Havana Best Friends

by Jose Latour

  Marina looked at Sean, who pulled down the corners of his mouth and lifted his eyebrows to indicate his hesitancy. Then she turned to Elena. “What do you suggest, Elena?”

  “I … wouldn’t know. I seldom go out. Pablo is the expert. But whatever you decide, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m feeling a little queasy.”

  “What’s the matter?” Marina asked.

  “I’m afraid I had too much to drink. You can drop me off at home, then go wherever you feel like. I’m sorry, Marina.”

  “What a shame,” Marina said before translating for Sean.

  An uncomfortable silence followed. “You know what?” Sean said. “We have an early flight. We should call it a night.”

  Pablo filed away the grin he’d been flashing. He was hoping for one of the best nightclubs, Chivas Regal, a fragrant Cohiba Lancero, ten statuesque mulatas in thongs wiggling their asses to salsa music.

  “Oh, no. Don’t let me spoil your evening,” Elena objected.

  “You’re right, darling.” Marina said to Sean. The idea of spending time with Pablo without the neutralizing influence of his sister did not appeal to her. “Would you mind if we take a rain check on the rest of the evening, Pablo?”

  “Suit yourself. My only regret is that my sister is to blame for it,” Pablo grunted.

  “I’m not feeling well, okay?” Elena retorted.

  “It’s not her fault, Pablo. Can we leave now?”

  “If you can find your way back to my place, I think I’ll stay here for a little while,” Pablo said, eyeing the black waitress, who stood by the swinging door to the kitchen, between Roselia and the blond woman. She beamed and winked at him.

  “Cool,” Marina said. “Do you need help, Elena?”

  “I don’t think so,” Elena said, getting to her feet.

  Roselia and Pablo escorted them to the car. The tourists formally thanked Elena’s brother for all his trouble, promised they would touch base the minute they came back to Havana, and assured Roselia they’d had a wonderful time at her paladar. From the garage door, smiling and waving, the restaurateur and Pablo watched the car speed away. The same old man closed the gate and trudged into the garage.

  Nearly half an hour later, as she drove along Fifth Avenue heading east, Marina stole a glance at Sean in the passenger seat. Not a word had been said since they left Elena at her apartment. Sean appeared to be deep in thought, nibbling at his lower lip, indifferent to the vehicles ahead, the deserted sidewalks, the moonlight and tail lights playing across the artful plantings on the wide central walkway. She returned her eyes to the road, then took a deep breath before entering a tunnel under a river.

  At Malecón and the base of Línea Avenue, she took O Street and two blocks along turned into the entrance of the Hotel Nacional. They left the rental in the parking lot, and, holding her hand, Sean steered her around a tiled Moorish fountain. A longhaired guitarist gently strummed his instrument for a group sitting on limestone benches in the courtyard. They walked across the lawn to the edge of a small cliff. Despite empty wooden benches to their right, they remained standing.

  Two mammoth canons, remnants of what had been a Spanish gun emplacement until 1898, still aimed at where their last target – the USS Montgomery – had sailed a century earlier. Marina took in the serene vastness of the Florida Straits, the tiny lights from fishermen’s small boats on the water, the star-sprinkled sky. “The original soap dishes are still there. And the toilet-paper holder,” she said.

  “Tell me something I don’t know. If they weren’t there, you wouldn’t have looked so elated when you came out of the bathroom, would you?”

  “I guess not.”

  They were both silent for a few moments.

  “She said the building was completed in 1957.”

  Sean stared at her, apparently satisfied. “You know, you’re a much better actress than I thought. You were pretty slick this evening.”

  “Thanks.”

  Another, shorter pause.

  “Sean?”

  “Yes.”

  “The job’s done. It’s been done right, far as I can tell. We’ve found out all we need to know. I’ve given it my best shot, as have you. So maybe I can ask you a question, okay?”

  Sean locked gazes with Marina. She didn’t like his suppressed smile, the twinkle in his eyes. “Okay.”

