As they approached Cuba, he was struck by the size of the island. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but he was still surprised by the sheer length of it. They touched down, and he realized, with a jab of adrenalin, that this was going to be the first real test of his new passport – nobody but the ticket agent had looked at it in TJ.
He disembarked, and dutifully stood in the queue for customs. The inspector gave his visa and passport a cursory glance, stamped it and waved him through. That was it. Nothing to it. He’d been anticipating some sort of questioning or at least more scrutiny, but apparently Cuba wasn’t worried about being invaded by Romania just yet.
Once through, he found an information booth and asked the woman at the desk if she spoke English.
“A leetle,” she explained, holding her index finger and thumb slightly apart in the universal gesture of small.
“What’s the best hotel in Havana?” he asked.
“Oh, The NH Park Central and the Melia are berry popular, but I like the Santa Isabel.”
“How much will a taxi cost?” Steven inquired.
“About twenty dollars.” The dollar was officially unwelcome, but still universally accepted.
“Gracias.”
Steven exited the terminal and dutifully stood in a queue for one of the authorized taxis – only select cars were allowed to accommodate foreigners. He asked for the Hotel Santa Isabel, and the surprisingly modern automobile pulled smoothly away. Based on his assumptions about Cuba, his expectation was for a ride in a 1950’s Mercury – instead, he got a 2010 Mitsubishi sedan.
After a half-hour trip the cab stopped alongside a three-story building that occupied an entire block a few hundred yards from the waterfront. It appeared to be an old colonial mansion converted into a hotel. After paying the driver in dollars, which he seemed more than happy to receive, Steven carried his bags into the front entrance.
Steven approached the front desk and communicated in broken Spanish that he’d like a room for two nights (posible un camisa por dos noches?), to which one of the gentlemen behind the reception area responded in perfect English, informing him that, of course, they could accommodate him. They requested his passport and informed him that the cost would be $140 per night, which he also paid in cash. He’d taken to carrying $600 in a small wallet he’d gotten while at the luggage store; so that he wouldn’t be pulling out a wad of hundreds every time he needed to pay for something.
No one seemed the least bit surprised that a Romanian was communicating with them in perfect American English and paying in dollars. It was a world steeped in mystery – and who had the time to wonder over every wrinkle?
The room turned out to be a large, older-styled mini-suite that looked exactly like what it in fact was: a converted series of rooms in what had at one time been a private residence of massive proportions. The air hung stifling when he first walked in, but the A/C reluctantly eased the temperature to a reasonable level within a few minutes, and after hanging up his few shirts and washing his face and hands, he fell into bed and drifted off to sleep, the noise of traffic from the Malecon muted by the heavy velvet drapes.
Focal Point: Chapter 13
When Steven came to, it was late afternoon. He looked at his watch and calculated he’d been down for three hours. He experimented with the shower, which spurted forth a meager stream of water barely sufficient to get the travel grime off and resuscitate him enough to venture out into the town. Still, he was grateful for it, as his initial expectations of Cuba had been minimal, and his surroundings were actually elegant, if a bit worn in places.
It was easily 85 percent humidity and about 90+ degrees outside, so he donned shorts and one of his new black button-up short sleeve shirts. Before leaving, he locked his valuables and money belt in the room safe and descended the stairs to the lobby.
The streets clamored boisterous and noisy, with music emanating from doorways and windows, competing with the roar of old engines sedulously making their way down the battered boulevards. There were fewer vehicles than he’d imagined, which he suspected was a function of the general poverty of the island – confirmed, to a point, by the crumbling state of most of the buildings. Havana was a city in decay. At one time obviously grand; even by European city standards, but generations of inattention had reduced most buildings to near ruin.
He was propositioned every 30 yards by young ladies looking to make a little cash, further reinforcing the seedy feeling of the place. Through all this he smelled a dizzying combination of cigar smoke and cooking odors, reminding him how famished he was. As he crossed the street at block number four he spotted one of the restaurants the hotel clerk had recommended. He entered and was quickly shown to a table by the window.
