Havana Best Friends

Marina flushed the toilet. Aside from a little gurgling, nothing happened. So that was what the bucket was there for. She poured half its contents into the toilet bowl, closed the lid, looked around. She filled a glass jar by the sink with water and washed her hands. She was inspecting her face in the medicine-cabinet mirror, shaking the drops off her hands to pull out a fresh Kleenex, when there was a knock on the bathroom door. Marina said ‘Come in,’ and Elena turned the knob and handed her a towel.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there weren’t any in here.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘We have running water from five to seven p.m. only. It’s when I shower and fill up all the buckets and pans in the house.’

‘And why is that?’ Marina asked as she wiped her hands dry.

‘For two reasons, according to the President of the Council of Neighbours,’ Elena said, watching Marina’s manicured hands with envy. ‘The system of pipes supplying water to the city is in ruins; half of what’s pumped into it is lost underground. So, the cistern never has water for more than three or four hours of normal consumption. Secondly, the electric water pump that fills the tanks on the roof of the building is too old and breaks down frequently, so the neighbour who tends to it turns it on two hours a day only.’

Marina returned the towel to Elena. ‘Such a nuisance. It seems to me that life here is fraught with problems.’ Feeling her way.

‘It is, it is. Inconveniences, nothing tragic, but you may have to wait two hours for a bus, two months for a beef steak, save for two years to buy a decent pair of shoes.’

‘And to live in a place like this?’ Marina asked as she produced a lipstick from her purse and turned to the mirror.

‘Well, maybe two centuries,’ Elena said with a wide grin. ‘Apartment buildings like this are a thing of the past. This one was completed in 1957. It’s ugly, looks like a big box, but back then we had professional construction workers and those guys knew their business, they built to last.’

‘It’s a great apartment,’ Marina said, once she’d pressed her lips together and capped the lipstick. ‘The rent on a place like this in Manhattan? No less than five thousand dollars a month; as much as eight thousand in a nice area.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. This could use some refurbishing, though. You haven’t made any repairs, have you?’

‘Never. But it’s in good shape. No cracks or fractured pipes. Paint is what it needs, badly. But it’s sixteen dollars a gallon.’

‘That’s not too exorbitant.’

‘No, not for you. Probably you make as much in an hour.’

‘A little more,’ Marina admitted.

‘You know what my monthly pay-cheque is? Fifteen dollars.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I’m not.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a special needs teacher.’ Elena stole a glance at her watch. ‘I teach disabled children in their homes. Let’s go back to the men before they accuse us of babbling the night away.’

It was dark and crickets were chirping happily in the Parque de la Quinta by the time the two couples got into the rented Nissan. Pablo and Elena sat in the back of the car. At the wheel, Sean followed the directions given by the bald man. They had been heading west along Fifth Avenue for two minutes, the Cubans pointing out the sights, when Marina turned round, wanting to learn more about Elena’s job.

‘Well, there are children so seriously incapacitated they can’t attend the special education schools,’ Elena began.

‘Oh, my God,’ Pablo moaned in English. ‘Not tonight.’

‘Some are disabled from birth, some suffered an accident,’ Elena, ignoring him, went on. ‘They are hooked up to some life-support system that’s difficult to carry around, or are quadriplegic. There’s a team of teachers to teach them at their homes. I’m one of them.’

‘Isn’t your job…a little depressing?’ Marina asked, after interpreting for Sean.

‘Not to Mother Theresa,’ Pablo butted in. ‘Turn right at the next light, Sean.’

‘Okay. But let me hear how your sister makes a living, please?’ Sean said in a dry tone.

Marina shot a quick glance at Sean. Pablo sulked. Elena had trouble suppressing her smile. She didn’t understand the words, but the tone spoke volumes.

‘Contrary to what almost everyone believes, it’s rewarding,’ the teacher went on. ‘These kids are the happiest kids on earth. They act as if nearly everything that happens around them happens for their personal delight. They see you come in, it’s like a fairy godmother came in to wave her magic wand over them. And being in daily contact with them, seeing their parents trying to conceal their suffering, makes you realize how much we healthy people take for granted, how petty most of our problems are.’

‘How many children do you teach?’ Marina asked.

‘Two. A nine-year-old boy in the mornings, an eleven-year-old girl in the afternoons.’

‘All the subjects?’

‘All except for physical education.’

