Escape to Havana

by Nick Wilkshire

  “Coming?”

  Charlie looked up to see Landon standing at the door, looking at his watch.

  He logged off his computer, shuffled some papers for Monday morning, and joined Landon in the hall.

  “How quickly do you think the team from Ottawa can be here?” he asked, as they made their way outside into the hot afternoon sun.

  “Depends on their availability,” Landon replied as they passed in front of the main entrance to the embassy grounds and nodded at the guards. “But it’ll take a couple of weeks for the visas.”

  “Shit, I forgot about that.” Charlie frowned, realizing the visa delay would make the expectations he had just sent out on timing sound hopelessly naïve. He was mentally pushing back the project timeline by a couple of weeks as they rounded the corner of the main building and the pool area came into view. A few people were gathered under the awning outside the little bar, and a dozen more were sitting at tables on the pool deck.

  The still blue water looked inviting, but Charlie couldn’t imagine stripping down to a Speedo in front of his colleagues, and had a hard time imagining anyone else in this crowd doing the same.

  “Does anyone ever use the pool?”

  “Kids mostly, on the weekends.”

  As he made his way through the crowd, exchanging greetings and smiles with the Canada-based staff, and the few local employees who were there as well, Charlie began to self-consciously wonder whether the smiles were genuine, or whether everyone was grinning at the arrival of the infamous new MCO. Had they all been having a laugh at the expense of “Chucking Charlie,” or maybe “Hurling Hillier,” before he and Landon had arrived? He tried to repress these thoughts as he arrived at the bar and a young political officer he had met on his first day stood aside to give him a berth at the bar.

  “Charlie, how are you doing?”

  Charlie hesitated at the thought that the inquiry might be a reference to his recent illness, as opposed to mere conversation. He decided to interpret it as the latter and smiled in return.

  “Doing well, thanks, Jeff. How ’bout you?”

  “I was just telling Joanne here that Anne and I are off to Cienfuegos on the weekend. Have you met Joanne?”

  “Um, no.” Charlie had noticed the striking young woman next to Jeff Cook as soon as he had entered the little bar. She gave him a broad smile and extended a delicate hand. “Hello, Charlie. Welcome to Havana. I’ve heard you’re making quite an impression.”

  Charlie felt himself flush.

  “Locating a site so quickly, I mean,” she added, with such an empathetic smile that his confidence was immediately restored.

  “Great place, Cienfuegos,” Landon chimed in, ordering a couple of Molsons.

  “Joanne was telling me about her experiences there last year,” Cook said.

  As the conversation evolved into things to see and do in Cienfuegos, Charlie couldn’t help wondering why Landon hadn’t mentioned the existence of the lovely Joanne, and was making a mental note to inquire later when he got his answer.

  “This is Joanne’s husband, Bryan,” Landon said, pointing to the young man passing the beers over the counter.

  “Right. You’re in political?” Charlie guessed.

  “Yeah, but I always wanted to be a bartender,” the young man said with a grin, reaching over the bar to shake Charlie’s hand. “Bryan Kincaid. You all settled into your housing?”

  “Yes, thanks, but I’m still trying to get used to the heat.” Charlie dabbed at his forehead with the back of his hand as he sipped the cold beer.

  “It beats the rainy season, I’ll tell you,” Kincaid said, as Landon nodded. “So where’s your place, anyway?”

  “Charlie’s got the new one, out in Jaimanitas,” Landon said.

  Kincaid whistled. “So, you’re the lucky dog. I hear it’s pretty nice.”

  “Yeah, it’s great.” Charlie wondered if he should play it down, just in case. But if he was interested in bumping Charlie out of his new digs, Kincaid gave no indication.

  “So what are you guys doing this weekend?”

  “No big plans,” Landon replied. “I thought I might show Charlie around Old Havana.”

