The Cuban Affair

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Good.”

  “And by the way,” I asked, “do you know how we’re going to get the money onboard The Maine?”

  “I don’t know at this time.”

  “And when do you think you’ll know?”

  She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Our contact in Havana will lead us to our contact in Camagüey Province, then my map will lead us to the cave, and a road will lead us to Cayo Guillermo.”

  “I got that. How do we get the last five yards over the goal line?”

  “We’ll find out when we get to Cayo Guillermo.” She reminded me, “This is all compartmentalized. Fire walls.”

  Obviously there was a contact person in Cayo Guillermo, but Sara wasn’t sharing that at this time. So I returned to my more immediate concern and asked, “Am I supposed to romance you? Or vice versa?”

  She glanced at me. “Let me fall all over you—as unbelievable as that may seem to our group.”

  Was I supposed to smile? I asked, “When do we begin our charade?”

  “We start tonight at the cocktail reception. By day four, which is Sunday, when the Pescando Por la Paz fleet leaves Havana for Cayo Guillermo, we’ll be having a romance.”

  “Let me make sure I understand—”

  “We’ll be sleeping together. Is that all right with you?”

  “Let me think. Okay.”

  “Good.”

  And I get paid for this. There must be a catch.

  She stayed silent a moment, then said, “I like you. So it is okay.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She glanced at me. “And you?”

  “Just part of the job.”

  “That was going to be my line.”

  “You intrigue me.”

  “Good enough.”

  “And I like you.”

  We strolled on in silence, then against my better judgement I said, “I thought you had a boyfriend.”

  “I thought you had a boyfriend.”

  “Just kidding.”

  “Good. Then neither of us has a boyfriend.”

  We walked up the sloping grass toward the hotel and reached the pavilion. I said, “I’m lunching in the bar. Join me.”

  “We need to stay with the group.”

  “I’m grouped out. See you on the bus.”

  “Thank you for a nice walk.” She entered the pavilion and I could hear Tad say, “There you are. Have you seen . . . what’s his name?” The roster-snatcher.

  I continued across the terrace, where a few dozen turistas were drinking mojitos.

  I found the bar called the Hall of Fame and ordered a Corona but settled for a local brew called Bucanero. There was a pirate on the label, which was appropriate for the eight-CUC price. I gave the bartender a ten and sat in a club chair. The patrons were mostly cigar-smoking men, prosperous-looking, maybe South Americans. For sure no Cuban could afford this place, and if they could they wouldn’t want to advertise it.

  A young lady in fishnet stockings approached with a cigar tray. “Cigar, señor?”

  “Sure.” I picked out a Cohiba and the young lady clipped my tip and lit me up. Twenty CUCs. What the hell. I’d be lighting my cigars with fifties in a few weeks.

  I sat back, drank my beer, and smoked my cigar, surveying the opulent room whose walls were covered with photos of the famous people who’d stayed here in happier times. I wish I’d been at that 1946 Sinatra concert.

  But back to the present. Sara Ortega. That was a pleasant surprise.

  CHAPTER 16

  We arrived at our hotel, the Parque Central, which, as the name suggested, was across from a park in Central Havana.

  We filed off the bus, collected our luggage, and entered the hotel, a fairly new building with an atrium lobby surrounded by a mezzanine level that could be reached by a sweeping staircase.

  Most of the lobby was a cocktail lounge with a long bar off to the left. I saw that many of the tables were occupied by cigar smokers, filling the air with a not-unpleasant smell, though many of the Yalies seemed horrified. Hey, it’s 1959. Deal with it.

  We were checked in as a group by clerks who had never heard of the hospitality industry, but mojitos were handed out to make up for the inefficiency and indifference.

  Tad and Alison bailed out, leaving their flock of poor little lambs to fend for themselves—but not before Tad reminded us, “Welcome cocktail party and dinner on the rooftop terrace at five-thirty.”

  That was where Sara was going to start falling all over me, so I should take a shower and get there on time.

