by Jose Latour
“Salud.”
“Salud,” concurred Marina and Sean. He didn’t mix one for Elena, Marina observed as she extracted a sprig of mint before sipping.
“Great,” Sean said, lifting his eyebrows in admiration.
“You like it?” Pablo asked, obviously pleased.
“Best I’ve ever had,” Sean replied.
“And you, Mrs.…”
“Marina, please. It’s superb.”
“I’m glad you like it. Now, I tell you about this place I’m taking you to. Would you please interpret for Sean, Marina?”
“But you don’t need it. Your English is very good.”
“You think so? Not very good, I know. But it’ll improve with time. I’m studying hard.”
From the TV set’s speaker came a fanfare of trumpets.
“Oh, the news. Ugh!” Pablo fumed. “Always the same. Everything in Cuba is perfect, the rest of the world is a mess. Just a moment.”
Marina translated the bald man’s blanket contempt of the Cuban newscast as he turned the TV set off and returned to his seat. Sean seemed amused.
“Please, Marina, interpret for your husband. For many years, the government didn’t allow private businesses in Cuba. Now, some are allowed. They are heavily taxed, can’t expand beyond a certain point, have to comply with many regulations. It’s why some are … clandestine. In fact, all the best are clandestine. I’m taking you to what Cubans call a paladar, a private restaurant. How would you translate paladar, Marina?”
“Sense of taste?”
“I’ll remember that. Now, few foreigners dine at a clandestine paladar. You need a sponsor to get in, someone whom the management trusts and can make a reservation. We’ll be the only customers there tonight. The food is excellent, the service great, fine entertainment …”
“Good evening,” Elena said with a pleased smile on entering the living room. Sean stood up. Fresh out of the shower, with just a touch of makeup, she was even more attractive than twelve hours earlier, Sean observed. Her thick dark-blond hair fell past her shoulders gracefully and her black, long-sleeved silk blouse embroidered with multicoloured butterflies was exquisite.
“What a beautiful blouse!” Marina said with sincere admiration.
“You like it? It belonged to my grandmother, my mother inherited it, then she gave it to me a few years ago.”
“It’s lovely. Your brother mixes excellent mojitos. Would you like one?”
“Yes, I would.”
Pablo was nonplussed for a moment, but he recovered fast. “Sure,” he said, before getting to his feet and marching into the kitchen. Marina zeroed in on Elena and girl talk prevailed for a couple of minutes. Pablo returned with the cocktail and handed it to his sister. “Drink it quickly,” he snapped. “We are late because of you.”
“I wouldn’t have been late had my dear brother helped me to tidy up a little,” Elena remarked wryly to Marina. “But he never does, you know, never.”
“Oh, it’s only ten past eight,” Marina said, glancing at her watch and pretending not to notice the intense antagonism. “And these mojitos merit slow appreciation. Tell me more about your grandmother’s Spanish fans …”
After a minute of feathers and sticks inlaid with mother-of-pearl, when the topic became so esoteric that the men were effectively excluded, Pablo moved away from the two women, closer to Sean. “You said ‘wild night’ and, in this paladar, two girls, beautiful, incredible, one black, the other blond,” he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, “but you are with wife …”
“I’ve got to pee,” Marina mouthed to Elena as Sean considered his reply.
“Excuse us for a moment,” Elena announced, rising to her feet. They left their cocktails on the tray and disappeared down the hallway.
Pablo sighed with relief. “I want you have good time. I don’t know if you can … send wife back to hotel?”
Sean shook his head. “No, Pablo, I can’t,” articulating slowly, making it easier for the bald man. “Marina has this fiery Latin temperament. She’d get pretty mad if I did that to her in public. When I said ‘wild’ I meant, you know, a nice meal, drinks, driving around, maybe going to a nightclub. I might return soon – alone – then you can take me to the best places to refine my ‘sense of taste.’ Okay?”
