Havana Noir

by Achy Obejas

  “I have coffee but no coffee maker,” I said in Spanish.

  “It’s right there,” she said, entering the kitchen. She slid next to me, her jasmine perfume as intoxicating as Tennessee moonshine. She grabbed hold of a metal conical object with a lid. She opened it, took out a piece of cloth shaped like a windsock, then turned, displaying it like a model at a fancy department store.

  “This is how we do it in Cuba,” she said, dumping the dried coffee grounds in the garbage and rinsing the cloth under the faucet. She bent down, picked up a small pot, put it under the faucet to fill.

  I came in close behind her, pressed myself against her back, breathing in the smell of her body, her perfume, her excitement. She didn’t move away, she just extended her arm to place the pot on the stovetop.

  “You see, we have to wait until the water boils and then we put in the coffee.”

  She turned to face me, her head cocked sideways. “Maybe you have a light?”

  I dug in my pocket, pulled out a box of waxy matches, and lit one. She took my hand, guided it to the burner under the pot, then turned to me again, still holding my hand in hers. The match was burning down to my fingertips but I didn’t care. She brought it to her lips and blew it out.

  “Pobrecito,” she said. “You burned yourself.” She kissed my fingertips then stuck them in her mouth, softly suckling them.

  I took my fingers out of her mouth and put my tongue in there instead. She suckled that too and soon we were down on the kitchen floor, her dress over her head, her arms held together as though by a lacy rope as her full breasts with her big brown nipples bumped against my chest while I entered her, and soon we were both riding a wave of light that filled the room until it burst like a balloon and we were back on a grimy tile floor in Havana waiting for the boat to get us to a better place.

  I lit a cigarette while she went to the bathroom down the hall, the overhead water tank of the toilet clanging like a fire bell when she yanked the chain. She came back into the kitchen, put the coffee in the boiling pot, and was soon serving me the inky sweet concoction Cubans call a cafecito. She sat at the table, knees together like a schoolgirl, unsure of my reaction. I said nothing and simply stared. I was waiting for her request and it didn’t take long in arriving. No free lunch in this world, my daddy always said.

  Raquel looked toward the coach house where David was still passed out on the bed. “He sleeps a lot when he takes the drugs,” she said in Spanish. “He’s always trying to run away from himself.”

  “Y tú?” I asked her. “What about you? What are you running away from?”

  She gazed back at me, weighing her response, then took a cigarette out of my pack without asking. I would have slapped her hand but sometimes you have to be tolerant to get where you want to go. I even lit the cigarette for her.

  “Me, I am running away from Camagüey. From my old man’s hut, the son of a bitch, from this fucking crazy country.”

  “Is that why you’re with the kid?”

  She cracked a hard smile. “A little American boy comes in looking for easy love and revolution? Sure. You understand. You know what they call us? Las putas del Chino.” She stopped to make sure I understood. The Chinaman’s whores. I nodded.

  “I hate fucking Chinamen. They smell of rotten fish. But that’s what I had to do, until David came around.”

  All of a sudden she dropped her cigarette, grabbed her stomach, put her hand to her mouth. “Ay Dios mío!” she said, rushing to the bathroom, barely making it in time to upchuck something green and brown and vile. I blew concentric rings of smoke watching her from the door as she flushed, rinsed her beautiful mouth, straightened out her fiimsy clothes. She saw my reflection in the mirror and she knew her game was up.

  “What month?” I asked her.

  She stared back, put on some ruby red lipstick. “Cuatro.”

  “It hardly shows,” I said.

  “It’s a good thing, otherwise I…” She turned to me, her doe eyes pleading with a mixture of fear and pride. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

  I shook my head. “No. But I’m curious: What would you do if I wasn’t here?”

  “I don’t know. But eventually, I guess I would have told him.”

  “Do you love him?”

  She shrugged, came up to me, kissed me lightly on the lips. “What is to love?”

  I saw my own reflection in a mirror above the stove—my crooked nose, the scar on my forehead, the wide-set blue eyes that were the only thing my father left me.

