Havana Best Friends

Havana Best Friends

José Latour

I dedicate this novel to all special needs teachers, whose enthusiasm and self-sacrifice should be a guiding light for the rest of mankind.

Epigraph

There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it

EDITH WHARTON

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Epigraph

Part One

1

2

3

Part Two

4

5

6

7

Part Three

8

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

One of the most remarkable sights of the Parque de la Quinta, in Havana’s posh Miramar suburb, are the full-grown, sixty-foot ficus trees. Their numerous hanging vines reach the public park’s red clay, dig into it, grow roots, and form supplementary trunks around the main one. Nature-loving tourists coasting by along Fifth Avenue in their rentals frequently slow down to gape at them, risk a traffic ticket by parking alongside the kerb, then get out to photograph or videotape themselves next to the vegetal giants.

When that happens, the police officer standing under a metallic sunshade by the gleaming white residence of the Belgian ambassador to Cuba, a restored mansion on the corner of Fifth and 24th Street, usually says into the transceiver mounted on his left shoulder something like, ‘41 to 04. A 314 on Fifth between 24th and 26th. Plate T-00357,’ then waits to see whether a squad car will slap a fine on the violator. But on the morning of Friday, 26 May 2000, the young cop on duty had been ogling the woman jogging around the park and didn’t report the black Hyundai that had illegally pulled over on Fifth and discharged a tall overweight man.

The jogger’s blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail that reached below her shoulders and swayed gracefully. A light-green sweatshirt covered a skimpy bra in which were nestled small breasts; black Lycra leggings hugged ample round hips and well-proportioned thighs; cotton socks and sneakers completed her apparel. The cop wasn’t paying attention to her long eyebrows, honey-coloured eyes, straight nose, or thin lips; he was focusing on her behind – not as hefty as he preferred. ‘Nice temba,’ he said, using the Cuban slang for an attractive woman in her late thirties or early forties.

Her rangy escort, a few yards behind, had the appearance of a middle-aged scholar who had decided to exercise on a regular basis only after intellectualizing the benefits involved. This impression was enhanced by innocent-looking blue eyes and a clean-shaven face. Six or seven inches taller than her five feet four, he had copper-coloured short hair partially hidden by a white cotton braided bandanna. A purple sweatshirt covered his flat chest and belly; under his blue baggy shorts, hairy legs showed. His feet, shod with Reeboks and lacking socks, revealed bony ankles.

The joggers turned on the corner of 24th and continued their fourth lap on the sidewalk along Fifth. Perspiration glistened on their faces, darkened the cloth under their armpits. Their skin, where visible, was quite rosy.

And this distinctive colour made the cop assume the joggers were 611s, the code for aliens. In Havana, among white people, at a glance and from a distance, what frequently sets locals apart from foreigners is a suntan. Particularly in Miramar, where embassies and the offices of multinationals are often flanked by private dwellings, the margin for error is wide when trying to surmise who isn’t a native.

Clothing is not an infallible clue. Despite the fact that most Cubans dress modestly, the number of those in fashionable sportswear and flashy running shoes – the attire favoured by many tourists – grows steadfastly as remittances from Cubans living abroad increase year after year. Redness or rosiness, as opposed to a natural, everyday tan, is therefore a more reliable indication.

Few of the sun’s rays filtered through the park’s dense foliage canopy and reached the soil where spots of lawn survived precariously alongside fine gravel. Dead leaves were being raked by a gardener. The scent of dew and plants was overpowered by the exhaust fumes from the steady stream of vehicles speeding along. Sparrows and grackles pecking close to the sinuous walkways returned to the safety of branches and twigs when pedestrians got too close. A thirty-foot pergola was being swept clean by an old woman who resembled Warty the witch, minus cat and hat.

The couple went past a bust of General Prado, the nineteenth-century Peruvian president who favoured the independence of Cuba, and rounded the sidewalk at the corner of 26th. They had grown familiar with the neighbourhood after exercising at this same place for three consecutive days from 7.45 to 8.15 a.m., give or take a couple of minutes. Across the street, the Catholic church of Santa Rita de Casia already had its doors open to parishioners and visitors alike.

