Escape to Havana

by Nick Wilkshire

  “It went well,” Charlie said. “They were very professional, and from what we could see, they do pretty good work.”

  “What was the Venezuelan embassy like?”

  “Looked pretty nice to me. Although Redden didn’t seem overly impressed with some of the finishing work.”

  “That’s the problem with Cuban labour.” Landon shrugged and took a sip of beer. “How’s your wiring, by the way? I could try to get that electrician over here again.”

  “Fixed it myself,” Charlie said, with considerable pride. “But I’ve hardly been down in the basement. Speaking of repairs, did the carpenter finally show up and fix the goddamn door?”

  “He was an hour late, and he took his time once he got there, but it seems like he did a good job.”

  “Thank God. One more snot-o-gram from Johnston and I’d have snapped,” Charlie said with a laugh. The priority of the property team’s visit didn’t stop his usual workload from accumulating, and, even with both him and Landon going full tilt, he wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with it all. There were maintenance problems at the embassy compound and at the various residences scattered around Miramar that required his attention, not to mention two separate HR complaints by locally engaged staff to investigate. To top it all off, Charlie had picked up a couple of new consular cases, both involving Canadian tourists. The report on Tate Martin was still his priority case, but it remained in draft form. Charlie knew he had to sign it off as soon as possible, even though the incarcerated hotelier’s prospects looked bleak.

  All in all, Charlie’s current situation was far from the Caribbean picnic he had envisioned just a few months ago when he had planned his escape from Ottawa. He comforted himself with the knowledge that this was a particularly busy week, and that things would likely settle down when the property team returned to Ottawa.

  “I thought we’d trade off meetings tomorrow,” Charlie said, setting his beer on the ground and sitting at the edge of the pool as he dipped his legs in the water. “You can take the architects, and I’ll take the lawyer.”

  “Sure.”

  Charlie noticed Landon’s grin. “What?”

  “Nothing. I’ve just noticed your sudden interest in, um, the law, that’s all.”

  Charlie tried another tack. “Well, you’ve already met the local lawyer, and I haven’t.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense.”

  “What’s he like anyway?” Charlie continued, subtly shifting the focus of their conversation.

  “Sam? He’s very practical. We’ve used him on all of our leases, and he’s done some other stuff for us since I’ve been here. He knows the head of mission pretty well, too.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And Gray seems very … knowledgeable,” Landon said.

  “Mm-hmm,” Charlie took a sip of his beer and swung his legs out of the pool. “I’d better get changed,” he said, shaking off the excess water. “Help yourself to another beer. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Charlie climbed the stairs to his bedroom two at a time and soon found himself in his closet, staring at his clothes. Normally, his selection would have taken about ten seconds, but tonight, for some reason, he was undecided. Would the light blue button-down make him seem boring and frumpy? There was always that stripy shirt; the one Sharon had paid a fortune for in Toronto that he never wore. She had called it “edgy” or something like that at the time, but Charlie had always thought it a little too much. It occurred to him that he didn’t really remember packing it, but there it was. He took it off the hanger and slipped it on now, taking a look in the mirror. It certainly wasn’t frumpy, but it wasn’t really him either. Then again, maybe he wasn’t the same person he was a year ago.

  After fumbling with the buttons, Charlie straightened his hair and returned to the closet for a pair of pants, stopping off at the dresser for a light squirt of cologne — another of Sharon’s selections. He was fastening his belt when he heard the van pulling up out front. He ran into the bathroom for a last check in the mirror and was pleasantly surprised. He had acquired a little colour in the few weeks he had spent under the Cuban sun, and he looked quite dapper in his outfit. For some reason, that was important to him tonight.

  “That was really good,” Redden said, putting down his spoon. The others all echoed Redden’s sentiment, and Charlie put up his hand.

  “Wish I could take credit for the chocolate mousse, but it was the housekeeper.”