  “Sí,” I repeated, “what is to love?”

  We didn’t say much after that. There wasn’t much to be said. We understood each other. She wanted out and so did I. The boy in his opium-induced dream in the bed was our ticket and we had to baby him. She did it her way, I did it mine.

  Raquel returned to lie with David for a while as I waited for the sun to come up. I went out to the terrace and sat on an ornate iron bench, staring out at the sky, at the lights revolving madly above the fence and thick fortress of trees. The noise was far away now and dew was alighting, a low gray mist that seemed like a sponge wanting to wipe the whole town clean of the past, of the wrongs that had been done, of the hearts that had been broken. Or maybe it was just wiping it clean for the next round, I pondered, as I thought I heard a cry for help followed by a yelp of pain followed by the echo of a shot or two followed by silence.

  The sky was a riot of mauve, purple, and red, the sun rising like an orange ball over Marina Barlovento when I walked down to the docks. The streets were eerily empty, but Siboney—in spite of its concentration of diplomats and foreigners—had woken up as fiercely revolutionary as before it had been cravenly Batistiano. The banners of Castro’s 26 of July Movement hung from windows, while above doors a few sycophants had already put up signs announcing, Fidel, esta es tu casa. Fidel, this house is yours.

  The prospect of a five-hundred-dollar payout had been enough to rouse the old black capitán from his house in nearby Jaimanitas, enough to make him venture out, load the supplies, and chug-chug his creaking boat out to the pier.

  “Viva Fidel!” I said as I stepped on the Buena Vista, a trawler that had last seen a varnish job when it was a rumrunner’s boat docking in the rushes of Cedar Key. It had absolutely nothing in common with the sleek yachts parked at Barlovento.

  “Sssh! You want to get shot at?” said Anselmo in his low, slurring speech. “There’s a lot of Batistianos here desperate to get out. No se habla de la soga en casa del ahorcado.” Don’t mention rope in the home of the hanged. “Look, there goes Ventura’s boat!”

  He pointed at a gleaming Chris-Craft churning its way through the gray waters, carrying on board the once feared head of Batista’s secret police.

  “Sic transit,” I muttered.

  “Qué?”

  “May lightning strike him…You will be ready for us?”

  “Sure, chico. Just make certain to return within the hour. Fidel’s people and the boys from the Directorio are already taking over City Hall. I’m sure they will be here soon and who knows how long before they let people out again. They are out for blood today, compadre.”

  I turned the shower on in the coach house, dousing the still sleeping David. The water came out brown at first, but by the time it had cleared David was up and on his knees, gasping for air. I turned off the faucet, threw him a towel.

  “Let’s go, sleeping beauty. Time’s a wasting.”

  Looking like a wet retriever, David took a few bumbling steps out of the tub, then heaved into the toilet.

  I stepped outside and waited until he came out and drank the coffee Raquel had brought in for him from the main house. He looked around, taking stock of the place, obviously not remembering how he had gotten there. He smiled at me, still silent, then nodded in greeting. I nodded back and was lighting a cigarette when he dove for the window. I managed to grab him by the waistband.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you anyhow?” I said, heaving him back ins
ide and slapping him around a couple of times. He sat on the floor, Raquel hugging him.

  “I told you, I’m not going back to San Francisco,” he replied, rubbing his face where I’d landed my punch.

  “Are you crazy? You want to stay here and do what? Do you know what just happened last night?”

  “What?”

  “Listen up, you idiot. Batista just left.”

  I turned on the old shortwave radio by the window. The plummy voice of the BBC announcer cut through the moist air: “Here is the news. The President of Cuba, Fulgencio Batista, has fled the country, his government in ruins, in the face of a relentless advance by the rebel army led by a thirty-two-year-old lawyer, Fidel Castro. Thousands of Cubans took to the streets in celebration this morning as word spread of Batista’s departure for the Dominican Republic in the early hours of this day. There are reports of looting in Havana. Hundreds of slot machines from casinos have been dragged into the street and smashed. One casino has been looted. President Batista handed over power to a military junta before he left. They ordered a cease-fire and appealed to the rebel forces of Dr. Castro for cooperation. Dr. Castro, however, announced this morning on rebel radio that operations would continue. ‘The triumph of the Revolution must be complete,’ he said.”

