Escape to Havana

by Nick Wilkshire

  He looked at the empty base for his cordless phone and remembered he had left the handset out by the pool. With the brick still tightly in his grip, he slid the patio door open and walked out by the pool, deciding not to turn on the floodlights. As he reached the table and spotted the handset in the moonlight, he realized the dog had followed him outside and was turning to shoo him back inside as he reached for the phone.

  “Back inside Teddy,” he whispered, as the dog stopped and looked at him.

  Charlie felt the handset first, followed by a fuzzy sensation on the back of his hand that was as unfamiliar as it was unsettling. As he turned from Teddy to the table, and his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Charlie could make out a shape on his hand. But it took a couple of ticks for his brain to register the distinct outline, on the back of his hand, of an enormous tarantula.

  In the same fluid motion, Charlie’s hand shot back toward his body, shedding the frightened spider back onto the table, while his whole body turned and recoiled in an evasive manoeuvre that would have been quite effective, had he not been standing a foot from the pool’s edge. Before he knew what was happening, Charlie was in the water, but not before his other hand, the one holding the drugs, had jarred painfully off the edge of the pool deck, slamming the brick onto the tiled edge and splitting the plastic covering. As Charlie’s head came up out of the water, he could see the two halves of the brick teetering on the edge of the pool deck, and he managed to gurgle an instinctive “No!” as he watched Teddy bounding toward him. The last thing he saw, before the seventy-five pound Lab landed on his head, was both halves of the brick being kicked into the water by the dog’s hind legs as it dove in after him.

  Charlie came up for the second time just as the dog popped to the surface and yelped.

  “Get out of the goddamn way!” he shouted, as the dog’s kicking pushed the ever-shrinking brick out of his reach. He was trying to shove Teddy aside when he realized the dog was labouring, and likely ingesting mouthfuls of the now drug-laced waters of the pool. Luckily, they were within a few feet of the shallow end, and as soon as he was able to move them into this depth, Charlie got his arms around the dog’s belly and pushed him up onto the pool deck. Charlie waded, then swam out to where the brick had gone in, but by the time he reached it, only the plastic wrap remained, next to some sodden, off-white clumps still floating on the surface. He grabbed the plastic and swam to the side, just in time to see Teddy jump up and start racing around the pool.

  “What the…?”

  The dog was on its third frenzied lap when Charlie realized it was probably high. Hopping out of the pool, he grabbed the dog by the collar midway through its next fevered circuit and barely managed to get the straining animal inside before it tore off up the stairs. A few seconds later, Teddy was back, only to set a new course through the living room, the kitchen, and then back upstairs again. Standing there dripping onto the kitchen floor, Charlie stared at the plastic wrap. The dope was gone — all of it. Whatever wasn’t coursing through Teddy’s system had dissolved into the pool. Would anyone believe Charlie had been that clumsy? What if someone tested his pool water?

  What have you done?

  As his mind swam with the possibilities, Charlie made his way upstairs for some dry clothes, barely aware of the dog racing in and out of the upstairs rooms. Pulling a dry T-shirt over his head, he walked over to the hole in the floor and knelt down, trying to peer into the dark recess. Still shaken by his encounter with the tarantula, Charlie used a screwdriver to poke around in the hole, hoping to scare away any lurking critters in the process. He dug around and finally found a flashlight in the bottom of the toolbox. He flicked it on and shone it into the hole, but he could see there was nothing in there.

  He was still staring at the hole as Teddy trotted past him into the ensuite and began lapping at the water in the toilet bowl. Dragging the dog away by the collar, Charlie brought him downstairs, but when they got to the kitchen, the dog ignored his water and went straight for his food, wolfing down what was left in the bowl in a matter of seconds.

  “I guess the munchies are kicking in,” Charlie said, getting another scoop of dog food from the cupboard and topping up the dish. As Teddy ate, Charlie sat at the kitchen table and looked out at the pool again. There was no drug trade in Havana, or so he had been told. He had no idea what the penalty for drug trafficking was here, but death didn’t seem implausible. Yet Charlie had stumbled on a lot more than a personal stash, and whoever owned it must have been prepared to sell it to someone who was also willing to take the risk.

  Someone crazy.

  Someone who wouldn’t be happy to find out that Charlie had accidently dumped the precious commodity into his pool.

  Not happy at all.

  Chapter 6

  Charlie tried to concentrate on the consular file in front of him, but it was no use. He pushed aside his third coffee of the morning, the first two having done little more than increase his anxiety since bumping into the embassy’s head of security. Gord Connors was a big man, but his even manner had a very calming effect, most of the time. The sight of him at the front gate this morning though, had sent Charlie into such a panic that he had barely been able to respond to Connors’s friendly greeting, let alone look him in the eye. Charlie could only think one thing: Maybe he knows.