The joggers rounded the corner of 26th on to Third A, a curved street. The tall overweight man who was contemplating a monument to Mahatma Ghandi behind the pergola, and three young men shooting the breeze on Third A and 26th, eyed the couple curiously when the man slowed down, stopped, bent over and grabbed both knees. With a puzzled frown, the woman glanced over her shoulder, reduced her speed, and came to a halt. He hunkered down. She retraced several steps, solicitously rested her left hand on his back, then addressed him with a look of concern.

The man nodded before straightening up. Both were trying to get their breathing back to normal. She said something, looking at a three-storey apartment building across the street. He shook his head, but then grabbed her shoulder, as if for balance. She steered him towards the apartment building, eyebrows knitted in a frown.

The concrete-and-block cube numbered 2406 was a six-unit – three facing the street, three at the back – built in the 1950s. Painted light grey, about sixty yards long, twenty yards wide, fifteen yards high, it was flanked by a lot where the foundations for a new building were being dug, and by a private house with a red-tile roof. It seemed somewhat out of place in a neighbourhood where older architectural styles prevailed. Three balconies with French windows, one on each floor, faced the street.

The couple followed a cemented footpath alongside a driveway to a small covered foyer and went in. They faced a main door with a number one in brass nailed to it; a marble stairway to the upper floors stood to their right. She pressed the buzzer alongside the door. Nearly a minute went by before it was opened by a tall, good-looking woman wearing a white short-sleeved blouse, a dark-green, knee-length skirt, and high heels.

‘Yes?’ the surprised resident asked in Spanish, her left eyebrow arched.

‘I’m so sorry to inconvenience you,’ the female jogger said in the same language. ‘My name’s Marina. This is my husband, Sean. We were jogging in the park and…his vision blurred, he felt dizzy. From the heat, you know. Canadians are not accustomed to this temperature. Could you offer him a glass of water, please? We forgot to bring some with us.’

For an instant the woman stared at the man. He seemed exhausted, an embarrassed flicker of a smile on his lips. ‘Sure, come on in,’ she said, stepping back and pulling the door wide open.

Marina and Sean entered a spacious living room in a deplorable condition. A Chesterfield with overstuffed arms and two matching club chairs, all three pieces upholstered in what, fifty years earlier, had been an excellent brocade, were now badly frayed with dark stains of human grease and dirt on their arms and backs. At some point the nice cedar coffee table had lost its glass top and now showed multiple rings from glasses; on it stood an ashtray full of reeking butts. The folds of cloth which framed the French window to the balcony, like the shades of two floor lamps, were also soiled. A solitary light bulb hung from the ceiling and the cream-coloured vinyl paint on the walls was beginning to flake off.

‘Take a seat, please,’ the hostess said. ‘I’ll bring the water.’

She disappeared into a hallway, her heels clicking on the granite floor. Realizing that a few extra drops of sweat wouldn’t worsen the Chesterfield’s present condition very much, the joggers eased themselves down on to its edge and took in a beautiful still-life in a baroque frame hanging to their left, two mismatched chairs, a TV set facing them. From somewhere inside a man bellowed: ‘Who the fuck was it, Elena?’ The couple swapped a curious glance. A refrigerator door slamming shut was the only response.

The woman returned to the living room with two glasses of cold water on a tray which she placed on the coffee table.

‘There you are. Let me know if you want some more.’

The man reached for a glass and drank avidly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every gulp. Having returned the glass to the tray, he leaned back on the sofa, and closed his eyes.

‘The family doctor is two blocks away. I can fetch him, if you want,’ the hostess suggested, a dash of solicitude in her tone, as she slid into a club chair.

‘Let’s give him a minute,’ Marina said, still frowning at her companion. ‘Nothing like this has ever happened to him. It may just be sunstroke.’

‘I asked who the f—’ a short bald man bellowed from the entrance to the hallway. He was barefoot, wearing only his boxer shorts, and part of his pubic hair could be seen through the opening at the front. With a surprised expression he checked himself, turned and fled to put on something more. Long hair at the back of his head flopped ludicrously.

Repressing a snicker, Marina took a sip from her glass, then drained it. Sean had opened his eyes at the man’s voice. ‘Thanks, ma’am,’ he whispered in English before sliding forward on the seat and extending his right hand. ‘Sean,’ he added, apparently recovered.

