I sipped my beer.
“There is a very prophetic line in the book . . . written before the revolution.” He quoted without notes, “ ‘The Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out. They got what they deserve. The hell with their revolutions.’ ” He said, “I will see you at dinner,” and left.
What the hell was that all about?
CHAPTER 21
Tad’s 5:30 lecture was being held in a meeting room on the mezzanine level, and everyone came dressed for dinner as instructed because the bus was departing right after Tad did the cha-cha or whatever he was going to do. Sara and I sat together. She was wearing a red lacy dress and sandals, and her perfume smelled good.
I noticed that Antonio was not in the room to monitor Tad’s lecture for subversive material, so maybe he was busy reporting me to the secret police for questioning the weight of F.C.’s marlin. My mouth sometimes gets me into trouble, which makes life interesting.
Anyway, attendance was taken and three people were absent, though they’d sent word that they were in their rooms, not feeling well, which was understandable after a long day in the hot sun listening to Antonio’s bullshit. Thinking ahead, Sara and I should go on sick call to give us a running start before we were reported as AWOL.
Tad began his lecture by playing Cuban music on a compact disc player while images of hot dancers flashed on a projector screen. This turned out to be the highlight of the lecture.
Tad then spoke from his notes, and I actually found the lecture interesting. I learned about Son music, salsa, rhumba, reggaeton, and the African origins of a lot of Cuban music and dance. There was no time for Q&A, but Tad remembered to give us the names of some good nightclubs, including Floridita, the birthplace of the daiquiri, and where Hemingway used to hang out. Tad said, “His record was eighteen double daiquiris in one sitting. Don’t try to match that.”
I said to Sara, “We used to do that before breakfast at Bowdoin.”
On our way down the sweeping staircase to the lobby, Sara asked, “Did you enjoy that?”
“I did.”
“Cuban music and dance are one of the few things that the regime hasn’t changed or censored.”
So even the Commies like to see boobs and butts shaking. In some ways, Cuba was still Cuba. I said, “I’m a little Hemingwayed out, but we can go to Floridita after dinner if you’d like.”
“I think we should take a walk on the Malecón.”
“You’re a cheap date.”
We boarded the bus. José was still on duty and Antonio had reappeared in time for a free dinner.
On our drive to the Riviera, Antonio gave us some background on the hotel to make our dining experience more meaningful and beautiful. The Riviera, he told us, was built by the notorious American gangster Meyer Lansky, and opened in time for Christmas 1957. “But on New Year’s Day 1959,” said Antonio, “the Communist Party crashed Mr. Lansky’s New Year’s Eve party.”
That got a laugh from the Yalies—who had all seen Godfather II—and Antonio, who’d probably used that line a hundred times, smiled.
So, I thought, Meyer Lansky and his Las Vegas partners had made a bad bet on the Riviera Hotel and Casino and lost everything in one day. I wondered if any Mafia money was in the cave. I pictured bundles of cash labeled “Lansky” or “Luciano.” Maybe that’s where my cut was coming from. I’ll take it.
We pulled up to the Riviera, which overlooked the Malecón and the Straits of Florida but looked like it belonged on the Las Vegas Strip.
We got off the bus and entered the huge marble lobby, which was eerily deserted. Antonio gave us a peek inside the empty Copa Nightclub, a Fifties time capsule. I could picture that New Year’s Eve party, men and women in evening dress, smoking and drinking at the tables, and people dancing to a twenty-piece orchestra, while Fidel Castro and his ragtag army headed toward Havana. And the party was over.
Someone asked, “Will the casino reopen?”
“Never,” replied Antonio. “It was completely destroyed with axes and hammers on the first day of liberation by the revolutionary army and the people of Havana.” He added, “We will see a news film of this in the Museum of the Revolution.”
I didn’t think I could watch that.