  They were all seated around the dining room table, the ceiling fan keeping the air moving and the temperature just right. It had been an enjoyable dinner, with the majority of the conversation focused on the property deal that was gradually taking shape as the week progressed. There hadn’t been much in the way of personal information exchanged, though Charlie had learned that Lefebvre had worked with Redden on several other projects. It was also clear that Gray and Redden didn’t much care for each other.

  “Coffee?” Charlie offered, and got several positive responses from around the table. “Why don’t we have it out back? It won’t take a minute; you can go on out,” he said, getting up from the table and heading to the kitchen as the others made their way outside. He emerged ten minutes later with a tray of coffees.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, returning to the kitchen after setting down the tray on the patio table. He was back a moment later with a box of cigars.

  “You’ve got to try one of these,” he said, setting it down on the table.

  Hart, Landon, and Redden waved them off, but Lefebvre eyed the box with interest.

  “Are they real Cohibas?” he asked, opening the cover and peering inside.

  “Yes,” Charlie said proudly. “They’re Esplendidos. I’m no connoisseur, but I’m told they’re a pretty good smoke. They’d run you fifty bucks a pop in Ottawa.”

  “And here?” Lefebvre asked.

  “I think it was fifty bucks for the whole box. Go ahead, help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Lefebvre took one and accepted the cigar cutter from Charlie, who looked over at Gray. She hadn’t said anything and he was wondering whether she was annoyed at the prospect of having to sit in a cloud of tobacco smoke. She surprised him, and the others as well, when she leaned over and took one out of the box and ran it under her delicate nose.

  “I think I’ll have one, too.”

  Charlie watched in amazement as she took the cutter from Lefebvre, expertly clipped off the tip, and puffed the big cigar to life with the help of Charlie’s lighter.

  “I didn’t know you were a stogie kind of girl,” Redden said, as Charlie clipped the end of his own cigar.

  “I’m sure there’s a lot you don’t know, Bruce,” she replied, blowing out a cloud of blue smoke in Redden’s direction. “About me, that is.”

  “These are great, Charlie,” Lefebvre remarked as Charlie got his own going.

  They all sat in silence for a few moments, the three smokers enjoying their cigars, Hart sipping his coffee, and Redden stewing over Gray’s jab. The crickets were chirping in the background, and the smoke rose straight up in the warm night air, undisturbed by even the slightest breeze.

  “I could get used to this,” Lefebvre said with a grin as he took another puff. Charlie was watching Gray out of the corner of his eye. She really seemed to be enjoying the Cohiba.

  “So how’d you end up in Havana anyway, Charlie?” Hart asked.

  “Yeah, where were you posted before?” Redden chimed in.

  “Well,” Charlie began, tapping the ash off his cigar into the ashtray. “This is my first posting. I was in finance and HR back at Pearson.”

  “That’s an interesting move,” Redden said, with what Charlie felt was a challenging undertone.

  “I got tired of Ottawa.” Charlie picked up his cigar and started puffing on it. “And I thought this would be different.”

  “Well, i
t’s different all right. I’ll give you that,” Redden added.

  Charlie felt strangely self-conscious about his mid-life change of career, and his nervous puffing was generating quite a cloud of cigar smoke as he considered the possibility that Redden knew the real reason Charlie had hightailed it out of Ottawa at the first possible opportunity. Maybe he had heard the whole sordid tale of Sharon and the Swedish Meatball at some water cooler back in Ottawa. Was it even possible that Redden and Sharon might have…?

  “I think it’s great.”

  Charlie stopped puffing at the sound of Gray’s voice. He turned to see her, leaning back in her deck chair, lazily blowing out a stream of smoke, punctuated every few inches by a perfectly-formed smoke ring that she created with a methodical crack of her jaw. They were all staring as she continued to talk.

  “It takes a certain streak of independence to pull up stakes and just go, you know?” she said, to no one in particular. Then she turned toward Redden and added: “A lot of people haven’t got the balls.”