From the toilet seat, Marina examined the bathroom. The usual plus a bidet. An old plastic shower curtain frayed at the bottom, a circular swing window by the bathtub. Two gaping holes by the sink indicated where a towel rack had been. Marina wondered what purpose a plastic bucket full of water served. No toilet paper was in sight and she fished for a tissue in her handbag.
After zipping her skirt up, Marina inspected the ceramic soap dishes recessed in the wall alongside the bathtub, by the sink – where a sliver of soap survived – and next to the bidet. Then she turned to the toilet-paper holder. The four pieces were level with the light-blue glazed tiles on the wall. In all probability they had been there since the tiles were installed.
Marina flushed the toilet. Aside from a little gurgling, nothing happened. So that was what the bucket was there for. She poured half its contents into the toilet bowl, closed the lid, looked around. She filled a glass jar by the sink with water and washed her hands. She was inspecting her face in the medicine-cabinet mirror, shaking the drops off her hands to pull out a fresh tissue, when there was a knock on the bathroom door. Marina said, “Come in,” and Elena turned the knob and handed her a towel.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there weren’t any in here.”
“It’s okay.”
“We have running water from 5:00 to 7:00 p.m. only. It’s when I shower and fill up all the buckets and pans in the house.”
“Why is the water restricted?” Marina asked as she wiped her hands dry.
“For two reasons, according to the president of the Council of Neighbours,” Elena said, watching Marina’s manicured hands with envy. “The system of pipes supplying water to the city is in ruins; half of what’s pumped into it is lost underground. So, the cistern never has water for more than three or four hours of normal consumption. Secondly, the pump that fills the tanks on the roof of the building is too old and breaks down frequently, so the neighbour who tends to it turns it on two hours a day only.”
Marina returned the towel to Elena. “Such a nuisance. Life here seems to be fraught with problems.” Feeling her way.
“It is, it is. Inconveniences, nothing tragic, but you may have to wait two hours for a bus, two months for a beef steak, save for two years to buy a decent pair of shoes.”
“And to live in a place like this?” Marina asked as she produced a lipstick from her purse and turned to the mirror.
“Well, maybe two centuries,” Elena said with a wide grin. “Apartment buildings like this are a thing of the past. This one was built in 1957. It’s ugly, looks like a big box, but back then we had professional construction workers and those guys knew their business, they built to last.”
“It’s a great apartment,” Marina said once she’d pressed her lips together and capped the lipstick. “The rent on a place like this in Manhattan? No less than five thousand dollars a month, as much as eight thousand in a nice area.”
“Really?”
“Really. This could use some refurbishing, though. You haven’t made any repairs, have you?”
“Never. But it’s in good shape. No cracks or fractured pipes. Paint is what it needs, badly. But it’s sixteen dollars a gallon.”
“That’s not too exorbitant.”
“No, not for you. Probably you make as much in an hour.”
“More,” Marina admitted.
“You know what my monthly paycheque is? Fifteen dollars.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a special-needs teacher.” Elena stole a glance at her watch. “I teach disabled children in their homes. Let’s go back to the men before they accuse us of babbling the night awa
y.”
It was dark and crickets were chirping happily in the Parque de la Quinta by the time the two couples got into the rented Nissan. Pablo and Elena sat in the back of the car. At the wheel, Sean followed the directions given by the bald man. They had been heading west along Fifth Avenue for two minutes, the Cubans pointing out the sights, when Marina turned round, wanting to learn more about Elena’s job.
“Well, there are children so seriously incapacitated they can’t attend the special-education schools,” Elena began.
“Oh, my God,” Pablo moaned in English. “Not tonight.”
“Some are disabled from birth, some suffered an accident,” Elena, ignoring him, went on. “They are hooked up to some life-support system that’s difficult to carry around, or are quadriplegic. There’s a team of teachers to teach them at their homes. I’m one of them.”
“Isn’t your job … a little depressing?” Marina asked, after interpreting for Sean.
“Not to Mother Teresa,” Pablo butted in. “Turn right at the next light, Sean.”
“Okay. But let me hear how your sister makes a living, please?” Sean said in a dry tone.
