[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  The Miramar paladar and the Hotel Libre weren’t far from Carla’s apartment, so Michael decided to try Chinatown first. Now, as he wandered down Calle Dragone, he noticed the same Chinese shops as in Chicago. Stacked almost on top of each other, he smelled the same greasy aromas and spices, although here they were mixed with the cloying scent of overripe fruit. The same red lanterns dangled above the doors, and the same junk was for sale in the shops. Curiously, there were more black Cubans than Chinese in Chinatown, but the Chinese who were there spoke Spanish and seemed to have lost the sharpness of their Asian features. Their faces, the result of generations of intermarriage, made Michael think of an ink stamp that’s been imprinted too many times.

  Mario couldn’t remember the name of the restaurant where he’d seen the soldiers but thought it was halfway down the first street to the right. It served Italian food, he added. Amused at the thought of an Italian restaurant in the middle of Chinatown in Cuba, Michael turned the corner. The side street was so narrow he doubted a small car could navigate through, much less a restaurant supply truck.

  Nevertheless, halfway down the street, a banner hanging from a second story window flapped in the breeze. The words “La Traviata” in capital letters were printed on a background of red, white, and green. Michael opened the street door and climbed up a flight of stairs. The door to the restaurant was slightly ajar. He pushed through.

  A woman with curly black hair, brown skin, and features that looked part Asian, part Hispanic was setting tables. She scowled at him.

  “We do not open for another hour.”

  He eyed the tablecloth she was smoothing out. Yellowed and stained, it wasn’t much more than a remnant of fabric. “I’m not here to eat. I’m looking for someone.”

  The woman tensed. Michael wondered what secrets she was hiding. Then, as if she’d decided it was wiser to attack than submit to a stranger’s request, her eyes narrowed and her voice tightened. “Americano, no? What do you want?”

  Michael stood his ground. “There is an officer here who was posted to Angola. I need to talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s personal.”

  A wily glance spread across her face. “No esta aqui.”

  Michael decided to up the ante. “But we had a meeting.”

  Confusion swam across her face. Michael repressed a smile. Now she wasn’t sure what to believe. Exactly what he wanted.

  She looked around as if taking inventory, should he try to steal the room’s belongings. “Stay here.” She ducked through the door and climbed a second flight of stairs.

  Michael sat at one of the tables, facing the door in case there was a problem. So far, so good. He drummed his fingers on the table.

  A moment later, he heard raised voices upstairs. A man was cursing. “I don’t know any malditos American! It’s a trap!” The woman’s voice was pleading. “He says he knows you.” Michael heard a snort. Followed by a snarl, and a curse directed at the woman. There was no reply, but a moment later footsteps clattered down the steps. The woman, probably, judging from the tread. Then a heavier step.

  The woman burst into the room. She refused to look at Michael and disappeared into the kitchen. She was followed by a man who looked like he’d just woken up. Middle-aged and swarthy, he needed a shave. His hair, and there was a lot of it, was turning gray, and chest hair stuck out over a yellowed undershirt. He’d thrown on a pair of pants; still, he looked like an older Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire.

  He peered at Michael through bloodshot eyes. “¿Quién eres tu?” Who are you? “¿Qué carajo quieres conmigo?” And what the fuck are you doing?

  “I am Miguel DeLuca. We’ve never met. I apologize. But I didn’t know any other way to get you to talk to me. I’m looking for a man. I was told you might be able to help.”

  The man cursed under his breath—Michael couldn’t quite catch it—then rubbed his hand over his chin stubble. Then he walked to the bar on the other side of the room, took a glass, and poured himself a generous shot of rum. He appraised Michael. “What’s in it for me?”

  Michael smiled inwardly. “Twenty-five dollars. American.”

  The man tossed back his shot and poured another. “Make it fifty.”

  Michael appeared to consider it. Then, “If the information pans out… okay.”

  The man made another snorting sound, as if he realized he probably could have wangled another fifty out of him. Then he wiggled his fingers, motioning for the money.

  Michael went over, slipped out a fifty from his billfold, and handed it over.

  The man looked satisfied. “So?”

  “I’m looking for an officer who was posted to Angola in ‘88 and ‘89.”

  The man scowled. “Angola is a big country. Over 50,000 Cubans were stationed there at any one time. What was his name?”

  “Luis Perez.”

  “Where was he posted?”

  “Lucapa.”

  Recognition lit his face. “Lunda Norte.”

  Michael nodded, daring to hope.

  “Too bad. I wasn’t anywhere near there.”

  Michael suppressed his disappointment. “Where were you?”

  “In the south. Cuito Cuanavale. I was there during the run-up for the last battle.”

  It had been a long shot, Michael thought.

  The man called to the woman in the kitchen. She came out with a Montecristo cigar. “Uno mas,” he ordered. She retraced her steps, returning with another. He motioned for her to hand it to Michael. “It’s the real thing, Americano. None of your Yankee imitations.”

  Michael nodded his thanks and took the match the man offered.

  They smoked in silence for a minute. Then, “Why are you looking for this man?”

  “He has something that belongs to me.”

  The man smirked. “Cubans have nothing of value these days.”

