People talk about heartbreak like it’s this poetic thing, but there was an actual, physical ache in my chest. Like Ana had reached down my throat and squeezed until something went squish.
Except none of this was her fault. I knew that.
It was mine.
For pressing on when she’d said no.
For believing I could change her mind.
I’d imagined a hundred shared futures when she’d never even hinted at one.
I’d built a castle in the air. She had only let it fall to earth.
When we got back, Ana took the elevator up. I took the stairs. My thighs burned from the exertion. I didn’t care.
On our floor, I passed Rafaela leaving her apartment. She started when she noticed me and waved me over. “Come here for a moment.”
I nearly told her to leave me alone, but caught myself. Acting like an asshole wouldn’t make me feel any better. “Hi, Rafaela.”
“I’ve got news for you. I found Ricardo.”
I looked at her without comprehension.
“Ricardo Eugenio. Your mother’s friend.”
“Oh.”
Rafaela smacked her lips, perhaps disappointed at my reaction. “He’s in Trinidad. Your mother’s birthplace.”
“That’s great.”
“I thought you’d want to know.”
“I do,” I assured her. “Thank you.”
She nodded. “I can get you his address if you like. I’m not sure he has a phone number.”
“That would be wonderful,” I said. But really, it didn’t seem very important.
I got away from Rafaela and went inside. Yosvany wasn’t back yet. Thankfully, Juanita and Yolanda were asleep already, and Ana had disappeared into her room. I ate a wilted banana and went straight to bed.
Or rather, I went to Yosvany’s room and lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. It’s amazing, how fascinating every crack in the ceiling becomes in such situations.
Sometime long into the night, Yosvany came back. He smelled of rum but walked with sure, easy steps and sat on his bed with controlled grace.
“Well?” he asked. “How did it go?”
So I told him. It took an effort to talk, but once I did the words poured forth as from an unplugged toilet.
“I don’t understand where I went wrong,” I said in the end.
“I’m sorry, primo,” he said. “But hey, at least now you know.”
I couldn’t believe how lightly he said that. “I guess.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll find a girl for you. Una jebita de pinga pa’ kimbartela.”
That’s not it, I wanted to tell him. I didn’t want someone to sleep with. I wanted someone special. But I could imagine him laughing to hear that. So I kept quiet.
Long after Yosvany fell asleep I kept quiet—held back all the things I wanted to say and shout and cry, until I’d become a turducken of misery. With that image firmly in mind, I finally fell asleep.
I might easily have spent Sunday wallowing in entirely reasonable self-pity. I had a few seasons of Person of Interest on my laptop. That cure had helped with Rachel Snow, after all.
And indeed, for five brainless hours I made a good start on the project. But when I emerged in search of lunch—well after four in the afternoon—I found Yolanda in the kitchen. She stood at the window, staring out across Havana to the Morro.
I didn’t recognize her at first. Gone was her long, smooth hair—she’d buzzed her head near bare, leaving a stylish bit of dark fuzz. She looked younger, a punk college kid, and she wore clothes to match. Ripped jeans, a bright yellow T-shirt.
When she turned to me, I flinched inwardly, expecting to see knowledge in her eyes, and maybe amusement—surely she’d heard of yesterday’s disaster by now. But all I saw on her face was worry.
“Well?” she asked. “Do you think they’ll recognize me?”
“Uh . . . who?”
“Those guys.” She waved her hand impatiently. “The ones who took Miranda.”
Oh. “I don’t think so.”
“Good.” She went to the table, put her hand on the back of one wooden chair, squeezed. “Good. I haven’t even talked to her family. I can’t risk it. Those poor people—imagine what they’re going through.”
I felt very small, with my girl problems. “I’ll go check my mail,” I said. “See if the video has gotten any reaction.”
“I’ll come with you,” Yolanda said.
I was glad for the company. We walked over to the Hotel Parque Central and talked all the way. Ana’s name didn’t come up even once. We settled in the same upstairs corner as before and got online.