‘Elena,’ the hostess said with a firm handshake. She stood up to reach Marina and shook hands with her too.

‘Feeling better?’ Elena asked of the man as she returned to her seat.

Marina interpreted for her husband. ‘He doesn’t speak Spanish,’ she explained.

‘Much better, thank you,’ said Sean, beaming and resting an ankle on the other knee.

‘He says much better, thank you.’

‘Well, my English is lousy, fifty words maybe, but that I can understand. Would you like some espresso? Coffee is a great stimulant, you know. And here in Cuba we brew it pretty strong; a sip might do him good.’

‘We don’t want to trouble you.’

‘No problem. Ask him.’

Sean yielded at Elena’s insistence. She went back to the kitchen and the joggers exchanged grins, then waited in silence. A few minutes later the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of angry whispering wafted into the living room. The joggers exchanged a questioning glance.

Another minute went by. Elena returned with two demitasses on tiny saucers. She was followed by the short bald man, now in a blue guayabera, white chinos, and three-inch Cordovan boots. The dark hair either side of his bald crown was brushed straight back to combine with the long hair at his nape in a meagre ponytail. Before handing the cups to the visitors, Elena made the introductions.

‘Meet my brother Pablo,’ she said with a neutral expression.

Pablo shook hands with a grin. ‘How do you do?’ he said in English with a heavy accent. Elena rolled her eyes. Marina wondered how siblings could be so physically different. Elena was perhaps four inches taller than his five feet three or four, a fit, big-boned woman with dark eyes, supple lips, and nice curves in all the right places. Pablo had green irises, thin lips, an unhealthy pallor, narrow shoulders and skinny arms that made him seem frail. Perhaps that was why he looked younger than his sister. Only one parent in common? Maybe. But she had said ‘brother’ not ‘half-brother’. Little love lost between them, from the look of things.

‘Good you come. This –’ a sweep of the arm – ‘your home,’ Pablo added, his grin seeming rather forced.

‘Pablo,’ said Elena through clenched teeth.

‘Oh, yeah, my sister, she don’t understand English.’

Elena scowled, shook her head, and pursed her lips in disapproval.

Pablo slid into the remaining club chair and impatiently waited for Marina to finish her espresso, then started questioning her in Spanish. What had happened? Did her husband feel better now? Was she from Argentina? Yeah, he had guessed it, had identified the accent. From Buenos Aires? Ah, ‘Mi Buenos Aires querido,’ he sang, the only line he knew from the most famous of all tangos, while his eyes stole a lascivious glance at her thighs. And her husband? Oh…how nice. What city? Toronto? So, she lived in Toronto now, right? And when did they arrive in Cuba? Where were they staying?

As his wife answered all kinds of questions, Sean sipped his coffee slowly, eyes moving from the brother to the sister, appraising them coolly. Elena seemed okay; Pablo a trifle garrulous for his taste. He emptied the demitasse and put it on the tray, then reached for Marina’s and did the same. Elena rose and took the tray back to the kitchen. When she returned to her club chair they were all laughing about something. Her brother lit a cigarette and blew smoke to the ceiling.

‘This is a nice apartment,’ Marina commented, her gaze shifting around the living room. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘All our lives,’ Pablo answered. ‘We were born here. Our parents…’

‘How is Sean feeling?’ Elena asked, interrupting her brother, who frowned.

Marina interpreted. Sean admitted he was fine now.

‘Well, then you’ll have to excuse me. I mustn’t be late for work.’

Pablo widened his eyes. ‘Elena, that’s very rude of you.’

‘Listen, Pablo…’ said Elena in a testy way, trying not to get into an argument with her brother in the presence of strangers.

‘But of course,’ Marina butted in, jumping to her feet. Sean, seemingly surprised, uncoiled himself from the Chesterfield. ‘You’ve been very kind. Would you allow us to reciprocate in some way? Take you to dinner maybe?’

‘No, thanks, this is nothing…’

‘We’d be delighted,’ Pablo said, leaping at the offer with a fresh grin.

‘Pablo! No, Marina. We just…’

‘But I insist. We would enjoy your company enormously. We don’t know anybody here. It would be great to take you guys out tonight. Learn from you about a nice place, somewhere off the beaten track. In fact, you’d be doing us another favour.’

