The Cat King of Havana

by Tom Crosshill

  Ricardo’s jaw shifted. He looked away.

  I had to do something for him. The realization came over me as a certainty, almost inevitable.

  This big man with his unwashed clothes and disheveled air and studiously indifferent face, he hadn’t always been like this. Maybe even now he wasn’t like this, not anywhere except on the surface.

  “Your poems are beautiful,” I said. “Do you have any of your old ones left? From before?”

  Ricardo shook his head.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let me publish these.” I gestured with the pages in my hand.

  Ricardo looked up at me.

  “I’ll find them a publisher,” I said. “Or I’ll put them on the internet. I’ll make sure a lot of people see them. They can make a difference.”

  Ricardo got up. Reached for the pages I still held. After a moment’s hesitation, I handed them over.

  “My poems are good for nothing except trouble,” he said. “They never were. Twenty years on the Isle of Pines is all they got me. Make a difference?” Ricardo snorted. “The only difference they ever made was to me. And to your mother, I suppose.”

  “But people will want to—”

  “I’m fine here. In this house. Free. I’m not going to lose this.”

  “Oh,” I said, after a moment. “That makes sense.”

  It did. This was Ricardo’s life.

  He led me back to the gallery. Before he opened the door to let me out, he paused with his hand on the deadbolt. “The poems. You liked them?”

  I nodded.

  “I thought one day María might return and I would show them to her,” he said. “Just her and no one else. I suppose I’m glad that you came, at least.”

  I left him standing alone amidst his work. The only work by which the world would ever know of him.

  chapter twenty

  A SPECIAL THING

  It had been a sunny morning, but in the twenty minutes I had spent with Ricardo, a wind had risen and clouds had raced in to cover the sky. I had barely taken ten steps down the cobbled street when the first drops assailed the cobblestones.

  I thought—that’s refreshing.

  Next I thought—okay, that’s interesting.

  Then—holy crap, do I walk or do I swim?

  My clothes stuck to me and my sneakers squished and wet hair got in my eyes, but it was nice, walking through that downpour. Made me feel tough, like nothing could get to me.

  I needed that feeling. Seeing Ricardo again had made me think. Sure, he’d been this zealous young poet once. But he’d become a man who stored his life’s work in a tin under his bed. They’d sent him to prison and broken him, and released him to paint portraits of Fidel and Che for tourists to buy.

  Before I met him, Ricardo had made me feel unworthy. Now I was simply glad I wasn’t him.

  He’d been my age when they locked him up. I doubted that he’d expected to spend twenty years in prison for running his mouth off.

  Maybe it had all seemed like an adventure to him. The way sending the video of Miranda Galvez to Lettuce had seemed like an adventure. If he had it all to do over again, would he write those poems?

  Maybe there was a lesson in there for me. I had no business playing at politics. I’d come to Cuba to dance and have fun.

  Back at the casa, I left puddles across the length of the house. Tania laughed when she emerged from her room.

  “Sorry.” I ran a hand through my hair. “It’s wet out there.”

  Tania did an eyebrow wriggle. “Looking sexy.”

  “I feel it.” I grinned. “Hey, it’s my last day in town. You want to go out with me tonight? You know, have fun with Mr. Sexy?”

  Tania’s smile faded. “Go out with you? What do you mean?”

  I opened my mouth to backtrack, to say—oh, nothing, we’ll just hang out like friends. But Yosvany’s disdainful face flashed before my eyes.

  “I really enjoy hanging out with you,” I said. “I have so much fun when you’re around. I don’t know why.” I paused, and a heat rushed to my cheeks. “I’ve never felt like this before. . . .”

  The lie rolled awkwardly off my tongue. I couldn’t speak the words con la cara dura—with a hard face, as Yosvany would say.

  “I don’t have foreign boyfriends,” Tania said forcefully. “I’m not like that.”

  “I understand,” I said, half disappointed, half relieved.

  Tania smiled again, a small, shy expression. “But we can go out, this one night. Where do you want to go?”