  I turned off the radio. “Now do you get it? If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be stuck here for weeks until they get this mess straightened out. I promised your dad I would get you back to the city. Once you’re there you can do whatever you want. You can get on the next plane and come back to join all your revolutionary amigos, for all I care. Although I have a feeling they won’t wanna have a junkie yanqui on their side just now.”

  “Papi, listen to the man,” said Raquel. “Please.”

  “So either you come willingly or I’m going to have to do it the hard way,” I added.

  David rubbed his face with his hands as though in deep concentration—or disgust. “All right, all right, you win. Let’s go.”

  “Oh, papi, you are so good!” said Raquel, hugging him to her chest. I looked away, opened the front door.

  “Vamos.”

  At Marina Barlovento, Esteban was jumping around the trawler as though the deck was on fire. He waved his raggedy porkpie hat at me when he saw me trooping down with David and Raquel.

  “C’mon, c’mon, chico, they’re here already!” he said, hurrying to cast off the dock lines.

  “Who?”

  “The muchachos from the Directorio, they’re trying to stop people from leaving. Look at those guys over there.”

  He waved his hat at a group of men with rifles and machine guns boarding a large yacht three piers away. “They’re checking all the papers, they say nobody can leave without authorization. Por suerte, the harbor master is not here, so once we’re out in the water…Coño, what the hell is wrong?” The engine stopped its chug-chugging, coughed, then died. “Carajo!” cursed Esteban as he opened the engine cover by the stern and peered into the well. He cranked the engine, which let out a wet, sloshing sound.

  “What was he saying?” asked David.

  “Fidel’s people are trying to stop all the Batista people from leaving; they’re checking papers and whatnot…What’s wrong with the engine, Esteban?”

  The captain shook his head in desperation, slamming the motor with his hat. “Jodida mierda, coño,” he cursed, “this piece of shit just flooded. I can smell it.”

  He raced over to the controls by the wheel, turned off the choke, then returned to the engine well, opening the throttle. He cranked the engine, which sputtered but refused to turn over.

  “We’ve gotta go, tell him we’ve gotta go right now,” urged David.

  “I know, I know, what’s your sudden hurry?” I asked.

  “Jesus, are those them, those guys?” He pointed at a group of four men approaching the pier, led by a skinny redhead who looked familiar. That couldn’t be him, I thought.

  “Yeah, I suppose, what’s the problem? Aren’t you in good with these guys?”

  “I gotta go, I gotta go,” said David, terrified. He moved as though to jump in the water but I grabbed him, wrestled him down, pinning his shoulders with my knees.

  “Jesus, will you fucking settle down?”

  “You don’t get it, do you? I didn’t come here to help Fidel’s people; I came here to bring weapons to Batista!”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, you moron. The State Department froze all arms shipments to Cuba last fall. Through a friend of mine I got ahold of some old surplus rifles and brought them down here. The Directorio people found out and they’ve been looking for me for the last week. What the hell did you think I was doing hiding out at the Shanghai?”

  “But before—”

  “I was whacked out of my mind, idiot. I couldn’t tell my ass from a hole in the ground. But now I know what’s coming and I don’t want it!”

  I let go of him and sat down on the deck, thinking fast. Then: “Hurry down below. I’ll handle this.”

  David scurried away on all fours, slamming the door to the cabin behind him. I got up, whispered quickly to Raquel, and walked out to the dock, just in time to be greeted by my now old friend Cubela.

  “Nice day for a cruise, Mr. Blue,” said Cubela, while his four minions craned their heads, looking around the boat. Soon their eyes were fixed on Raquel, who walked out to the bow, where she proceeded to strip off her dress and sunbathe in her underwear.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking, Rolando.”

