The Cat King of Havana

by Tom Crosshill

  From today I’d live with Dad again—and sure, I was excited to see him. But living with him felt a bit like living alone. The two of us sharing the same space, each of us in our own world.

  It didn’t matter, I told myself. I’d always been comfortable as a loner.

  But somehow I couldn’t make myself believe that anymore.

  Ana and I collected our bags, went through customs, and left the security area. The Arrivals Hall was packed with people waiting for friends and family. We weren’t expecting anyone, so I craned my head looking for the AirTrain sign—when Ana tapped me on the shoulder. “Uh, Rick? I think that guy wants something from you.”

  It was one of those black-suited limousine drivers, a stocky man with sunglasses and a white sign that said—THAT CAT GUY.

  I blinked. Looked at the driver again.

  Lettuce! No wonder I hadn’t recognized him—he’d lost some weight and had a beard now, close-cropped.

  He strode over with measured steps, all pompous formality. “Your car’s here, sir.”

  “Oh, great, take my luggage.” I shoved my suitcase at him, nodded at Ana. “Hers too. And hurry up if you want a tip.”

  Ana stared at me with wide, horrified eyes.

  “A tip?” Lettuce asked. “How about the tip of my boot up your ass?”

  I laughed, clapped him on the shoulder. Lettuce grinned, pulled me into a hug.

  “Easy on the ribs,” I said when he let go. “You’ve got ripped, man!”

  “You mean I’ve got from fat to pudgy,” Lettuce said, but he sounded pleased. “Joe cooked for us on tour. He loves this raw, healthy stuff. Disgusting.”

  “I remember you,” Ana said. “You’re the guy with the band. The nuts guy.”

  “The BlueNuts guy,” Lettuce said. “That gets you more action than Cat Guy, by the way.”

  “Only at the Third All-American Peanuts Symposium,” I said.

  Outside under the night sky, the August New York heat enveloped us like the smelly breath of an overgrown Labrador. I’d always hated the sensation, but now it reminded me of Havana.

  On the way to the parking garage, we caught up about Miranda Galvez. “It worked,” I told Lettuce. “She’s free, thanks to your help.”

  “The internet doesn’t know that,” Lettuce said. “There was another article today, in Le Monde. You know what that is? A newspaper in Paris? In effing French?” He shook his head.

  “And we’re not done,” I said. “At least I’m not.”

  I told them about Lolcats for the Revolution. I hadn’t mentioned the idea to anyone, not even to Ana. It had seemed too risky to talk about it in Cuba or on the plane. I was surprised how confident my explanation sounded now, even to myself. With every word the project seemed more and more real. I could almost picture the website already. A big banner up top—a fluffy Persian sprawling on Fidel’s head like a wig.

  I only wished I could risk sending a link to Tania. She might have gotten a laugh out of it.

  “The site won’t make a big difference,” I said, “but it might make a small one.”

  “I’m in,” Ana said. “Once I edit the film that I shot, it’s gonna tell a story—not just about dance, but about Havana. Nothing controversial, really—but not a pretty story either. We can publish it on the site.” She hesitated. “If you like, of course.”

  “You kidding? That’s perfect.”

  “I can help with the soundtrack,” Lettuce said. “For when no one’s dancing.”

  “Great,” Ana said.

  “You can credit us as Fidel’s BlueNuts,” Lettuce said.

  We grinned at each other.

  “Here’s your ride,” Lettuce said a minute later, with a grand sweep of his arm.

  We were on the fifth floor of the parking garage. There was only one car here this time of night. A beat-up white minivan with tinted windows, parked in a dark corner under a dead light. A colorful illustration adorned the side of the van—two large misshapen peanuts side by side, tinged blue at the bottom. Tastefully ragged letters spelled out The BlueNuts World Tour underneath.

  “This baby took us all the way to Poughkeepsie and back this summer,” Lettuce said.

  “As far as that?” Ana asked.

  Lettuce nodded. He rapped on the side of the van, three short knocks. A moment later, the sliding door in the van’s side edged open a foot. Inside it was dark—too dark to make out anything except the boom box sitting in the open door.

  There was a click.

  Ana and I started.

  Horns sang out. Claves clicked together. The congas came alive in Yuri Buenaventura’s “Salsa,” an energetic, relentlessly cheerful track.

