Havana Best Friends

by Jose Latour

  “Hi, Elena,” a middle-aged woman said as she approached the curb.

  “Well, Carmita, I haven’t seen you in ages,” Elena replied, pleased by the possibility of chatting away the long wait. Carmita wore cut-offs and an old blue sweatshirt with the Nike logo. She had been a healthy-looking woman until five or six years ago, when as the result of divorce and the most severe Cuban economic crisis, she’d lost thirty pounds. Now her face showed deep wrinkles with black crescents under her eyes, her skin sagged under her chin and under her arms. She unfolded a newspaper and placed it on the curb before sitting down.

  “I’m sorry about your brother, Elena.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Rumour has it he was assassinated.”

  “Probably. It’s what the police think, anyway.”

  “Nobody has been arrested?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “What a tragedy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Elena was used to it by now. As the news spread, friends, neighbours, and acquaintances wanted to learn as much as possible. While delivering the censored version she had perfected, Elena reflected on the indelicate streak of gossip in most people. The decent thing to do would be to offer condolences and refrain from making her tell the gruesome details.

  When she had finished, Carmita changed the subject. “You’re on vacation?” she said.

  “Like all teachers.”

  “So, you haven’t heard about it yet.”

  “Heard about what?”

  “The latest video.”

  Elena supposed that Carmita was referring to the last porn video her brother had produced. Captain Trujillo had reported the whole scam to her several weeks earlier. But it couldn’t be.

  “What video, Carmita?”

  “The one on what happened in Ciego de Ávila.”

  Memories surfaced in Elena’s mind. In the 1980s some very dirty linen had been washed in public; in 1989, for example, army and Ministry of the Interior officials were tried for drug smuggling and the media coverage of the trial was carefully screened. But since video technology had come to Cuba, the highest-ranking leaders now delivered speeches to small audiences that were videotaped and later shown only to rank-and-file members of the Communist Party. In this way, the chosen few were informed about internal problems and developments abroad considered too embarrassing or alarming for the whole population. The theory being that ignorance is bliss.

  It was forbidden to tell non-militants what the speaker had talked about, but irate spouses wanting to know why their husbands (or wives) had arrived home after midnight were usually the first to hear. The following day, the spouses would tell a few relatives what the topic was, and a few weeks later most Cubans would have heard about the problem. Many were enraged by the discriminatory practice. Elena Miranda felt she’d been deprived of a fundamental right. “What are we, second-class citizens?” she had bitterly complained when she learned about it. “What’s going on of national concern that I can’t know?” It seemed as if the custom had fallen into disfavour, for she hadn’t heard about any new videos in the last few years.

  But back when the rule had been frequently implemented, she had taken a long hard look at it. For all life forms, from the tiniest viruses to the largest mammals, information was essential to survival. The rodent wanted to know if a snake was close by to decide whether to hide or fight. Were humans different? The right to know was of vital importance. Granted, institutions everywhere had secrets – scientific, military, economic – but was it ethical to conceal news that concerned and affected every social stratum from all but the members of one political party? She had concluded it wasn’t.

  “As far as I know, you aren’t a Party member, right?” Elena said.

  “Of course, not. You think I’m crazy or what?”

  “So, how come you know about this video?”

  “Oh, c’mon, Elena. You know how it is. This is Cuba, remember?”

  “What’s it about?”

  Carmita slid her tongue over her lips. “Well, what I heard is that two or three years back a drunk driver ran over and killed a teenager riding his bicycle. It happened in Ciego de Ávila, and the driver was a colonel from Interior. The kid’s family wanted to see justice done. The old-boy network protected the colonel. After many months he was finally tried and acquitted. The victim’s mother demanded a retrial. Nothing happened. Next she wrote a letter to Number One and he ordered an investigation. The cover-up was revealed, the colonel sent to prison, and several senior officers from the army and the ministry were demoted and expelled.”

  This got the two women into a discussion about Cuban politics. They talked about the manipulation of information and double standards. Elena was critical of the official media for condemning the death penalty in the United States while failing to report how many people get the same punishment in Cuba. Carmita agreed, quoting local criticism of the fence erected by America to prevent illegal immigration from Mexico, and recalling that when part of Germany was under Communism not one critical word had been uttered about the Berlin Wall.

  After about half an hour of this, a man tapped Carmita on the shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  “You are twenty-four?”

  “Yes.”

  “Twenty-two is buying.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  Carmita stood up, dusted the seat of her cut-offs, then recovered the newspaper. “Well, Elena, it was nice talking to you.”

  “Take care, friend.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  An hour and ten minutes later, in full darkness, Elena Miranda returned home with her ration of eight ounces of beef and six sausages that should last her for a month, maybe two.

  The following day, shortly before noon, Marina pressed the buzzer of Elena’s apartment. In the kitchen, the teacher was peeling a big sweet potato for lunch. She washed her hands and wiped them dry with a dishcloth. She walked past the hall and reached the front door, unlatched it and flung it open.

  “Surprise!” a beaming Marina said.

  Elena’s jaw dropped. “You!”

  “Yes. We’re back. You look wonderful.” She kissed Elena’s cheeks.