  Sara got her room key and wheeled her bag past me without a glance.

  I got checked in and went up to the sixth floor and found my room.

  The park-view room was clean and functional and had a queen-sized bed and a flat-screen TV. It also had its own safe, which I wouldn’t trust to be safe from the policía. There was a minibar but it was empty.

  The room was sweltering and I lowered the temperature, which didn’t seem to do anything. I unpacked my few belongings, got out of my sweaty clothes, and hit the shower. I don’t know why I expected hot water, but cold showers were what I needed to lower my libido until Sunday.

  I got dressed in clean clothes, including my blue blazer, and went down to the lobby bar. They didn’t have Corona, so I ordered a Bucanero. Six CUCs. A third of a month’s wages. The only person I recognized from our group was Tad, who was reading a stack of papers at the end of the bar, sipping a bottled water. I sat next to him and asked, “What are you reading?”

  He looked up at me. “Oh . . . Mr. . . .”

  “MacCormick. Call me Mac.”

  “Okay . . . these are my lecture notes.” He put his hand on them, and I felt I owed him an explanation for my intemperate roster-snatching, but instead I bought him a Bucanero.

  To make conversation as I kept my back to the bar, looking for Sara in the lobby, I told Tad, “My four-star room has no hot water, and the A/C has asthma.”

  “Sorry. It’s intermittent.” He gave me a tip. “There’s actually hot water in the sink and the tub. The showers seem to be on a separate system.” As for the A/C, he said, “Mine’s out, too. Havana has power problems.”

  “What’s going to happen when a half million spoiled Americans hit this city?”

  “God only knows.”

  “At least the beer is cold.”

  “Usually.”

  We chatted a bit as I looked at people getting off the elevators. Tad was actually okay, but he took the opportunity to lecture me, “We missed you at lunch. It’s important that you stay with the group.”

  “Why?”

  “This is a group tour. If you go off on your own to someplace that we are not licensed to visit—like the beach, or on a boat, or any place that is not considered educational—then we risk losing our educational tour license from the State Department.”

  “How does the State Department classify bordellos?”

  He actually smiled, then confided, “As a practical matter, you’re free to do what you want after the group dinners.”

  “So no bed check?”

  “Of course not.” He suggested, “There are some good nightclubs in Havana. I’ll mention them at my first lecture tomorrow night.”

  “Great. What’s your lecture about?”

  “The history of Cuban music.”

  “I don’t want to miss that one.”

  “Actually, attendance at the lectures is required.”

  I guess TBA didn’t mean what I thought it meant. “Can I see your notes? So I can ask intelligent questions.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “That’s okay. Let me ask you something—there’s a lady in our group, the one I helped with her luggage at the airport, Sara Ortega. Do you know anything about her?”

  He shot me a look. “No. I don’t know any of the people in our group.”

  “I hope you get to know Alison.”

  He ignored that and
asked, “Is there anyone from your class in the group?”

  “I’m not a Yalie. Can’t you tell?”

  He smiled politely.

  I asked him, “Did anyone go off on their own last time you were here?”

  “No . . . Well, a couple did go to a Havana beach.”

  “Did you have them arrested?”

  He forced a smile. “I just spoke to them in private, and I also reiterated the rules to the group at my next lecture.”

  “Are you obligated to call the embassy if someone breaks the rules?”

  “I . . . Well, last year the embassy wasn’t open. But . . . why do you ask?”

  “I was hoping I could go scuba diving while I’m here.”

  “Sorry, you can’t.” He added, “It would cause all of us trouble.”

  “But no problem with a bordello?”

  He again forced a smile. “I don’t think they exist here. But if you discover otherwise, let me know.”

  I smiled. Tad was really okay—just a little uptight and anxious about his responsibilities as a group leader in a police state. I hoped he handled it well when Sara and I disappeared. Bye-bye license.

  We chatted a bit, and Tad asked me, “What do you do for a living?”