  “You interested in tickets to the Tropicana? Joanne got a couple of comps from the Aussies but we can’t go. Her parents are here for a visit this week. It’s an outdoor cabaret,” Kincaid explained, seeing Charlie’s puzzlement. “If you’ve never been, it’s worth going, and tickets aren’t cheap. It’d be a shame for them to go to waste.”

  “It’s fun,” Landon agreed, as he sipped his beer.

  “Done then,” Kincaid said, going behind the bar to fish the tickets out of his jacket pocket and hand them over to Charlie. “Tell me all about it on Monday.”

  Charlie continued to chat as one beer turned into two, and the conversation moved on to the recent rapprochement between the Cuban and American leaders, and what it might mean for Cuba. The television at the far end of the room had a live CNN broadcast from Miami, where thousands of expatriate Cubans had gathered to protest the event, in stark contrast to the more positive reaction practically everywhere else. The reaction within Cuba itself had been muted. The consensus in the Canada Club seemed to be that Castro’s younger brother, although reportedly more liberal, would not likely oversee any major change, especially with Fidel still in the wings. Charlie took it as a good omen that he was arriving at such a turning point in Cuba’s history, and he was feeling positive as the crowd began to thin and the embassy driver announced the last run of the afternoon. Heading out toward the main gate, Charlie chatted with the Kincaids about good day trips from Havana, while Landon talked to one of the embassy drivers. As the van filled up, Landon waved Charlie over.

  “Carlos’ll pick you up first, around nine-thirty, then he’ll get me on the way. The show’s at ten.”

  Driving home, Charlie was feeling much better. His physical symptoms had pretty much gone within forty-eight hours, and with the work week at an end, a night out on the town was just what he needed.

  The housekeeper would have left him a meal, after which he would have time for a dip in the pool. The sun was shining as he drove west, and life was good.

  Chapter 10

  Charlie was sitting out back by the pool, puffing on a cigar and sipping the last of his after-dinner coffee when he heard the doorbell. He looked at his watch and sighed. It was only nine. Carlos was early, and Charlie was still in his swimming trunks. He set the cigar down in the ashtray and threw on a T-shirt as he headed inside and toward the front door. But instead of Carlos, Charlie was surprised to open the door to a young woman who seemed just as taken aback to see him. She looked ready to bolt, as they both stood there, staring at each other.

  “Can I help you?” he said, trying not to stare at the woman’s chest, which seemed to be straining the fabric of her top. He couldn’t help wondering why for the second time in less than a week, a provocatively-dressed and uninvited woman had shown up on his doorstep.

  “Javier not here?” she finally said.

  Who the hell is Javier?

  “No, there’s no Javier here.”

  As she considered his answer, she caught Charlie looking at her and ran a finger down the chain hanging around her neck, fingering the little pendant that hung directly over the swell of her cleavage. She gave him a playful grin.

  “You wanna have some fun?”

  Charlie kept his eyes on hers as he stammered his reply. “I’m … I have to go out in a little bit.”

  “Won’t take long, baby,” she added, moving closer as Charlie held his ground at the door.

  “Who is Javier, anyway?” he said.

  Rather than answer, she seemed to sense that he wasn’t going to be able to give her whatever she had come for. “Buenas tardes,” she said, with a quick smile as she turned to go back down the path.

  Cha
rlie shut the door and headed into the living room, peering out through the shuttered window as the woman reached the end of the path, then paused by the side of the road. Charlie wondered how long she was going to stand there when a car pulled up and she opened the passenger door. He could see the driver’s face by the dome light as she got in the car, and even from fifty feet away, Charlie could tell this was one guy he didn’t want to cross in a dark alley. His dark-complexioned, square features under close-cropped dark hair gave him a military air, and a large scar was clearly visible across his upper cheek, as the man turned to look toward the house. Charlie jumped back from the window and stayed hidden until the car revved up and moved off into the night. As he made his way upstairs, he tried to make sense of the two strange visits. One could be written off as a wrong address or another mix-up, but two? He was beginning to wonder whether this Javier had been running a brothel out of the house before Charlie moved in. Another thought crossed his mind, long enough to send an unsettling bubble of air through his chest, but he dismissed it as paranoia. Tonight, he was determined to have some fun for a change.