  “Let’s just say it has—sentimental—value.”

  The man tipped his head to the side. “Are you CIA?”

  Michael choked back a laugh. “No.” That much was true.

  “Mafia?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  The man’s expression said he didn’t believe Michael, but he kept puffing on his cigar. The overt hostility was gone, Michael thought. That was good. In fact, with the cigar smoke curling up, Michael was reminded of his grandfather.

  The man’s gaze turned calculating. “It’s possible I might know men who were stationed up north.”

  “Is that so?”

  The man nodded.

  “How do I know you’ll steer me in the right direction? As you said, there were a lot of soldiers in Angola.”

  “Up to you. You don’t want? You take the cigar and go.”

  Michael appraised the man. Then he put his cigar in an ashtray, withdrew another ten, and put it in the man’s palm. It was probably another long shot. The man fingered the cash and arched his eyebrows. Michael pulled out another twenty.

  The man nodded and closed his hand around the money. “There is a man. We flew back from Luanda together. He was stationed in the north.”

  Michael’s pulse sped up. “What is his name?”

  “That I do not know. But he runs a small shop in La Havana Vieja. A print shop. In a warehouse. Near the Cathedral. Of course, he might have closed. The economy, you know.”

  Michael stubbed out the cigar. He wondered if the man was telling him the truth or whether, after he left, the man’s nose would lengthen like Pinocchio’s. Then again, he didn’t have a choice. This was his only lead. He nodded at the man and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A hot tropical sun glinted off the handlebars of the bicycle taxi as Michael rode to La Havana Vieja that afternoon. After his encounter in Chinatown’s Italian restaurant, a paradox he would find forever ironic, he hailed another bicycle taxi, which took him to another Havana—not the Havana of the Malecón, or that of Carla’s apartment. Parts of Old Havana, especially near the po
rt, were almost a shanty town. Streets had crumbled from neglect, laundry was strung up across yards, and telephone pole wires were strung so haphazardly it was no wonder the Cuban phone system was unreliable.

  Michael asked how much he owed and was astounded when the guy told him the fare was less than two dollars American. He gave the guy a huge tip. The cyclist’s eyes widened as he stuffed the cash into his pocket. Michael hoped the guy’s family would eat well that night.

  As he stepped down from the taxi, Michael pulled out his map. The officer in Chinatown said the shop was near the Cathedral of San Cristóbal. Michael set off. Burrowing deep into Old Havana, he wound around narrow cobblestone streets and buildings that reflected Cuba’s Spanish heritage. Eventually he reached a wide plaza.

  Before him was the cathedral. He stood in front, studying its elegant baroque stone façade and the asymmetry of its two towers. Someone had a sense of humor, he thought. He remembered his mother telling him she used to light candles inside, so he went in. No one was there, but the marble floor, granite columns and gentle arches cast a cool hush. He walked around the nave, admiring the ornate carvings and artwork. Sure enough, in the rear of the church, near the door he’d entered was a table filled with flickering votive candles.

  He exited the church and turned right. The thought that his mother had walked these same streets filled him with a curious sensation. What was she doing here? Who did she spend time with? A small café sat about a hundred feet down from the plaza, and he had a feeling he should stop in for a coffee. He started towards it, but then remembered he had a job to do. Coffee would have to wait.

  He retraced his steps to the plaza and made a circuit around its wide perimeter. The buildings on and off the plaza weren’t as architecturally sophisticated or well-maintained as the church; in fact most looked downright seedy. Michael peered down one area off the plaza. It wasn’t long enough to call a street. It was more like a recessed alley or alcove and ended abruptly at a three-story building with two wide doors that might be the entrance to a warehouse.

  Was this the place?

  Michael crept closer. The doors had once been painted white, but like everything else in Havana, the paint was chipped and peeling. He looked up. The eaves of the roof sagged, and there were no windows. He let his gaze wander and spied a narrow walkway to the left of the doors. He went over. Dark shadows dimmed his view, but twenty yards down, the walkway spilled into a tiny courtyard surrounded by dilapidated buildings. On the second floor balcony of one, a black-skinned woman in a white gown and turban stared down at him. As soon as they made eye contact, she disappeared inside so quickly Michael wasn’t sure she’d been there at all. What was that about?

  He backtracked to the doors of the warehouse and leaned his ear against them. A radio blared jazz from inside, but it was competing with a high-pitched whine, which periodically started then stopped. Michael took note of his surroundings, in case he had to make a hasty retreat. Then he took his nine millimeter out of his backpack, pulled out his shirt, and stashed the gun under his waistband.

  He approached the doors, knocked, and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  He wasn’t surprised; if someone was inside, the noise of the radio and whatever machine was working probably drowned out his knock. He grasped a door handle. It turned easily, and the door opened. Cautiously, he peered inside.

  A light bulb swung from the ceiling, providing dim illumination, but it was helped by bars of light slanting through the open door. The floor was cement with spider-web cracks running through it. The fact that it was cement suggested that at one time, the place must have been a working factory. The walls, down to studs in places, were corroded and bare, and an assortment of wires ran randomly across them. One cord led to a self-standing fan, which, by its screech and rattle, was responsible for much of the noise.