  “You said, ‘Don’t take anything for granted, don’t talk about our business in the rental and the hotel room; there may be hidden cameras and bugging devices.’ Well, I very much doubt these people want to, or can, get on tape every couple that comes here to spend a week, but since you were calling the shots I followed instructions. What really pisses me off is this driving around like frigging tourists, buying souvenirs, playing out this ludicrous honeymoon act, pawing each other in public. Why? Who’s going to suspect us? Why the fuck should anyone suspect us? We’ve been here for a week and haven’t even driven through a red light, for Christ’s sake! In this bankrupt banana republic the tourist is king.”

  His gaze lost in the dark sea, Sean nodded. “So, you think I’ve been overcautious?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Okay, you’re entitled to your opinion. I won’t argue with you. The important thing is you did as you were told. Let’s move on. Tell me what you think of these guys.”

  Marina clenched her jaw, annoyed that her concerns had been dismissed so lightly, but her tone remained controlled. “The freak’s a complete bastard. Never loses an opportunity to embarrass and belittle his own sister. It’s appalling how he looks down on her!”

  Sean paused, then said, abstractedly scanning the blue-black horizon, “But she’s used to it.”

  Marina glanced at the monument to the victims of the battleship Maine. To its left, right in front of the U.S. Interests Section, stood the square where the rallies for the return of Elián González took place. “Elena seems pretty decent, don’t you think? A reasonable person, not difficult at all,” she said.

  “I agree,” Sean said. Then, as an afterthought: “Pablo thinks he’s the smartest, smoothest con artist on earth. That’s probably why Elena hates his guts. And why we should expect trouble from him.”

  “Such intense hostility,” Marina said. “There’s a lot of bad blood between those two.”

  “And he’s on coke.”

  Marina turned to stare at Sean. “How can you tell?”

  “I can tell.”

  She faced the sea again. “What did you make of Elena sniggering when her brother said he made sixteen dollars a month?”

  “That he’s making a lot more than that.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured too.”

  “But he didn’t want us to know. And she’s so well mannered she didn’t squeal on a sonofabitch who humiliates her for the fun of it.”

  They fell silent. Marina looked across the wide avenue at the metre-high seawall extending miles into the distance. On it, keeping respectful distances from each other, fishermen held lines. The lighthouse beam swept across the water with the same boring exactitude of all beacons.

  “He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would take his cut quietly and count his blessings,” she said, more to herself than to her companion.

  Sean released the promise of a smile. “Lady, the word sleazy was coined for guys like him.” And pointing with his chin toward the ocean, he added, “He would drown his own mother right there to grab it all.”

  “What about Elena? Would she agree to split it?”

  “I don’t know. That woman is …,” he paused, searching for the right word.

  “Unpredictable?” she prompted.

  “No. Not at all. But I can’t predict how she would react to our proposition. We don’t know her views on a million things. She’s … difficult to pigeonhole. Special-needs teacher. What kind of a fucking profession is that? Makes me suspect she’s one of those principled, nose-in-the-air spinsters. Know what I mean? Living with her brother, no husband, no kids.”

  “M
aybe she married and divorced.”

  “Why didn’t you ask her?”

  “Didn’t want to give the impression I was prying.”

  “Maybe you did right.”

  Marina lowered her eyes and studied the straps of her sandals. “He said they’ve lived there all their lives. How old would you say she is?”

  “Late thirties?” Sean surmised.

  “Yeah, something like that, certainly not older than forty. And the freak?”

  “I’d say thirty-five, thirty-six. He was fascinated by your thighs this morning.”

  “I noticed. Horny little rat can’t keep his hands off women. You saw how he eyed the black waitress? She probably pukes after having sex with him.”

  “You never know. Maybe he’s seven feet tall in bed.”

  She raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t the kind of comment she’d expect from a man. So true, though: You never know. She remembered a shy, unassuming, scrawny, and slightly cross-eyed guy who had led her to the heights of pleasure. Only one of the few hunks she had bedded had taken her there, and he was blind. She wondered whether behind Sean’s remark lurked a phenomenal lover or a bit of a philosopher.