There were few other patrons, no doubt due to the early hour, which again was fine by him. He scanned the menu and ordered a bottle of water and a Bucanero beer, finally opting for the specialty of the house; palomilla served with black beans and rice.
The beer was medium-dark bodied, very strong and extremely cold. The steak barely edible. Still, after the meal he felt like a new man, or at least a slightly less used one.
As he paid his bill, Steven noted that, while not unreasonable, it was about four times more expensive than what the locals likely would have paid – Cuba had a two-tier system which commanded much higher prices from non-citizens. He couldn’t really complain, as the locals clearly had little or no money.
Steven left the shade of the restaurant and returned to the heat and humidity, which slammed him like a burst from a blast furnace.
He wandered down the streets to the Malecon, the boulevard that ran along the waterfront, entertained by the live musicians in every other doorway. Near the central area he came upon a fair-sized crowd gathered around a pair of young men who were boxing; obviously for show, judging by the hat sitting next to the chalked-out ‘ring’ – it contained a few dollars and coins. He watched with interest as they parried and swatted at each other, pouring sweat from their exertion as they landed blows in determined silence.
The crowd cheered their respective favorites, and the two lads showed no signs of being even close to calling it a draw as the crowd egged them on.
He felt a tug at his back pocket and spun around to see a thin, ferret-faced local edging away from him through the noisy gathering. He’d forgotten to stick his wallet in his front pocket when he’d left the restaurant, and an enterprising thief had spotted the bulge and correctly surmised that there was money to be had, free for the taking.
Almost.
As Steven moved towards the man, he turned and broke into a run. Steven gave chase as he ran through the side street off the main boulevard and into the less traveled residential tenement area of town.
It really was no contest, as Steven was accustomed to running for miles every morning and was in peak condition. The thief probably hadn’t eaten a full meal for days.
After a few minutes he rounded a corner, and the man was leaning against a wall in a dead-end cul de sac, catching his breath, accompanied now by a larger man who held an old claw hammer in his hand. Steven took in the situation as the smaller guy pulled out a knife and held it in front of him. The way he gripped it told Steven that he knew how to use it. This was quickly escalating into a deadly situation.
Steven figured he’d give it a go anyway, and addressed them in his broken Spanish.
“Déme mi carpeta y no le lastimaré.” (Give me back my wallet and I won’t hurt you).
The two men looked at each other and laughed, genuine merriment evident. Who did he think he was? Anglo in girl glasses wanted his wallet back and he’d let them go? That was clearly the Cuban equivalent of a knee-slapper. The bigger one responded.
“Salga, cono, o le mataré.” (Get lost, pussy, or you’re dead).
Hmmm. That went well, he thought.
It looked like he’d have to do this the hard way. He slowly walked down the alley towards them as they spread out, keeping the weasel with the knif
e on his left as he approached the bigger assailant, who was now swinging the hammer over his head with his right hand with his left extended forward. Weasel guy crouched down low with both hands in front of him, moving the knife slowly in a circle, still somewhat winded. The bigger man would move first; you could see in his eyes he felt confident, while weasel guy was a tad confused as to why this was turning into an actual fight. The little guy was clearly the brighter of the two.
Time compressed and slowed as Steven entered the state of complete awareness and readiness that he’d experienced countless times before, while in combat in the Gulf and in sparring bouts. He watched, almost detached, as the larger thief moved towards him as though in slow motion, swinging the hammer at his head, and his peripheral senses registered the weasel lunging a few moments later.
Both were right handed, he noted.
Steven leaned back a few degrees and let the hammer swing in front of his face, missing by several inches, and simultaneously kicked the larger man’s kneecap, tearing the ligaments and crushing the cartilage, effectively crippling him. He pivoted to dodge the blade but was a few nanoseconds too late, and it sliced the side of his abdomen midway up his ribcage. The thrust was intended to skewer him, but instead glanced off a rib. Steven slammed his cupped hands against each side of the weasel’s head, rupturing his eardrums.