  My heart accelerated. “Somewhere with music. Where we can dance.”

  “I don’t dance.”

  “It’s okay.” I couldn’t believe I was about to say it, but, yes—“I’ll teach you.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work.” But Tania didn’t sound entirely opposed to the idea.

  We left the house after dinner—once Tania’s dad had gone off to see some friends. The rain had ceased, leaving the streets gleaming slick. There was a freshness in the air. Tania had on a pale blue dress that hugged her in all sorts of mesmerizing ways.

  We walked arm in arm, and I wished for everyone on the street to notice us. I wished Yosvany were here to see me, and Ana—

  Forget them.

  We went to the local Casa de la Música. The stage was in the garden, a patio covered by a roof of loose vines. In one corner a band played son. The lead singer, a lively old man, ripped out verse after verse about a mischievous dog. The lyrics were outrageous, smutty double meanings subtle as a jackhammer.

  I picked a table near the empty dance floor, got a mojito for Tania and a Bucanero for myself.

  “I’m starting to enjoy Cuban beer,” I explained to Tania, although the truth was simpler. With three more weeks left in Cuba, my funds were running low. With all the recent changes, I wasn’t quite sure if my American ATM cards would work, or if they might get swallowed, never to be seen again.

  “Beer is safer too,” Tania said. “You don’t know what water they use for the cocktails. Or if they wash the glasses.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “It’s Cuban flavor.” Tania sipped her mojito, looked at me over the edge of her glass. “You foreigners can’t deal with it.”

  I wondered if she was still talking about cocktails.

  When there came a break in the music a heavyset, middle-aged white man went up to the band. They talked for a while, and I saw him hand the bandleader money. Moments later the band started into a portentous-sounding piece.

  “Oh, no,” Tania muttered.

  The heavy guy began to sing. At once I recognized the tune: “Hasta Siempre Comandante,” an ode to Che, and perhaps the most famous revolutionary song in the world. The singer had a good voice, deep and clear. His Spanish sounded native but European. He sang with all-out gusto, arms moving in grand gestures, a fervent enthusiasm on his face. The musicians behind him smiled as they played, but they seemed practiced smiles to me.

  Tania sipped her drink with a pained expression.

  “You’re not a fan,” I said.

  “I think it’s sad.” Tania nodded in the general direction of the stage. “All these people who come here to live out their fantasies. Read La Historia Me Absolverá. Buy a hat with a red star. Sing a pretty song.”

  “Because they don’t understand what communism is really like?”

  “Because they’ve got nothing better to do with their lives,” Tania said. “It’s not just communists. We get people at our casa, they talk to us in hushed voices, ask us questions. They want us to tell them how bad things are, how Fidel is screwing everything up. And I’m like, guys, don’t you have your own problems to deal with? If you’ve got two weeks of vacation, go to the beach and leave Fidel alone.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  Exactly, Rick. Leave Fidel alone. No one wants you to bother with him. Not Tania. Not Ricardo. Not anyone. You’re here to have fun.

  Tania drained her mojito with a determined motion. She
looked so cute it made me hurt inside.

  The big man finished his song. The audience clapped long and hard, and he walked off with a grin. As soon as he’d left the stage, the band struck up again, a slow, leisurely son. Within moments a young black kid pulled a middle-aged white woman up from a table and took her to the dance floor. Another couple soon followed, graying Italian tourists. They embraced each other and did the side step and demonstrated an impressive ability not to hit a single beat of the music.

  “Shall we?”

  Tania studied my extended hand like I was offering her a steaming cowpat. But even as I was about to pull back, she took it.

  Together we walked out to the floor. I put my arm around her.

  Tania looked at me. No, more accurately she stared at me, her eyes unwavering, as if I was the only person left in the world.

  That was a bit unnerving, but I told myself she was nervous. I whispered, “Just step where I step.” I started in a basic salsa step.

  Forward and back. Forward and back. Forward and back.