  “Hi, Elena,” Sean said with his best smile. The mild attraction he felt for her stirred. The thick, dark-blond hair fell past her shoulders and framed a face that combined beauty with insight in a most disturbing way. Sultry voice too. It would be so good if she came along nicely, made no fuss.

  “Oh, hi, Sean. But come in, come in, please.”

  The visitors registered that the living-room floor had been recently mopped, and instead of the foul smell of cigarette butts, a whiff of the Parque de la Quinta’s vegetation could be discerned. The furniture, drapes, and walls, however, remained in the same sorry state.

  “What happened to Sean?” Elena asked Marina when she realized the man was hobbling, leaning on a cane.

  “It’s nothing, just a twisted ankle.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

  Marina interpreted.

  “A little. But I’m much better, thank you,” Sean said.

  “Well, have a seat, please. I’m delighted to see you.”

  “It’s so nice to see you too,” Marina said as Sean slid onto the sofa. She too sat down, managing to appear pleased and eager. “You’ve been in our thoughts most of the time, dear Elena.”

  “Really? Well, what little I did for you guys was nothing.”

  “How’s Pablo?” Sean asked.

  Elena’s eyes made it clear that no translation was required.

  “My brother passed away,” she said simply.

  Marina knitted her brow in incomprehension. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Pablo died.”

  “Oh my God.” She made the sign of the cross.

  “What’s the matter?” Sean wanted to know.

  Marina interpreted. The man also frowned. “Jesus! What hap
pened? He had an accident or what?”

  “No accident,” Elena responded in English without waiting for the translation. Then, reverting to Spanish, she addressed Marina. “He was murdered. His body was found at a seaside town close to the city. The motive was probably robbery, but nobody has been arrested and it seems the police are baffled.”

  Marina translated. A short pause ensued. The Argentinian woman, her eyes fixed on the floor, was shaking her head, as if dismayed at the news. She didn’t find it difficult to commiserate, was not pretending. She raised her eyes to Sean, who also seemed genuinely disconcerted. The sonofabitch, she thought.

  “We are so sorry, Elena. Please accept our condolences,” Marina whispered.

  “Thank you.”

  “When did it happen?” Sean asked, wanting Elena to confirm his innocence to Marina.

  “On May 31.”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Marina said before shooting a quick glance at Sean. “It must have been terrible for you. All by yourself here, dealing with everything.”

  Elena nodded. “It’s been tough. We frequently disagreed, had arguments all the time, but when he died so unexpectedly I felt sort of guilty, you know? I wondered whether I could’ve done something to make things easier between us.”

  “I know what you mean,” Marina agreed, then interpreted.

  “Well, I’m very sorry for Pablo, and for you too,” Sean said. “You can’t imagine how sorry we are, but eventually you’ll see what I mean.” He pulled down the corners of his mouth and lifted his eyebrows. “However, life goes on. Let’s change the subject. Being a teacher, I suppose you are on vacation now.”

  “Yes, I am.” Elena confirmed after Marina interpreted, wondering why she would eventually see how sorry her new friends were. Then she added, “But, anyway, in special education, kids develop a very close relationship with their teachers, so I have to drop by every two or three days, stay with them a couple of hours, read them stories. It’s not a vacation in the full sense of the word.”

  Marina translated.

  “Well, this morning, Marina had an idea,” Sean said with a smile. “Tell her, darling.”

  Beaming again, Marina crossed her legs. “Listen, Elena, I assumed, you being a teacher and this being August, with your line of work and all that, you need a real vacation. And after this sad experience you’ve been through, that’s even more true. So, I said to Sean, ‘Wouldn’t it be splendid if we invited Elena to spend a few days with us at the Copacabana? Rent a room for her? Take her with us to all the places we go?’ ”

  “Oh, no.” Elena shook her head, smiling.

  “Listen to me. We like you. We think we can help you improve your life. We want you to be with us in a nice place, to forget about cooking and cleaning and all other household chores. We want you to enjoy yourself a little.”

  “I can’t accept that.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No, there’s no reason for it. You don’t owe me anything. A glass of water? Give me a break.”

  “We do have an obligation to you. And besides we have to explain something to you and we need your help. We’ll tell you about it later. And you need a short vacation. You owe it to yourself.”

  “It’s impossible,” Elena said with a smirk, as if she knew something her visitors didn’t.

  “What do you mean, it’s impossible? It’s perfectly possible.”

  “No, Marina. It isn’t. Hotels for foreigners have been instructed not to rent rooms to Cubans. To Cubans living in Cuba, that is. Cubans living in Miami may rent hotel rooms.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You just made this up.”

  Elena chuckled. “No, I didn’t.”

  Sean asked what the matter was. Marina explained.

  “Are you telling us that if you come with us to the Copacabana the desk clerk will refuse to rent you a room?” he asked.

  “He’s under orders not to.”

  “But we’ll cover all your expenses with dollars.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You can’t do it. It’s a government regulation.”

  “Why?”

  “Nobody knows. Our constitution has a section on equality and it specifically mentions that a citizen can stay at any hotel. But that’s just words; in real life you can’t.”

