Out of Luck

by Kendall Talbot

  The road shifted from gravel to potholed asphalt, and the landscape quickly changed from the occasional shack nestled among dense foliage to rows and rows of houses. Some were dilapidated homes verging on collapse, while some were mansions. Some of those mansions were pristine; some, however, were in dire need of attention. The disparity between the conditions of the homes was incredible.

  Soon the streets shifted from houses to more diverse architecture. Peter had taught her to appreciate architecture, and it had been nothing for them to spend a whole day in a new city spotting gargoyles and admiring elaborate wrought-iron decorations.

  Cuba, it seemed, was a mixture of all the architectural classics. She recognized Spanish influences, and Italian, Roman, and Greek styles. Some of the buildings, however, were derelict and had plants growing out of the windows and creeping down from the rooftops. Many had collapsed altogether, leaving elaborate marble staircases to mark their existence.

  People were everywhere. Spilling into the streets were young lovers strolling hand in hand, families that looked to consist of several generations, couples with children.

  The thing that struck Charlene the most was that despite the abundant rundown buildings, indicating poverty, everybody seemed happy.

  Dancing and music were everywhere. Every street corner had small groups putting on what seemed to be an impromptu show that had tourists filming and locals clapping along. It was easy to get swept up in the fun. But Charlene wasn’t here for fun; she was here for answers. So if Aleyna wasn’t going to be helpful, she decided to try José.

  She leaned forward, easing between the two front seats. “José, what can you tell me about Legendarios del Guajirito?”

  “Ahh, si.” He shot a glance at her that showed off his crooked white teeth. “Legendarios del Guajirito is most famous of all dance show in Havana. They do beautiful dancing and singing. Here all the tourists go.”

  “Yes, I know. Can you tell me about the singers?”

  He wobbled his head. “Only little. They are legends in all of Cuba. Everybody dance.”

  Charlene attempted a few more pointed questions, but it quickly became apparent that the extent of his knowledge of the show was that it was a major tourist draw and that he could get tickets at a special price.

  About forty minutes after they left Aleyna’s place, José pulled the car alongside a small park centered among four roads. All the other cars in the street were as old and as impressive as José’s Buick. It was like stepping back in time.

  José came around and opened the door for Aleyna and Charlene. Aleyna kissed José on his cheek and said something in Spanish that had his eyes darting to Charlene. “We here.” She turned her back to Charlene and crossed the road toward a grand building plastered with posters of the dance show.

  Charlene nodded at José. “Thank you.” Then she clutched the strap of her handbag, gripped the cane, and raced after Aleyna. A large crowd was lining up along the side of the building, but Aleyna avoided the line and went inside to climb the internal stairs. The crowd’s excited din bounced off the narrow, marble-lined stairway. At the top of the stairs, she said something to a man blocking the door and then turned to Charlene.

  “You need to pay him.”

  “Oh, umm, how much?”

  “One hundred.”

  Charlene hoped she meant American dollars, because that’s all she had. She adjusted her positioning so neither Aleyna nor the man could see her pluck the money from the inside pocket of her bag. She closed the zipper before she handed the cash to the man. He frowned at the note for a nanosecond before his eyes lit up. With a grin lighting his face, he slotted the note into his pants pocket and then shoved the door open. His confusing reaction had Charlene making a mental note to check with Aleyna once they were settled. They entered into a saloon-type bar with dark wood and circular bar tables dotted about. People were everywhere, and the noise of the crowd was triple that of the stairway.

  Aleyna pushed through, leading Charlene to another passage. Along the way, Aleyna paused briefly to chat with several barmaids who were dressed in low-cut, white cowgirl uniforms and matching cowboy hats. She didn’t bother translating anything, and Charlene began to wonder if anyone spoke English.

  Through another doorway, Charlene was led into a room that echoed the sets of a bad 1970s western film. Giant wagon wheels hung from the ceiling, with bare light bulbs dangling below them, and the mustard-colored walls were dotted with horseshoes and cow horns. The tables were set up in long rows leading from the back of the room to the front stage. Directly in front of the stage was a bar, with several young women already busy making colorful cocktails. The stage was T-shaped; a large extension extended down the dining room, separating the tables.

  Aleyna led Charlene to the front of the room, to the seat wedged in the very corner between both the front stage and the central stage. It was probably the best seat in the house. She indicated to a simple wooden chair at the very front.

  Charlene adjusted her bag to her hip, nestled her cane against the stage, then sat down and pulled her chair aside for Aleyna to sit too.

  “Okay, I wait for you out front at end of show.”

  Charlene blinked up at her. “You’re not staying.”

  “No.” She waggled her head like Charlene was nuts.

  “Does anyone speak English?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know.”

  Charlene’s glimmer of hope was yanked out from beneath her. Her eyes darted from the empty stage to the young waitresses running around with trays full of drinks and wondered how any of this was going to give her answers.

  A heavy cloak of hopelessness smothered her.

  “They look after you.” Aleyna flicked her hand toward the waitresses, then without so much as a good-bye, she was gone. Charlene followed her stride through the crowd spilling into the showroom, and then Aleyna disappeared altogether.

