, shaking her hand.

  “Charlie’s our new MCO,” Landon said, patting him on the shoulder.

  “Oh, really?” Saini tilted her head to one side. “I’m a consular officer as well. You must be really new.”

  “I just arrived this week.”

  “Then you’re here at an exciting time,” Blanco said, referring to the recent historic meeting between the U.S. president and Raúl Castro. Opinions were mixed on whether this would amount to a significant change in the short term, but there was no question it was a milestone in Cuban history.

  “Yes, interesting times.”

  “Where were you, before Havana?” Saini asked.

  “Actually, this is my first posting,” Charlie said, recognizing a slight widening of the eyes in the two twenty-something women. “I’ve been with Foreign Affairs for a long time, but I’ve been at headquarters until now,” he felt the need to expl
ain.

  “A refreshing change, I hope?” Blanco offered.

  “It’s hard to argue otherwise in this environment.” He gestured to their surroundings with his empty champagne flute and both women smiled, though Charlie recognized something in Saini’s eyes that was at odds with the white flash of her teeth.

  “Havana’s my first posting, too,” she said. “Martina’s the veteran among us.”

  “Where were you before Havana?” Charlie asked, trying not to show his surprise at Blanco’s experience.

  “I have been in Brussels and New York, at the UN in both cases. But Havana seems like home to me. I studied here for three years. I am very happy to be back.”

  “The work here is challenging,” Saini added, “but the people and the place are charming, as I’m sure you’ll discover.” Charlie was about to respond when a tall Cuban man appeared at the edge of their little group. Landon’s reaction on seeing him made the man’s importance clear.

  “Señor Ruiz, what a pleasure.” Landon shook his hand, then turned to the others, starting with Blanco. “Gustavo Ruiz, director general of Inmuebles Cubana, this is …”

  “We’ve met,” Blanco said, as Ruiz stepped forward to embrace her on both cheeks. “But I don’t believe you’ve met Charlie Hillier, the new Canadian MCO, and Amirjit Saini, consul with the Indian embassy.”

  Ruiz gave Charlie’s outstretched hand a perfunctory shake on his way to a two-cheek peck with Saini, which took considerably longer. He remained planted next to her as the conversation continued, and Charlie was so busy trying to think of an appropriate segue into possible building sites in the diplomatic area of Miramar that he barely noticed when Saini wrapped her arm in his and leaned against him. His furtive, sidelong glance at her when he realized they were standing arm-in-arm was met with such an easy smile that all he could do was respond with a dopey grin.

  “You were going to show me the inside?” Saini pointed toward the residence.