Michael thanked them and made his way to the highway where a large truck eventually picked him up. The back of the vehicle was crowded with other Cubans, all of whom, he learned, used hitchhiking as their primary means of transportation. The truck broke down an hour later, so Michael didn’t reach Pinar del Rio until dark. He spent the night in a sugar cane field after watching farmers methodically plow the field with oxen. He didn’t make Havana until the next afternoon.
By the time he’d checked into the hotel and showered, he was famished. But he couldn’t eat in one of the Nacional’s restaurants—too many prying eyes—so he decided to take a walk. Not wanting to call attention to himself by using a map, he ambled down the Malecón, then turned toward Vedado. His grandfather’s hotel was supposed to be nearby; he’d have to check it out.
He walked by older buildings with narrow balconies, many of which had crumbled and were supported by cinderblocks or other patchwork fixes. The decay made him think of an apocalyptic French Quarter. Porticos stretched around the corners of many buildings, offering shade, but they too were in need of structural repair. Pastel painted buildings, originally braced by columns, were now buttressed by wooden planks. Part of his brain tried to remember the difference between Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian—these were Ionic, he thought. The other part of his brain was monitoring his surroundings and the people on the street. And that part said he was being followed.
He slowed, knowing whoever was tailing him would slow too. Who the hell was it? No one knew he was here, except his family. And Walters, his contact. Was he making sure Michael was doing the job? Or was his tail involved with the Cuban authorities? Spying was the only industry not affected by Cuba’s Special Period. Intelligence always thrived, no matter what shape an economy was in. In fact, the worse things got, the more clandestine operations flourished.
For a split second he almost wheeled around to confront whoever was stalking him. Then he realized that would be rash—the tail might simply be an overeager jinetero trying to take advantage of a tourist. Or it might be no one. A healthy paranoia was the hallmark of a good MP, and Michael was jittery from lack of sleep.
As he turned the corner onto La Rampa, a faded sign on a building announced he had reached “Cafeteria Cubana.” He ducked inside. The blast of cold air that usually slaps people when they enter an air-conditioned place in the States didn’t happen, and for a moment Michael, who’d already started sweating, was irritated. But no one followed him in, and three large ceiling fans circulated air. He decided to stay.
The room was large and well-lit, but paint was peeling off the walls, and on one side a crack ran from floor to ceiling. A radio droned with a rant about Cuban rectification, Fidel’s reaction to the growing divide between Cuba and the Soviet Union.
Only two of the fifteen tables were occupied. He realized why when he went to the counter. Most of the steel serving tubs behind the glass shield were empty. Only three bins at the far end near the cash register were filled, two with rice and beans, the third with some kind of stew. Behind the counter a woman in a stained yellow uniform stood up from a stool as he slid a tray towards her. He nodded. She took a plate, scooped up stew, rice and beans, and set it on top of the counter.
“How about a Coca-Cola?” he asked in Spanish.
“We don’t have any.”
He looked around. No vending machines but he saw a pot of coffee, and a carafe of water on a small table.
“What do you have?”
“Mango juice.”
“Okay. Gracias.”
He paid, picked up his tray, and went to a table. He slipped off his backpack and dropped it on the floor beside his chair. The meal was surprisingly good, and he wolfed it down in less than a minute, so he went back for more. Once he’d polished off a second helping, he sipped his juice and looked around. An elderly man with sienna skin sat at one table, alternately smoking an unfiltered cigarette, then taking a forkful of rice. At the other was a young woman reading a book.
Michael took off his sunglasses. Despite the fact that the old man had soft food, it looked like he was having a hard time chewing. He realized why when the man opened his mouth. He was missing nearly all his teeth. Michael looked away. The woman was studiously ignoring her surroundings. She had beautiful skin, a long nose, and from what he could see, nice eyes. She reminded him a little of Barbra Streisand, except she was shorter, and more compact, with short brown-blonde hair in a bob. She was attractive, but her expression, though absorbed in reading, said she’d take no bullshit from anyone.