Less than eight seconds and it was over. Both assailants lay in the filthy alley, finished, and Steven had only executed two simple moves. To a spectator it would have looked like a rapid kick and then an attempt to catch the smaller man as he fell – not much motion or wasted energy. His heart rate had never increased nor his breathing strained, and the odd sense of time compression lifted, events beginning to morph into real time again.
The big man lay moaning and holding his brutalized knee, and the weasel curled in a fetal position cradling his head, blood trickling out of his ears. The knife had fallen harmlessly away and rested by the wall. Steven bent down and pulled his wallet out of the weasel’s shirt pocket, then walked over and ripped a piece of the bigger man’s shirt off, pressing it against the cut in his left side to staunch the flow of blood. He whispered to the man.
“Consiga a un doctor, él está lastimado gravemente.” (Get him to a doctor, he’s hurt pretty badly).
Then he turned and walked out of the alley, retracing his steps to the hotel. He was a little surprised that the knife had gotten him, and attributed it to the effects of the beer. Slowed him down just a hair, which unfortunately translated into a three-inch cut that would require some attention. It was bleeding pretty heavily so he kept pressure applied, allowing the man’s shirt to absorb the worst of it. Hurt like a bitch. Served him right for getting careless with the wallet. If you were going to put up a sign saying, ‘Idiot here, take advantage’ you were bound to get some takers. He hoped the big man would be able to get the weasel to a clinic. The pain from two popped eardrums was excruciating, and there was significant danger of infection.
As he entered the hotel and walked up the stairs to his room he got an alarmed look from the girl at the reception desk. Although the black shirt hid the blood because it just looked wet and slick, there an obvious tear in it – and then there was the blood on his hands.
He sat down at the vanity and removed his shirt to inspect the extent of the stinging wound. Still bleeding, although slower. You could see rib; superficial gash, but deep enough to require attention. He considered using the sewing kit to stitch it up, or perhaps go attempt to find a store that might actually have some superglue – but figured using a doctor would be best, if available. He called down to the concierge.
“Buenas tardes.”
“Hello, do you speak English?” Steven asked.
“Yes, of course. How may I help you?”
“I need a doctor to come to the hotel. I cut myself pretty badly on a fence I fell against, and need someone to look at it.”
“Eh, I will make some calls. Will you be all right for the time being? Can you wait a few minutes?”
“Yes, but it is painful. I’d appreciate it if you would hurry.”
“Naturally, sir. I will call back in just a minute or two. We have a doctor we use for emergencies. I will call now.”
“Gracias.” Steven hung up.
He wished that there was an ice machine on the floor so he could numb the cut while waiting for the doctor, but this was no Best Western Carlsbad. Few places were. He was out of luck.
The phone rang. The concierge informed him El Doctor was on his way and should be there in ten minutes or so.
Half an hour later, a knock at the door. Steven opened it to find a small, bespectacled man carrying an ancient medical bag.
He introduced himself; “I’m Doctor Juan Carlos Guitierrez. I understand there has been an accident?” His English was passable.
“Yes, an unfortunate encounter with a fence,” Steven explained.
“Well, let’s see what we have here.” The doctor pulled up a chair and sat down on it. He beckoned Steven to stand in front of him. He examined the wound, which was now just seeping a little blood.
“Hmmm. You are fortunate that this, er, fence, sliced cleanly and evenly, missing any organs.” He looked at Steven when he said ‘fence’ with an unmistakable skepticism. He’d seen enough knife fight outcomes to appreciate the type of fence that Steven had fallen against. Still, a man was entitled to his discretion, and who knew, it was a dangerous city and this could have been a matter of the heart. They oftentimes were. Best to focus on the future, not dwell on the past.
“I will need to clean the wound and stitch, and you will require a tetanus shot as well as antibiotico, I think, to avoid infection. Are you alergico?”
“Excuse me?” Steven didn’t understand the last bit.
“Alergico, do you have bad responses to any medications?
“Oh, allergic. No, not that I know of.”
“Bueno. We begin. I will give you something for the pain, I think. Yes? Local only.” The doctor extracted a syringe, filled it from a small vial, and injected fluid into the areas around the cut. Steven immediately felt the pain seeping away. The doctor then squirted some into the wound, and the whole area numbed.