  Everyone sat there in silence, waiting to see if Redden would respond, but he didn’t, choosing to fiddle with his coffee cup instead. What Charlie felt, as he marvelled at the sassy, cigar-smoking woman sitting in the chair next to him, was a mix of gratitude and desire.

  “So, what’s on tap for tomorrow?” Lefebvre said, changing the subject.

  “We’ve got the local lawyer coming to the embassy at nine.” Charlie looked at Gray, then at the rest of the group. “I imagine you guys don’t need to attend that one. “Then Sam, Jillian, and I will take the planning meeting while you guys talk to potential on-site project managers.”

  Redden stretched his arms over his head and let out a loud sigh. “I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m beat. We should probably think about heading back to the hotel.”

  “I’ll call the driver,” Landon said, pulling out his BlackBerry. “It shouldn’t take him more than a couple of minutes to get here.”

  “It’s too bad I didn’t bring my swimsuit,” Gray said, looking at the pool. “It looks so inviting.”

  “Yeah, the water’s great,” Charlie said.

  “Well, if this week continues the way it’s been going so far,” Lefebvre said with a smile, “we might be back in a few more to actually sign something. You can bring it then.”

  “You’ll have us back for dinner?” Gray gave Charlie a mischievous look.

  “Of course.”

  After chatting briefly about the agenda for the following day, and accepting their thanks for the meal, Charlie was seeing the group off at the front door. Returning inside, he decided to throw on a pair of trunks and have a quick swim. After paddling around in the warm water, he emerged by the table and lit the rest of his cigar. He enjoyed the sweet aroma of the Cohiba, and the warm night air on his wet skin, as he sat there listening to the crickets and thinking of Jillian Gray.

  Chapter 16

  Charlie sat at the large meeting table, trying to look interested in what the municipal planning official was saying. It was late in the day and he was tired. He had given up trying to understand the man’s machine-gun Spanish, preferring to rely on the local lawyer’s interpreting skills. Sam Sanchez had moved to Cuba from Canada ten years prior and spoke both languages fluently. He, Charlie, and Gray had been there for more than two hours, and as vaguely interesting as the municipal permitting and approval process might have sounded when the meeting had started at three, it was definitely wearing thin now. And to make matters worse, despite the open windows and a fan in the corner that looked like something out of a museum, the air in the room was stifling.

  Located in a side street off the Plaza de San Francisco, the building was like nothing Charlie had ever seen. Built in the Spanish colonial style, it featured an interior courtyard with an overgrown fountain in the middle, four floors rising up around the centre, and an Andalusian patio on the second level. In its day, its intricate arches and high ceilings must have been magnificent, but after years of neglect — like so many buildings in Old Havana — it seemed on the verge of collapse, with the plaster long gone from the ceilings and parts of the walls and support beams scattered here and there in an attempt to delay its eventual collapse.

  A familiar buzz on his hip jolted Charlie from his daydream and he discreetly checked the incoming message as the city official answered one of Gray’s questions on the procedural requirements for getting an architectural design approved for construction. Charlie wasn’t surprised to see the message from Bruce Redden, to the effect that the meeting he, Hart, and Lefebvre were having with a potential project manager back at the embassy was running late, and that they would not be able to join the planning meeting after all.

  No problem, Charlie thumbed back under the table, adding: Meeting here going late too, before slipping the BlackBerry back onto his hip and smiling apologetically at the two Cubans on the other side of the table.

  It was after six when the planning meeting finally wrapped up, and the sky had darkened with rain clouds by the time they stepped out into the early evening air.

  “Well, that was productive,” Gray said as they stood in front of the old building.

  Sanchez nodded. “As you can see, there will be no shortage of red tape, but a lot of it can be minimized by a good project manager.”

  “You mean someone who knows which palms to grease?” Gray remarked, giving Sanchez a sideways glance.

  “I’m afraid it’s just the way business is done down here.”

