The Cat King of Havana

by Tom Crosshill

  I considered this. “I’m sorry.”

  And I was. To my own surprise, I felt no vindictiveness, no urge to say I told you so.

  “I thought I wouldn’t care.” Ana’s voice shook. “But that’s tough, you know?”

  I thought of Tania my last morning in Trinidad, standing there in the middle of my room. “Yeah.”

  “I guess it takes practice, learning to feel nothing.” She tipped over the empty can of beer at her fingertips. “This stuff does help, though. You do feel less. I wonder if my dad . . . I wonder if that’s why . . .”

  I had no wisdom to offer her, so we sat in silence for a while. Ana bumped her shoulder against mine once, as if by accident, then again. Then she leaned against me.

  It occurred to me that Yosvany would call this a prime opportunity. Comfort Ana, pat her back, see if this could become something more.

  Maybe a few weeks ago I would have felt tempted.

  Eventually Ana spoke again. “So I showed up at the paladar, looking for Yosvany. But his uncle Elio was like, what are you doing here? Said Yosvany asked for the key to his house and he figured we, well . . .” Ana glanced at me, looked away. “Well, we used the house sometimes, you know. So we could—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said quickly. “No need to draw me a picture.”

  “Except going to the house wasn’t the plan today. I understood at once what was up. Elio must have realized too, because he got this look. I told him—oh, yeah, d’oh, I forgot, what a dumbass. And I ran out of there, grabbed a cab. Because you know these machos, I was sure the first thing Elio did was call Yosvany, give him a heads up. So I rushed across Vedado, thinking maybe I’ll catch this girl bolting out of the house. Except I was wrong.” Ana laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I forgot Yosvany turns off his phone in bed.”

  I pulled away from her a bit. I didn’t want to know what Yosvany did in bed.

  Ana kept right on. “I walked in on them. Kenny G playing, this song he said made him think of me. An empty Havana Club on the floor. And the two of them on the kitchen table. You want to know the best part?”

  I really wasn’t sure I did, but Ana told me anyway.

  “The girl was Celia, this white dancer chick. Yosvany introduced us a while ago. I shot her dancing for my film. We’d been hanging out for weeks, the three of us—and all the while he was banging her.” Ana crunched her fist around the nearest beer can. “Classy guy, your cousin.”

  “I’m sorry.” Then, piecing it together, “Wait, you shot this girl for your film? Is she . . . ?”

  “Yeah. She’s dancing in the contest tomorrow.”

  “With Yosvany?”

  “What? No, with her partner.” Ana snorted. “I told Yosvany he better not show up tomorrow, or I’m gonna slug him on national TV.”

  “Well . . .” I considered what I was about to say, decided I was okay with it. “We don’t have to dance tomorrow. Not if you don’t want to.”

  “You kidding? We’re gonna show up and we’re gonna win this thing. Show that skank how it’s done.”

  “Sure.” Ana had shown me some footage of the other couples practicing. I rated our chances on par with those of the Jamaican bobsled team in the Winter Olympics. “We’ll leave them in the dust.”

  Ana draped her arm across my back, an easy, familiar gesture. “You’re a great guy, Rick.” She leaned her head on my shoulder. “Trustworthy, not like that comemierda. And you’re a hunk too.”

  I sat perfectly still for a moment, wondering. Maybe . . .

  But I knew this wasn’t real.

  I put my arm around her shoulders, gave them a squeeze. “We’d better get home.”

  “I’m not a drunk,” she spoke up then, straightening forcefully. “I’ve just had a hard day. You know that, Rick. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I told her. “Let’s get back, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She slurred her words a bit, gave me a sly little smile. “Take me to bed, Rick Gutiérrez.”

  I did. Ana to her bed and me to mine.

  Though not before she hugged me goodnight, long and tight. Then I too wished I knew how to feel nothing.

  chapter twenty-five

  CASINERO MUNDIAL

  Yosvany didn’t come back that night. Next morning at breakfast Ana avoided my gaze.

  “Forget yesterday,” I said to her. “Let’s just dance, all right?”