I had an email from Lettuce. It said, Check out this cool new cat video! Attached was a self-extracting archive that asked for a password. After I put in Kenna’s special name, a series of GIF images extracted to my desktop.
Screenshots.
A snapshot of a YouTube video. 4,357 views. Thirteen comments.
A prominent political blog, with a link to the video and a brief article about Miranda Galvez’s abduction. Sixteen comments.
Reddit. Not front page but a top-rated post on /r/Politics. 120 comments.
Yolanda looked from image to image with avid interest. “What does this mean?”
“The word is getting out,” I said. “Thousands of people have watched the video.”
“Oh, great.” Yolanda took my hand, squeezed it. “Great, great. Thank you, cousin.”
“I can’t promise this will achieve anything,” I said. “You can post a video about the right way to peel a banana and it will get five thousand hits.”
Still, it warmed me, hearing Yolanda’s excitement. Made me feel like maybe this whole trip wasn’t a failure after all.
When we got back, Ana and Yosvany were watching the TV in the living room. I said hi as if nothing had happened. “What are you guys up to?”
“They’re playing an old Fidel speech,” Yosvany said.
“It’s been twenty minutes about oppression of the poor around the world, all big words and drama, not a single policy proposal.” Ana gestured at the screen, where Fidel had at that moment raised an admonitory grayscale finger. “Let’s go dancing. It’s the Milocho today, isn’t it?”
The prospect of dancing sounded about as enticing as napping on a bed of nails. “Sure! Let’s go dancing,” I said.
In the máquina to the club, Yosvany and Ana talked nonstop. He was setting up interviews for her with a few small-time salsa bands around town. “It’ll give you a different perspective for the film,” he said. “A musician’s perspective. It’s different watching the dance floor from the stage, seeing how people react to what you’re playing.”
“Awesome,” Ana said. “Isn’t this awesome, Rick?”
“Sure.” I sat in the corner of the car, pretending I was reading something on my phone. “Yosvany’s the best.”
The Milocho was hopping when we arrived. On stage, the resident dance troupe was leading the crowd in a zumba-like routine set to a bombastic, reggaetonized Charanga Habanera piece—shoulders twitching, torsos swaying, hips thrusting. A sea of yumas crowded the floor.
Yosvany led us through the maze of packed tables around the floor. At every other table, someone got up to greet him, talk to him, clap him on the back, like he was a movie star at Comic-Con. I wondered what it was about him that made everyone want to be his friend. Even I couldn’t bring myself to dislike him—despite all the crap he talked, despite the way Ana looked at him sometimes.
“Oh, hey,” Ana said. “Pablo.”
There he was, getting up from his table with a grin on his face. “My favorite students!”
If we were his favorite students, I shuddered to imagine how he treated his least favorites. Just Friday Pablo had called me a dancing kangaroo, and he hadn’t been kidding.
Then Pablo’s companion got up from the table, a short, portly white man in his sixties. “I’m Rodrigo. Please, sit with us.”
“R
odrigo runs a big dance school for tourists in Habana Vieja,” Pablo explained. “We’re thinking about working together.”
“Just considering some possibilities,” Rodrigo said. “It’s still early.”
So that’s why the enthusiasm. Pablo was trying to get a job.
“Pablo’s the best,” Yosvany spoke up. “I’ve seen him work and, man, he gets results. Like, take my cousin here. When he got here, the way he danced, en candela. I mean, I wanted to poke my eyes out.”
“Thanks, Yosvany,” I said.
“But now,” Yosvany said, “he actually dances. And it’s only been a month.”
“Really.” Rodrigo looked at me with interest. “So you’re good?”
“Uh . . . me defiendo.” I shrugged. “Pablo taught us a lot.”
“Pablo’s amazing,” Ana agreed, though I could almost hear her thinking when he’s sober.
“I try my best,” Pablo said, all humility.
At that moment the music faded out. This guy with a mohawk took the mic onstage. “Iiiit’s salsa time! The famous! Milocho! Dance! Contest! It’s now or never, ladies and gentlemen! Show us what you’ve got!”
