Cuba and the Night

by Pico Iyer

  ACCLAIM FOR Pico Iyer’s

  CUBA AND THE NIGHT

  “Enchanting.… Iyer cunningly creates characters so full of human interest that this moving and often wrenching novel is as beguiling and memorable as a distant rumba.”

  —Miami Herald

  “Powerfully seductive.”

  —Newsday

  “Iyer is the rightful heir to Jan Morris [and] Paul Theroux.… He writes the kind of lyrical, flowing prose that could make Des Moines sound beguiling.”

  —Los Angeles Times Book Review

  “Rides on the excellent sense of place that has made Iyer’s travel writing so likable.… His prose is hot and humid … brings Havana to life.”

  —Boston Globe

  “[Iyer is] an astute observer of a world in flux.”

  —Christian Science Monitor

  “Brilliant.… Iyer has traveled from the world of non-fiction, constrained by facts, to the unharnessed reality of fiction and has succeeded in telling a good story. Readers can only hope that he makes this crossover again and again.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “The best thing about Iyer’s novel is its canny moral intelligence.… It is to Iyer’s great credit that he has imaginatively traveled to one of the planet’s last outposts of seclusion and mystery to bring back a memorable story.”

  —Sunday Times (London)

  Pico Iyer

  CUBA AND THE NIGHT

  Pico Iyer is a long-time essayist for Time and a Contributing Editor at Condé Nast Traveler, Civilization, and Tricycle: The Buddhist Review. His pieces appear often in Harper’s, The New York Times, the New York Review of Books, the T.L.S., and many other publications. This is his first novel.

  BOOKS BY PICO IYER

  Cuba and the Night

  Falling Off the Map

  The Lady and the Monk

  Video Night in Kathmandu

  First Vintage Contemporaries Edition, April 1996

  Copyright © 1995 by Pico Iyer

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in the United States in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, in 1995.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:

  Iyer, Pico.

  Cuba and the night : a novel / by Pico Iyer.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Man-woman relationships—Cuba—Havana—Fiction. 2. Photographers—Cuba—Havana—Fiction. 3. Havana (Cuba)—Fiction. 1. Title.

  PS3559.Y47C8 1995

  81.54—DC20 94-31104

  eISBN: 978-0-307-76464-5

  v3.1

  For Carlos, Peter, and, of course, Lourdes—and all those who smile through suffering in the Cubas of the world

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  And with deepest thanks to Hiroko Takeuchi for sustenance; to Astrid Golomb for inspiration; to Michael Hofmann for penetration; to Kristin McCloy for particular fierceness; to Mark Muro for unfailing support; and to Lynn Nesbit, Sonny Mehta, and Charles Elliott for making the words, so to speak, flesh.

  Rápida, como un reflejo,

  Dos veces vi el alma, dos:

  Cuando murió el pobre viejo,

  Cuando ella me dijo adiós.

  Two times, in the flash of an eye,

  Two times, I have seen the soul:

  Once, when the old man died,

  Once, when she said goodbye.

  —José Martí

  I

  I think I’ll always remember the first time I saw him, in the bar of the old Nacional, on one of those messy Carnival evenings in July, the temperature about 120, with the blare of the floats and the trumpets carrying across the lawns, and the dancing young boys on the Malecón jiving over overflowing cups of beer, and the whole city kind of strutting its stuff and shimmying in the tropical night.

  Things were pretty much the same as usual in the bar: a couple of Mexicans smooching in the corner, acting as if they were on their honeymoon, or their second honeymoon, or the honeymoon they’d never have; a mulatta at the counter, making time with Boris and Ivan; some Italian girl pressing the Wurlitzer and getting her boy to slow-dance with her to Pablo. Alfredo over by the register, taking it all in, and dreaming of Asunción.

  I thought the pasty-faced guy in the gray sweater must be a Bulgarian at first, he dressed so stylishly. Then I was put right.

  “Excuse me. This can’t be right.”

  “Qué?”

  “Well, I don’t want to make problems for you, but I’m sure …”

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Well, you see, he claims he’s got no change for five dollars. And earlier, they told me they couldn’t accept my pesos because I don’t have my passport on me. And now they’re saying I’ve got to give them five dollars and they can’t give me any change.”

  I took the guy in again, and turned to Alfredo. “Look,” I said, “this man is a journalist. Periodista, no? A very important periodista. CIA, M.I.5, all that stuff. You make problems for him, and his friends in the government make problems for you.”

  Alfredo looked sullen and went back to his stool.

  “Thanks so much. Awfully kind of you.”

  “Not at all. What are you drinking?”

  “Oh, a beer would be fine.”

  “Dos,” I said to Alfredo, and then turned back to the Englishman. “Are you here for the party?”

  “Well, in a manner of speaking.”

  “And what manner would that be?”

  He looked back at me blankly. People say that Americans don’t have a sense of humor, but the Brits, I can tell you, are no barrel of laughs.

  “Your first time down here?”