  “You know, strangely enough, after we parted, I received information from my compañeros that the gentleman you are escorting back home is wanted by our people.”

  Out on the bow of the boat Raquel turned and displayed her best assets to the gunmen, who walked up to her and began a no doubt learned conversation on buoyancy, Archimedes, and fluids displacement.

  “Really? I didn’t know Dr. Castro was so concerned about drug fiends.”

  “Well, Dr. Castro is concerned about the welfare of all people. But he is particularly interested in arms smugglers who help Batista’s torturers.”

  Now even Cubela himself sneaked a look at Raquel, distracted by her charms. As though constrained by ecdysiast duty, she stood and removed her top.

  Esteban glanced up from the engine well, gave me a furtive thumbs-up. I nodded. He cranked the engine, which awoke with a roar.

  Cubela turned his head back to look at Esteban, but at that very instant I grabbed the machine gun out of his hand and threw my left arm around his neck in a stranglehold. Placing the barrel of his gun on his shoulder next to his neck, I fired a warning shot over the heads of his men. Cubela squealed from the noise in his eardrum and the burning hot barrel against his skin.

  “Tell your men to throw their weapons in the water, now!”

  A moment passed, a gull flew by, and I wondered, Is this all there is? Cubela nodded, gave the order. The men cast their rifles into the bay, the weapons bobbing in the water for a few seconds before starting their descent into the blue-gray depths.

  “Now tell them to move back up to the pier. Slowly.”

  “You know we will find you,” warned Cubela as the men passed by us, hissing with contempt.

  “I’ll be waiting. But first, you and I are going to walk to the boat very slowly and you are going to board with me. Understood?”

  “Perfectly.”

  We took small steps to the boat, then, with the barrel of the tommy gun still to his neck, we stepped onto the splintered deck of the Buena Vista.

  “Cast off, Esteban.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Blue.”

  The boat shuddered and trimmed in, still powerful even after forty years of service. The pier quickly receded as we headed out for the open water.

  “What are you going to do with me?” asked Cubela.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I said, letting go of him to hold onto the gunwale momentarily as we bumped into a wave.

  “Well, I have!” said David, who h
ad come out from the cabin upon realizing we were heading out. Without warning, he pushed Cubela off the stern into the water. David stood on the transom, waving his fist at the bobbing head of the revolutionary. “Go get fucked, you damn Commie!”

  I glanced back at the pier and saw that another group of Directorio people had come down from the dock. One of them raised a rifle.

  “Get down! Get down, you fucking idiot!” I shouted, just before the sharpshooter fired and the bullet tore through David’s windpipe, slamming him to the deck.

  “No, no! Dios mío, no!” cried Raquel, who threw herself on the boy with the voracity of the lonely and the dispossessed. I bent down, took a cold look. I’d seen a lot of people like him in Inchon, when the Chinese attacked our positions and the guys fell like flies. There was nothing anyone could do to stop him from dying, he was choking on his own blood.

  “What should we do, mister?” asked Esteban, looking worriedly down at the boy.

  “Keep going. He’s beyond saving.” I knelt down next to him. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. He grabbed at my hands, gurgling hoarsely, wanting to let me know one last thing, one final message. I put my ear to his mouth as he said his last word, then he seized up and died.

  I let Raquel cry over his body for hours until she grew tired and worried and I reminded her she was carrying his child, and that seemed to comfort her some. I told her I’d make sure she would get her share of the old man’s money, and I laid her down to sleep in the galley. Esteban and I cleaned the deck as best we could and then placed the body on ice down below.

  It wasn’t until the sun was setting out by the Tortugas, just about an hour from Key West, that Esteban put the boat on cruise, popped open a Polar. I took a swig, the bitterness in my mouth making the beer taste almost sweet.

  “So what did he tell you, mister? What did he say at the end?”

  I lit another Chesterfield, watched in silence the deep blue of the Gulf begin to meld with the green waters of the shallows by the Keys. Esteban was still looking at me, waiting.