And now it looked like Pompeii.
We got off the bus into the heat and humidity of a large plaza, and we followed Tad and Alison to a nineteenth-century pharmacy that had been turned into a pharmaceutical museum, housed in a grand mansion once owned by the family who’d also owned the pharmacy. Then came La Revolución.
The old pharmacy was sort of interesting, especially the big apothecary jars of belladonna and cannabis. The opium looked good, too. They don’t have this in Walgreens.
We then walked through the narrow streets of the town, jostling for sidewalk space with the natives, who probably thought our tour bus had taken a wrong turn. I said to Sara, “Now you know why Antonio took the day off.”
“Stop complaining.”
Tad advised us that these provincial towns were safer than Havana with regard to pickpockets and purse snatchers, but we should safeguard our valuables as we walked. I didn’t think he was referring to my Glock, but I’d already moved my fanny pack to my front and covered it with my Polo shirt, giving me a nice beer belly.
As we walked through the town, I spotted a few PNR guys, who looked us over as we passed by, but there is safety in numbers, and as long as Sara and I stayed in the herd we wouldn’t be picked off by a wolf asking to see our passports and visas. Señor, are you pregnant?
Sara, however, might be too pretty for the wolves to ignore, so I told her, “If you’re stopped, I can’t come to your assistance. That’s Tad and Alison’s job. And if I’m stopped, you don’t know me.”
“Everyone knows we’re together.”
“The police don’t.” And I was happy Antonio wasn’t there to rat us out. I reminded her, “We just met. And sleeping together doesn’t mean we have to get arrested together—or even walk together.”
“All right . . . I understand.” She offered, “I can carry the gun.”
“It’s my gun.”
On the plus side, the natives seemed friendly, though there didn’t seem to be any reason for this town’s existence.
After a few hours of trying to figure out why we were here, the heat-exhausted herd returned to the plaza and boarded the bus. Sara and I sat together and shared a bottle of water.
Maybe because it was Sunday, our next stop was lunch at the Matanzas Seminary, located on a hill above the city. Alison told us that the seminary was not Catholic—it was Methodist, Presbyterian, and Episcopal—with forty students of both sexes, half of whom, said Alison, would probably leave Cuba at the first opportunity. Me too.
We pulled into the seminary grounds, which were nicely landscaped, and the buildings were in better repair than any I’d seen in Matanzas. I was fairly certain they didn’t have stop-and-frisk here, and I relaxed for the first time today.
As we got off the bus, Sara said, “Religion will save Cuba.”
“Right. Look what it did for Afghanistan.”
“Don’t be a cynic. I never asked—what religion are you?”
“You’ve been sleeping with a Presbyterian. But when I’m getting shot at, I pray to everyone.”
“Would you consider converting to Catholicism?”
Were we talking about a wedding? Or Last Rites?
“Mac?”
“Yes, I’d consider that.”
She took my hand and squeezed it.
We were greeted by a pleasant middle-aged lady who escorted us into a refectory with long tables and benches, and Sara and I found ourselves sitting with Tad and Alison, who didn’t appear to have hooked up yet. Also at our table were Alexandra and Ashleigh, whom I’d chatted up at the welcome dinner before I fell in love with Sara Ortega. At the end of the table was our driver, Lope, who hadn’t picked his table at random.
There were pitchers of iced tea on the table, hopefully waiting to be turned into wine. Nice-looking young men and women, alight with the Holy Spirit, brought out platters of food. I’d expected loaves and fishes, but we got rice and beans, and poultry that had come in second in a cockfight.
We all made small talk, then Tad asked me, “How are you enjoying yourself so far?”
“This has been an eye-opening experience.”
“And there’s more to come.”
Right. But not with you. I asked, “Where’s Antonio today?”
“I’m not sure. He was scheduled to be with us.”
“I hope he’s not sick.”
“He left word that he’d be joining us tomorrow.”
“But not tonight for dinner?”
“Apparently not.”
