After Fidel Ch. 02

Chapter 2 – Felicita?

I had kept my vow and returned to Cuban soil. Fidel was dead and Cuba was in turmoil. The United States government had allowed me to take a team into Cuba as a sign of goodwill, in the hopes that a democratic government would come to power. Now all I had to do was find Felicita and live happily ever after.

Who was I kidding? There were so many qualifiers to that statement. If the Communists remained in power I was not going to be very popular. If I were lucky, I'd only be expelled from the country. I'd have to leave alone again. In spite of all this, I had to try. I had to find Felicita and see if she still felt the same way about me. As for me, my heart ached for her. I was trying to appear calm and in control for my two team members. In reality, I was scared shitless. I was nervous that she had found someone else, or that political realities would continue to keep us apart. Or that something had happened to her while I was gone.

I took a deep breath and felt that funny ache in my chest that told me my heart still longed for Felicita. I led Brian and Stacy towards the customs building. They were looking around wide-eyed. I remember what it was like to set foot in Cuba for the first time. I looked around trying to see what was different. At first glance, it was like any other tropical airport with palm trees along the runway and the signs in Spanish. At second glance, security was tight. Armed guards were around all the planes.

We entered the arrival terminal. The huddled mass of passengers waited for a turn with the Immigration inspector. Things were moving very slowly. I was still wondering what it was that seemed so strange when it occurred to me that there was only one inspector on duty. Last time, all the positions were manned. This time, everybody had to wait in a single line to be buzzed into the tiny booth. Maybe all the workers were still staying away from work, roaming the streets and waiting to see what would happen.

The usual order that prevailed in Cuba was breaking down. To someone who had seen it before, things were not working very well. To the casual observer, it was typical of a banana republic. This bothered me. Order had yet to be established. That could be good or bad for the dissidents, because the Communists would have to come down hard to restore order, perhaps even igniting a civil war.

In spite of the single inspector, it didn't take very long for us to get our turns. There were not many people on the plane. Most people seemed to be waiting to see what would happen in Cuba before coming in. Not me. I couldn't wait. I hoped I wasn't endangering my friends by my recklessness.

I was next. I entered the booth and heard the door lock behind me. The woman behind the glass looked nervous and maybe tired. Last time, she was cheery and I was nervous. She asked the usual questions about if it was my first visit, why I was here and who I was traveling with. I explained that I was here on business with two other people. She showed no surprise at my answers. She stamped my papers and unlocked the exit door. Again, the feeling I got from the officials wasn't the same. It was obvious something was up. I exited the booth. The scene that greeted me made my jaw drop.

Customs Inspection in Cuba had been very orderly nine months ago. There was a nervousness in the passengers. The Inspectors had a sureness about them, maybe a surliness. Today, the system was breaking down. There was a crowd here; apparently the passengers from a previous flight were still waiting. From what I picked up in conversations, the baggage delivery was very slow. People were arguing. They were even arguing with the Inspectors. The lights were not working very well, so it was darker than usual. The sunny weather outside helped, but the room looked dingier. Then I noticed that the usual starched and ironed uniforms on the soldiers were rumpled and dirty. Either they had gotten dressed in a hurry, or they hadn't been relieved by the next shift. Whatever the case, the powder keg could erupt. I started to feel a concern for our safety.

I heard a buzz behind me and Brian stepped out of the door. He came up to stand beside me and survey the scene.

"Typical banana republic," he snorted.

"No. This isn't normal. It is usually very orderly. The emotions of everyone are wrong. Things are getting out of control here. This isn't good."

As I said the last part, his eyes swung from the crowd to mine. I nodded.

The sound of a motor behind me made me turn around. The electricity must have still been off. The conveyor belt was not running. A tractor had pulled the train of baggage carts to an open door on the runway side of the building. Two men were on top of the trailers and were throwing pieces of luggage through the door onto the floor. That wasn't going to calm the passengers.

The door buzzed again and Stacy exited. "That wasn't so bad," she said. Then she saw the confusion in the room. "What the hell is all this?"

"Disorder," I said evenly. "We need to try to get out of here as quickly as we can." I regretted being so honest when I saw the look in her face. Her fear was reappearing.

We didn't dare approach the baggage area until all of the luggage had been "unloaded". Then, it became an exercise of crawling over the pile and finding our bags. Disorder and aggravation were growing in the people. We found our bags and moved in the direction of the exit. Angry passengers were shouting at the inspectors. The inspectors were shouting back. Then I saw something I had never seen in Cuba before – never in any Customs office in any country before. One of the inspectors stepped onto a bench and shouted to get everyone's attention. This looked bad. He drew his pistol and waved it. I prepared for a massacre. To my surprise, he told everyone to get out and the agents blocking the exits moved to the sides of the building. The wave of humanity flowed through the door onto the street. I was in shock. If things were breaking down like this, the situation in the entire country was a ticking time bomb.