  Charlie toyed with the idea of spilling the beans, but decided against it after an internal debate that lasted as long as it took him to walk from the front gate to his office door. At best, Charlie would look like an imbecile, and at worst, a liar. He was also concerned about Teddy, who had finally crashed out at about 3:00 a.m., and was still sleeping soundly when Charlie left for work. He had checked the dog’s breathing before he left and he seemed fine, but he wasn’t exactly a veterinarian. What if Teddy had permanent damage from ingesting God only knew how much cocaine, heroin, or whatever it was that Charlie had stumbled onto? He’d had two phone calls so far from the housekeeper, complaining about Teddy’s apparent inability to control his bladder or bowels. And this was her first day. Worse yet, what would the ambassador do if he found out? Or Mrs. Stewart?

  “We still on for that consular visit this afternoon?”

  Charlie looked up to see Landon standing there, looking fresh. “Yeah, I thought we’d leave around eleven,” he said, with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel for the two-hour drive to the prison in Pinar del Rio.

  “You feeling okay?”

  “Sure,” Charlie replied, realizing he must look as exhausted as he felt and searching Landon’s eyes for confirmation. “Just a little tired, that’s all.” He looked at his watch. Despite the file being open in front of him for the past two hours, he hadn’t really digested any of the information. He had to stop worrying about things he couldn’t control.

  “Say, Drew. What do you know about the guy who used to live in my house?”

  Landon scratched his top lip with a finger. “Nothing much. Why?”

  It was a perfectly reasonable counter-inquiry, for which Charlie was unprepared. “Just curious,” he began, wishing he hadn’t asked. “I found some … personal items.”

  “Anything interesting?” Landon was grinning.

  “Not really. Just wondering how to get in touch with him, or her.”

  “I can find out.”

  “Don’t bother,” Charlie said quickly as his assistant appeared at the door and Landon withdrew. “See you out front at eleven.”

  Charlie sat in the interview room sweating, trying to ignore the shouts from down the hall and the stench of body odour that permeated the stifling air. The idea of being detained in a place like this was troubling enough, but Charlie found it even more unsettling on the heels of his late-night discovery under his bedroom floor and he was trying not to let his mind wander over the possible ramifications as he sat in these inhospitable surroundings. Even Landon, who had no such worries and who had chatted throughout the drive west fro
m Havana out to the prison, seemed subdued by the environment as they waited in silence. Prison Santa Ana was a minimum security facility, but from what Charlie had seen of the place so far, he hoped he never had to set foot inside a maximum security institution in this country.

  Both men jumped as the heavy metal door squeaked open. A middle-aged man was led to the other side of the table by a burly guard. After directing his prisoner into the chair, the guard secured the handcuffs to a thick iron ring welded onto the tabletop. The guard muttered something in Spanish and left the room.

  “Mr. Martin?” Charlie said, comparing the man across the table with the information from the file in front of him. He looked a decade older than his actual age, and as a successful hotelier, Charlie had pictured Tate Martin in a suit — or a nice polo and crisp chinos, at least — not the sweat-stained, light blue prison garb he was wearing.

  “You’re from the embassy?”

  “Charlie Hillier. And this is Drew Landon.” He slid his card across the table as Landon did the same.

  “Thank God,” Martin said with a sigh as he scanned the cards. “You’ve got to get me out of this hellhole.”

  Charlie saw the desperation in the man’s eyes and wanted to help.

  “Are you being mistreated?”

  Martin shrugged. “Isn’t everyone here? Look around.”

  “Why don’t we start with how you got here,” Charlie said, taking Martin’s answer as a qualified no. “We’ve read your file, but maybe you could expand a bit.”

  Martin gave a snort. “I’m here because I played by the rules … or didn’t, depending on your perspective.” Seeing the puzzled looks across the table, Martin continued. “Look, I’ve been in the hotel business in Cuba for ten years, and I know how things work here. At least I thought I did.” He paused to wipe a droplet of sweat from over his eye “You need a permit for everything under the sun here, right? So, when I paid for my annual liquor licence, I added the usual ‘fee’ and figured everything was cool. Next thing I know, I’m being shaken down for more, and not a few of pesos either. I’m talking thousands … of dollars.”

  “You’re saying you were asked to pay a bribe?” Charlie said.

  “I’m saying the usual bribe wasn’t enough,” Martin replied. “So when they came back for more, I balked, just to knock it down a bit, that’s all. I knew I would have to pay; it was just a question of how much. But before we even had a chance to negotiate, I get a visit from the cops. Next thing I know, I’m in here.”

  “Charged with bribery,” Charlie added, looking down at the file.

  “For them to charge me with bribery is a joke. That’s how everything gets done here. Don’t you get it?”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Mr. Martin, but you understand the problem — bribing a public official is a criminal offence in Cuba, and, well, you’re not really denying it.” As he spoke the words, Charlie realized how naïve they sounded.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do? If I refuse to pay, I get my hotel shut down. Ten years I’ve gone through the same routine with no problems. Why now?”

  Charlie had to admit the guy had a point, and he seemed pretty credible.

  “I’ll tell you why,” Martin continued, lowering his voice. “It’s that new hotel going up on José Martí Square, across from the Inglaterra. Nobody seems to know who’s funding it, but whoever it is, they’ve got big-time connections.”