  Good question. And that’s what I was asked on my visa application. Carlos and I both knew that my cover story—my legend, in Intel parlance—should be close to the truth in case the Cuban authorities did a background check. You don’t want to be caught in an unnecessary lie, so Carlos and I agreed that my occupation was “fisherman,” and there was no way anyone would connect “fisherman” to the Pescando Por la Paz, especially now that I wasn’t the registered owner of a boat in the tournament.

  “Mister MacCormick?”

  Also, Tad would have photocopies of everyone’s Yale travel application, so I replied, “I’m a fisherman.”

  “I see. Well, I hate to say this to you, but Cuba is a fisherman’s paradise. Though not for you.”

  “Maybe next time I’m here.”

  “Eventually Americans can come here as tourists with no restrictions.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Well, I had set the stage, delivered a few lines, and it was time to exit left. “See you at cocktails.”

  I took my beer to a cocktail table in the lobby and surveyed the lounge. A few of our group had drifted in, but not Sara.

  Carlos, in his briefing, had told me that the hotels used by Americans were under surveillance by undercover agents from the Orwellian Ministry of the Interior. But because Cuban citizens were generally not allowed in the hotels for foreigners, these surveillance men tried to look like Latin American tourists or businessmen. I should be able to spot them, Carlos said, by their cheap clothing, bad manners, or by the fact that they never paid for their drinks. Sounded more like a scene from an Inspector Clouseau movie than Big Brother in Cuba. But maybe I should listen to Carlos.

  As I was sitting there, it hit me—I was in Communist Cuba, where paranoia was a survival tool. And at some point in the next ten days, I was going to be either rich in America, or in jail here, or worse. Also, I was going to have sex with a woman I barely knew—not a first, but exciting nonetheless.

  Regarding Sara, empathy is not one of my strong points, but I thought about the risks she was taking. She had much stronger motivations for being here than I did, but that didn’t diminish her courage. In fact, to be less empathetic, her motivations could lead her into some risk-taking that I wouldn’t approve of. Beware of people who are ready to die for a cause—especially if they’re your team leader.

  And finally, I knew, as Sara did, that sleeping with me was actually not part of the job, and that our romance could easily be faked—and that was the original script that she and Carlos had probably worked out, thus the made-up boyfriend. But Sara had changed the script and changed her mind, and not only was she willing to die for her cause, she was also willing to . . . well, fuck for it. That’s a dedicated woman.

  And what Sara wanted from me in exchange for sex was loyalty, reliability, and commitment. Men in combat bond in other ways. Women in dangerous situations with a male partner have figured out that the sexual bond can usually keep the idiot in line.

  Or maybe she actually liked me. As unbelievable as that seems. And that could lead to a whole different set of problems. Especially if the feeling was mutual.

  I finished my beer and checked my watch. Cocktails in fifteen minutes.

  As in a war zone, I had a sense of heightened awareness, coupled with a contradictory sense of unreality. Like, this can’t be happening. But it was, and as I promised Sara on The Maine, if I got here I wouldn’t go back on my word. I’m all in, as we used to say in the U.S. Army. Good to go.

  Sex, money, and adventure. Does it get any better than that?

  CHAPTER 17

  The upscale open-air rooftop restaurant was in a new wing of the hotel, and it could have been in Miami Beach. The winds of change were blowing in Cuba, but not the trade winds, and it was still hot and humid.

  I’m usually on time for cocktails and chicks, but about half our group had not yet arrived, including Sara. Tad, Alison, and Professor Nalebuff were standing near a potted palm, talking to a tall guy with long, swept-back hair and tight pants who I guessed was our Cuban guide.

  Everyone looked refreshed after their long day of airports, bureaucratic bullshit, and tropical heat. Cold showers are invigorating. As per our Travel Tips, the men in our group wore sports jackets, but no ties. The ladies had repaired their makeup and seemed cool and comfortable in nice summer dresses.

