Big Smoke

by R. F. Blackstone

  He held out his hand and Christine nodded as she handed him her bag.

  “That would be perfect.”

  Rafael nodded with a slight bow. “Once again, welcome to the Hotel Nacional de Cuba.”

  #

  “Un mojito, por favor,” she said to the attractive barman, who nodded with a smile and then set about making it. Christine watched intently, hoping that the man knew his job. A perfect mojito is hard to find, but in Cuba? That was the real test.

  According to La Bodeguita del Medio, the birthplace of the mojito, this is how to make one:

  Take one and a half ounces of Havana Club Rum. Mix it with half a teaspoon of sugar. Then add the juice of half a lime. Followed by adding one sprig of mint and muddle it until you can smell the mint. Add some ice cubes, then fill the glass with mineral water. Lastly, mix well.

  Which is exactly how the barman made it. He handed her the glass with a wink, waiting for Christine to taste it. She took a small sip, closing her eyes, enjoying the flavors once more.

  “Todo bien?” he asked.

  “Oh, si,” she answered with a smile. She handed him some Cuban pesos then went over to a chair and table.

  The view from the top of the Hotel Nacional was always beautiful. Christine had to admit that. Every time she saw it, it took her breath away.

  The rooftop bar was a newer addition; it had brought in more customers to dance the night away. And since the Habanos Festival was in full swing, there were plenty of people up here even though it was midday. She looked at them all, young men and women, older married couples trying to regain their past, and those looking for a good time. She smiled slightly as she sipped her refreshing beverage.

  The Caribbean Sea was peaceful, the waves lapping gently against the Malecón. The sounds of it mixed perfectly well with the Cuban jazz band playing all the classics of the Buena Vista Social Club. Christine tapped her foot in time to the music.

  If only she had a cigar… Her preference used to be the Trinidad Vigia, one of the best short Cubans in the world. But now she preferred the Nicaraguan Drew Estate Undercrown Shade. But, you get what you can get.

  Once she got settled, then it would be time to work. The pool would have to wait. First on Christine’s list was to make contact with Cuban Intelligence. She had been out of contact with the happenings of CI, who was in charge, and what they were up to.

  “Damn you, Station Master,” she muttered to herself. He had sent her in completely unprepared. Yet, that was his way. Every mission was a test, testing his operatives’ abilities to operate under these circumstances to see if they were capable. But a little bit of information would be helpful.

  “C’est la vie,” she said, saluting the city.

  “Señora Moore,” Rafael’s voice cut through the noise. “Your room is ready. Please follow me.”

  #

  “Back to work, I see,” the old manager said as they rode the elevator.

  “Always and forever,” Christine replied. She was anxious to see the room that the famed boozer had once stayed in. “Please tell me something, Rafael.”

  The man nodded.

  “Is Juan still the head of Cuban Intelligence?”

  Rafael feigned ignorance. “Whatever is that? Here in Cuba, our government is as open as any.”

  They both laughed. Christine always liked the Cuban sense of humor.

  “Come now,” she said, “you wouldn’t think me a fool? The Station knows all about that little side job of yours.” Christine gave a knowing smile while the manager looked around uncomfortably.

  “Forgive me, Señora Moore,” he stuttered as the doors opened onto the art deco floor. He held the door open for the lovely lady. “You must understand that in Cuba one must find all the money.”

  “Relax,” Christine said with a laugh and a nonchalant wave of her hand. “You, dear friend, are far too important. Now, which way?”

  She followed Rafael as he said, “As far as you are concerned, Christine, Juan de Dios is not of importance.” He stopped in front of an old-looking door. Next to it on the frame was a plaque. Inscribed was FRANK SINATRA SUITE.

  “Then what is?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Rafael smiled as he unlocked the door. “Why, getting to know Cuba again!” he said and with a flourish the door swung open.

  #

  In keeping with the hotel’s style, Art Deco ran through the rooms. Elegant and subtle. Golds with splashes of reds. Christine nodded with a small smile. “Better than I’m used to.”