  “It is, actually. I usually go down to Greece for the summer holidays. With my friend—and colleague, actually—Stephen. But this time there was some kind of balls-up, and the travel agent told me she could get me onto a cheap flight to Havana.”

  “And now …”

  “Well, now I’m just pottering around, really. Looking at a few churches. Visiting the museums. Engaging in a little private research. My uncle used to be posted here.”

  “After the war?”

  “Right. During Batista. He’d been in North Africa during the forties—something in intelligence, I suspect—and somehow he ended up over here.”

  “Protecting Western interests?”

  “I suppose that’s what they call it.” He looked into his drink for a moment, as if to cut the conversation short. “In any case, when I was growing up, I was always hearing about this very grand house of his in Miramar.”

  “Not so grand anymore.”

  “No, I suppose not. But anyway, that’s just a diversion. The main reason I’m here is for the jazz bars. They’re my great passion.”

  “Of course,” I said, wondering whether I’d really flown two thousand miles to make small talk with a Brit.

  “And you?”

  “Oh, the usual. Making a few photographs. The Rumba-Revolution-comes-of-age kind of thing.”

  “You’re a journalist?”

  “Yeah. If a journalist is someone who makes his living off other people’s misery.”

  “No. I believe that’s what they call a schoolteacher.”

  “That’s what you do?”

  “I
n a manner of speaking.”

  “In London?”

  “No, Winchester, actually. Where Malory found Camelot.” He smiled at me, not very convincingly, and then fumbled around in his pocket and pulled out a yellow piece of tissue to wipe his glasses. His face had gone an unhealthy kind of red in the sun, and even with the fan going behind the bar, he seemed to be sweating. It felt kind of weird, to tell the truth, to be wasting time with a British schoolteacher while the mulatta was pressing her claims on the Soviets and there were pantings from the corner. The Mexicans looked as if they were inhaling one another.

  “It is fascinating, though, don’t you think?” he started up again. “This place. I mean, you really feel as if you’re seeing history in the making.”

  “Or the unmaking. It’s like history’s on the pause button here. Everywhere else in the world, everything’s either on fast-forward or rewind. This is the only place I know where everything’s moving and nothing ever changes. It’s like instant replay round the clock.”

  “Very good way of putting it.”

  “Well, I’ll be seeing you,” I said, feeling that life was too short for more of this.

  “I do hope so. The name’s Hugo. Hugo Cartwright.” He extended his hand in what he probably thought was the American way.

  “Hugo. I’m Richard.”

  “Very good. If ever you find yourself in Winchester, do look me up. It’s not exactly Havana, of course, but it’s not without its charms. There are some tremendous wine bars. First-class churches. And the Quiristers, of course.”

  “Of course. Take it easy now,” I said, and put my pesos on the counter and went upstairs before Alfredo could ask me why I wasn’t paying in dollars.

  • • •

  It was a funny thing, but every time I stepped out of my hotel in those days, on another bright and windless morning, my heart just felt like singing. It was like being in love, I guess, though it’s even easier to be in love with a place than a person. Whatever, I felt wide open and alive, as if anything could happen. And after I’d left, I’d find myself haunted by the memories: just the way the battered buildings followed the beautiful curve of the bay, and the blue sea sat before you in the brilliant stillness of the morning, and when you went out early you could see the first boys gathered in the shade for a bus, and hear the day’s first music coming from some upstairs window. The woman at Black Star used to say that it was like being back in high school for some of us, and I guess she was right. All these lush sixteen-year-olds feeling the power in their smiles, and the handsome boys strutting around like roosters, and the sense of music and rum in the air, and a few unsmiling monitors waiting to report you to the teacher. And everyone living in the moment: no thought of tomorrow, just a blurry haze of past and present, and trying to find a way to get a car for the night, or hustle some cash or some nooky.

  I was on assignment for Stern that time—the Europeans never could get enough of all that Mulatta Marxism stuff—and I was also shooting for myself, using Fuji for rich colors and editing in the camera. Mostly, though, I was just happy to be away from Nicaragua for a while: after a few months of bus rides to Jinotega, and roundups of guerrilla movements in the hills, I would have given anything to get back to Havana. It was one of those places that just brought a smile to your face, even when your heart was breaking. And it always had the magic of the unexpected: at two o’clock, you never knew what you’d be doing at two-thirty. You could be in a fight somewhere, or making some girl, or on your way to prison.

  I got up early the next day and went out to Vedado. I’d got most of the bacchanal stuff I needed already, and all I wanted now were some cut-price ironies: the old Mafia hotels with pictures of Che beside their entrances; the Communist Youth halls with cartoon characters outside, advertising videos and discos; the old women with their heads in their hands, under signs that read: NOBODY SURRENDERS HERE.

  I began with the Cuba Pavilion, the weird monolithic hulk on La Rampa that looks like some once-futuristic spaceship left over from an ancient world’s fair, and I was just trying to gauge the light while pretending to read the plaque in front of it, when I heard a voice at my side—“Excuse me, you know the time?”—and I turned to see this young guy smiling at me, slim, with narrow Chinese eyes, the usual Cuban mix of slyness and good nature.