‘Who pays for it?’ Sean wanted to know.

‘The Ministry of Education, of course.’

Sean was staring at the red light, his foot on the brake pedal. ‘She makes fifteen dollars a month,’ Marina told him.

‘What?’

Elena smiled mirthlessly. ‘Low salaries make many things possible. If Cuban teachers and doctors made half the money their colleagues make in Mexico, Jamaica, or any other Latin American country, the government wouldn’t be able to provide the healthcare and education it does.’

‘Green light,’ Pablo said. ‘Take a right on the second corner.’

Marina finished the translation after Sean rounded the corner.

The two-storey mansion surrounded by a cyclone fence appeared to be in perfect condition, no mean feat considering that its backyard fronted on to the sea. In its covered front porch there were four wooden rocking chairs, several flower pots, and an iron-and-glass lamp hanging from the ceiling. From the roof, spotlights flooded a small, well-tended garden. An old man standing by the driveway entrance swung back the gate to a garage and waved them in. After pulling the garage door closed, he silently welcomed the foursome with a series of nods and a smile, then pointed to a small door.

Pablo went in first and found his way to the dining area of a vast space, but he kept strutting – the others in tow – until he reached the lounge section. An overweight, bejewelled and perfumed white woman in her sixties uncoiled herself from a chair and embraced him warmly.

Thick make-up failed to conceal her deep wrinkles and the dark pouches that sagged under her eyes. They touched cheeks and exchanged air-kisses before the short man turned and made the introductions.

‘Meet the best restaurateur in Havana: Señora Roselia. This couple, Roselia, are friends of mine: Sean and Marina. Sean is Canadian, Marina is Argentinian.’

‘It’s a pleasure,’ Roselia said in Spanish, extending her hand. ‘I hope you’ll be satisfied with our service.’

Marina turned to Elena, saw the embarrassment in her eyes. ‘You know Elena, señora?’

‘Oh, sorry,’ Pablo muttered.

‘I don’t have the pleasure,’ Roselia admitted.

‘Elena is Pablo’s sister,’ Marina elaborated, thinking it was difficult not to dislike the asshole.

Shaking Roselia’s hand, Elena forced a grin that almost became a grimace.

Pablo rubbed his hands in eager anticipation. ‘Now, what would you like to do? A drink first?’ The longer customers were made to linger, the more they spent, the higher his commission.

They took their seats in the lounge, ordered mojitos, then studied the menu. Elena looked around admiringly. Recently painted walls, comfortable modern furniture, beautiful drapes, an exquisite full-length mirror, fine porcelain and glass ornaments on side tables, two air conditioners blasting away, the lamps, the paintings, the spotless marble floor. She hadn’t been in a place like this in all her life. Songs from the Buenavista Social Club CD flowed from hidden speakers.

The drinks and a bowl of peanuts arrived in the hands of a smiling long-legged blonde waitress in her late teens or early twenties. She wore a black mini-uniform, complete with little cap and a tiny apron in white. Bending over to serve the ladies first, her undersized skirt exposed a round, suntanned behind to the men. Sean couldn’t tell whether she had nothing on or if a dental-floss bikini bottom reposed in the crack of her buttocks. Pablo noticed Sean’s reaction, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Elena and Marina got to see the same sight when the waitress turned to serve Sean. Marina appeared to be unfazed and having fun, Elena gawked. What the women didn’t see were the seductive smile and wink the waitress bestowed on Sean.

Having found out from the proprietress that a paella would take over an hour to prepare, they settled for green salad, lobster cocktail, red porgy basted in olive oil, and mashed potatoes. Pablo asked for a steak on the side. Once she finished thoughtfully studying the wine list, Marina favoured a white Concha y Toro. Sean shrugged his lukewarm agreement, Elena assented in total ignorance, Pablo opted for Heineken.

The second round of drinks was served by a petite, beautiful black woman. Her uniform was white, its cap and apron in black. Her bottom was rounder and larger, the dental floss – if any – invisible, the smile she gave Sean blatantly provocative. Elena seemed uncomfortable. Sean popped two peanuts into his mouth, sipped from his fresh mojito, put the glass on the side table, then turned to Pablo, who was eyeing him with a pleased, take-your-pick expression.

‘What’s your trade, Pablo?’

Marina sighed, interpreted, then shared with Elena a boys-will-be-boys glance.