  Charlie was leaning against the seawall along the Malecón, the woman’s softer parts pressed into him as they kissed. Her mouth felt warm and wet against his, but … what was that smell? His smile turned to a frown, and as he opened his eyes, he recoiled in horror.

  “Bad dog!”

  Charlie wiped the slobber off his face as Teddy barked and swished his tail against the bed frame. Holding back the urge to vomit, Charlie rushed to the sink to douse his face with water. The brief wave of nausea gone, a throb from the core of his brain took over and had him riffling through the drawers of the vanity for Tylenol. Finding it, he popped a couple of pills in his mouth and chased them with a mouthful of bottled water. As he swallowed, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and was horrified. Apart from the severe bed head, his eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and his lips were parched. Not only did he look like shit, but he realized he was still wearing the same shirt he had come home in. He sighed and returned to the bed, deciding to collapse back into the tangle of bedding, rather than venture out into the bright light outside on the balcony. It was almost eleven in the morning, he noticed, as he tried to remember the last time he had slept this late ­— it had to be ten years or more. He heard the sound of the dog squirming expectantly by the foot of the bed and sighed.

  “It’s all right, Teddy. Just don’t … Oh, forget it,” he muttered, changing his shirt and slipping on a pair of shorts to head downstairs. He was still yawning as his bare foot sank into something warm and soft as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The overpowering stench hit his nostrils before his eyes identified the fresh pile of dog shit enveloping his right foot.

  “House-trained, my ass,” he grumbled, hopping to the back door with the dog following close behind. Once outside, Charlie grabbed the leash and clipped one end to Teddy’s collar and the other to the railing. “Bad dog,” he repeated, wagging his finger and rubbing his foot on the dewy grass at the far end of the yard. After washing it under the outdoor tap, he returned inside to clean up the rest of the mess while Teddy whined outside. With his appetite for breakfast shot, Charlie decided he might as well fill Teddy’s food and water bowls before bringing him back inside.

  “You’re going outside every hour, on the hour,” he said as the dog lapped at his water and Charlie set up the coffee maker.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, nursing his first cup of the potent Cubita, Charlie thought back to the night before, beginning with the rum-soaked show at the Tropicana, and the bar-hopping expedition Landon had led them on afterward. They had bumped into half a dozen of Landon’s friends, mostly Australian and Dutch, and clearly closer to his age than Charlie’s. But they had been very welcoming, and Charlie had done his best to keep up with the younger crowd as they downed round after round of Cuba Libres. He vaguely remembered dancing at one point, and being part of some sort of conga line, but there were significant gaps after that. As he sipped his coffee, patches of the ride home emerged in his mind’s eye. Landon was at the curb outside the club, talking in drunken Spanglish to a wiry young Cuban man as Charlie and one of the Aussie girls looked on. Charlie remembered piling into the back of a Lada that looked ready to fall apart. But most of all, he remembered the overpowering stench of gasoline. He could see the astonished look on the girl’s face as she squeezed into the back next to him and looked into the open trunk area behind the seat at the metal jerry can, and what looked like a fuel line running into it through an opening that left plenty of room for the fumes to escape. He remembered the smile on the young Cuban driver’s face as he turned around to give them a reassuring wink as the engine sputtered to life and echoed through the bare metal interior of the car, a glowing cigar stub pinched between his lips.