Anyway, it was time for a beautiful dinner. We were dining in the original restaurant, called L’Aiglon, and Antonio escorted us in. The spacious room had a plush carpet, red ceiling, and crystal chandeliers that were once gaudy but are now mid-century antiques.
Only a few other guests occupied the tables, and Sara claimed a table for two so we could be alone. I looked at Antonio sitting with Tad and caught him looking at me and Sara. Clearly he was interested in us, and my encounter with him in the bar had put me on guard.
A bow-tied waiter took our drink orders, and Sara ordered an expensive bottle of Veuve Clicquot and said to me, “Get used to being rich.”
Service was slow, so the Yalies used the time to take pictures. I could imagine the slide show conversation back in the States. “And those two hot tamales ran off together, and we all got questioned by the police and missed our day at the tobacco farm.”
The drinks arrived and everyone sat.
The restaurant was French, but the cuisine was something else, and the service was what you get from waiters making twenty bucks a month. Reality check: The rest of the country carried food ration cards.
I filled Sara in on my bar chat with Antonio and said, “We can draw one of two conclusions—that his interest in you is personal, or that his interest in you is something else.”
She nodded. “What is his interest in you?”
“Sizing up his competition.”
She forced a smile, then asked, “Why was he discussing you with Tad?”
“Don’t know.”
“And I don’t like that he mentioned the fishing tournament.”
“In context, it seemed like small talk. Out of context . . . I’m not sure.”
Sara seemed a bit concerned, so I changed the subject and told her that I had questioned F.C.’s marlin trophy in the Hemingway Tournament, and that I’d suggested to Antonio that it had to do with a rigged scale. I said, “I’m in big trouble.”
She laughed. “That’s a famous story. The Cubans in Miami say it was a scuba diver who put the fish on F.C.’s hook—with lead weights in its belly.”
We both got a laugh at that.
Well, if this was our second date, it was going well. In the real world I should be thinking that I might score tonight, or next date latest. But Sara Ortega had put me on the itinerary for day four. Why? I don’t know, but I thought I could fast-track this romance. Maybe another bottle of bubbly.
I emptied the first bottle into our flutes and said, “Your eyes sparkle like this champagne.”
“Worst. Line. Ever.”
“I’ve been at sea too long.”
“Apparently.”
A few more people drifted into the restaurant, and I could hear British accents and German being spoken.
Sara remarked, “This hotel seems like a lifeless parody of its former self.”
“In the right hands, the Riviera could be a gold mine.”
“This hotel is actually owned by the military, who are the biggest property owners in Cuba.” She added, “Nothing will change in Cuba until property is returned to its rightful owners.”
“In this case, Meyer Lansky’s heirs and partners.”
“It can be complicated,” she admitted. “Or easy if you steal what’s yours.”
That might not be so easy.
Dinner was included in the tour, but I needed to settle the bar bill, which I did for two hundred CUCs in cash. The Cuban military didn’t take American credit cards.
Sara and I skipped dessert, and I reported in to Tad—and Antonio—that we were going to take a taxi to Floridita.
“Have fun,” said Tad.
Antonio advised, “It’s a tourist trap. You should walk on the Malecón instead.”
&n
bsp; Which was where we were actually going, but I said, “That’s too close to the beach. Tad will turn us in to the State Department.”
Tad forced a smile but didn’t reply. I didn’t think he’d miss me when I was gone.
But Antonio would.
CHAPTER 22
We left the Riviera Hotel and began walking east toward the Nacional, which was about two miles farther down the Malecón. The night was warm, breezeless, and humid, and a bright moon illuminated the water, reminding me of Sara on my boat. Same moon, same water, different planet.
The wide sidewalk that ran along the seawall was a river of humanity, including multi-generational families dining al fresco. A few salsa and rhumba bands played and people danced. Others strolled, drank rum and beer, smoked, and gathered in groups to talk or read poetry.
Sara commented, “This is Havana’s living room and dining room, and the poor people’s cabaret. And this is the authentic Cuban experience you wanted.”