“Excellent timing,” Rodrigo said. “Do an old guy a favor, kids. Go dance in the contest. I’d love to see Pablo’s students in action.”
Pablo looked as though he’d woken up in the middle of the night to find a Xenomorph looming over him. “Unfortunately Rick injured his foot the other day,” he said.
“Oh, it’s fine,” I said, staring right at him. “I’m feeling much better already.”
Ana looked at me as though I needed to get my head examined. Then she shrugged. “Sure.”
“Good luck,” Yosvany muttered.
A few days ago, I would have shaken with cold fear. Tonight, I didn’t care. I didn’t need to impress Ana anymore. And, well, there’s only so much knocking your knees can do in any twenty-four-hour period.
We walked out onto the floor. A scattering of applause met us. “Marvelous!” said the mohawk emcee. “Whooooo’s next? Let’s see a few more couples!”
I looked around, searching the crowd for who might compete against us. But no one stirred.
“Come on, guys!” the emcee cried. “The winner gets Havana Club! The ultimate in Cuban rum!”
Two other couples emerged. The first was a lanky Asian guy and a white European-looking woman. I could tell from the way they moved that they weren’t very good. But the second couple was Cuban and they were dancers. A muscle-bound black guy who moved lightly on legs like tree trunks, and a pale willowy woman who didn’t merely walk onto the floor, but spun into place beside her partner. She was all in white. An Iyabó, a Santería initiate, like Pablo’s daughter.
Watching the way she moved, I was sure we’d already lost the competition.
“Good, good,” the emcee called. “We’re ready. DJ, music, please.”
With a triple blast of drums and horns, the music sounded. The song was “Agua Pa’ Yemaya,” a joyful anthem by Elio Revé. I could dance to this.
And we did. We came together with playful rumba steps, my hand in the air, waving a stylized hello. I took hold of Ana and spun her about, and rocked side to side with her, letting the music flow through us. Then some quick footwork, and we snapped into salsa with a sharp dile-que-no.
We didn’t go for fancy patterns, arms flying all over the place. We didn’t stress out over impressive spins or advanced body rolls. The song was dedicated to Yemaya, one of the Orishas worshipped by santeros. Pablo had taught us a couple of the traditional dance steps associated with Yemaya, but it felt wrong to try and force them in—not with a santera dancing against us.
Instead we danced simple casino all across the floor, weaving our way in and out among the other couples. Despite the upbeat music the dance felt almost leisurely, like we were alone on the floor, Ana and I—dancing and grinning at each other and singing along with the vocalist.
Abruptly, the song cut off. We kept going on inertia for another step, then halted.
The crowd applauded. Yosvany cried, “Agua!”
I looked at the stage. The emcee stood in a circle with the dancers from the house group.
“What a great show!” he pronounced. “Thank you, dancers. Let’s hear what the jury has to say.” He turned to talk to the others.
Ana squeezed my hand. “This was nice.”
“Yeah,” I said, that grin still on my face.
“Okay,” the emcee said. “The jury wants to see another dance from two couples. This couple”—he pointed at the Cuban pair—“and the young couple over there!”
Ana and I exchanged a startled look. Another dance? My energy had already slumped.
“Each couple will get two minutes. You pick your own music. Who goes first?”
The Cuban couple looked to us questioningly. I gestured for them to go ahead. I needed to get my breath back.
A moment later, they started. The track was “La Suerte,” a super-fast Charanga Habanera piece—macho lyrics, rumba fused with energetic salsa. The dancers launched into it with blistering footwork and lightning-fast turns. One intricate pattern followed another in quick succession.
“I think we’re going to have a tough time,” Ana said.
Just then the guy picked up his partner, spun her around his body, and then tossed her back over his head. She flew backward with her legs in a split, scissored them in and out with a flourish, landed in a deep crouch.
The crowd applauded. The music faded out.
“Well, that’s that,” I said.