He decided it was safe enough to take out his map of Havana, so he leaned over, unzipped the backpack, and pulled it out. As he did, the door of the cafeteria opened. He glanced up. A young man, hands in his pockets, came in. Michael couldn’t tell if it was the guy who’d been tailing him, but he looked like he had nothing to do, which was suspicious. Michael went on alert. He figured the guy for an informant, maybe the head of the neighborhood CDR, a huge network of spies the State had created to report on the activities of their neighbors. Maybe he’d been called by the woman behind the counter. Michael decided he should probably take off.
He was about to get up when the woman from the other table rose and started toward him. The guy who entered looked like he was heading his way, too. With two people approaching from opposite directions, Michael was cornered. Was this an ambush? He swore softly. His hunting knife and the small 9-millimeter he’d bought in Cancun were in his backpack. He was about to grab it when the woman passed by his table. She tripped on the backpack and flailed her arms.
“¡Mierda! Que es eso?” she cried angrily.
Michael jumped up to steady her. “I’m so sorry. Please, sit down.” As he was talking he bent over to grab his backpack. “Are you hurt?”
She sank into an empty chair and massaged her ankle. “I don’t know,” she snapped. Then she lowered her voice. “Keep talking.”
Michael didn’t miss a beat. “Should I take you to a doctor? Or the hospital? I’ll go find a taxi.” And then disappear.
“I am a doctor,” she said in the same low voice. Then she spoke normally. “I twisted it, no thanks to you.” She glared. “The least you can do is help me out of here.”
“Of course.” He made a show of helping her get up. “Put your arm around my shoulders.”
She rose and draped her arm around him. The man who’d come in a moment ago stopped when she tripped, but called out. “Señorita, may I be of assistance?”
She replied with a stream of invective so rapid that Michael had trouble understanding it. He did pick up the words “estupido,” “turista,” and “venda,” bandage. She turned to Michael. “Get my bag.” She pointed to the floor where she’d dropped it when she lost her balance. He complied.
The man who’d come in kept his distance, apparently deciding it wasn’t worth getting involved. Michael led her to the door, the woman hopping on one foot. With his backpack and her purse slung over his shoulders, he awkwardly maneuvered her out to the street.
“Take me around the corner.” She lifted her chin slightly to the right. Michael continued, half carrying, half supporting her. Their bodies were so close he could smell her. Sweet and sweaty. They rounded the corner, and halfway down the block, the woman stopped and turned around. So did Michael. No one else in sight. The woman put her foot down and took a few steps, with no limp whatsoever.
“Muchas gracias,” Michael said.
“I didn’t like the look of that man.” She studied him. “But with your American clothes and map, you certainly were dar la nota.”
He cocked his head, surprised she was so observant.
“You made a spectacle out of yourself.”
“Ahh…” He nodded. “I didn’t know the cafeteria would be that empty. I was trying to ditch him.”
“Then it’s a good thing I was there,” she said drily.
“Who do you think he was?”
“Probably nobody. But he’ll tell the CDR about you.”
>
Nothing he could do about that. He took out his sunglasses and slipped them on. “Are you really a doctor?”
“Sì. But I am not working today.”
“Your day off?”
“My schedule is—irregular—these days.”
He held out his hand. “I am Miguel.”
She took it. “Carla Garcia.”
He held her hand a beat longer. “A pretty name. For a pretty woman.”
She dropped her hand. “Do you say that to all the women you trip?”
“Only the ones I want to see again.”
She tried to scowl, but little crow’s feet danced in the corners of her eyes. Up close, those eyes were emerald green, he noticed.