We flowed with the crowd. I had watched the crazed inspector from a distance. I had wanted to look at his face as I went past to try to judge the emotion triggering his decision, but I didn't want to make eye contact with him. I knew enough about mob behavior to avoid being singled out. I averted my eyes and focused instead at the exit. We made it out of there. Once on the street, I ushered the others to the left, away from the opening.

"What just happened?" Brian asked.

"Not here," I growled, an unintended edge to my voice. I realized it and regained control. "Later, OK?" He nodded. "Let's look for our driver."

I started scanning the crowd for the Havanatur sign. It wasn't hard to find, because the crowd was small today. Whether it was because not many people were arriving or because people were clearing out quickly in fear that the inspector might change his mind and start shooting, I was able to find the driver quickly. I went up to him and gave him my name.

"Let's go," he said. He led us to the usual Ford van and we got in. The engine had not been left running so the interior was hot. After closing the door, the driver walked around to the other side, got in and started the engine.

"Aren't there more passengers?" I asked the driver.

"No, just you three. Not many visitors to Cuba these days."

I nodded in agreement. Brian nudged me and pointed to the dashboard. He was wondering about the same thing that had intrigued me on my first trip.

"Yes, a new Ford van, imported from Canada." They both gave me an amazed look. "Get used to it. The Cubans found many ways of getting around the embargo." Brian grinned and shook his head. I didn't give him a chance to comment because I immediately turned to the driver and started quizzing him.

He was quite willing to talk. Maybe he realized we were Americans and not secret police. Perhaps the secret police were not feared as much anymore. Whatever the reason, he provided a wealth of information. He apologized for the heat, explaining that he wasn't running the air conditioner because gasoline was in short supply. To emphasize this, he pointed to an Oro Negro as we went past. There was a long line and it appeared that what fuel was available was being heavily rationed. It was then I noticed fewer large cars on the road and more motorcycles, horse drawn carts and scooters.

Scooters! A yellow Coco Taxi went by and I nearly wrenched my neck trying to get a look at the driver. I kept one eye on the driver and the other looking for yellow scooters. Felicita could very well be at work today, driving around the city.

Our driver told of widespread shortages. Food, fuel, even toilet paper were all in short supply. Stores rationed what little they had to sell. It had begun when the rumors started about Fidel's death. On the street was fear of a civil war. Even if the transition were bloodless, the new government would have to struggle to keep its people supplied with life's necessities.

I asked him about rumors of a fledgling democracy. He looked at me in the rear view mirror, wide-eyed. I had an inspiration and pulled out my passport. I showed him the cover, and then opened it to show my picture. "Estados Unidos," I reassured him. He cast a glance at the others. "Show him your passports," I ordered. Brian and Stacy complied and he relaxed. "We're here to help," I said. He spoke now in a quieter tone. Frankly, I was surprised he spoke at all.

"Raul controls the military," he started. I nodded. I already knew that much. "There are stories that some of his generals don't want him to succeed Fidel. There might be a fight – between soldiers loyal to the different sides." I motioned for him to continue. He looked really nervous. I reached into my pocket and handed him a twenty-dollar bill. He smiled and pocketed Andrew Jackson before continuing. "My wife heard there is a group trying to form a government, a free government, in the city. The people want to support them, but they are scared. If Raul is victorious..."

I nodded, understanding his fear. I didn't want to push him too far. I was aware that we could go home, but he would have to live here whatever happened. While we were having the conversation, I had seen a few yellow scooters go by, all driven by young men. It was Stacy who made the connection.

"The picture on your desk, the girl! She was driving a scooter, wasn't she?"

"Yes," I answered.

"That's who we're looking for. That's Felicita." With that, she joined in my search. Brian also helped out as I conversed with the driver. There was going to be a state funeral for Fidel at the Plaza de la Revolucion, with a great procession from the capitol.

All too soon, we arrived at the Hotel Nacional. The driver pulled under the canopy and helped us out. The hotel staff was eager to help. Apparently, they didn't have much else to do. I tipped the driver again, thanking him for "everything". He smiled and clapped me on the back.

A bellman took our bags inside and we climbed the marble steps into the lobby. As I walked through the door, I stopped suddenly. Brian and Stacy bumped into me. I barely noticed. I was here! I was really here! This is where I had spent that week with Felicita. We had walked hand-in-hand down this very corridor. I looked around. The photo display of Fidel and Che was still there, only now it was draped in black crepe. I recovered, turned right and led the way to the check-in desk.