Marina shot a quick glance at Sean. Pablo sulked. Elena had trouble suppressing her smile. She hadn’t understood Sean’s words, but his tone spoke volumes.
“Contrary to what almost everyone believes, it’s rewarding,” she went on. “These kids are the happiest kids on Earth. They act as if nearly everything happens for their personal delight. They see you come in, it’s like a fairy godmother came in to wave her magic wand over them. And being in daily contact with them, seeing their parents trying to conceal their suffering, makes you realize how much we healthy people take for granted, how petty most of our problems are.”
“How many children do you teach?” Marina asked.
“Two. A nine-year-old boy in the mornings, an eleven-year-old girl in the afternoons.”
“All the subjects?”
“All except for physical education.”
“Who pays for it?” Sean wanted to know.
“The Ministry of Education, of course.”
Sean was staring at the red light, his foot on the brake pedal. “She makes fifteen dollars a month,” Marina told him.
“What?”
Elena smiled mirthlessly. “Low salaries make many things possible. If Cuban teachers and doctors made half the money their colleagues make in Mexico, Jamaica, or any other Latin American country, the government wouldn’t be able to provide the health care and education it does.”
“Green light,” Pablo said. “Take a right on the second corner.”
Marina finished the translation after Sean rounded the corner.
The two-storey mansion surrounded by a cyclone fence appeared to be in perfect condition, no mean feat considering that its backyard fronted onto the sea. On its covered front porch there were four wooden rocking chairs, several flower pots, and an iron-and-glass lamp hanging from the ceiling. From the roof, spotlights flooded a small, well-tended garden. An old man standing by the driveway entrance swung back the gate to a garage and waved them in. After pulling the garage door closed, he silently welcomed the foursome with a series of nods and a smile, then pointed to a small door.
Pablo went in first and found his way to the dining area of a vast space, but he kept strutting – the others in tow – until he reached the lounge section. A plump, bejewelled, and perfumed white woman in her sixties uncoiled herself from a chair and embraced him warmly. Thick makeup failed to conceal her deep wrinkles and the dark pouches that sagged under her eyes. They touched cheeks and exchanged air-kisses before the short man turned and made the introductions.
“Meet the best restaurateur in Havana! Señora Roselia. This couple, Roselia, are friends of mine: Sean and Marina. Sean is Canadian, Marina is Argentinian.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Roselia said in Spanish, extending her hand. “I hope you’ll be satisfied with our service.”
Marina turned to Elena, saw the embarrassment in her eyes. “You know Elena, señora?”
“Oh, sorry,” Pablo muttered.
“I don’t have the pleasure,” Roselia admitted.
“Elena is Pablo’s sister,” Marina elaborated, thinking it was difficult not to dislike the asshole.
Shaking Roselia’s hand, Elena forced a grin that almost became a grimace.
Pablo rubbed his hands in eager anticipation. “Now, what would you like to do? A drink first?” The more customers spent, the higher his commission.
They took their seats in the lounge, ordered mojitos, then studied the menu. Elena looked around admiringly. Recently painted walls, comfortable modern furniture, beautiful drapes, an exquisite full-length mirror, fine porcelain and glass ornaments on side tables, two air conditioners blasting away, the lamps, the paintings, the spotless marble floor. She hadn’t been in a place as grand as this in all her life. Songs from the Buenavista Social Club CD flowed from hidden speakers.
The drinks and a bowl of peanuts arrived in the hands of a smiling long-legged blond waitress in her late teens or early twenties. She wore a black mini-uniform, complete with little cap and a tiny apron in white. Bending over to serve the women first, her undersized skirt exposed a round, suntanned behind to the men. Sean couldn’t tell whether she had nothing on or was wearing a thong. Pablo noticed Sean’s reaction, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Elena and Marina got to see the same sight when the waitress turned to serve Sean. Marina was unfazed, but Elena gawked. What the women didn’t see were the seductive smile and wink the waitress bestowed on Sean.