They continued to walk and chat. An hour later Michael decided he didn’t want to find a casa particular. He knew where he wanted to spend the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Michael sat on Carla’s balcony at dusk that evening, watching a brisk wind whip the fronds of palm trees. Her apartment was off Calle Ocho in Vedado, on the fourth floor of a building that at one time had been a mansion. Vedado, in uptown Havana, was the heart of the city’s financial and commercial district, but its residential parts reminded Michael of Chicago’s Lincoln Park. Unfortunately, many of the buildings, built years ago in the graceful Spanish tradition, had deteriorated so much a feather could knock them down. And while the Soviets had built their share of buildings since the revolution, they were little more than ugly boxes that lacked architectural sophistication. One apartment building, near the former Riviera resort, was particularly unattractive and clashed with the expansive American-style structure behind it.
Inside, Carla’s furniture was old and shabby; her TV was a cheap Soviet model, and her radio looked older than the revolution. But the walls were a cheerful red, and except for the cracks that were becoming all too familiar, looked freshly painted. She also had plenty of plants, which were all flourishing. And the apartment wasn’t too far from the Malecón. Michael smelled a faint tang in the air.
Carla brought out two drinks and handed one to him. He took a sip. Rum and some kind of juice. Slightly chilled and sweet. “You live by yourself?”
She sat in a chair, took a sip, and nodded. “The rent is not expensive. It’s all subsidized. Of course, there’s nothing worth buying, even if I did have money.” She said it matter-of-factly, without anger or regret.
“I know you work for the state, but you’re a doctor. Shouldn’t you be at the top of the pay scale?”
A puzzled expression shot across her face, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether to scold him or explain. “We are at the top of the scale. Seven hundred pesos a month.”
Michael made a mental calculation. “That’s only about thirty-five dollars. How do you get by?”
“Many don’t. People are starving here. There’s malnutrition. And disease. And no medicine. Or vitamins. People have asthma, they go blind, they can no longer have babies. That’s why I do not work full time. My hours have been cut. And when I do work, all I do is send people home to die.”
The wind kicked up again. An open door or shutter banged. Then the lights inside snapped off.
“¡Mierda!” Carla whipped around. “It happens all the time.” She went back to her drink, took another sip. The dim light from the street threw long shadows across her face. “So who are you, Miguel? Why are you here? Are you visiting family?”
“In a way.”
She stared at him. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t like pendejadas. Bullshit. I can smell it a mile away. Cubans have a sixth sense for it.”
Chagrined, Michael leaned forward and swirled his drink. “My mother lived here when she was a child.”
Carla perked up. “Really? What province was she from?”
“She’s American. Her father ran one of the hotels and casinos before the revolution.”
“Which one?”
“La Perla.”
“I know it. I have snapshots of my parents there. They used to go on special occasions. It was a luxurious place.” She laughed. “You know that today the casino is a convention hall, no? In fact, I was—”
A knock on the door cut her off. Michael tensed.
She waved a hand. “Do not worry. It is probably my upstairs neighbor. She will be needing a candle, and I have a secret supply. From the clinic,” she added.
He let himself relax.
She got up and went to the door. “You asked how we get by. Cubans are quite creative at survival. There is an expression for it. ‘Resolver.’”
“To resolve?” he asked.
She held up a finger on one hand and opened the door with the other. He heard the murmur of a woman’s voice.
“Come in,” Carla said. “We’re on the balcony.”
While Carla rummaged around inside, the woman came out. Michael couldn’t see clearly in the dusky light, but he thought she looked emaciated, with limp hair that hung past her shoulders. He had the sense she had been attractive at one time, but that was in the past.
“Buenas tardes,” he said.
When she smiled, her mouth opened. She was missing two teeth. “Buenas tardes.”
Carla returned with two candles. “For you, Juliana.”
“Muchas gracias, Carla.” She wrapped her arms around Carla and hugged her tight. “You are my angel.” Then she waved to Michael and disappeared through the door.
“She doesn’t look good,” he said.
Carla brought another candle out to the balcony, lit it, and sat. “She is sick.”
“With what?”
“The disease you call AIDS.”
He took in a breath. “It’s spread here? How did—”
Carla cut him off. “How do you think? Tourists come, and Cuban women do what they must. It’s all part of ‘resolver.’” Then as if realizing what she’d said, she added, “I choose not to go that route, of course.”