  Rafael chuckled as he handed her the key. “You haven’t been in Cuba lately.”

  She shook her head as her eyes spotted a welcome. Bottles of Havana Club Rum Añejo 7, a humidor filled with Trinidad Vigia cigars, Coca-Cola, limes, and a small envelope. Christine pointed. “What is that?”

  “That?” Rafael ignored the envelope as he opened the curtains. Sunlight engulfed the room. “That was delivered while we organized your room.” He looked around the room, proud of his work.

  Christine was staring out the window, her eyes on the waves. In her hand, fidgeting with it, was a cigar. “At least gringo dollars haven’t reached you,” she said quietly.

  “Not yet,” Rafael answered quietly as he started for the door.

  “Rafael,” her voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned slightly, on the threshold.

  “Si?”

  Christine was cutting the cigar, the guillotine cutter sliced neatly through the cap. “Why is President Sanderson here?”

  He sighed, putting his thoughts into order. “Cuba, she has changed a lot. Si? Yet, her soul. That is and will always be the same.”

  “So I have been told. Is that what this is all about?”

  “The battle for Cuba’s soul. Si.”

  Christine snorted. “A battle? During a festival!”

  “President Sanderson and El Presidente are waging it right now,” Rafael said, turning to leave.

  “And who then is leading the resistance?”

  As he closed the door, he said simply, “The man who always has. Welcome home, señora.”

  The heavy door clicked shut, leaving Christine Moore alone in the room. She took a box of matches from next to the humidor then laid out three. Christine took the first, lit it, and then held it near the foot of the cigar. Slowly, she turned the cigar in her fingers, toasting it until the match was burnt down to near her fingertips. She dropped it into an ashtray then quickly grabbed the second, lighting it and once again holding it near the foot of the Habano.

  She stared at the flame as it ate away at the wooden match. She felt relaxed; the ritual of cigars always calmed her. The heat licked her finger, bringing her back to reality. The match dropped into the ashtray, the flame dying slowly as Christine took up the last match and repeated the moves, but this time, she put the head of the cigar in her mouth then as she held the flame near the foot once more, she puffed on the cigar. The flame leapt into the air, hitting the cigar.

  Christine puffed once, twice, thrice, and then dropped the match. She took the cigar then held it in front of her and blew gently. The foot glowed, completely lit.

  “Perfect,” she said to herself as she smoked. Her mouth held the cigar as she took the envelope. On the front in neat, pretty handwriting was CHRISTINE.

  She frowned slightly at the writing. It seemed familiar. Her fingers opened the flap then slid the paper out. It read:

  MEET AT BODEGUITA, SIT AT YOUR OLD TABLE.

  Christine looked at the note, then to the cigar. She sighed. Time to work.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Havana at night is truly a sight to behold. If during the day the colors are bright and bold, then at night the city truly comes alive. Everyone is out and about. Some are smoking cigars and just enjoying the atmosphere. Others were trying to find that next big party to join in. Music engulfs everyone and the senses are dazzled by the plumes of smoke emerging from nearly everyone and everywhere. The lines to get into clubs, bars, and restaurants are too
long to imagine.

  This is Havana during the Habanos Festival.

  Christine made her way across the borders of New New Havana, into New Havana and then into Old Havana where the buildings were seriously in need of repair. Some were propped up by beams of wood. Others, you could see had collapsed then had been partially cleared with rooms exposed and the people living inside waving happily at the passerbys. Damn, she had missed this place.

  Men of all ages approached her; some to ask for a date, they were gringos, others wanted to sell her the “finest Cubans in the world” at a steep discount. She waved all away. Christine moved as if in a trance, her legs doing all the work.

  Christine stopped in front of the Castillo de San Salvador de la Punta. She stared out across Havana Bay. The luxury boats were new to her eyes. But the smaller skiffs and dingies reminded her of that old book, the one about the fisherman. She never read it, but everyone told her that it is the quintessential Cuban book, even though it was written by an American.