  “Problem is, there’s no line item for payoffs in a government project budget, you know what I mean?”

  Sanchez chuckled. “You needn’t worry. On a project like this, it’s all built into the developer’s cost — overhead, if you will. You’d never get a real breakdown even if you wanted it.”

  “I get the feeling we probably don’t,” Charlie said.

  Gray looked at her watch. “I don’t know about you guys, but I could use a drink.”

  “The Floridita’s just around the corner.” Sanchez pointed toward the old town. “It’s where Hemingway drank his daiquiris.”

  “If it’s good enough for Hemingway, it’s good enough for me,” Gray said, as they set off across the Plaza de San Francisco.

  “So your visit has been a success, then?” Sanchez asked as they made their way through the narrow streets, careful to stay out of the puddles and to avoid the scooters, Ladas, and ancient Chevys as they rolled by, belching out clouds of black exhaust.

  “I think so,” Gray said, adroitly sidestepping a massive pile of dog crap on the sidewalk. She had been admiring an ornate balcony a couple of flights above on the other side of the street. “God, I was just trying to imagine what this place must have looked like in the fifties. It must have been incredible.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Sanchez agreed. “Maybe one day it will be restored to its former glory.”

  “But you’re right about this week, it’s been very positive. Wouldn’t you say, Charlie?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied, with genuine enthusiasm. For him, the week had been a crash course in real estate development, and much of the detail was over his head. But if there was one thing he had taken away, it was that there was no obvious engineering, architectural, or legal obstacle that put the proposed project at risk. So far, so good.

  “Look at that,” Gray said quietly as they walked by an open doorway. The ceiling over the entry had collapsed, but through a small doorway in the back they could see a tattered couch and a daybed on which an old woman was sitting, listening to salsa music playing from a little transistor radio. “I can’t believe these are people’s homes.”

  They were within sight of José Martí Square when the rain clouds erupted, spilling a warm torrent on the unsuspecting pedestrians below.

  “Come on, we’re almost there,” Sanchez yelled over the shrieks of the children taking shelter in door
ways left and right.

  They sprinted through the rain and arrived at the Floridita, where the smiling valet spun the revolving door for them. Inside, the air was cool and smoky, with the majority of the tables in the front occupied. Sanchez made a beeline for the bar and commandeered three stools in the corner, near the Hemingway statue, before yelling an order over the din to the red-vested bartender.

  “This is nice,” Gray said, brushing her wet hair back from her face and flicking the excess water off her suit jacket. Charlie had kept most of his head dry with the leather folder he had been carrying around all week, but his pants were soaked. He was looking down at them when he heard Gray laughing.

  “A little damp?”

  “You could say that,” he replied, watching her settle herself on the bar stool next to him. If he had to endure a long day of boring meetings for the opportunity to have a drink with her now, then so be it. The daiquiris arrived with a plate of fried plantain chips.

  “To a successful week in Havana,” Sanchez said, raising his glass.

  Cold and sweet, the slush hit the back of Charlie’s dry throat like a salve, and tingled all the way down to his stomach.

  “Oh, these are good,” Gray said, looking over at the life-size statue of Hemingway in the corner, leaning over the bar. “I can see why he came here often. And it wouldn’t take too many of these to get roaring drunk.”

  “I think his record is eleven,” Sanchez said. “Or maybe it’s fourteen.”

  “I’d be on the floor after about four.” Gray took another sip. “But it would be fun trying.”

  They chatted for a while, mostly about Sanchez’s experiences in Havana and how much things had changed since he had arrived. They had almost finished their second round when Sanchez waved the waiter over and ordered a third.

  “Then I’ve got to be on my way,” he said.

  “You can’t join us for dinner?” Charlie asked.

  “I promised a friend I would help her move some furniture into her new apartment. It’s actually my girlfriend’s sister; otherwise, I would have gladly joined you. Are you still here tomorrow night?”