  “Doesn’t look it to me,” she said. “What will we do with him?”

  “Do with him?”

  “You said we should expect trouble from him.”

  “Sure. But is there something we can do?”

  Marina considered it. “Forget it.”

  “Fine.”

  Sean seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. Then he raised his eyes to the hotel’s top floors. “I’ll rest my arm on your shoulders now, you circle my waist. Let’s go and have a nightcap.”

  They sauntered back to the terrace and plopped down on a sofa. Sean ordered a Black Label on the rocks; Marina remained faithful to the local taste by ordering a mojito. Forty or fifty people relaxed on couches and armchairs, laughed at jokes, seemed to be enjoying themselves. Once their drinks arrived and they had taken a sip, a tall, overweight man sitting alone to their left pulled himself up and marched to the restroom.

  “Excuse me, honey, I’ve got to take a leak,” Sean said.

  Marina wanted to say “Me too” but decided to wait until he returned.

  Sean unzipped in front of the urinal next to the one in which the tall, overweight man was relieving himself. He made sure the attendant standing by the door was out of earshot. “The short, bald guy lives there. He speaks a little English and is a money-grabbing bastard on coke,” he said.

  Without so much as a nod, the tall, overweight man shook his penis, buttoned up, and washed his hands. The attendant handed him paper towels. Before leaving the restroom the man dropped a quarter into the dish for tips. Feeling expansive, Sean left a dollar.

  The following morning, at a quarter to nine, just as Marina and Sean boarded a DC-10 bound for Toronto, the tall, overweight man left the church of Santa Rita de Casia through the side entrance that faces 26th. He crossed the street and, holding his hands behind his back, head tilted backwards, stared at the ficus trees in the Parque de la Quinta. He appeared to be in his forties and had the powerful forearms and wrists of a dock worker. His brown eyes were lively, his thick moustache coffee-coloured, his lips full. After a few minutes circling the trees in awestruck contemplation, he slid behind the wheel of a black Hyundai and sped away.

  The gardener and the sweeper who tended the park became intrigued when the man repeated the same routine two days in a row. Their curiosity, however, was not stirred by his arriving before eight and going into the church the minute it opened its doors. Several Cuban Catholics did the same and, occasionally, curious visitors explored the interior of the small, modern church. Some diplomats and executives of foreign companies – accompanied by their wives and children – also attended Mass on Sundays. What was strange about the tall, overweight man was his fixation with the ficus. The park attendants were accustomed to seeing tourists stop by, but few returned, and those that did usually came back to show the mammoth trees to some other traveller. They wondered whether this guy was a botanist or an ecology freak.

  They would have been even more puzzled had they seen him in the church. He invariably sat in the same pew, one from where he could keep an eye on 26th, paid no attention to the service, didn’t kneel or pretend to pray. His behaviour had drawn the attention of an overly anti-communist layman who reported to the parish priest that a State Security official was using his church to stake someone out.

  On Tuesday, as he rounded the trunk of the ficus nearest to the bust of General Prado, the tall, overweight man spotted a short bald guy in a white guayabera leaving the apartment building that faced the park and darting down Third A toward 26th. His eyes still on the tree, the tall man strolled to the sidewalk and waited until his prey was within a couple of yards.

  “You speak English?” he asked with a pleasant smile.

  “Sure,” Pablo said, trying to look intelligent and knowledgeable. He had always envied huge men, and this bull-necked guy was at least six-foot-five.

  “Thank heaven. You know the name of these trees?” the man asked, with a sweep of the hand that included all the ficus in the park.

  “Ficus.”

  “Can you spell it for me?”

  Pablo said “F” and paused. One of his frequent confusions in English was to pronounce the “i” as an “e” and vice versa. He produced a small notebook and a ballpoint from a pocket of his guayabera, wrote down the name, then tore out the page.

  “Well, thanks,” the tall, overweight man said as he took it. “Most amazing trees I’ve seen in this country.”