  The stars and the moon twinkled and sparkled in the black water. A breeze swept across the bay and Christine breathed it in deeply. There was something oddly calming about the sea air for her. She loved it. Opening her eyes, Christine spotted spotlights high in the sky above the old Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabaña, the fortress that the Spanish built to protect Havana Bay from sea attacks because of the vulnerability of Castillo De Los Tres Reyes Del Morro, an old castle that stands at the heads of Havana Bay.

  Christine didn’t know if there was an event there or if someone had decided to have a party at La Cabaña, but she would have to check that out. Later.

  Turning down Agramonte, she ignored the prostitutes and their pimps. The allure of the flesh would have to wait. Then a turn onto Animas, cutting across Avenida Bélgica, and then finally onto Empedrado, home to La Bodeguita del Medio.

  #

  La Bodeguita del Medio is THE place in Havana to go for a cigar and the best mojito in the world. That is if you believe the marketing hype. Since 1942, the restaurant-bar has been one of the best tourist destinations in Havana. Pablo Neruda, Josignacio, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Nat King Cole, and Margaux Hemingway all were regulars of the place at one time or another. The man himself, Ernest Hemingway, was not.

  The line stretched along the street, but Christine was able to get to the head by smiling seductively at all the men. It paid to be a woman. The bouncer at the front didn’t look too pleased at this floozy making eyes at him.

  “¿Estás en la lista, chica,” he asked while holding a clipboard at an odd angle.

  “Naturalmente, guapo,” she answered with a swish of her hair. She touched his face without warning then walked in.

  All over the walls are graffiti. This is encouraged by the owners. It makes the place feel lived in and has always been the way. Periodically, they repaint the walls so new notes and quotes can be added. But the one constant is the most famous quote on the wall. In uneven scrawl it reads “My mojito in La Bodeguita, My daiquiri in El Floridita.” Under that is the signature of Hemingway. There is no proof that Papa was ever there, but it makes for a great story and the turistas all take photos of it.

  Christine moved through the crowd of people, all trying to get a puro and drink, past the band playing Chan Chan, the most well-known Compay Segundo song then into the back.

  Here it was quieter; the music could still be heard but the people in this part of the building were smoking cigars and having private conversations. Most were discussing the talks between the two presidents. A couple were planning to smuggle cigars and other contraband into the USA. A small group were negotiating prices for entry and transport to Miami. Some things never change, Christine thought.

  Only one table was empty. A sign on it read “Reservado.” It was her table, the one where she always conducted meetings and recruitments. Someone had gone out of their way to organize this. La Bodeguita never took reservations. Christine slid into one of the four chairs and waved a waiter over.

  “Tomar, señortia?”

  “Si, un mojito, por favor. Clasico.”

  The waiter nodded. Turned. Stopped then looked back. “¿La señora estará deseando un Habano?”

  Christine nodded with a smile. She always loved the Cigar Girls that worked for Habanos S.A. in partnership with La Bodeguita.

  The waiter nodded again then walked away.

  The song swept over her. Chan Chan had always made her melancholy even though the song was about two lovers building a house and that they go to the beach to fetch sand and during this become aroused. For Christine, it was the music itself, the four notes that crawled inside her heart and squeezed it. Perhaps it reminded her of the past or what might happen in the future. Right now, Christine didn’t care to find out.

  Christine closed her eyes, memories appearing in her mind. As the song continued, tears welled up. She had to shake her head. Focus, she told herself.

  “¿Que puro, señora?”

  Christine’s eyes snapped open. She looked up at the young beauty holding a tray lined with various brands and vitolas. Also on it were a cutter, cedar spills, matches, and a butane lighter.

  “What do you recommend?”

  The Cigar Girl smiled; both were admiring the other. “The Montecristo is always good. But my favourite today is the Bolivar.”

  Christine nodded her approval.

  As the waiter returned with the fabled cocktail, the young lady picked a Bolivar Belicoso Fino from the tray, rolled it between her fingers slightly, took a cutter then snipped the cap. The chunk of tobacco fell to the tray as the lady looked at Christine. “Match, spill, or lighter?”