Having found out from the proprietress that a paella would take more than an hour to prepare, they settled for green salad, lobster cocktail, red porgy basted in olive oil, and mashed potatoes. Pablo asked for a steak on the side. Marina chose a white Concha y Toro from the wine list. Sean shrugged his lukewarm agreement, Elena assented in total ignorance, Pablo ordered a Heineken.
The second round of drinks was served by a petite, beautiful black woman. Her uniform was white, its cap and apron in black. Her bottom was rounder and larger, the thong – if any – invisible, the smile she gave Sean blatantly provocative. Sean popped two peanuts into his mouth, sipped from his fresh mojito, put the glass on the side table, then turned to Pablo, who was eyeing him with a pleased, take-your-pick expression.
“What’s your trade, Pablo?”
Marina sighed, interpreted, then shared with Elena a boys-will-be-boys glance.
“I’m the office manager of a Cuban-Italian joint venture,” the short man said. “We import clothing, shoes, perfumes, cosmetics, kitchenware, a zillion things.”
“Really? How many outlets do you have?”
Pablo shook his head and grinned. “No outlets. The retail trade is a state monopoly. We sell wholesale to several state-owned chains that sell retail to the public.”
Sean nodded. “I see. And excuse me for asking, but I’m still amazed by what Elena makes as a teacher. How much do you get paid?”
“Around sixteen dollars.”
“That’s all? No overtime, no bonus?”
“No.”
Elena burst out laughing. She covered her mouth with her right hand, but her laughter was so childlike and irrepressible that Marina and Sean exchanged an amused glance. Pablo, visibly angry, glared at his sister. The teacher made an effort to control herself, failed, but after a moment succeeded. Apparently, she was getting a glow from the mojitos.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself so much,” said Marina, still smiling.
“Oh, yes. It’s the drinks, you know? They loosen me up.”
“And what do you people do for a living?” Pablo asked.
Marina said she was a computer programmer and Sean a mortgage broker. Neither Pablo nor Elena knew what a mortgage was, let alone a broker, and Marina spent a few minutes interpreting for Sean. When she was through, Señora Roselia announced that dinner was ready.
“Just a second,” Marina said as she fumbled for somet
hing in her purse. “Let me take a snapshot of you guys, so friends back home can see you.”
With a small Olympia she took five photos: one showed the siblings sitting side by side on the sofa, two had Elena standing by a wall, the fourth and fifth caught a beaming Pablo alongside a curtain. Then they all moved to the dining room.
A beautiful crocheted white tablecloth covered the glass top of a six-seat cedar dining table where four tall candles burned in a gold-plated candelabra. The china was gold-rimmed, the cutlery heavy silver, the goblets fine crystal. Elena choked on a sip of water when the waitresses appeared topless, but Marina and Sean behaved so naturally that she tried to act blasé.
The food was good, the wine heady. Conversation threw an interesting light on what had happened to Sean that morning, the professions of all four diners, Cuban food and drinks, places of interest in Havana, and other subjects.
For the pièce de résistance, the waitresses served a strong espresso wearing only thongs and sandals. Elena was aghast, Sean remained unimpressed, making Pablo feel let down. Were Canadians as cold as their country or was this guy gay? Perhaps Marina was sexually starved. Then, as if to confirm this impression, Roselia came out from the swinging door to the kitchen and Marina, tongue in cheek, asked her whether she and Elena would get to see the chef in his briefs. The proprietress countered by saying she felt sure the ladies wouldn’t find a short, fat, forty-nine-year-old pansy in boxer shorts attractive. Silly laughter ensued.
“Would you like something else?” Sean asked of nobody in particular when only smiles remained.
Heads were shaken. “Then could you bring me the bill, please?” the Canadian asked.
The bill came to eighty-five dollars. Sean gave a ten-dollar tip to each waitress and they all returned to the living room, where a liqueur was served. Elena, feeling a little woozy, declined.
“Well, where would you like to go next?” Pablo asked. “We can catch the show at Tropicana or at the Havana Café, go to a nightclub, maybe visit a santero, have him throw the shells for you.”