Correct. Sara and I were having drinks with Antonio tonight.
Alison said, “We’re having dinner tonight at La Guarida, one of the best restaurants in Havana, housed in a huge old mansion. If you’ve seen the movie Fresa y Chocolate, you’ll recognize scenes that were shot there.” She added, “La Guarida was favorably reviewed in the New York Times.”
“So was Fidel Castro,” I said.
Everyone thought that was funny. Even Lope, who smiled.
Alison asked us all where we’d wound up having dinner on our own last night, and everyone at our table had a culinary adventure tale, some good, some not so good. I admitted, “Sara and I drank dinner at Floridita.”
That got a few chuckles. We were really bonding. In another week we’d be calling one another by our first names.
Tad took the opportunity to chide me and Sara. “We missed you at the ballet rehearsal and the visit to the firefighter museum.”
Sara responded, “I wasn’t feeling well and Mac walked me back to the hotel.”
Alison advised, “Stay hydrated.”
This wasn’t a good time to tell Tad and Alison that we were blowing off the group dinner tonight, but I set it up by asking, “What are the first symptoms of malaria?”
No one seemed to know.
Anyway, before lunch was finished, Sara looked at her watch and made an announcement. “I have an appointment with Dr. Mendez, who is the rector here.”
Really?
She explained, “I’m involved with an ecumenical charity in Miami, and I’ve brought cash donations for several religious institutions in Cuba.” She stood. “I’ll meet up with the group shortly.” She left, carrying her purse of pesos.
Alison said, “That’s very nice.”
And also consistent with her cover story.
Our next stop was the chapel to hear the chamber choir perform. I wasn’t looking forward to this, but the young men and women in the choir had angelic voices, singing some great oldies like “Rock of Ages” and “Amazing Grace,” and for a few minutes I was a kid wearing my Sunday suit, sitting in First Pres in Portland. Meanwhile, Sara was still MIA.
We next went to an outdoor lecture given by a theologian who told us that there was a religious revival occurring in Cuba, but it was mostly driven by Evangelical Protestants, not the Catholic Church. I was sure the Pope would be back.
Sara appeared at the end of the lecture and we all boarded the bus for the trip back to Havana.
I asked her, “How much did you give them?”
“Thirty thousand pesos. About twelve hundred dollars, which is a lot of money.”
“Are we good with God now?”
“We’ll find out tonight.”
Indeed we would.
CHAPTER 34
Before the revolution, the Vedado district of Havana was controlled by Cuban mobsters and the American Mafia in a profitable joint business venture that might be a good model for the future.
Our taxi, a dilapidated Soviet Lada whose upholstery smelled like bleu cheese, traveled along the Malecón toward the far western edge of Vedado, where we were to meet Antonio in a bar called Rolando.
Parts of Vedado, according to Sara, still retained some of its pre-revolutionary flavor, and remained home to a number of unauthorized activities, including black marketeering, midnight auto sales, rooms by the hour, and unlicensed rum joints, to name just a few of Vedado’s private enterprises. Every city needs a Vedado.
Our driver, who spok
e a little English, had never heard of Rolando’s, and our hotel concierge couldn’t find it listed anywhere, but our driver made a few cell phone calls to his colleagues and thought he had an address. If this was a trap, Antonio wasn’t making it easy for us to fall into it.
I’d left a note at the hotel for Tad and Alison saying that Sara and I had been stricken with Fidel’s revenge and would not be joining the group for dinner. P.S.: Gotta run now.
We continued along the Malecón, and Sara didn’t have much to say, except things like, “This is a mistake,” and “This was your idea.”
Sara and I were casually dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and we both wore our running shoes in case the evening included a sprint to the American Embassy.
I’d left my treasure map in my room, stuck in my backpack with my Cuba guide, but my Glock and the three loaded magazines were now in Sara’s backpack, buried under wads of Cuban pesos, along with her map and all my American dollars. Now all we had to do was find a place to stash this before we met Antonio.