“Now we clean.”
He swabbed the wound with antiseptic wash and deftly stitched it up. He used sixteen sutures by the time he was done, spacing them fairly far apart. He put a loose dressing on it and left two more bandages with Steven, along with a small tube of ointment.
“This will hurt. I’m sorry, there is nothing else for it,” the doctor explained as he gave Steven the tetanus shot. He was right, it hurt almost worse than the ‘fence’ wound.
“And now for the antibiotic, and you are good as new, I believe, no?” He injected it into the large muscle of the gluteus maximus. The butt. Ouch again.
“Is that it, are we finished?” Steven asked. “How much do I owe you?”
“Money? Ah, let’s see. For the stitches, pain medicine, antibiotic, tetanus shot, $80. The medicines are very expensive because of the embargo. I am sorry it is so much.”
It was a bargain. In the U.S. a house call and sundry ministrations would have been five times that amount – easily. Steven gave him $100 cash.
“I appreciate the help. It’s been a difficult day for me, problems with a girlfriend and then this.” Steven needed to ensure that he wouldn’t run afoul of any reporting, and wanted to offer a plausible possibility for what the doctor had seen.
“No problema, Senor. Ladies can be very unpredictable, no, especially when it is so, eh, hot, mucho calor. I have some small experience.” El Doctor was a worldly man who understood things.
He looked at Steven. “I would stay away from any more fences for the time being. Put on ointment every eight hours, and have the stitches removed in five days. If you are still in Habana, I would be able to assist; or you can cut them with small scissors and pull them out yourself. Avoid lifting heavy things or placing undue strain on the injury for several week
s. Have the hotel call if there are problems.” He placed two packets of aspirin on the table by the door. “I’m afraid there is likely to be some pain, no? Here is aspirin for you. Stronger medications are harder to get.”
Steven thanked him again and showed him to the door. He let the doctor out, then lay on the bed. Quite a first day in Havana. Different than a Saturday evening in Newport Beach, that was for sure. It was hard to complain that life was uneventful.
He dozed for a bit, then got up, donned another shirt and went down to the hotel bar. The local anesthesia was wearing off and the pain was starting in. He ordered a Mojito.
When in Rome.
Pretty damned good Mojito, he’d give them that. With nothing else to do to pass the time, he wound up having four before calling it a night. Back in his room, he washed down a couple of aspirin and spent an uncomfortable night tossing and turning.
Focal Point: Chapter 14
Sunday he awoke to pain.
His arm, his ass, his side, his head.
The rum in the Mojitos had exacted their inevitable penalty, and the wound both throbbed and burned at the same time. He showered carefully, avoiding soaking the bandage and afterwards changed the dressing – relieved to see some dried blood and clear fluid, but no obvious infection. Good old penicillin had apparently done its job. He choked down some aspirin and went downstairs to the hotel restaurant, where he ordered breakfast. Beans and rice, fried plantains. Very strong, very hot coffee.
Todo bien.
Steven spent much of the day wandering slowly around the city. He ambled across the narrow channel and explored the length of the original Spanish fort that had defended the city for centuries. The new dressing seemed to be holding up and the journey thus far had distracted the pain, so he wandered along the waterfront boulevard, which ran for mile upon mile. Unbelievably, Havana had a fully developed Chinatown. Who knew? He was continually surprised by the level of decay of the structures and the strong, good-natured spirit of the people. He moved through the milling throngs of European and South American tourists, past several elaborate churches, and found himself in front of the famous Hemingway bar, La Bodeguita del Medio, on a small nondescript street. Steven was unimpressed. Once away from the waterfront, the heat became oppressive, so he returned to the Malecon; packed out with locals because the residents sought out the sea breeze to temper the oppressive heat. After enjoying a cold beer at a temporary bar set up on the seafront main artery, he made his way to Revolution Square, which he thought looked a very Soviet era. Depressingly so. Huge murals featuring Che Guevara and Fidel Castro abounded, and the vibe emanating from the whole city suggested the revolution had taken place a few months earlier – as opposed to over 50 years before.
Zero Sum Page 18