  Tania really didn’t know how to dance. She tripped over her feet and followed me sluggishly. I was afraid I’d have to manhandle her the whole song. But then she caught the idea and moved with me, not elegantly exactly, but easily enough. So I mixed it up, added a side step, later a rotating cumbia step.

  It was a clumsy, awkward dance. I felt awesome.

  Me, Rick Gutiérrez, teaching a cute Cuban girl to dance. Her grip tight on my shoulder. Her eyes on me, trusting and a little scared.

  When the song ended, Tania hugged me, soft and warm against me. There was a grin on her face as we returned to our table.

  “I didn’t think I could do that,” she said. “We’re not a dancing family. They made fun of me at school, said I was the only black girl in Cuba who couldn’t dance . . . not true, you know. I told myself I’d never get out in front of people and make a fool of myself. But tonight, with you . . .” Her grin widened. “I didn’t care.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “A geeky dancer from New York, huh,” Tania said. “You’re a pretty cool guy, Rick.”

  I smiled. “You inspired me.” I reached for one of Yosvany’s corny lines, and this time it came easier. “Dancing with you I felt like I could do anything in the world.”

  “Oh, hey, I have an idea.” Tania rose, an abrupt motion. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “You’ll see. Come.”

  Tania led me along narrow cobbled streets, up the hill that overlooked Trinidad. Her shoulder bumped against mine as we walked. Then something happened and I realized we were holding hands.

  I flushed. A warmth filled my body that had nothing to do with the weather.

  Briefly, Ana’s face surfaced before my eyes. I shoved it away. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, was I? I liked Tania.

  But not as much as I let her believe. . . .

  I cast a surreptitious glance sideways at her. Her quiet smile told me nothing.

  “It must be quite a contrast,” she said. “Coming from New York to this . . .” She gestured at the street around us. The road was dirt here and streetlights were far between. We walked in shadows between badly maintained low houses.

  “It’s different here,” I said. “Very chill. Especially if you have the right guide.”

  “Maybe one day you can guide me around New York,” she said easily.

  So easily.

  Juanita had warned me about this many times. “Cuban girls want just one thing from a yuma,” she’d assured me. “A ticket off the island.”

  Well, maybe that’s what Tania wanted and maybe not. I wasn’t about to make her any promises.

  “I’d love to show you around if you come to New York,” I said.

  She squeezed my hand.

  We left buildings behind and followed a winding dirt road up a grassy hill. At first I thought Tania had taken me here for the view—a lovely vista, Trinidad at night, patches of yellow light amidst whole neighborhoods sunk in darkness. Then I noticed a clump of people gathered in the shadows under some trees.

  The people were standing on stairs. The steps led down, straight into the hill itself. I saw no sign, no indication what awaited inside—except that a burly doorman stood at the entrance, holding back the crowd.

  “Las Cuevas,” Tania said. “My friends are always talking about this place.”

  Five minutes later we descended narrow stone steps into the shadowed depths of a cave. The sounds of distant salsa echoed around us—an energetic, insistent cowbell beat carried through long dark corridors. Walls of rough rock loomed high overhead, dripping water down on us.

  “Don’t worry,” Tania said. “I can’t remember when we last had a cave-in.”

  I glowered at her. She snickered.

  We reached the bottom and followed a corridor deeper into the cave. The music grew louder until we emerged at the base of a large cavern. Crowded plastic tables surrounded a well-lit dance floor. The DJ’s booth was set high in the cliff face overlooking the cavern. A long bar hugged the opposite wall. There were lots of people at the bar and sitting at tables but nobody dancing.

  “No one here likes Pupy?” I asked. The song was “Que Cosas Tiene La Vida,” an older but popular hit, full of cheerful energy.

  “Most of the good salseros have left Trinidad,” Tania said. “My friends only dance reggaeton.”

  “Well, then.” My heart sped up with premonitions of stage fright. “Let’s go show them how it’s done.”

  “Oh, no.” Tania glanced around nervously. “This is too fast for me.”

  “Come on.” I smirked. “You said you didn’t care who watched.”

  At this Tania took a step back. “I did?”