“Including the secret police?”
“Marcelo said no. They would be easy for the people to spot.” She added, “But there are always the chivatos.”
I noticed that there were enough Americans and Europeans strolling that we didn’t stick out, and I could also see that this was a good place for a chance encounter with a Cuban selling pottery—and Sara was certainly easy to spot in her red dress.
I asked, “Do you have your pesos with you?”
She tapped her shoulder bag.
We stopped near a salsa group, and, inspired by the hot music, Sara handed me her bag and joined a few people who were dancing. She had some good moves and she was really shaking it. She hiked up her dress and the crowd whistled and clapped, and I felt my pepino stirring.
Sara blew a kiss to the band and we moved on. I returned her bag with a compliment. “Not bad for an architect.”
“I’ll teach you Cuban dance when we get back to Miami.”
I would have said “if,” but I liked her optimism.
We stopped and looked out over the seawall at the beach and the Straits of Florida. People were fishing or wading in the water, maybe thinking about those ninety miles to Key West.
On that subject, Sara said, “You’ll notice there are no boats out there.”
“Right.”
“There are virtually no private watercraft allowed in Cuba, for obvious reasons.”
“They should just let people go.”
“Sometimes they do. As with the Mariel Boatlift. The regime understands it needs a safety valve—an unofficial method of getting rid of people who could cause problems. But Cuba loses many of its best and brightest.”
“I assume there are patrol boats out there.”
“There are. The Guarda Frontera—the border guards. They keep an eye on the commercial fishing fleet and also look for the rafters. But they can’t patrol hundreds of miles of coastline.” She added, “About five or six thousand rafters a year try to escape, and fewer than half are caught.”
Not bad odds. I asked, “Do the border guards have helicopters or seaplanes?”
“A few of each, but not many.”
“It only takes one.”
“It will go well.”
“Okay.”
We continued our walk, but no one approached us except artists selling their sketches or kids looking for a few coins.
I spotted a few ladies of the night, and Sara noticed. “Prostitution was one of the first things outlawed by the regime, and it carries a four-year prison sentence for both parties.”
“I’ll let Tad know.”
She smiled and put her arm through mine. “But you don’t need to buy sex.”
“Right.” Meanwhile, I’m not getting any for free.
“Cuba is a very promiscuous society, and casual sex is rampant. The Cubans say that sex is the only thing that Castro hasn’t rationed.”
Funny. But all this sex talk was getting me cranked. I could see the Nacional ahead and said, “Let’s have a nightcap.”
“We should keep walking.”
“No one’s selling Cuban pottery tonight.”
She didn’t reply.
“But that needs to happen soon. Our window will start closing in two or three days.”
“Would you be willing to come with me to Camagüey Province even if our Havana contact doesn’t show up?”
Actually, I’d prefer to do that and not have any Cubans involved. If Cuba was anything like Afghanistan, every time we relied on the locals to assist us we’d get double-crossed, ambushed, or at best screwed out of money.
“Mac?”
“Well . . . if I say no, would you go without me?”
“I would.”
The lady had balls. “Let’s give it a few days, then if our window of time is closing and we haven’t met our contact here, we can make that decision.”
“All right. And you understand that if we don’t meet our contact in Havana, we won’t know how to meet our contact in Camagüey, and we won’t have a vehicle or a safe house.”
I assured her, “I know how to hot-wire most vehicles, and the best safe house is under the stars.”
She stopped walking and faced me. “I told Carlos and Eduardo you were the right man for this job.”
Before I could think of a response, she threw her arms around my neck and we were locking lips on the Malecón.
She let go and we continued our walk. She asked, “Was that a gun in your pocket?”
“That was my Cuban Missile Crisis.”
She laughed, then said seriously, “It would be good if we had a gun.”
“We’ll have guns on The Maine if we need them to get out of Cuba.”