“Come on,” Ana said, tugging me forward. “Let’s have fun.”
There was no chance we could compete with the other couple in flashiness. I told the emcee to play Havana D’Primera’s “Plato de Segunda Mesa,” a tune of failed love.
I felt pretty sure I could express the appropriate emotions.
With the first roll of drums, I took Ana in the closed hold, my arm around her. We turned across the floor—cut a simple spiral path from one end to the other, as if we were doing the waltz. When the instruments hushed and Alexander Abreu’s rough-edged voice entered with melancholy words, I spun her out so we ended side to side, shoulder to shoulder, my arm draped across her back.
We walked across the floor to the beat of the music, as if strolling arm in arm on a summer afternoon, easy and unconcerned. I turned Ana again and hooked my elbow over hers, and spun her under my arm to a flourish in the music, a simple accent. Then we danced simply again, in an open hold, gliding across the floor connected by a few fingers, our bodies like two wings of a butterfly now opening, now closing.
At last I drew her close and we spun about each other, smiling at each other, marking the cadence of the music with our feet.
The music faded. Applause rolled over us. Here and there a few voices cheered.
Ana and I hugged. For the moment, I didn’t care what had happened between us the night before.
“Thank you, dancers,” the emcee said. “Let’s hear from the jury!”
“I think we can go sit down,” I told Ana.
“Hold on,” she said. “It might look like we’re sore losers.”
The Cuban couple joined us on the floor. They talked among themselves, smiling, laughing.
The emcee took a longer time with the jury than I expected. Then he turned back to us with a mysterious air.
“We saw some great dances tonight,” he said in a stage hush. “This couple”—he pointed at the Cubans—“has excellent technique. They put on a great show.” The audience applauded, as did I, making sure I had a smile on my face.
“However!” he exclaimed, and raised his finger like Fidel about to denounce imperialist Yankees. “You’re not competing in acrobatics. Casino is a social dance! It’s about partnership! About music! About fun! That’s why . . .”—his voice rose in a dramatic crescendo—“. . . the winner of tonight’s contest iiiiiis . . .”—he paused—“this young couple!”
He pointed straight at us.
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I started. “Really?”
Beside me, Ana laughed.
It sounded like a mistake. But the crowd didn’t seem to think so. They clapped and whooped. And the Cuban couple, they smiled at us and clapped too.
Ana hugged me. I hugged her back. We waved at the crowd. Then we headed for the stage to pick up our prize. I thought the emcee might card us, but he didn’t hesitate a moment before handing over a large bottle of Havana Club.
By the time we made it back to our table, the music had started up again. No one paid us any more attention. No one except Yosvany, Pablo, and Rodrigo. They got up and clapped me on the back and hugged Ana, grinning and laughing.
“Well done,” Rodrigo said.
“I guess you really did learn something,” Pablo said.
“I knew you could do it,” Yosvany said.
“Really?” I asked. “You did?”
“You didn’t have much competition.” Yosvany gestured at the Cuban couple we’d been up against. “Osmel’s got technique but no ear for music.”
“Oh,” I said.
“But you danced well,” Yosvany said. “Really, primo, you’re not that bad anymore.”
“Thanks.” My cousin had a way with compliments.
“Ana, you were marvelous,” Yosvany said. “Want to go again?”
Ana beamed at him. “Sure.”
They’d hardly departed when Pablo got up too. “I’ll get us some drinks.”
I almost offered to share the Havana Club. Then I realized giving Pablo rum might not be the best idea. So I let him go and stayed behind with Rodrigo.
“It’s rare to see foreigners dancing well,” Rodrigo told me.
Watching the dance floor, I had to agree. The foreigners stood out not only because of their clothes or complexion. Flailing arms, wooden torsos, teetering steps—if you wanted to torture someone Clockwork Orange–style, you might peel open their eyelids and make them watch a bunch of yumas dancing salsa for hours on end.
“It’s a matter of practice,” I said. “There are many great dancers in New York. Non-Latinos too.”
The Cat King of Havana Page 15