  Marina interpreted and added, “I can’t believe this,” in English. Then, turning to Elena. “Are you sure this stupid regulation has not been repealed?”

  “Well, I’m not 100 per cent sure, but I’m pretty sure.”

  There goes Plan A, Sean thought, but then he spotted an opportunity to test something key to Plan B. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. “Elena, tell me something: how do you feel when you are so outrageously discriminated against? How can people live under such an arbitrary system of government?”

  Once Marina finished interpreting, Elena sighed and her eyes roved about the room. “Infuriated, is how I feel. And as to your second question, well, many choose not to. In my case, I was born here, I’m used to it. And we have job security, free health care and education, a nice climate, most people are generous. I guess at some point a sizable percentage of Cuban adults ask themselves, Should I try to emigrate? Then they start considering their options. Unless you risk your life crossing the Florida Straits on a raft or boat, the process of getting a visa to some other country is fraught with difficulties. It takes years and years. Since 1994, the United States has operated a lottery system with twenty thousand visas up for grabs. Close to a million Cubans have applied so far. There are internal implications, as well. Teachers, for example, lose their jobs once they reveal their intention of leaving permanently. Physicians are prohibited from leaving until five years after declaring their intention. And then you start wondering, How am I going to make a living in another country? I only speak Spanish. Serving tables or mopping floors? A highly skilled professional like me? You understand what I’m saying?”

  Elena paused so Marina could catch up.

  “The minimum hourly wage in the States is five dollars an hour, something like eight hundred a month. Many people here who make fifteen or twenty dollars a month are dazzled by such an amount. But once there, they find the rent for a tiny apartment is four hundred a month, plus utility bills, medical coverage, insurance, travel, food. They end up with nothing. So, if I’m going to be poor anyway, I’d rather stay where I was born, where I have friends and relatives who can lend a hand if I need it.”

  “I see your point,” Sean agreed when Marina finished translating. Then, smiling broadly, he said, “Money. It makes all the difference. If you had a lot, if you could choose where to live, you would leave, right?”

  Elena tilted her head to one side, pondering her reply. “I don’t know. Maybe I would, considering that even if I had a hundred million dollars in a bank account here, I couldn’t stay at a nice hotel.”

  They shared a laugh.

  “Or buy a new car,” Elena added, “or a home, or a computer, or rent a cellphone, or buy an antibiotic at a dollars-only pharmacy, or watch the foreign TV programs you get to watch at your hotel.”

  “All that is banned for Cubans?” asked an astounded Marina.

  “In practice, yes. But not in our constitution. In our constitution we have many rights. Which is why some people feel that part of our constitution is not worth the paper it’s printed on.”

  “It’s incredible.”

  “Can Cubans eat at one of the good state-owned restaurants?” said Sean, once their surprise had subsided.

  “Yes, we’re allowed to do that,” was Elena’s answer.

  “Let’s have lunch then.”

  Marina felt like seafood and Elena suggested La Terraza, in Cojímar, a fisherman’s town to the east of the Cuban capital. The teacher changed into a black skirt, a short-sleeved lavender blouse, and high heels. She also brushed her hair before putting on a little makeup. At 12:40 they were cruising along Malecón. Ten minutes later
they drove through the tunnel under Havana Bay and sped along the vast open spaces of Vía Monumental until they reached the Pan-American stadium, where they took the exit for the outskirts of Alamar. There they had to ask for directions because Elena didn’t know the way. “A three-vehicle parking space?” an amused Sean asked when he pulled into the restaurant’s private car park.

  Sean and Marina had mojitos before the soup was served, but Elena, recalling her wooziness at the paladar, ordered a soda. They had lobster cocktail, paella, and espresso. For Sean, the all-male staff was less interesting than Roselia’s girls; Marina and Elena had a different view altogether. The weather, the scenery, food, fishing, and other trivialities were dealt with over lunch. Not far from their table, Gregorio Fuentes, the 101-year-old skipper of Hemingway’s yacht, was having lunch. Later, they drove to the writer’s bronze bust by the mouth of the river. Black clouds to the east presaged a thunderstorm, a flock of buzzards circled in the sky, humidity was close to 100 per cent. The oppressive heat made them stay in the car.

  On the way back, a torrential downpour forced Sean to creep along Malecón, but by the time they reached Miramar it had stopped. Unsure of what they wanted, Elena hid her surprise when Sean and Marina got out of the car, locked it, and escorted her to her front door.

  “Could we have a word with you now, Elena?” Sean asked.

  “Sure,” the teacher said as she slipped the key into the lock. “Come in.”

  The women used the bathroom first. Then Sean went in and eyed the bathtub’s soap dish attentively before urinating, washing his hands, and returning to the living room.

  Elena was making espresso in the kitchen. Marina stood by her side, learning that the coffee sold to Cubans on ration cards was a mixture of coffee beans and peas, of which each consumer got a two-ounce cellophane packet every two weeks. The price for a pound of pure Cuban coffee was six dollars at government-owned stores. Marina described the workings of a coffee maker, an appliance Elena had never seen.

  “Elena, we need your help.” Sean deposited his empty cup on the coffee table.