  Once again, Charlene was all alone.

  “You want drink?” Charlene jumped at the voice. A waitress appeared at Charlene’s side.

  “Oh, you do speak English.”

  “Yes. You want drink? Here is drink list. There is food list. I make order.” The waitress pointed at a laminated menu on the table that had all four of its corners curling up.

  Charlene’s dark cloud of despair petered out at both the waitress’s ability to speak English and at the mention of food. She hadn’t eaten anything since the toasted sandwich with Marshall. As the pretty waitress loudly chewed gum, Charlene ordered a water and her preferences from the three courses on the menu.

  Alone again, she scanned her surroundings. It was vaguely familiar, and it should be, given that she’d watched video footage of this stage about twenty times. It looked like it hadn’t been renovated in those twenty or so years. Or if it had, they’d kept its original appearance.

  Both her drink and entrée arrived before any of the people who were sharing her table were seated. She devoured the cold starter within minutes and was sipping her water when guests began filling up the chairs around her. They made polite conversation, and she did the same, relieved to be speaking English.

  Her main meal of spicy chicken stew and something called moors and Christians arrived; she was relieved to discover that the moors were black beans and the Christians simply brown rice. A few bites later, the music ramped up, the curtain lifted, and a woman who had to be in her late sixties belted out a tune and strutted her stuff better than many women half her age could have done.

  In the background, a dozen men and women in colorful outfits danced to the beat. Charlene shared her gaze between the elderly singer and the slideshow of the singer’s life at the back of the stage. She had no idea what she was looking for, but whatever it was, she was desperate not to miss it.

  The woman left the stage and was promptly replaced with a man of equivalent age. He too was impressive,
both in his vocal range and his dance routine. His song was in Spanish, and Charlene couldn’t understand a single word. As she watched him strut his stuff up and down the stage, she wondered if the man ever knew her father. At the same time, she wondered how on earth she would ask him. She had no picture of Peter, and their language barrier was going to make any such communication impossible.

  Song after song, dancer after dancer, the show went on. Each one was spectacular in its own right, and as the night wore on, the singers became progressively older. The crowd went wild when a man with a walking cane appeared on the stage; the screen behind him listed his age as eighty-two. She wondered if she’d be as spritely at that age. If she lived to be that old. Given her latest life-threatening experiences, she might not.

  Charlene hadn’t been willing to leave the spectacle for fear of missing something, but she couldn’t ignore her bursting bladder a moment more.

  When there was a gap in the music, she excused herself from the table, grabbed her cane, and wove between the tables to the back of the room. She exited through a side door into the bar area and followed signs to the bathroom.

  After washing her hands, she turned to dry them, and a gasp tumbled from her lips. Right in front of her was a photo of Peter. Tears stung her eyes as she snatched the frame from the wall. Her heart launched to her throat. “Oh my God.”

  “Are you alright, dear?” A woman waiting in line blinked at her.

  “Yes. Yes. This is my father. I’ve been…” Blood coursed through her veins. Her fingers trembled, her legs threatened to buckle. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and before she knew what she was doing, Charlene tucked the frame under her arm and went in search of an English-speaking waitress.

  Several people were milling about, many waiting in line for one of the six pretty waitresses to serve them. The staff, all in white cowgirl outfits with matching hats, were dotted behind the long bar. Charlene didn’t wait for her turn. She stormed to the front, placed the photo frame on top of the bar, and leaned toward the young waitress who was busy pouring a beer. “Hello, do you speak English?”

  “Si, a little.”

  “Can you tell me who this is?”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Did you take that off the wall?”

  “I’ll put it back. Please, can you tell me who this is?”

  “He must be one of our singers. But I—” She turned to the woman beside her and spoke to her in Spanish. When she shook her head, the barmaid turned to another waitress who was much older. They spoke briefly before the woman came over.

  She pointed her chipped fingernail at the photo. “He Pueblo García, but he not here anymore.”

  “Pueblo García? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, he was big star. But one day he gone.”

  Charlene’s heart slammed into her chest as she leaned forward, desperate to hear the woman over the restless crowd. “Did you know him?”

  She wobbled her head. “Yes, some. He was nice man.”

  Charlene’s mind blazed over a dozen questions, trying to prioritize the right ones to ask. “What happened to him?”

  The waitress made a face that was loaded with confusion. “Hmm, it was big story. Lots of guesses. He had girlfriend; she was dancer here, and she vanish too.”

  “Oh my God.” Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Do you know her name?”

  She shook her head frowning. “Hmm, I no remember, but her brother… he big businessman in Cuba.”

  “He is? What’s his name?”

  “Diego Álvarez.”

  Charlene’s mind raced. Her heart skipped a beat. Finally, she had a direct clue. “Please, can you take me to him? Now.”

  The woman glanced around the bar, frowning, and shook her head. “I working.”

  “I’ll pay you. Please. Please, help me, this is urgent.” Charlene reached into her bag, ready to pluck out an entire roll of cash if she needed to.

  “I can take you after—”

  “I can’t wait till then. Please. I’ll pay you three hundred.”

  Her eyes bulged, then she leaned in. “Three hundred!”