The driver turned off the Malecón and traveled south along a dark residential street of shabby multi-family housing units, almost invisible behind overgrown vegetation.
The driver slowed down and we all looked out the windows, trying to find the address or a sign, but most of the street lights were out and the landscapers hadn’t been here since 1959.
Sara told the driver to pull over and said to me, “We’ll walk.”
I paid the driver, and we began walking. The only sounds on this dark, quiet street were tree frogs croaking in the hot night air. I wasn’t concerned about being followed, because if this was a trap the police were already at Rolando having a beer with Antonio while they waited for us. I checked my watch: 7:16.
Up ahead I could see a small bridge over a narrow river that Sara ID’d as the Río Almendares, and on the opposite bank was a well-lighted area that she said was Miramar, Havana’s wealthy and clubby suburb, now occupied by foreign businessmen, embassy people, and the Communist elite. So we had come to the end of Vedado and the literal end of the road where Rolando’s was supposed to be.
Just as I was wondering how to call Uber, I spotted a pink two-story building near the river, set back from the road. There were lights in the windows, and a high hedge ran around the building. I didn’t see any cars parked out front, but I could see a few bicycles leaning against the hedge.
Sara said, “That has to be it.”
As we walked toward the pink building, we came to a shoulder-high wall running along the sidewalk, and on the other side of the wall was the shell of an abandoned house, nearly invisible in the middle of an overgrown lot. I suggested, “Good place to lose your backpack.”
She nodded and we both looked up and down the dark street. And though we hadn’t seen a car or a person since we began walking, I knew that every street in Havana had los vigilantes—the kind of people who peeked through the window blinds.
Sara looked over the wall, then dropped her backpack into a thick growth of vines.
I asked, “Did you remove all your ID?”
“No, Mac, I left my passport so the police could track us down and return your gun.”
“Good thinking.” She didn’t seem to be in a good mood. “Okay, let’s have a drink.”
We continued to the end of the street and stood at the gated opening in the hedge, through which we could see a patio and a half dozen tables whose chairs were filled with tough-looking hombres, smoking, drinking, and playing cards.
I took her arm and we walked onto the patio of what I hoped was Rolando’s.
The customers gave us the once-over, but no one said anything. I saw this scene in a movie once, but I don’t remember how it ended.
Over the entrance door was a hand-painted sign that said: ROLANDO—AQUÍ JAMÁS ESTUVO HEMINGWAY. Sara translated, “ ‘Hemingway was never here,’ ” which was funny, and which was also what Antonio promised. I should give this address to the Nevilles.
I entered first, with Sara right behind me.
The front room looked like a grocery store with shelves along the dingy stucco walls displaying canned food. The only person in the room was an old man sitting behind a counter, reading a newspaper. He glanced at us, and before I could say, “Antonio sent us,” he cocked his head toward a curtain in the wall.
I led the way, and we passed through the curtain into a stairwell where steps led to the upper floor.
I could hear recorded music at the top of the stairs—“Empire State of Mind”—and we ascended into a dimly lit room with louvered windows, unadorned red walls, and floor fans.
Men and women sat on ratty upholstered furniture that was scattered haphazardly around the concrete floor, and a few couples were dancing. Everyone seemed to have a drink and a cigarette, and a few of the couples were working up to the main event. There must be rooms available. Or maybe a broom closet.
I didn’t see Antonio, but a guy got up from a chair and motioned us to follow him. He led us to a door that went out to a small rooftop terrace dimly lit by oil lamps on the four tables. The only customer was Antonio, sitting by himself, drinking a beer, smoking a cigarette, and talking on his cell phone.
He saw us, hung up, stood, and smiled. “Bienvenidos.”
CHAPTER 35
Antonio was wearing his tight black pants and a tight black T-shirt, which looked kind of ridiculous. We didn’t shake hands, but he invited us to sit.
He asked, “Did you have difficulties finding this place?”