‘I’m the office manager of a Cuban-Italian joint venture,’ the short man began, pleased by the Canadian’s curiosity. ‘We import clothing, shoes, perfumes, cosmetics, kitchenware, a zillion things.’

‘Really? How many outlets do you have?’

Pablo shook his head and grinned. ‘No outlets, we only have warehouses.’

‘And where do shoppers buy these articles?’

‘Well, you see, retail trade is a state monopoly. We sell wholesale to several state-owned chains that sell retail to the public.’

Sean nodded. ‘I see. And excuse me for asking, but I’m still amazed by what Elena makes as a teacher. How much do you get paid?’

‘Three hundred and forty pesos a month.’

‘How much is that in dollars?’

‘The present rate is twenty-one pesos to the dollar. So, it’s around sixteen dollars.’

‘That’s all? No overtime, no bonus?’

‘No.’

All of a sudden, Elena roared with laughter. She covered her mouth with her right hand, but her laughter was so childlike and irrepressible that Marina and Sean exchanged an amused glance. Pablo, visibly angry, glared at his sister. The teacher made an effort to control herself, failed, but after a moment succeeded. Apparently, she was getting a glow from the mojitos.

‘Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself so much,’ said Marina, still smiling.

‘Oh, yes. It’s the drinks, you know? They loosen me up.’

‘And what do you people do for a living?’ Pablo enquired.

Marina said she was a computer programmer and Sean a mortgage broker. Neither Pablo nor Elena knew what a mortgage was, let alone a broker, and Marina spent a few minutes interpreting for Sean. When she was through, Señora Roselia announced that dinner was ready.

‘Just a second,’ Marina said as she fumbled for something in her purse. ‘Let me take a snapshot of you guys, so friends back home can see you.’

With a small but powerful Olympia she took five: one showed the siblings sitting side by side on the sofa, two had Elena standing by a wall, the fourth and fifth caught a beaming Pablo alongside a curtain. Then they all moved to the dining room.

An exquisitely crocheted white tablecloth covered the glass top of a six-seat cedar dining table where four tall candles burned in a gold-plated candelabra. The china was gold-rimmed, the cutlery in heavy silver, the goblets of fine crystal. Elena choked on a sip of water when she realized the waitresses were now topless, but Marina and Sean behaved so naturally that she tried to act blasé.

The food was good, the wine heady. Conversation threw an interesting light on what had happened to Sean that morning, the professions of all four diners, Cuban food and drinks, places of interest in Havana, and other subjects.

For the pièce de résistance the waitresses served a strong espresso wearing only dental-floss bikini bottoms and sandals. Elena was aghast, Sean remained unimpressed, making Pablo feel let down. Were Canadians as cold as their country or was this guy gay? He suspected that Marina was a victim of sexual starvation. Then, as if to confirm this impression, Roselia came out from the swinging door to the kitchen and Marina, tongue in cheek, asked her whether she and Elena wouldn’t get to see the chef in his briefs. The teacher giggled and Sean asked for a translation, following which he chuckled throatily; Pablo’s grin seemed forced. The proprietress countered by saying she felt sure the ladies wouldn’t find a five-foot-six, forty-nine-year-old, 265-pound pansy in boxer shorts attractive. More silly laughter ensued.

‘Would you like something else?’ Sean asked of nobody in particular when only smiles remained.

Heads were shaken. ‘Then could you bring me the bill, please?’ the Canadian asked of Roselia.

The bill read eighty-five dollars. Sean gave a ten-dollar tip to each waitress and they all returned to the living room, where a liqueur was served. Elena, to all appearances a little woozy, declined.

‘Well, where would you like to go next?’ Pablo asked. ‘We can catch the show at Tropicana or at the Havana Café, go to a nightclub, maybe visit a santero, have him throw the shells for you.’

Marina looked at Sean, who pulled down the corners of his mouth and lifted his eyebrows to reveal his hesitancy. Then she turned to Elena. ‘What do you suggest, Elena?’

‘I…wouldn’t know. I seldom go out. Pablo is the expert. But whatever you decide, I ask you to excuse me. I’m feeling a little queasy.’

‘What’s the matter?’ Marina asked, a touch of concern in her tone.

‘I’m afraid I had too much to drink. You can drop me off at home, then go wherever you feel like. I’m sorry, Marina.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ Marina said before translating for Sean.