‘I would gladly take you to wherever you want to go,’ Pablo said, also in Spanish, shaking his head and lifting his hands, palms up. The body language was meant to emphasize that he was the most friendly and helpful of habaneros. ‘There’s this nice private restaurant. It would have to be after five, you know. That’s when I leave the office.’

Marina interpreted for Sean.

‘By all means,’ he said when his wife had finished speaking. ‘I won’t take no for an answer.’

‘Sean says he would consider it an honour to take both of you to dinner tonight. It has to be tonight because we are leaving tomorrow. We rented a car, so we can pick you up.’ And turning to Elena. ‘Please, Elena, you admitted two complete strangers into your home. That’s real hospitality. Don’t turn us down. Please?’

Elena shook her head and forced a smile.

‘C’mon, sis,’ Pablo said in a false pleading tone.

Elena considered it. ‘Okay, tonight. At eight.’

‘Eight’s perfect,’ Marina said.

Once they had bid fond farewells, the joggers left the apartment building, reached the corner of 24th, turned left, and disappeared from view. Unaware that he had got away with a traffic violation, the tall overweight man shot a last admiring glance at the big trees before climbing back into his rental and speeding off.

Late afternoon was turning into dusk, birds had settled in their nests in the ficus, and bats were beginning to swoop when Marina rang the buzzer. The door was immediately swung open by a perky Pablo in a garish shirt, a pair of jeans, and pigskin loafers with two-inch heels.

‘Come in, my friends, come in,’ he said in English as he stretched out his hand to the woman first, then to Sean. ‘And how is my…’ he frantically searched for the words, didn’t find them, and reverted to Spanish ‘…mareado amigo?’

‘Dizzy friend,’ Marina interpreted.

‘Much better, Pablo, ready for a wild night out, if you know what I mean,’ Sean said with a conspiratorial wink and a mischievous snicker.

‘Good! Good!’ Pablo exclaimed, but then cast a slightly worried glance at Marina. ‘I want to…offer you mojitos. You know what a mojito is?’

Sean and Marina nodded.

‘Okay. You sit down on the sofa. I go prepare mojitos. My sister is getting dressed. Women, always late. One minute.’

Marina noticed that the living room had been tidied up. The marks on the coffee table were barely visible, the ashtray was empty and clean, the floor had been mopped. The black-and-white TV set was turned on, its volume low. From the kitchen came the sounds of tinkling ice cubes, the opening and closing of cupboards, a metal spoon stirring the drinks.

Anticipating that Elena’s wardrobe probably lacked evening gowns and ersatz gems, Marina had opted for a pink, short-sleeved blouse, an ivory-coloured mid-calf skirt, leather sandals, and a purse. Her make-up was very light, her blonde hair was gathered at the back of her head in a bun, her only piece of jewellery a gold wedding band; she looked stylish in a quiet way. Sean wore a maroon and white fine-striped dress shirt, its cuffs folded up to his elbows, khakis, and cordovan loafers. They glanced at each other and Sean pulled a face at Marina. She grinned and crossed her legs.

Pablo returned to the living room carrying a tray with three tumblers filled to the brim with the cocktail. He placed the tray on the coffee table, handed the drinks to his guests, then with his glass clinked theirs before easing himself into a club chair.

‘Salud.’

‘Salud,’ concurred Marina and Sean. He didn’t mix one for Elena, Marina observed as she extracted a sprig of mint before sipping.

‘Great,’ a wide-eyed Sean said, lifting his eyebrows in admiration.

‘You like it?’ Pablo asked, obviously pleased.

‘Best I’ve ever had,’ Sean responded with a satisfied nod.

‘And you, Mrs…’

‘Marina, please. It’s superb.’

‘I’m glad you like it. Now, I tell you about this place I’m taking you to. Would you please interpret for Sean, Marina?’

‘But you don’t need it. Your English is very good.’

‘You think so? Not very good, I know. But it’ll improve with time. I’m studying hard.’

From the TV set’s speaker came a fanfare of trumpets.

‘Oh, the news. Ugh!’ Pablo fumed. ‘Always the same. Send Elián back, everything in Cuba is perfect, the rest of the world is a mess. Just a moment.’