  A waiter came up to me with a tray of mojitos, which like the daiquiri had been invented in Cuba and probably should have stayed here. But to get some gas in the tank, I took one.

  I noticed that Richard Neville was mopping his brow with a handkerchief and also downing a mojito while simultaneously grabbing hors d’oeuvres from passing waitresses and somehow managing to smoke a cigarette. Amazing. His pretty wife, Cindy, was alone, staring out over the parapet at the lighted city, sipping a mojito. Under other circumstances I would have joined her, but I was about to be swept off my feet by Sara Ortega.

  I spotted a bar and walked over to it. Former combat infantry officers don’t drink cocktails that come in primary colors with little umbrellas in them, so I gave my mojito to the bartender and ordered a vodka on the rocks.

  Sara suddenly appeared beside me and said to the bartender, “May I have a Cuba Libre?” She added, “Por favor.”

  She seemed to notice me for the first time and said, “Excuse me, what did you order?”

  “Vodka.”

  “You should be trying something local.” She said to the bartender, “Please give this gentleman a Cuba Libre.” She asked me, “Have you ever had one?” She smiled.

  Playacting is fun. “Once. On my boat.”

  “Do you sail?”

  “I’m a fisherman.”

  “What do you fish for?”

  “Peace.”

  “That’s good.” She put out her hand. “Sara Ortega.”

  “Daniel MacCormick.” We shook, and I reminded her, “We met at the airport and took a picture together in the plaza.”

  “Your arm was sweaty.”

  Sara was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder silk dress that reached down to the straps of her patrician sandals. Her lipstick was that frosty pink that used to drive me crazy when I was a teenager.

  The bartender gave us our Cuba Libres and I raised my glass. “To new adventures.”

  We touched glasses. Here’s looking at you, kid.

  She asked, “What brings you to Cuba?”

  “Curiosity. How about you?”

  “I’m looking for something.”

  “I hope you find it.”

  “I will.”

  She walked to the parapet and gazed out over the city. “It’s beautiful from up here. But down there, not everything is beautiful.”

  “I noticed.”

  “But stil
l romantic in a strange way.”

  Sara pointed out some of the landmarks of the city, then drew my attention to the harbor. “You can see the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal on the far side of that plaza.” She stepped out of character and said, “We saw this on Google Earth.”

  I nodded and asked, “Where is the Nacional?”

  She pointed to the tall building, silhouetted against the sea, then pointed out the wide boulevard that snaked along the seashore. “That’s the Malecón, where half of Havana gathers on hot nights.”

  “To do what?”

  “To walk and talk. It is a place for lovers, poets, musicians, philosophers, and fishermen . . . and those who gaze toward Florida.”

  Well, I thought, if you don’t have air-conditioning, television, money, or hope, the Malecón might be better for the soul than church. I was actually beginning to feel sorry for these people, though I almost envied their simple lives. As for Sara, she was more Cuban than she knew.

  Sara said we should be sociable, and she took my arm and led me around the rooftop to meet our fellow travelers, introducing me as Mac, though I was Daniel when she picked me up at the bar. She told a few people that I wasn’t a Yalie, but that everyone should be nice to me anyway. That got some polite chuckles.

  We circulated a bit, and Sara did most of the talking. I was starting to feel like a hooked tuna, so I joined in the dumb cocktail conversations. I remembered an old Bowdoin joke and said to a group of people, “I hear Yale is going co-ed. They’re going to let men in.” That didn’t go over well.

  Anyway, about half the group seemed normal and the other half needed more mojitos, or an enema.

  I used to be good at cocktail parties in Portland, college, the Officers’ Club, and Wall Street. But four years at sea and too many Key West dive bars had apparently taken the shine off my silver tongue. Not that I gave a shit.

  Sara, on the other hand, was good with tight-assed strangers, poised and charming. Her eyes sparkled. What was more impressive was that she knew she was possibly facing death, and she was handling that well for a rookie.