An uncomfortable silence followed. ‘You know what?’ Sean said. ‘We have an early flight. So what about calling it a night?’

Pablo filed away the grin he’d been flashing. He was hoping for one of the best nightclubs, Chivas Regal, an exquisite Cohiba Lancero, ten statuesque mulatas in dental-floss bikinis wiggling their asses to salsa music.

‘Oh, no. Don’t let me spoil your evening,’ Elena objected, her words sounding a little slurred. She was clearly embarrassed.

‘You’re right, darling.’ Marina addressed Sean, disinclined to endure the company of Pablo without the neutralizing influence of his sister. ‘Would you mind if we take a rain check on the rest of the evening, Pablo?’

‘Suit yourself. My only regret is that my sister is to blame for it,’ grunted the short man, glad of the opportunity to express his reproach.

‘I’m not feeling well, okay?’ Elena retorted.

‘It’s not her fault, Pablo. Can we leave now?’

‘If you can find your way back to my place, I think I’ll stay here for a little while,’ Pablo said, eyeing the black waitress, who stood by the swinging door to the kitchen, between Roselia and the blonde woman. She beamed and winked at him.

‘Cool,’ Marina said before rising. ‘Do you need help, Elena?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Elena replied, getting to her feet.

Roselia and Pablo escorted them to the car. The tourists formally thanked Elena’s brother for all his trouble, promised they would touch base the minute they came back to Havana, and assured Roselia they had had a wonderful time at her paladar. From the garage door, smiling and waving, the restaurateur and Pablo watched the car speed away. The same old man closed the gate and marched tiredly into the garage.

Nearly half an hour later, as she drove along Fifth Avenue heading east, Marina stole a glance at her escort in the passenger seat. Not a word had been said since they left Elena at her apartment, making sure she was all right. Sean appeared to be deep in thought, nibbling at his lower lip, indifferent to the vehicles ahead, the deserted sidewalks, the moonlight and tail lights playing across the artful horticulture on the wide central walkway. She returned her eyes to the road, then took a deep breath before entering a tunnel under a river.

At Malecón and the base of Línea Avenue she took O Street and two blocks along turned into the entrance of the Hotel Nacional. They left the rental in the parking lot and ambled over to the lobby. Sean approached the swinging doors giving access to a roofed porch and a courtyard, pulling one open for his companion to go through. A pleasant breeze caressed Marina delicately. She would have loved to be lulled into sleep by it, lounging around in one of the cast-iron cushioned armchairs in the wide U-shaped porch, but she was well aware that Sean was eager to discuss the day’s events.

Holding her hand, Sean steered her around a tiled Moorish fountain. A long-haired guitarist gently strummed his instrument for a group sitting on limestone benches in the courtyard. They traversed an expanse of lawn and shade trees under the gaze of people chatting, drinking, and having a good time beneath the wide portals. Some thought them middle-aged honeymooners; her second probably, his third maybe. They came to a halt by the edge of a small cliff. Despite empty wooden benches to their right, they remained standing.

Two mammoth coast artillery pieces, remnants of what had been a Spanish gun emplacement until 1898, still aimed at where their last target – the USS Montgomery – had sailed 102 years earlier. Marina took in the serene vastness of the Florida Straits, the tiny lights from fishermen’s small boats on the water, the star-sprinkled sky. She realized that all man-made objects – Morro Castle and its lighthouse, the streetlamps extending along the coastline like a string of giant pearls as far as the eye could see, the sea wall, the buildings and cars – seemed insignificant when compared to the works of Nature.

She freed her hand from Sean’s to scratch her nose. ‘The original soap dishes are still there. And the toilet-paper holder,’ she said.

‘Tell me something I don’t know. You wouldn’t have looked so elated when you came out of the bathroom, would you?’

‘I guess not.’

Silence presided for a few moments.

‘She said the building was completed in 1957.’

Sean stared at her, apparently satisfied. ‘You know, you’re a much better actress than I assumed. You were pretty slick this evening.’

‘Thanks.’

Another, shorter pause.

‘Sean?’

‘Yes.’

‘The job’s done. It’s been done right, far as I can tell. We’ve found out all we needed to know. I’ve given it my best shot; as have you. So maybe I can ask you a question, okay?’

Sean locked gazes with Marina. She didn’t like his suppressed smile, the twinkle in his eyes. ‘Okay.’