Marina translated the bald man’s blanket contempt of the Cuban newscast as he turned the TV set off and returned to his seat. Sean seemed amused.

‘Please, Marina, interpret for your husband. For many years, the government didn’t allow private businesses in Cuba. Now, some are allowed. They are heavily taxed, can’t expand beyond a certain point, have to comply with many regulations. It’s why some are…clandestine. In fact, all the best are clandestine. I’m taking you to what Cubans call a paladar, a private restaurant. How would you translate paladar, Marina?’

‘Sense of taste?’

‘I’ll remember that. Now, few foreigners dine at a clandestine paladar. You need a sponsor to get in, someone whom the management trusts and can make a reservation. We’ll be the only customers there tonight. The food is excellent, the service great, fine entertainment…’

‘Good evening,’ Elena said with a pleased smile on entering the living room. Sean stood up. She shook hands with him, bent to kiss Marina’s cheek, overlooked her brother, then eased herself on to the edge of the remaining club chair. Fresh out of the shower, with just a touch of make-up around her eyes and on her lips, she was even more attractive than twelve hours earlier, Sean observed. The thick, long, dark-blonde hair fell past her shoulders gracefully. She appeared to be wearing the same skirt and shoes, but her black, long-sleeved silk blouse embroidered with multicoloured butterflies would have won approving looks at the most exclusive of fashion shows.

‘What a beautiful blouse!’ Marina said with sincere admiration.

‘You like it? It belonged to my grandmother, my mother inherited it, then she gave it to me a few years ago, arguing she was too old to wear it.’

‘It’s lovely. Your brother mixes excellent mojitos. Would you like one?’

‘Yes, I would.’

Pablo was nonplussed for a moment, but he recovered fast. ‘Sure,’ he said, before getting to his feet and marching into the kitchen. Marina zeroed in on Elena and girl talk prevailed for a couple of minutes. Pablo returned with the cocktail and handed it to his sister. ‘Drink it quickly,’ he snapped. ‘We are late because you were late.’

‘I wouldn’t have been had my dear brother helped me to tidy up a little,’ Elena remarked wryly to Marina. ‘But he never does, you know, never.’

‘Oh, it’s only 8.09,’ Marina said, after glancing at her watch, pretending not to notice the intense antagonism. ‘And these mojitos merit slow appreciation. Tell me more about your grandmother’s Spanish fans…’

After a minute of feathers and sticks inlaid with mother-of-pearl, when the topic became so esoteric that the men were effectively excluded, Pablo tried to communicate with Sean. He moved closer to Sean by sliding his bottom to the edge of the seat and resting both elbows on his knees. ‘You said “wild night” and, in this paladar, two girls, beautiful, incredible, one black, the other blonde,’ he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, ‘but you are with wife…’

‘I’ve got to pee,’ Marina mouthed to Elena as Sean considered his reply.

‘Excuse us for a moment,’ Elena announced, rising to her feet. They left their cocktails on the tray and disappeared from view in the hallway.

Pablo sighed with relief and lit up before seizing at the opportunity. ‘I want you have good time. I don’t know if you can…send wife back to hotel?’

Sean shook his head. ‘No, Pablo, I can’t,’ articulating slowly, making it easier for the bald man. ‘Marina has this fiery Latin temperament. She’d get pretty mad if I did that to her in public. When I said “wild” I meant, you know, a nice meal, drinks, driving around, maybe going to a nightclub. I might return soon – alone – then you can take me to the best places to refine my “sense of taste”. Okay?’

From the toilet seat, Marina examined the fairly clean bathroom. The usual plus a bidet. An old plastic shower curtain frayed at the bottom, a circular swing window by the bathtub. Two gaping holes by the sink indicated where a towel rack had been. Marina wondered what purpose a plastic bucket full of water served. No toilet paper was in sight and she fished for a Kleenex in her handbag.

After zipping her skirt up, Marina closely inspected the ceramic soap dishes coated in white enamel recessed in the walls alongside the bathtub, by the sink – where a sliver of soap survived – and next to the bidet. Then she turned to the toilet-paper holder. The four pieces were level with the light-blue glazed tiles on the wall. In all probability they had been there since the tiles were installed.