  Christine leaned forward slightly and with a smile said, “You choose, guapa.”

  With a giggle, she handed the stick to Christine, then picked up the box of matches and one of the cedar spills. The match fizzed and sputtered as she struck it across the box. When it had burnt enough, she used it to light the thin end of the spill. The aroma of the burning wood filled the area. Holding the spill at a forty-five-degree angle, the lady waited.

  Christine guided the delicate hands towards her mouth, where the cigar waited. Christine used the lit wood to toast and then light the puro completely. After taking a deep pull, she let the smoke escape her lips slowly. It tasted wonderfully smooth. As she exhaled, her breath blew out the spill, “Muchisimas gracias.”

  The girl nodded, picked up the tray then sashayed away.

  Christine picked up the mojito and stared at the condensation that had formed on the glass.

  “Now if that wasn’t the sexiest thing I’ve seen in forever,” a silky voice said.

  Christine lowered the glass as a ball-achingly gorgeous brunette sat across from her. The woman smiled sweetly at her. “Hola, Christine. Como estas?”

  “¡Ir a la chingada, Adriana!”

  Adriana Prado laughed as another mojito appeared on the table. She picked it up then took a sip. “Careful, cariña. Those Mexicans will ruin your pretty tongue.”

  “What my pretty tongue does,” Christine said as she took a long draw on the cigar, “is none of your business.” She blew the smoke at the Cuban then drained her mojito in one gulp.

  Adriana pouted. “That’s no way to speak to your contact.”

  Christine’s eyes bulged slightly. “You have got to be fucking kidding?”

  The Cuban smiled cheekily with a shake of her head.

  “Didn’t they tell you?”

  “Who?… Station Master or Juan de Dios?”

  Adriana nodded as the waiter reappeared with a mojito for Christine.

  “I haven’t spoken to Juan yet. I thought this was his idea.”

  “En serio?” Adriana asked as she casually looked around the room. People were now leaving, and the place seemed oppressive; even the music had stopped. “Does this really look like his type of place?”

  Christine sipped the drink between puffs on the cigar. “…True.” She giggled. “His tastes have always been elsewhere.”<
br />
  Both ladies laughed loudly. The bar staff looked at them curiously.

  “Why are you here?” Christine held up her hand, stopping Adriana from speaking. “I know WHY you are here. But…you should be dead!”

  The Cuban held up her hands. “What can I say? Juan knows a good asset when he sees one.”

  “Asset? Is that what they call you now? I remember what he used to call you.”

  Adriana tilted her head to the side slightly, curiosity getting to her.

  “A worthless cunt!”

  Christine got to her feet, knocking the table and nearly spilling the tasty beverages. “Tell them that I am not going to be partnered with a lying, deceitful whore. I’ll do this with him, or by myself.”

  Adriana watched as Christine grabbed her drink and finished it. “Sit down, Christine,” she said with such authority that it made the other woman stop. “Sit down. Now,” she repeated.

  “Why should I?”

  The Cuban sighed. “Fine. Don’t. Go back to the Nacional and contact Station Master. See what happens. But, before you do, you should know what is at stake.”

  The smoke billowed from the foot of the cigar, clinging to Christine, surrounding her in a halo. “Save the world. I suppose.”

  “Apart from the fine print. Si.”

  Christine sat, sullenly back in her chair. “And what, pray tell, is the fine print?”

  Adriana held her glass to her mouth, taking a long sip before she answered, “Prevent not one, but two presidential assassinations then stop a man more dangerous than any terrorist. A man worse than Harry Lime and Richard Roper put together.”

  The words hung in the air the same way that the smoke did. Christine stared at Adriana. “That is high praise indeed, coming from you.”

  “Isn’t history grand,” Adriana said with a chuckle.

  Christine’s answer was to get up then walk out the back.

  #

  The alley behind La Bodeguita was uninviting. But for Christine, anywhere was better than with that woman. She leaned against the wall staring at the night sky. She sighed and stared at the glowing foot of her cigar. It pulsed slightly as a breeze swept through the alley.