  Then she did look at me. She smiled and nodded and passed me the honey. I suspected that was all we’d ever say about Rick the hunk and his chances with Ana Cabrera.

  We danced a few songs in the living room, then got ready to go. Casino was a street dance, not ballroom. I wore clean blue jeans and a V-neck instead of a tux. But Ana . . .

  When she came out into the living room, I thought they might need to call the fire brigade to put me out. She had on this tight little dress, red on white, down to mid-thigh. Tongues of flame curled along the curves of her body, broken by a neat black belt.

  I opened my mouth, closed it again. “Where’d you get that?”

  “A leftover from my wilder days,” Yolanda said from the couch.

  “Make us proud, niños,” Juanita said.

  “I’m already proud,” Yolanda said.

  Ana and I knew what she meant, even if Juanita didn’t.

  We were supposed to meet Rodrigo at the Cabaña fortress, where Casinero Mundial would start shooting at eleven. From Juanita’s kitchen window you could see the enormous fortress straddling the canal into the Port of Havana, with its long white stretch of aged stone wall.

  The weather had shifted overnight—the morning was cool and clear. We walked to the Prado to catch a cab. I tried to enjoy the fresh breeze, but my stomach had shrunk into a pulsating sac of nerves.

  I was about to dance in front of a whole country.

  When we got on the road and Ana told me there was a car following our cab, it barely registered. I checked out the gray Mitsubishi at the far end of the block—government plates, tinted windows—and shrugged. “Valdes’s guys.”

  “Business as usual, huh,” Ana said.

  Except then we passed through the tunnel and approached the Cabaña—the gray stone fortress imposing ahead of us—and got stopped at a roadblock. A full-on checkpoint with two green army jeeps flanking the road and soldiers holding submachine guns.

  One soldier—a young, thin, clean-shaven kid—stood in the middle of the road, flagging us down.

  The driver, a chain-smoking older white guy, cursed as he pulled over. In the back Ana and I exchanged a look.

  “Is this usual?” Ana asked him.

  “Say that you’re my friends,” the driver said. “I’m not supposed to carry tourists.”

  He stopped next to the soldier and rolled down his window.

  The soldier peered at the two of us in the back of the car. Up close I realized he was no more than a year or two older than me.

  “The Cabaña is closed for tourists today,” he said. “They’re shooting a TV show.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’re here for the show.”

  Brakes shrieked.

  The gray Mitsubishi ground to a halt beside us. The door burst open. Maykel Valdes sprang out.

  The soldier clutched at his gun. “What—?”

  “I’m taking over here.” Valdes quivered as he strode up, as if he couldn’t hold himself still. He pulled a small plastic pouch from the pocket of his sports coat, showed it to the soldier. “Search the car.”

  The soldier stared at Valdes’s ID, straightened. “Understood.” He waved an okay to a couple of his comrades who’d been watching the exchange tensely, then turned to the driver. “Pop the trunk.” To us, he said, “Step outside.”

  The driver had gone white as milk. He was probably wondering if he’d been transporting two of the CIA’s youngest recruits in the back of his Lada. He got out.

  Ana and I looked at each other. So maybe we wouldn’t have to dance today after all.

 
; We got out, stood beside the car while the soldier searched the trunk.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked Valdes.

  He only nodded at the soldier, gestured at us. “The yumas too.”

  The pat down wasn’t too bad; the TSA got more intimate with you. The soldier checked my bag, found only our dance shoes, and shook his head at Valdes.

  Valdes studied him for a moment, as if wondering if he could trust the guy. He shifted his gaze to us. “Didn’t I warn you to behave yourselves?”

  “I don’t get it,” Ana said. “You told us to go to the beach and to dance casino. That’s why we’re here. To dance casino.”

  Valdes looked slowly from me to Ana and back. “You’re here to dance? Today, at the Cabaña?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “For a TV show. Casinero Mundial, you know?”

  “You’re on Casinero Mundial.” A light seemed to have gone on behind Valdes’s eyes.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “You’re here for the contest,” he said.

  “We got invited after winning a competition at the Milocho.” I reached into my pocket, drew out the participant pass Pablo had given us. “Look.”