“We could need a gun much sooner.”
“As I understand it, getting caught with a gun in Cuba could be a death sentence.”
“I would rather die in a gunfight than be captured.”
“I think it’s time for a drink.”
We walked in silence, then Sara pointed out a modern six-story building off to the right. “That’s the U.S. Embassy.”
The windows were dark, except for a corner office on the sixth floor. Someone was working late, maybe trying to catch up after being out of the office for fifty years. The area around the building was bathed in security lights, and I could see the Great Seal of the United States over the front door.
Sara said, “We have no ambassador yet, but we have a Chargé d’Affaires, Jeffrey DeLaurentis, who runs the embassy. His boss, the Secretary of State, John Kerry, is a Yalie, and I met him once. So if we wind up in a Cuban prison, I can play the Yale card.”
Based on what I saw of her Yale alum group, neither the State Department nor the embassy would be taking that call.
Anyway, there was a small plaza in front of the embassy that Sara said was called the Anti-Imperialist Forum. “It’s where crowds gather spontaneously to protest against America. Except nothing in Cuba is spontaneous.”
“Except dancing.” And sex, which is unrationed.
Well, our primary objective didn’t go too well on the Malecón, but I had a secondary objective that might go better at the Nacional.
CHAPTER 23
We reached the tree-lined drive of the Nacional and entered the hotel lobby, which, unlike the Riviera, was hopping and crowded with what looked like an international clientele. I hoped Jack didn’t show up here tomorrow in one of his inappropriate T-shirts.
Cocktails on the terrace appealed to me, and we went out the back door.
The terrace was crowded, but for five CUCs the hostess found us two comfortable chairs that looked out at the Straits. A waitress appeared and Sara ordered a daiquiri and I got a Bucanero, por favor. A three-piece steel band played Caribbean Island music.
A soft breeze came off the moonlit water, stirring the palms, and the air was sweet with tropical flowers. The combo was playing “Guantanamera,” one of my favorites. Out over the water a jetliner was climbing out of José Martí Airport.
This would be the
perfect end of a nice evening if I was going to get spontaneously laid.
On a different but somewhat related subject, Sara said, “This is romantic.”
Our drinks came and we clinked. “To a new friendship,” she said.
“And to you,” I replied.
We stared out at the water, and I could see the silhouettes of the old and new fortifications along the beach. People have a way of screwing things up, even in a tropical paradise.
She said, “I never asked you—do you have a woman?”
The best and shortest answer was, “No.”
“Why not?”
“I was married to my boat.”
“Be serious.”
“I never found the right woman.” I added, “But I’m open to that possibility.”
“Sounds like bullshit. That’s okay. When we leave here, we go our separate ways.”
I hate these kinds of conversations. “Let’s focus on getting out of here.”
“And if we don’t, we’ll always have this time together.”
I had the feeling I was being manipulated, but I also felt that Sara honestly liked me. If we actually got out of this place alive, we could sort it out. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking—two more days until sex on Sunday, then a few more days after that until we had to make some big decisions. Regarding the first subject, I spontaneously suggested, “Let’s get a room here.”
She didn’t reply.
“We could get arrested tonight and executed in the morning.”
She laughed but it was a nervous laugh. Clearly she wasn’t ready.
I was about to drop the subject but she said, “Get the check.”
“And a taxi?”
“And a room.”
“Wait right here.”
I moved quickly to the front desk and inquired about a room. The clerk sensed that I was on a pepino mission, and he said that only luxury rooms were available, and I had my choice of four—the Errol Flynn room, which sounded exciting, the Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra room, where I could also get laid, the Walt Disney room, which might be a little weird, or the Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan room, which sounded like a winner, for five hundred CUCs—more than I had in my wallet. But the clerk wanted me to get laid—or he wanted to pocket some cash—so he said he’d take part of the payment in American dollars, plus ten percent. Why is free sex so expensive?