  We exchanged a startled look.

  The door slammed open all the way. People poured out. The guys of Lettuce’s band, laughing, grinning. Flavia Martinez, her hair dyed blue, cheering wildly. And then Dad.

  He stepped out last. In his blue Metro North dress shirt and dark slacks, he looked out of place among the kids. The smile he gave me was hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he belonged here. “Rick.”

  I hugged him. Clutched him tight, as a matter of fact. A wave of relief washed over me as we stood there, Dad’s solid form in my arms. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him.

  “You’ve put on some muscle,” Dad said as I let go.

  Someone tugged at my hand. Flavia. She nodded her head to the cowbell beat of the salsa. “Vamos, salserito.”

  I wavered, cast a hesitant glance at Dad. But he moved toward Ana, offered her his hand. “May I?”

  I stared dumbstruck.

  “What?” Dad asked. “I learned a few steps.”

  So we danced. Flavia and I, and Dad and Ana, while Lettuce and the guys clapped and hooted.

  I started out stiff, nervous, waiting for Flavia to laugh at me. But within a few bars of the basic step—back and forth, back and forth—I realized something. Flavia moved well, but she didn’t really know much salsa. I did a few simple turns, guided her from side to side, and it was all she could do to keep up.

  So I didn’t push her. We danced the song simply, back and forth, side to side, a few basic turns. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Dad and Ana. He plodded through his steps, of course, but he had the rhythm down and seemed to be enjoying himself, smiling for all he was worth—to Ana’s encouragement.

  At the very end I released Flavia, did some improv—a shoulder shimmy, a torso circle, some fancy footwork. She clapped and yelled, “Wepa!” and laughed.

  There was no mockery in that laughter.

  I thought—this is all right. I could take on anything, feeling like this. Rob Kenna, come at me.

  Then the song switched. Havana D’Primera’s “Pasaporte,” a chill, bittersweet piece.

  “A demonstration, Rick!” Lettuce called. “You and Ana.”

  Ana looked into my eyes. I looked back.

  “Dale, dale!” Flavia encouraged us.

  I offered Ana my hand. She took it.

  We may have been smiling. I’m not sure.

  “Let’s see what you’ve learned,” Lettuce said, but the words seemed muffled, as if coming from far away.

  Ana and I danced.

  Valdes was thirteen hundred miles away. Pablo’s judging eye was gone. And that thing between us, that tangle of awkwardness and hope and rejection . . . Ana and I had left it somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico.

  Dad watched us, as did Flavia and Lettuce with his friends, but it didn’t matter. We heard their oohs and yeahs and wepas and yet it felt like just the two of us there, on the fifth floor of a JFK parking garage.

  That’s all I will tell you about our dance. Maybe I’m selfish, but not everything should be shared. Not even if you’re the Cat King of Havana.

  Author’s Note

  Two passions inspired The Cat King of Havana.

  The first was my passion for Cuba in all its complexity. An island that seems a utopia one day, a dystopia the next, and somewhere in the middle on your average Tues
day.

  Between various trips I’ve spent close to a year in Havana, riding packed buses, standing in long lines for mundane errands, and enjoying leisurely strolls along the Malecón. Even so, I feel like I’ve only scratched the surface. Where this book succeeds it is thanks to the many Cuban friends and colleagues who advised me. Where it falls short, it is due to my limited outsider’s perspective.

  And yet, limited or not, I hope my vision of Cuba awakens in my readers a desire to go see for themselves—with respect and appreciation.

  The second passion that inspired this book was dance.

  I’m allergic to the words “you haven’t got what it takes.” Utter them in my direction and you might send me into an obsession lasting days, months, or even years—until I’ve proved you wrong.

  This is how I learned English well enough to write fiction in it (my classmates, fellow Latvians, laughed at the idea). This is how I became a physics major in college (physics was the one black mark on my high school transcript). This is also how I learned to dance.

  I didn’t always have this allergy, though.

  Back in elementary school, when I was on the verge of failing gym class, my family told me, “That’s okay. You’ve got other talents. You’re not made for sports.”

  I believed them. Years of clumsiness, bullying, and gym periods from hell followed. In high school, I finally decided enough was enough and joined a martial arts school. For three months of aikido classes, I couldn’t do a simple back roll—something even the clumsiest of my classmates did with ease. But I kept at it, hour after hour, day after day, month after month.