  Valdes took the slip of paper. Studied it for a long while. “If this is some kind of trick . . . ,” he said after a moment. “If you mean to make a scene on TV or something . . .”

  “We’re here to dance,” I said.

  “Besides, it’s not even a live transmission,” Ana said.

  Valdes nodded. Shook his head, a small motion. Then he laughed. He actually laughed, an amused snigger that went on for a while. “It’s fine, then. In a way it’s almost perfect. You two dancing at the Cabaña, today of all days.”

  The soldier stared at him, perplexed. Ana and I shared his confusion.

  “You can go,” Valdes said. “But I’ll be watching you. Do you understand?”

  We nodded.

  The cab driver waded in. “I don’t know these people.” He waved at us defensively. “I’m going home.”

  Valdes rounded on him, stabbed his chest with one bony finger. “You will shut up and take them to the Cabaña.”

  At which point we got back into the cab and the driver took us to the Cabaña. He didn’t talk, didn’t even smoke, only kept checking the rearview mirror. Valdes’s Mitsubishi followed us a few car lengths away.

  Within minutes, we reached the fortress entrance, a formidable stone gate. It was accessed by a bridge across a moat that I suspected had been a drawbridge once, ready for fast removal in case of an attack. The current version was solid, paved in brick, with decorative wooden balusters. It made the Cabaña look like the tourist attraction it now was, instead of the prison where Che Guevara had executed enemies of the state.

  We got out. I was reaching for my wallet when the Lada screeched into motion. The driver did a violent U-turn and raced away.

  “Poor guy,” Ana said.

  “None of this makes sense,” I said. “Why would Valdes flip because we’re going to be on TV?”

  “Maybe he thought we were going to do some kind of political protest. But why’s the army here?”

  Ana pointed at the parking lot that adjoined the fortress walls. There, some half dozen figures in fatigues lounged around four jeeps. As we watched, Valdes pulled up next to them in his Mitsubishi. The soldiers looked at him with curiosity, but no one made a move toward his car.

  We didn’t get much time to consider the mystery. “There you are!” came a familiar voice. Pablo emerged from the fortress gate, clad in a bright red polo shirt, pressed white slacks, and jazz shoes polished to a shine. He had puffy eyes, but there was an alert tension to him. “We’re waiting for you.”

  I checked my cell. “I thought we had fifteen minutes.”

  “Do we need to do makeup?” Ana asked.

  “Rodrigo wants to talk to you,” Pablo said.

  We entered the fortress. The Cabaña was a large complex of tan stone barracks separated by cobbled roads. The barracks housed various museum exhibitions that Ana and I had explored on a previous, touristy visit. Pablo led us past them at a hurried pace.

  “Remember to smile when you dance,” he told us. “Pay attention to each other and to the music. Don’t let me down, all right?”

  There was a tightness in his voice that made me think he really cared.

  “We’ll do our best,” Ana promised him.

  Pablo led us to a wide open square at the edge of the fortress, where an array of cannon set in the Cabaña’s sturdy walls faced out across the canal and toward Havana proper. I knew this from last time, that is—now the cannon were hidden behind a mass of people sitting five rows deep around the square. School kids in uniform, adults in white T-shirts and blue jeans or else red tops and white slacks, it was a color-coordinated army of an audience. I wondered if they’d been brought here by the busload. They sat talking to one another, orderly for a crowd in Cuba.

  In the middle of the square a wooden dance floor had been erected. Three television cameras overlooked it, ancient-looking boxy things. Each one had its own platform, an operator sitting behind it.

  Some twenty couples clustered near the center of the floor. A few older men that looked like officials stood in front, Rodrigo among them. Dressed in a summery white outfit, a microphone in one hand, he glistened with sweat.

  Rodrigo spotted us and waved, a grand, welcoming gesture.

  “You said he wanted to talk to us,” I said.

  “Yes,” Pablo said. “Rodrigo will talk and you will listen.”

  “We’ve got to change our shoes,” Ana said.