‘You said, “Don’t take anything for granted, don’t talk about our business in the rental and the hotel room; there may be hidden cameras and bugging devices.” Well, I very much doubt these people want to, or can, get on tape every couple that comes here to spend a week, but since you were calling the shots I followed instructions. What really pisses me off is this driving around like frigging tourists, buying souvenirs, playing out this ludicrous honeymoon act, pawing each other in public. Why? Who’s going to suspect us? Why the fuck should anyone suspect us? We’ve been here for a week and haven’t even driven through a red light, for Christ’s sake! In this bankrupt banana republic the tourist is king.’

His gaze lost in the dark sea, Sean nodded. ‘So, you think I’ve been overcautious?’

‘Well, to be honest, yes, I do.’

‘Okay, you’re entitled to your opinion. I won’t argue with you. The important thing is you did as you were told. Let’s move on. Tell me what you think of these guys.’

Marina clenched her jaw, annoyed that her concerns had been dismissed so lightly, but her tone remained controlled. ‘The freak’s a complete bastard. Never loses an opportunity to embarrass and belittle his own sister. It’s appalling how he looks down on her!’

Sean nodded, paused, then added, his gaze abstractedly scanning the blue-black horizon, ‘But she’s used to it.’

Marina glanced at the monument to the victims of the battleship Maine. To its left, right in front of the US Interests Section, stood the recently completed square where the rallies for the return of Elián González took place. ‘Elena seems pretty decent, don’t you think? A reasonable person, not difficult at all,’ she said.

‘I agree,’ Sean said, and let a few seconds slip by. Then, as an afterthought: ‘But he believes himself to be the smartest, smoothest, most manipulative con-artist on earth. That’s probably why Elena hates his guts. And why we should expect trouble from him.’

‘Such intense hostility,’ Marina observed. ‘There’s a lot of bad blood between those two.’

‘And he’s on coke.’

Marina turned to stare at Sean. ‘How can you tell?’

‘I can tell.’

She faced the sea again. ‘What did you make of Elena sniggering when her brother said he made sixteen dollars a month?’

‘That he’s making a lot more than that.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I figured too.’

‘But for some reason he didn’t want us to know. And she’s so ethical she didn’t squeal on a sonofabitch who humiliates her on a daily basis for the fun of it.’

They fell silent. Marina looked across the wide avenue at the metre-high sea wall extending miles into the distance. On it, keeping respectful distances from each other, fishermen held lines. The lighthouse beam swept across the sea with the same boring exactitude of all beacons.

‘He certainly doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would take his cut quietly and count his blessings,’ she said, more to herself than to her companion.

Sean released the promise of a smile, shifted his gaze from a speeding car. ‘Lady, the word insidious was coined for guys like him.’ And pointing with his chin towards the ocean, he added, ‘He would drown his own mother right there to grab it all.’

‘What about her? Would she agree to split it?’

‘I don’t know. That woman is…’ he paused, searching for the right word.

‘Unpredictable?’ she prompted.

‘No. Not at all. But I can’t predict how she would react to our proposition. We don’t know her views on a million things. She’s…weird, difficult to pigeonhole. Special needs teacher. What kind of a fucking profession is that? Makes me suspect she’s one of those principled, nose-in-the-air spinsters. Know what I mean? Living with her brother, no husband, no kids.’

‘Maybe she married and divorced.’

‘Why didn’t you ask her?’

‘Didn’t want to give the impression I was prying.’

‘Maybe you did right.’

Marina lowered her eyes to the grass and studied the straps of her sandals. ‘He said they’ve lived there all their lives. How old would you say she is?’

‘Late thirties?’ Sean surmised.

‘Yeah, something like that, certainly not older than forty. And the freak?’

‘I’d say thirty-five, thirty-six. He was fascinated by your thighs this morning.’

‘I noticed. Horny little rat can’t keep his hands off women. You saw how he eyed the black waitress? She probably pukes after having sex with him.’

‘You never know. Maybe he’s seven feet tall in bed.’

The only indication of her surprise was a raised eyebrow. The kind of comment you don’t expect from a man. So true, though: You never know. She remembered a shy, unassuming, scrawny and slightly cross-eyed guy who had led her to the heights of pleasure. Only one of the few hunks she had bedded had taken her there, and he was blind. She wondered whether behind the amazing remark lurked a phenomenal lover or a bit of a philosopher.