  At the back of the shop two men hunched over what looked like an old-fashioned printing press. Two huge wheels turned a drum that was attached to an elaborate metal frame. Their backs were toward Michael, but the men looked to be in their fifties, maybe older. One was practically bald with droopy jowls. The other had a mop of greasy gray hair. Both wore sweat-stained undershirts and baggy pants. The bald man went to the wall, plugged in a cord, and the high-pitched whine Michael heard outside resumed. The wheels turned for about three rotations, then stopped.

  “¡Mierda!” one of the men snapped.

  Absorbed in whatever the press was—or wasn’t—doing, the men didn’t notice Michael, so he rapped on the door again, this time from inside.

  “Buenos dias, Señores.”

  The men turned and looked at him. Frown lines appeared on the bald man’s face. The man with all the hair stuck out his lower lip in disapproval. Neither replied.

  Michael continued in Spanish. “I was told by a former army officer in Chinatown that the owner of this shop served in Northern Angola.”

  The bald man’s frown deepened, and he exchanged a glance with the other. They both stared at Michael as if he was a space alien.

  Michael persevered. “I’m looking for a man. A colonel who was stationed in Lucapa two years ago.”

  Another look passed between the men. The bald man rubbed his chin, which had at least three days’ worth of stubble. “Quién carajo es usted?” he asked. Who the fuck are you?

  Michael had prepared his cover story on the way. “I was also in Angola. Not a soldier. A doctor.”

  The bald, jowly man arched his eyebrows. “Where?”

  “Dundo.”

  “A hell hole, that place. The whole country, in fact.”

  Michael nodded his agreement. “So you’re the owner of this—factory?”

  The bald man laughed, but it was a hollow, raucous sound. “You call this a factory?” He waved a hand. “No lights. No power. No money.” He shook his head. “And I don’t own it.”

  Of course he didn’t, Michael thought. The state owned everything. He tried to smile away the mistake, but the second man, who’d been watching him carefully, broke in. “So who is this colonel you’re looking for?”

  Michael turned to him. “His name is Luis Perez.”

  “And who are you?” His gaze turned calculating.

  “I am Michael DeLuca.”

  “DeLuca? Italiano?”

  “My father. My mother is Cuban,” Michael lied. “She almost left in fifty-nine. Then changed her mind. My father was a sailor,” he said. “I didn’t know him.”

  The second man’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you looking for this colonel?”

  “He has information I need.”

  The man’s face darkened. A gust of wind—or was it the fan—swept the scent of burning rubber across the room.

  Michael could tell the men weren’t buying his cover. They probably suspected him of being CDR. Maybe secret police. He wondered if they might try to take him down, although he wasn’t too worried. He was thirty-two, well-trained, and armed. They were in late middle-age, paunchy, and looked like they could throw a punch about as far as a goat. Still, they might have friends around the corner who were in better shape. He should play it cool. After all, they didn’t have to believe his cover; they only had to believe he was no threat.

  “What kind of information does this—colonel—have for you?”

  Michael looked around the shop, as if searching for bugs or other surveillance equipment. “You know how walls have ears. But it is nothing illegal, and nothing political. It is simply something this man saw in Angola. Something that’s important to me.” He hesitated. Then, “I am prepared to compensate you for the information.”

  The second man snorted. “I thought so. Your accent is not Cuban. Or Mexican. You are Americano?”

  Michael didn’t answer. They probably figured he was CIA. Even so, he sensed they were considering his offer.

  Finally the bald man said, “How much?”

  Michael tilted his head. “Depends if you find him.”

  “You pay in dollars?”
r />   “If you want.”

  The men exchanged another glance. The second man dropped his arms. It was a signal.

  Jowly Man rubbed his chin again. “I will ask,” he finally said. “But people—you know how it is here—they don’t talk.”

  Michael nodded. “How much to loosen their lips?”

  They bartered and came to an agreement. It was more than Michael expected. Then again, Cuba was in a bad way. Still, as he forked over the cash, he didn’t doubt for a minute that he was being conned.

  “Come back in day after tomorrow. Viernes. Maybe I will have information for you.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  The man licked his lips, then broke into a grin. “Then you will have contributed to the betterment of the revolución.”

  • • •

  At Carla’s apartment that evening, Michael said, “Let’s go to dinner. I’ll take you to a paladar in Old Havana.”

  Carla, who was changing out of her work clothes, stopped, her blouse half-unbuttoned. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  She took off her blouse and put on a t-shirt and shorts. Then she turned to Michael and planted her hands on her hips. “You Americans! You think all you have to do is come to our country, flaunt your dollars, and we will bend over backwards to serve and obey.”

  Startled, Michael stepped back. “It’s just dinner, Carla. To—thank you for letting me stay here.”

  A flush crept up her neck, and she ran her hand through her short brown-blond hair. Michael wasn’t sure what to say. The anger bubbling under the surface gave her a perversely attractive quality, and in her shorts and t-shirt, with her hair swept back, she looked sexy. But she must have sensed his thoughts, because she wheeled around and stomped into the living room.