“It wasn’t in my Michelin guide.”
He looked at us. “Do you think you were followed here?”
That was a funny question coming from a police informant. “You tell me.”
He shrugged. “It’s not important. I have taken American tourists here before. To show them how the people relax after work.”
Right. Those twenty-dollar-a-month jobs can be stressful. “You live around here?”
“Yes. This is my neighborhood bar.”
Jack would advise me to get Antonio’s address, follow him home, and shoot him in the head. Sara might second that.
He also let us know, “We have this terrace to ourselves until we are done.”
Sara said, “That could be two minutes.”
Antonio looked at her, but didn’t reply.
I could hear Black Eyed Peas singing “I Gotta Feeling.”
A young waiter wearing an Atlanta Braves T-shirt came out to the terrace. Rolando’s cocktail menu was limited to rum and beer, and because everyone here made twenty bucks a month, all drinks were ten pesos—forty cents. Well, the price was right. Antonio was drinking Bucanero, but Sara and I ordered colas. I told the waiter, “Unopened bottles. No glasses.”
Antonio didn’t look offended that I was suggesting the place was dirty, or that he was going to drug us. Also, Antonio could be wearing a wire, but his pants and shirt were so tight he’d have to have the transmitter up his ass.
I said to him, “We told a few people in our group that we were having drinks with you here.”
“So if you disappear, the police will consider me a suspect. Except the police don’t care if you disappear.”
Right. In fact, the police would be the prime suspects in our disappearance.
Antonio asked, “What did you tell Tad and Alison about your absence tonight?”
“I told them we had Fidel’s revenge.”
He looked at Sara. “Que?”
“Diarrhoea.”
He smiled. “That’s why I was absent today. From eating an American apple.”
Asshole.
The waiter brought our drinks, and I opened the bottles myself. No one proposed a toast.
The sunlight had faded from the western sky, replaced by the lights of Miramar, and ninety miles north, across the Straits, was Key West, where Fantasy Fest was in full swing. Life takes some interesting turns.
Antonio got down to business and asked us, “Do you have the money?”
Sara re
plied, “It is against Cuban law for us to give you American dollars, and we have no reason to give you anything.”
Antonio turned to me, the voice of reason. “Most of my tip money is in American dollars. It is of no consequence.”
“We have no American dollars with us, but if we’re interested in what you say, I’ll put your tip in an envelope and leave it for you at the hotel.”
“I think you don’t trust me.”
“What was your first clue?”
“I’m taking a big risk to meet you.”
“Same here.”
“You are already at risk.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I can.” He looked at Sara. “I have information that the police are interested in you.”
Well, that was no surprise, and that didn’t seem to include me. Unless Antonio was saving the best for last.
Sara looked Antonio in the eye. “There are not many scams or entrapments that I haven’t heard of in Cuba, including this one.”
Antonio informed us, “If this was a police trap, both of you would already be under arrest. And if you think this is a scam, you will be making a big mistake. Your problem is not me—it is the police.”
“You work for the police,” said Sara.
“Everyone in Cuba has two jobs and two lives.” He added, “And two souls. That is how we survive.” He reminded us, “The Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out. In the end, we all work for ourselves.”
Right. Also, Antonio had a serious case of multiple personality disorder, and I wasn’t sure which Antonio had shown up tonight. “Okay, so tonight you sell out your police friends for money, and tomorrow you double-cross us.”
“That is a chance you will have to take.”
“No. I can pass.”
“You can. But that could cost you your freedom.”
Sara said to him, “Look at me.”
He looked at her.
Sara spoke to him in Spanish, and I could hear the words “los vigilantes,” “chivatos,” and “Policía Nacional Revolucionaria,” but not the word for “shit eaters,” so she was controlling herself. I mean, not to engage in ethnic stereotyping, but Miss Ortega had a Cuban temper, especially when speaking to someone she believed was a Commie shit eater who had destroyed Cuba.
The Cuban Affair Page 21