  “Holy shit,” Charlie muttered aloud, as he sat at the kitchen table. How they hadn’t been incinerated on the ride out to Miramar was a miracle. He wouldn’t have set foot in that deathtrap in a million years if he’d been sober. But there had been enough Havana Club flowing through his veins at the time to make him completely oblivious to the risk of riding in the back of a moving Roman candle, and he couldn’t help grinning at the thought of it — the traditionally cautious Charlie Hillier, bombing along the Malecón at four in the morning, laughing with the others as they made their way west in the imminently combustible Lada. He remembered seeing the beginning of a sunrise behind them, but the rest was fuzzy. He had made it home and into bed though, and was none the worse for wear, apart from a headache. Besides, he didn’t have much on his agenda for the day. Deciding his stomach was ready for food, Charlie poured himself a bowl of cereal and glanced at the home repair book he had left on the table. Flipping through it as he chewed, he looked down at the dog.

  “We’ve got nothing better to do today, Teddy. Think I can fix the basement light?” The dog looked up at him, cocked his head to one side, and gave an encouraging bark. Charlie smiled.

  “Me too.”

  Charlie stood on a chair in the basement staring at the light fixture, then at the diagrams in his book, then back at the fixture. Somehow, the two didn’t seem to relate. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, he thought, as he looked at the nest of wires hanging out of the ceiling.

  There’s only supposed to be three.

  Charlie sighed, looked at the dog, then returned his attention to the diagrams. It wasn’t rocket science, for God’s sake. What kind of a man was he, if he couldn’t string up a goddamn light fixture? He took one of the wires and hooked it up to one of the contact points, then connected a second wire. He reasoned that the only uncovered wire had to be the ground, and hooked that up to the only part of the fixture that looked remotely like the grounding contact shown in the diagram.

  That left two more wires.

  The fixture had a built-in pull chain, but Charlie had noticed a switch on the wall near the bottom of the stairs — for some reason it had been placed around the corner, so that you had to know it was there to find it. Seeing no other light in the basement, or other worldly purpose for the wall switch, Charlie assumed it was for the overhead light and figured the odds were good that he could get either the chain or the switch working, but probably not both. Determined not to quit now, he did a little eeny, meeny, miny, mo and connected one of the wires to the only contact point left, then tied some electrical tape around the end of the last one and tucked it back up into the ceiling box. He took one last look at the diagram, then back at the fixture.

  Close enough.

  He screwed the fixture back into its bracket and inserted a bulb before heading over to the main panel in the corner of the basement.

  “You ready, boy?” he said, before flicking the main power switch back on and closing his eyes. Instead of the shower of sparks that he half expected, Charlie opened his eyes to see the bulb burning brightly. The previously dingy basement took on a whole new look as well.
>
  “Pretty good, huh, Teddy?”

  The dog wagged his tail and followed him over to the bottom of the stairs, barking each time the light went out in response to Charlie’s flicking of the wall switch.

  “Knew I could do it,” he said as the ring of the phone interrupted his moment of glory. He looked at his watch, pleased that the whole exercise had only taken him two hours, then flicked off the light and headed upstairs, the dog following close behind.

  Chapter 11

  Charlie was sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a mojito and wondering why he had bothered to come out at all. He would have preferred to stay in after his late Friday night, but Landon had been insistent that he shouldn’t pass up a Saturday in La Habana Vieja.

  They had been at the bar for half an hour already, with no sign of a free table, and God only knew what damage the official mutt was doing back at his house. To make matters worse, Charlie had quickly become an awkward fifth wheel to the foursome that had formed at the bar next to him: Landon and an attractive Cuban woman and a German acquaintance who was married to the woman’s friend. Landon had whispered something about a sister who had been unable to make it, and had tried to keep Charlie involved in the conversation, but it was difficult when they were all sitting in a row at the bar. He sipped his drink and surveyed the room, trying to gauge when the next table for five might come open, and wasn’t encouraged. He was half listening to the conversation next to him and considering an exit strategy when he spotted a stunning woman making her way through the crowd. He concentrated on his drink as she slipped into the opening next to him and waited for the bartender. She was tall and sultry, dressed in a tight-fitting black dress. Her perfume was light and fresh.