  So we stood there at the edge of the stage and changed our shoes and everyone on the whole square watched us. My face burned. My fingers fumbled endlessly with the laces on my sneakers.

  At last it was done and we lined up behind Rodrigo. The other couples moved to make room. A few of the dancers were our age, the rest in their twenties or thirties. Many nodded at Ana familiarly. One, a tall white girl in a reflective green dress, gave her the evil eye and Ana pretended not to notice.

  That would be Celia, I decided.

  Rodrigo tapped the microphone. Looked at the nearest camera, got a nod from the operator. Raised his hand to quiet the audience. “Good morning and welcome to the fifth annual Casinero Mundial contest. Contestants from every part of Cuba and two visitors from New York have gathered here today to celebrate that wonderful Cuban tradition, the dance of casino. A round of applause!”

  The crowd clapped and cheered. I felt a hundred eyes watching me and Ana, wondering about the yumas here to dance for them. I leaned toward Ana. “I’m getting nervous.”

  The dancer behind me snorted. “Too early, man.”

  I wondered what he meant. Then Rodrigo went on. “Before we start the contest, I would like to say a few words. When a group of friends first got together to create the dance of casino in the year . . .” Fifteen minutes later, Rodrigo was still going strong. “. . . and so it is with great pleasure that I look forward to watching these fine young men and women demonstrate this uniquely Cuban art to us all today.”

  He paused to take a breath. In that instant, someone started clapping. A moment later, applause rolled across the square.

  Rodrigo looked startled for a second. He scratched his head, then nodded as the applause faded. “Thank you for your attention.”

  Clapping, once again.

  “Can applause sound relieved?” I asked Ana. “Or is it my imagination?”

  She checked her watch. “I guess we might even start on time.”

  Rodrigo waited for the crowd to quiet. “Now my fellow jury member, the respected Fernando Rivera, would like to say a few words.”

  To the audience’s credit, there were no boos. Another white-haired man took the mic.

  “My back hurts from all this standing,” I said.

  “I guess they take their lead from Fidel,” Ana said.

  But it wasn’t so bad. No more than ten minutes later, or maybe fifteen,
the speeches were done. The judges cleared off the stage and took their seats around the platform. Technicians rushed up to pin a large white paper sign to my back. Our participant number was 16. Then, before I could so much as close my eyes and take a deep breath, Rodrigo’s amplified voice rang out again.

  “Dancers, take your positions.”

  Ana and I ended up near one corner of the stage. We looked at each other. Ana smiled, a tremulous expression. I forced my lips to follow suit.

  Then I noticed something off to the side. “Check out Valdes.”

  He stood right beside the platform. Arms crossed over his chest. His eyes locked on us.

  “Ignore him,” Ana said.

  “Yeah.” I put my arm about her in the closed hold.

  My teeth chattered. I’m not being poetic here. My jaw clicked open and shut like one of those cartoon talking skulls.

  It wasn’t all Valdes’s fault. We were about to dance casino in front of the Cuban nation. A whole country of people who couldn’t watch a foreigner dance for five seconds without stepping in to give advice.

  But Valdes . . . why was he here, watching us?

  The question nagged loud in my skull, and so I missed the first bar of the music when it came with a blast of horns. Ana squeezed my shoulder and I rushed into motion—stepped too fast, off time, struggled to correct. Settled into the basic step, back and forth, back and forth, breathing hard.

  Ana grinned for all she was worth. Her eyes said, Come on, Rick. Dance!

  The song was “Seis Semanas,” a lively Van Van number with a retro sound. In the periphery of my vision I saw other couples turning, spinning, executing intricate patterns. I had to get going. But I had this feeling, like when you’re doing a test at school and you get hung up on the first question, and fifteen minutes pass and you’ve got to forget it and move on but you can’t, and then you’re losing it because there’s only half an hour left and you still haven’t solved a single problem and—

  Ana spun away from me. I hadn’t led the move—she’d decided to take things into her own hands. She separated from me, danced an intricate shine, fancy footwork all over the place.

  I gritted my teeth, forced my body into overdrive. A rumba step, side to side. A shoulder shimmy, fast and hard. A jumping step—