  “You think you were set up by your competition?” Charlie was mindful of one of the few nuggets he had learned from his brief articling rotation in criminal law: that everyone in jail was innocent, put there by some conspiracy or another. And with all that time in a cell to think, people could come up with some pretty creative theories. Still, Martin seemed genuine, and Charlie knew that there was a lot of corruption in Cuba, Havana especially.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Martin said, more as a plea than a question.

  “Have you had access to a lawyer, Mr. Martin?” Landon asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, with a sigh. “But I don’t have a lot of faith in the Cuban legal system.”

  “Is there anyone you’d like us to contact in Canada?” Charlie asked. He hadn’t seen any mention of a wife or family in the file.

  Martin shook his head. “Havana’s home. I just never thought I’d end up like this,” he added. “Is there anything you guys can do?” he asked, the defeat evident in his voice as well as his posture.

  “We’ll file a consular report, and do what we can to make sure your rights are respected, but we have to let the legal process run its course.”

  Again, hearing his own words, Charlie couldn’t help thinking how impotent they sounded. Martin was obviously thinking the same, slumping farther into his chair, as though someone had loosened a valve somewhere and let out all of his hope.

  “In that case, I may never get out of here.”

  Chapter 7

  “There’s the U.S. interests building!” Landon yelled into the windswept back seat of the taxi as the driver of the pink convertible 1957 Chevy fought the massive steering wheel all the way along the seaside road running from Miramar into Old Havana. With the embassy’s drivers all in service, Landon and Charlie had hailed the cab for the trip into the city for the two o’clock meeting at the municipal architect’s office, deciding to take the opportunity to have lunch in town for a change of scenery.

  Charlie had been looking out at the blue waters of the Caribbean and watching the waves crash into the breakers just the other side of the seawall, the spray coming up over the side and soaking parts of the road. He followed Landon’s outstretched arm and saw the ultramodern American building, more intrigued by the sea of enormous black flags waving in the breeze immediately next door.

  “What’s with the flags?” he yelled back, as the wind swept a mist of seawater through the back of the car.

  “I guess Castro didn’t like some of the news,” Landon replied, as Charlie noticed a digital news banner on the other side of the building, its rolling red text largely obscured by the flags. As they passed the building, a series of giant billboards with unflattering slogans and caricatures of the current American president came into view.

  As they carried on toward the old town, Charlie was struck by the beauty of the buildings fronting onto this particular stretch of the Malecón, but also by the extent of damage to some of their once-grand facades. The paint had long ago flaked off, and was being followed by the mortar in many cases. A few were so badly eroded that they were propped up by wooden supports, presumably to keep them from falling down altogether.

  Landon took advantage of a lull in the wind to provide some commentary as Charlie stared at the passing buildings.

  “Hurricanes have done a lot of damage in the past few years,” he said, as they passed a particularly dilapidated property.

  “Do people live in them?” Charlie noticed clotheslines strung across several of the balconies.

  “A lot of them, yeah. But more and more are becoming unsafe. I hate to think what this strip will look like in ten years.” Landon swung around and pointed across the bay, to the old Spanish fortress at the tip of the northern peninsula. “There’s El Morro.” He patted the cab driver on the shoulder and said something in Spanish that got a nod. The cab pulled over into a little square off the Malecón a few seconds later.

  “We’ll walk from here,” Landon said, settling up with the cabbie and hopping out over the passenger door. They had discovered, on hailing the taxi, that the doors were welded shut. “The architect’s office is a couple of blocks that way,” he added, as Charlie clambered out of the back seat.

  Landon led the way across a little square and through the winding, narrow streets as Charlie marvelled at the sights and sounds around him and listened to the description of the various points of interest. Much like out along the Malecón, many of the buildings were in various st
ages of decay. But here, in the narrow and filthy streets, Charlie found himself walking within inches of people’s living quarters. He felt like a voyeur as each open window he passed offered a glimpse of Cuban domestic life. A couple sharing a coffee at their kitchen table; a man lying on his bed under a rusted, motionless ceiling fan; an old woman rocking in a chair, just inches from the street. What struck him about the people he saw was their apparent indifference to the intrusion into their lives of passersby. He was also shocked to see the living conditions of some, whose single-room quarters were so small that they had taken over a part of the street, either by setting up a table or chair by the front door, or by simply sitting there – torso in the doorway, legs spilling out onto the cobblestones.

  But intrigued as he was by the bizarre sensation of walking down what seemed at once a crowded street and a part of someone’s living space, Charlie was amazed by the architecture and the differing level of decay from one building to the next. They passed a dozen crumbling hovels, and then came across a gem with an internal tiled courtyard covered in greenery and centred by a water fountain under an Andalusian patio. Even in its state of general disrepair, and with the panes of glass long gone from the atrium roof, the building was still stunning. To imagine this area in the fifties was to conjure up a streetscape so rich that its current state was all the more heartbreaking.

  They passed by four men playing cards in front of an open doorway, which disgorged a gaggle of laughing children, chasing one another in a spirited game of tag. Ten feet farther, there was a pile of rotting garbage so foul that they had to plug their noses as they passed.

  “That’s Cuba for you,” Landon said, noticing Charlie’s reaction. “The restaurant’s over there,” he added, pointing across the little square they had just entered.

  They took a seat at one of the open tables on the restaurant’s patio.