  I flashed my watch at him so I wouldn’t have to speak.

  “Thank you,” he said in English again. “You American?”

  I guess he could tell I was a foreigner from the fact I was reading the slogans. Usually, I tried to pass myself off as a Cuban down here, by dressing down and talking only in monosyllables. This guy, I guessed, made it his job to spot the foreigner.

  “In a manner of speaking.” I’d learned something at least from Hugo.

  “Great. Me too. I love your country,” he said, and then reached into the bag he was carrying and pulled out a small rectangle on which was neatly typed:

  José Santos Cruz

  Translator-Facilitator

  Calle J 410, (Apto. 7, 3er piso),

  e/t 19 y 21,

  Vedado, La Habana

  “Thanks,” I said. “If I need any facilitation, I’ll get in touch.”

  “So you are a photographer?”

  “Turista.”

  “Tourist. Great. You have seen the Hemingway house? You know the home of José Martí? You know Graham Greene?”

  “Not personally.”

  “Look, I show you. That book Our Man in Havana, it was written on the veranda of the Nacional. Every day he comes and drinks coffee at this place. How about I take you there, I buy you some coffee?”

  “How about I take you there and we buy our own coffee?”

  “Sure. Is better,” said José. “I want to talk with you. Who is your favorite writer? You know William Saroyan? Oh, I love him. That book Papa, You’re Crazy. And Steinbeck too. You know Hemingway …” And he went on listing his enthusiasms while we walked back to the hotel. I might as well see where this would lead, I thought: in my job, even a bad time is better than no time at all.

  In the lobby of the hotel, a few girls were already working the phones, hanging around the reception desk and catching the names and numbers of unattached men, then calling up to them from couches, while a Dominican student was standing by the cashier, dialing for dollars, and the elevator boys were cadging for Chiclets. Everyone was looking at everyone else as if they were all targets or spies.

  Out in the garden, it was just another Havana morning: blue sea, blue sky, stationary cannons in front of the wall. The whole city as motionless as if it were posing for a still life. We took a place on the veranda and waited not to be served.

  “Mira,” said José as a couple of girls walked past, letting the straps of their blouses fall off their coffee shoulders. “You like?”

  “Más o menos.”

  “Más o menos,” he said. “Is good.”

  “So what do you do for a living, José?” I thought it was better for me to be asking him questions than for him to be asking me.

  “A little this, a little that.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Sometimes I translate—you know, the Top Forty Countdown from Miami. Sometimes I read the people’s future from their photographs. Sometimes I teach English, French, Italian.”

  “And sometimes you just drink coffee.”

  “Sometimes I just drink coffee,” he said with a broad smile, and then his eyes lit up, in a lazy kind of way, and he started making the hissy-kissy sound that Cuban males use when they want to get a girl’s attention. To my surprise, the girl in question turned round, and it was a girl with honey hair, golden skin, golden bracelets and necklaces around her white pantsuit: gold on two legs, she seemed, on her way to the runways in Milan. “Oye, oye! Pilar! Ven acá!” he said, and then she was coming over to us, there was kissing on both cheeks, and exclamations of surprise, and a long golden arm, under a golden Rolex, extended toward me, and a pretty “Encantada.”

  “So w
hen did you get here?” José asked as she sat between us, crossing her legs.

  “Sunday. Just for business.”

  “How is it with you now? You are in Ciudad Mexico?”

  “Cuernavaca.”

  “Ay!” José turned to me, impressed. “Pilar is married with a Mexican. Doctor, right?” She nodded, and flashed me a smile. “Very old, very rich. They meet here one year before. Is good there, no?”

  “Claro. We have a swimming pool, a tennis court, a casita for the weekends. Is good.”

  She had practiced her nonchalance, and he responded on cue, showing her off to me like a prize. “For girls here, it’s easy. They find a man, they make magic with their eyes, they get out. But for me—what do I have? Only my mind.”

  “And your pinga!” said Pilar, reaching for his thighs.

  There wasn’t anything in this for me, so I got up and told them I was going back to work.

  “Okay, Richard,” said José. “I’ll catch you later. Maybe we go to Tropicana? I get some girls, we buy some rum, we have a good time, okay? You have my address? Or maybe I find you? What is your room number?”

  “You can find me.”

  “I can find you,” he said, and turned back to his latest project.

  That night, I walked in and out of the crowds along the Malecón, underneath the viewing stands, past the teams of boys in polka-dot shorts, past the cries of “Mira,” “Digame,” “Orlando!,” past the lines of gyrating men in top hats. At one point, I met José and a couple of other guys, checking out the action. A girl came up to me in feathers and a kind of rhinestone minidress, and I recognized a woman from the hotel reception desk. Sometimes black kids in wild Pierrot masks danced over and began saying things I couldn’t understand, and sometimes I heard fierce whispers in the dark, and once, between the bleachers, I found myself next to a Soviet, a doctor, he said, who was looking at the dancing girls as if he were dizzy, his eyes out of focus, his face transfigured. “Fantastic, no? For me, this is a dream! A dream!”