  “Yes. Three hundred. If we go now.”

  The woman spun to another waitress at her side and spoke to her in Spanish. She turned back to Charlene. “Wait here.” She dashed along the bar, behind all the bartenders, and disappeared through a door.

  Charlene’s eyes fell to the photo. The man in the picture was definitely the man who’d claimed to be her father. He was much younger, but there was no mistaking it was him. Charlene glanced toward the doorway where the woman had exited, and with trembling fingers and a silent prayer that no one saw her, she flipped the frame over, unhooked the clips, and removed the photo. She folded the photo, slipped it into her bag, and then put the frame on a bar stool.

  Her heart was still thumping when the woman returned with a handbag over her shoulder and a look of urgency on her face.

  “Quick, we must go before my boss come.”

  “Okay. Yes. Thank you so much. What’s your name?”

  “Kamila.”

  “Thank you, Kamila. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  Kamila led Charlene toward the front of the stage, where the bar was; then they skirted to the left, down a staff-only access corridor. At the end of the corridor, they went down a steep set of steps. Halfway down, she stopped to look up at Charlene. “You have my money.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Charlene propped her cane against the wall to reach into her bag. It was impossible to see in the dim light, and in the end, she had to remove a whole roll of cash to separate out the right notes for Kamila. Kamila sucked the air in through her teeth as she eyed the notes, and Charlene wanted to slap herself for her stupidity. This was not like her. Safety had always been paramount for her, and her haste to get answers was making her do foolish things. Risky, dangerous things that’d get her into trouble. The moment she had time to herself, she’d sort the cash properly. She handed over three hundred-dollar notes, and Kamila accepted with a huge smile before shoving the cash into her bra.

  Kamila continued down the stairs, and at the bottom, they stepped out into the night air. Charlene recognized two of the singers leaning against the walls, a man and a woman; both looked to be in their seventies, and both were smoking thick Cuban cigars. Kamila spoke briefly to them before they strode up the narrow lane.

  The buildings lining the lane were a potpourri of peeling and faded paint and crumbling façades. Wrought-iron balconies served as clothing hangers, and sheets were draped from one side to the next. Ahead of them, where the lane met another road, Charlene could see a throng of people all seemingly enjoying Cuba’s party atmosphere. Music was everywhere, and all of it was coming from live musicians. Radios, it seemed, hadn’t reached Havana yet.

  Kamila turned to Charlene. “We take taxi.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  She led Charlene to a side street where four old cars were angle-parked at the curb. The taxi signs on their roofs were the only indication that they were cabs. Each one was different in color, make, and model. The only thing they had in common, besides the sign, was their age—all the vehicles had to be at least fifty years old.

  Kamila approached the first cab, a faded, ruby-red Chrysler, with polished chrome trim and vinyl seats. She leaned into the driver’s window, and they shared a conversation Charlene couldn’t follow.

  After a pause, she pulled back to glance at Charlene. “You pay, si.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. How much?”

  The driver and Kamila fired off a rapid exchange before she turned back to Charlene. “He says one hundred, but I said it too much, so we agree on ninety. Good, si?”

  Charlene knew it was too much. But at this point she’d pay triple that if it meant finding answers. She made a show of thanking Kamila before she plucked the right change from her b
ag. Once that was settled, Kamila opened the back door and climbed in. Charlene slipped in beside her.

  The driver kicked the car into gear with a gritty crunch, and they backed out. Charlene had thought the party atmosphere was impressive earlier, but it was even more so now. The dancing and singing in the streets were now accompanied with pretty paper lanterns and old-fashioned street lamps.

  A very large Georgian-style building lined one side of the street. This one was in pristine condition and seemed to mark the center of town. “Where are we going?” Charlene asked.

  “He take you to Airshee factory.”

  “Airshee?” Charlene frowned.

  “Yes, you know.” Kamila brought her fingers to her mouth like she was eating. “Airshee, chocolate.”

  Charlene’s frowned deepened. “I thought you were taking me to Diego Álvarez.”

  “Yes, si, he at Airshee factory.”

  “Oh, okay, good. How far?”

  She rolled her eyes and gave a big wave with her hand. “Oh, it long way.” The great emphasis she put on the word long had Charlene’s brain swimming with the consequences. If it was too far, she wouldn’t be back in time to meet Aleyna. Her solution to that would be asking the taxi driver to take her to Aleyna’s home. But then a truly terrifying thought hit her. She had no idea where Aleyna lived.

  What she was doing was going against everything she’d ever learned about safety. Yet she wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. She had to get answers. The paralyzing hurt of not knowing everything about her past was more important than anything. She couldn’t move forward until she’d solved it. And if that meant taking risks, then she was going to do it.

  One thing she’d learned in her nomadic lifestyle was that the vast majority of people were honest. It was a rare and unfortunate thing to meet someone who was deliberately out to deceive or inflict harm. Charlene was relying on those odds now. If that failed, she had her martial arts training and Peter’s cane.

  With her grip tightening on her make-do weapon, she turned to Kamila. “Can you tell me about Peter, please? I mean Pueblo? What do you remember about him?”