Michael decided to believe her. Or maybe he wanted to. “Does she know how sick she is? She must stop what she’s doing.”
“I have told her she should go home to Camaguey. But her parents say she has disgraced them and is no longer their daughter.” Her voice rose, sounding close to despair. “I can do nothing. We do not even have simple antibiotics.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Carla blinked several times, as if blinking would blot it out. Or perhaps she was fighting back tears. Then she cleared her throat. “You were saying, you are here… why?”
Michael picked up her cue. “To see where my mother lived. They had a house in Miramar before they moved into the hotel.”
“Your father, he is Italian?”
“Yes.”
“So he lived here too?”
“No. We—well—it’s not important.”
“I see.” This time she picked up his cue. “And where are you staying?”
“My bag is at the Nacional.”
She let the silence grow between them. Her gaze was cool. Then, “Why are you really here?”
Michael hung his head, like a student who’s been chastised by the teacher. He didn’t want to lie. “I’m looking for someone.”
In the candlelight he saw deep lines crease her forehead. She looked like she was trying to make a decision. He realized he hoped it would be in his favor.
“OK. I understand you are not ready to tell me the truth. Entiendo. Do not tell me. But be forewarned. What I cannot bear are lies. You must never lie to me, okay? Not—how do you say it in English—a little white lie.”
He nodded. Her eyes didn’t move from his face. Had she extended an invitation?
As if she read his thoughts, she added, “Now, why don’t you get your bag from the hotel?”
• • •
A morning sun brushed the clouds with rose and gold as Michael and Carla sipped coffee the next morning. In daylight the view from the balcony was mostly other buildings, but the hint of the bay behind them was a tease.
�
�That’s the last of the coffee until next month.” Carla’s cup clanked as she put it down on the saucer.
“My mother loves Cuban coffee,” Michael said. “Maybe I can find some.”
She laughed. “You will need to be a magician. The only coffee around is black market, and it costs more than gold.” She stood. She was wearing a ratty Yankees t-shirt. Michael imagined the curves underneath the shirt, curves he had come to know well last night.
But Carla was all business. “I must dress. I work at the polyclinic until seven.”
“Where is it?”
She gestured off the balcony to the left. “A few blocks away. Off La Rampa. In an older building that’s covered with murals. What are you going to do?”
“I guess I’ll start looking for the man I need to contact.” He got up too. “He’s in the military, and he spent time in Angola. Would you happen to know any bars or paladars that cater to soldiers?”
She frowned. He liked how her brow furrowed, then smoothed out when an idea came. “One of the doctors I work with was in Angola. Come with me, and we’ll ask him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Michael hopped down from the taxi at the gates of Havana’s Chinatown. A cross between a rickshaw and a golf cart except that a man pedaled a bicycle in front, vehicles like these were common in the oil-starved capital. This must be what Carla meant by “resolver,” he thought.
He paid the driver the equivalent of a dollar in pesos, including tip, and went to the entrance arch. He hadn’t known there was a Barrio Chino in Havana. In fact, the very idea seemed bizarre. How did the Chinese get to Cuba? When? And most important, why? He peered at the gate. If he blinked, he could have been back in Chicago. The entrance arch was gray, not red, and the pagoda roofs gold, not green, but otherwise he might have been standing at Cermak and Wentworth, not Calle Dragone.
He walked through the gate and down the street. He’d met Carla’s doctor friend, Mario, earlier that morning at the clinic. Mario had spent almost two years in Angola. He knew of a paladar in Miramar for officers, but you had to be a Coronel or higher to get in. There was also the Hotel Habana Libre in Vedado. It had housed Fidel’s soldiers for several days after they took Havana; Michael might find an enlisted man or two hanging around. And, Mario said, he’d run into a couple of officers in Chinatown—one of them lived above a restaurant, he thought.
[2012] Havana Lost Page 16