  “Yeah, remember?”

  “No.” Tania crossed her arms. “If you want to dance so much, ask my friend Lazara over there.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was angry. Maybe the smirk had been a bad idea. “It’s fine—”

  “No, really, you must. Lazara!” She waved. “Lazara, come here!”

  A young girl rose from a nearby table, maybe thirteen and stick-thin and dressed to impress—flowing white pants with flared bottoms and a stylish black T-shirt. She gave Tania a hug, looked me up and down.

  “This is Rick from New York.” Tania might have been presenting a can of sardines for the enthusiasm in her voice. “He wants to dance with you.”

  Lazara took my hand. She grinned at me with such open friendliness that I couldn’t help smiling back. Whatever had bitten Tania wasn’t Lazara’s fault. She was a kid. I could give her a nice dance.

  We walked out onto the floor. As the music hit an accent, I took hold of her and spun her about.

  Lazara spun lightly, with perfect poise. At the end of the spin she kicked out her foot to a cymbal clash and shook her shoulders rumba-style.

  I didn’t humor Lazara with a nice dance. If anything, she humored me. She followed every move I led, seemed to anticipate my steps, saved my balance when I tripped in the middle of an overambitious pattern. Even Ana wasn’t this easy to dance with—Lazara moved under my hands as if she weighed nothing at all.

  We finished the song with an elegant turn in closed hold—and both of us started, because people were applauding. Tourists only, but still.

  “That was nice,” I said to Lazara as we headed to where Tania had claimed a table. “Thanks.”

  “For a yuma, you’re an awesome dancer,” Lazara said.

  I knew that was a compliment.

  At the table, Tania sat drinking a beer. I couldn’t read her face in the dim light off the dance floor.

  She nodded at Lazara. “Thanks, niña. We’ll see you around.”

  “Oh.” Lazara looked from her to me, then smiled uncertainly. “All right. See you later.” She moved off.

  “That was a bit cold,” I said, sitting down.

  Tania looked me straight in the eyes. Her voice came quiet, neutral. “Do you want someone else here with us?”
/>   “Well, not exactly . . .”

  “I thought you liked spending time with me,” Tania said, still in that quiet tone.

  My breath came fast, and not because I’d been dancing.

  You’ve come this far, a voice said inside me. And besides, maybe she’s only interested because you’re from New York.

  What would Yosvany say?

  “There’s no one else I’d rather be with.” I flushed, pressed on. “Ever since I came to Trinidad, since we met, I’ve been feeling this wonderful thing, like—”

  Tania took hold of my shoulder, pulled me close, and kissed me.

  Okay, so Rachel had been a pretty good kisser. A bit on the wet side maybe and she’d had a habit of sucking at my lips that left them sore, but it had been good kissing times.

  Tania, though . . . Tania kissed like she meant it. Her lips pressed soft and a little moist against mine, and her hands slid warm across my back, and her tongue, well, it did things I didn’t know tongues could do.

  When we finally parted, our faces inches from each other, Tania no longer looked like the cute young girl I’d met a few days ago. A change had come over her, nearly imperceptible and hard to describe. Like this relaxed, hungry energy.

  “I saw you dancing with Lazara, everyone watching you two, and I couldn’t stand it,” Tania whispered. “Not for another moment.”

  We didn’t stay in the club after that. On the way back to the casa, on the dark Trinidad streets, we stopped often and long. When we entered the house, her father was already asleep—I wondered if he had any idea we’d gone out together. We walked quietly to the patio and up to my room.

  I could have stopped at the door. I could have said to Tania—hey, listen, you know we’re just having fun, right? I’m leaving tomorrow and I’m not coming back.

  I said nothing. I kept quiet as we kissed in the dark of my room and undressed each other. Neither of us spoke while I struggled to pry the plastic off the box of condoms I’d brought all the way from New York.

  The sex was sweaty and fumbling but nice—at least while it lasted, which wasn’t very long.

  Afterward, Tania snuggled up against me and spoke in my ear, “You haven’t done this before, have you?”