  “Is that so?” Pablo was taking in the stranger, his mental wheels turning fast. The big bastard wore a navy-blue polo shirt, khaki shorts, white cotton socks, and sneakers.

  “I hadn’t been able to learn their name. Not many people here speak English.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what’s the name of this park?”

  “Parque de la Quinta.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Well …” Pablo scratched his bald head, as if picking his brain for the right translation. “Quinta in Spanish is … like a country house, know what I’m saying? Like a villa.”

  “So, it’s the Park of the Country House.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, thanks for the information,” the big man said. “Wait a minute,” he added, fishing for his wallet and producing a twenty-dollar bill. “Here you are. Thanks.”

  Pablo pounced on the bill thinking it was a fiver. When he saw the Jackson portrait, he was dumbfounded. Twenty bucks for the name of a tree and a park? What would this huge asshole fork out for being taken around town?

  “Well, sir, this is very” – Pablo groped for generous unsuccessfully as he thrust the bill into a pants pocket – “very good of you. If I can help … in any other way?”

  His eyes on Pablo, head cocked, a budding grin on his lips, the tourist seemed to ponder the offer.

  “Maybe you could. This is my first trip here, I don’t know my way around, and I was hoping for a good time, catch my drift?”

  Pablo grinned. “You mean fun, girls?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “I think … no, I thought so. But now, it’s morning. In the mornings, beautiful girls sleep. In the evenings, they have fun. We meet in the evening, I take you to the most beautiful girls in Havana.”

  A bunch of lies, the big guy figured. “Tell you what. You take me to the most beautiful girls in Havana, I’ll pay you a hundred bucks. You take me to the most beautiful girl in Havana, I’ll pay you two hundred. How’s that?”

  “That’s excellent, Mr.…?”

  “Splittoesser.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Just call me John.”

  “Okay, John. So, where do we meet?”

  “Let’s see …” John pretended to reflect. “There’s this bar-restaurant where I had dinner last night, La Zaragua … something.”

&nbs
p; “Spanish food? In Old Havana?”

  “That’s it.”

  “La Zaragozana.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “John, I’ve been to all the right places in Havana.”

  The tall, overweight man considered this for a moment. “Swell. At eight then?” he said.

  “Eight’s fine with me.”

  “Can I drop you somewhere?” John asked.

  “No, thanks. My office is right across the street.”

  “See you then,” John said and extended his right hand. Pablo’s hand got lost in the man’s paw. The Cuban walked on, occasionally craning his neck, watching the tourist unlock his car. John waved him goodbye; Pablo did the same before crossing Fifth Avenue. Is this a lucky break or is this a lucky break? he was thinking.

  John Splittoesser spent the afternoon completing the reconnaissance he had started three evenings earlier, driving around Santa Maria del Mar and Guanabo, two adjoining beach resorts twenty-five kilometres to the east of Havana.

  After dinner at La Zaragozana, Pablo suggested a leisurely stroll into Old Havana. Leaving the rental in the custody of the restaurant’s parking valet, they walked down Obispo, a street turned pedestrian mall. Passersby stared at the strange pair: some recalled Twins, the movie starring Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  The temperature had dropped considerably as a consequence of a late-afternoon heavy shower. Lighting from the shop windows of well-stocked, dollars-only stores reflected on the wet asphalt. A Brazilian soap opera and various pop songs blared out from radios, CD players, and television sets in an ear-splitting cacophony.

  There were police officers on every corner, most of them alert young men fresh from the countryside, still in awe of city slickers: the pickpockets, whores, pimps, drag queens, male prostitutes, shoplifters, drug pushers, and black marketeers that trained eyes can detect along the Havana tourist trail.

  A handful of veteran cops in their thirties, with bored expressions and cynical grins, whispered advice to the rookies. They were cops who’d survived by staying within the limit of permissible corruption: yes to a three-dollar sandwich, no to a one-dollar bill; yes to a hooker’s free ride, no to a pair of jeans offered by her pimp; yes to a packet of cigarettes, no to a box of fake Cohibas.