  Six arduous years later, I earned my black belt. By that time, I’d realized I didn’t need talent to become competent at something. Sheer stubbornness would do the trick.

  This insight came in handy when, on a chance trip to Cuba, I took my first salsa class. I loved it—and I was atrocious. A block of wood on two left feet, with a tendency to collide with any furniture foolishly left nearby. My Cuban teacher was too polite to say such a thing, but I could tell my dance potential wasn’t exactly overwhelming.

  It didn’t matter. I was in love. I wouldn’t let a lack of talent stop me.

  Salsa took over my life. For the next few years, I danced twenty to thirty hours a week, took classes from all the best teachers I could find, and returned to Cuba to learn more.

  Now, four years later, I teach salsa myself—even as I continue my own studies. I’m not the best dancer in the world, or even close, but I’m doing what I love and having a blast.

  With The Cat King of Havana, I wanted to share my love of dance—but also to share my allergy, if such a thing is possible.

  If you love something enough, it doesn’t matter whether people think you’ve got what it takes. You may never become the best in the world. With endless hours of work, though, you can get pretty good at just about anything.

  —Tom Crosshill

  Acknowledgments

  Writing has never been a solitary process for me, and this project was no exception. If you summed up all the hours friends, colleagues, and strangers put into helping me with The Cat King of Havana, there’d be time enough to write another novel.

  I’d like to thank Ammi-Joan Paquette for her boundless enthusiasm for this project. Thanks also to the rest of the crew of Erin Murphy Literary Agency.

  I’d like to thank Ben Rosenthal for sage advice and editorial guidance. This would be a different—and lesser—book without his input and that of the talented team at Katherine Tegen Books.

  I’d like to thank the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa for providing an inspiring space to write this book. Thanks also to my fellow residents, whose friendship and encouragement kept me going. If I wasn’t the most social of creatures, this book is the reason why.

  I’d like to thank all my Cuban friends, teachers, and acquaintances who welcomed me to their island and have shared so much with me over the past few years. I couldn’t have written this book if not for Leonardo Gala Echemendía, Mariela Cuellar Alarcón, Alina Peña Arevalo, Yoss, Ligia Casabella, and so many others.

  Special thanks to Ivan Salazar Camue, who taught me to dance and changed my life in more than one way.

  Thanks to Gerardo Contino, “El Abogado de la Salsa,” for his advice on the title of this book and other matters (if you like salsa, check out his music!).

  Thanks to Carlos Hernandez for his insightful Cuban-American perspective on my story.

  Thanks to Jack Shepherd of Buzzfeed for sharing his cat video expertise.

  Thanks to my many tireless beta-readers—Keon Parandvash, Spigana Spektore, Daiga Mezale, Sarah Brand, Karin Norgard, Nick Tchan, Stefanie Jellouschek, and Eric Olive. Particular thanks to E. C. Myers and Alaya Dawn Johnson, as well as the rest of Altered Fluid—the best writing group on the planet.

  Thanks to Ruta Sepetys, Mary Robinette Kowal, Corinne Duyvis, and Mindy McGinnis for advice on launching a debut novel.

  Thanks to David Farland, Steven Savile, and Kevin J. Anderson for their support and mentorship over the years.

  My thanks and apologies to everyone I forgot to include above.

  And finally, thanks to all my loved ones for putting up with me. I admire your patience!

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  About the Author

  PHOTO BY SPIGANA

  TOM CROSSHILL is an award-winning author, public speaker, and salsa teacher. Originally from Latvia, he moved to the United States as a teen and now lives wherever his adventures take him. A black belt in aikido, he has operated a nuclear reactor, worked on Wall Street, and toiled in a Japanese zinc mine, among other things. On a chance trip to Havana, Tom fell in love with salsa. After years of study with the world’s top dancers and several long stays in Cuba, he wrote this debut novel. You can visit him online at www.tomcrosshill.com.

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  Credits

  COVER ART © MIA NOLTING

  COVER DESIGN BY HEATHER DAUGHERTY

  Copyright

  Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  THE CAT KING OF HAVANA. Copyright © 2016 by Tom Crosshill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016931710

  ISBN 978-0-06-242283-5

  EPub Edition © August 2016 ISBN 9780062422859

  16 17 18 19 20 PC/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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