The clerk at the desk looked bored. I gave our names and she handed over the forms we had to fill out. This time, I wasn't so nervous about putting down my name, home address and passport number. While we were filling out the forms, I had an idea.

"Are you very busy this week?" I asked the clerk.

"No, there are not many tourists coming to Havana until things settle down. We should get more guests for the funeral."

"I wonder, would it be possible for me to request a particular room?" I asked for the room I had stayed in last time. It was available. "Is there also a connecting room available?" She checked and it was. I turned to my two companions. "Do you want separate rooms?" I knew the answer before I asked the question.

Stacy smiled shyly; Brian looked at her and said, "One room will be fine, Chris,"

"Give us those two rooms, please." The clerk nodded her agreement. We finished with the paperwork, the clerk handed each of us a room key and a bellman was called. He led the way to the elevator.

While we waited for the elevator, Brian noticed the mail chute. "Hey, look at this. Rochester, New York."

I looked at the ornate brass mail chute, smiling as I remembered my last time here. "Before the embargo, we had a lot of trade with Cuba. With luck, we'll be trading partners again very soon."

The big metal needle over the door moved down to 1 and the elevator doors opened. We entered, followed by the bellman pushing the cart. Once the doors closed the bellman addressed us in English.

"Is this your first time in Cuba?" he asked. Brian and Stacy nodded.

"I've stayed with you before, last year," I explained.

"And how was your stay at the Nacional?"

"It was delightful," I told him, smiling as I reminisced. "I only hated going home." Wasn't that the truth?

"Things are a little disturbed right now. Don't worry. It will all be fine in a few days. Stay near the hotel, especially at night, and you won't have anything to worry about. We have excellent restaurants, bars and nightclubs on the premises. We also have a swimming pool."

By the time he finished his speech, we had arrived at our floor. The door opened and I took the lead to the room. I knew the direction by heart. I put the key in the lock, opened the door, and entered the room. It was exactly as I had left it nine months ago. I looked at the bed, our bed, and the open curtains beyond. I remembered making love to Felicita as she looked out that window at the lights of Havana curving along the shoreline in the distance. I remembered how she had modeled her new lingerie for me on our last night. I was smiling as I relived our time together.

When I caught myself, I focused on the others. They were watching me and smiling. To their credit, Brian and Stacy didn't ask any questions. I think they knew.

The bellman cleared his throat and began what must be the standard spiel for American guests. "You can call any telephone in the world on that telephone. We get American television by satellite. There is Coca-Cola in the refrigerator..." I'd heard it all before. I wasn't amazed this time, but my two companions were. It was funny watching their faces. I'm sure I looked just as stunned the first time I heard it.

When he had finished, the bellman opened the door that connected to the other room and, taking Brian's key, walked around down the hall to open their room. He then divided up the luggage between the two rooms, making sure we had everything we needed. Brian tipped him and he left us. The others were in their room, getting settled and freshening up. I was alone. I sat on the bed, gently moving my hand over the bedspread, remembering the lovemaking with Felicita. I looked at each part of the room, remembering what we had done there. It was like stepping inside a dream, like living a story instead of just reading it. I thought about the almost ritualistic way she undressed me. I could hear the sounds she made as she came, clutching at the clean white sheets. I looked at the bathroom door and saw here emerging from the shower, water droplets clinging to her naked body, and reaching for a towel. I could do everything but touch Felicita.

It was the realization that I couldn't touch her, at least not yet, which brought tears to my eyes. I felt the tears sting, even tasted their saltiness as the tears ran down my face. I was sitting there, crying softly, when I heard a soft knock on the doorframe to my left.

Stacy's voice broke the silence, a gentle voice that was just barely above a whisper. "Chris? Can I come in?" I turned to her and nodded, motioning her in with my hand. I couldn't speak, not yet. She sat down next to me on the bed. She was looking into my eyes. "This was your room, the two of you, wasn't it?" I nodded, starting to cry a little harder. I was grateful that Brian was still in his room. "This bed, this room, it all happened here." Her voice was so soft it was almost reverent. She understood what I was feeling. "It must be strange to come back here and see everything as it was."

"Not everything. One thing is missing," I said, breaking the profound silence she was trying to maintain.

"We'll find her. She is out there somewhere –" Stacy turned to face the window that was behind us and waved her arm to indicate the city beyond the glass. "Felicita is out there somewhere, waiting for you."

"Thank you." My voice was breaking, the agony and passion I was feeling evident in my words.

We were quiet for a moment, pondering her promise. "Do you have a picture of her, so we can know who we're looking for?" Stacy asked.

I thought for a moment, my mind sluggish with emotion, and then remembered my computer. I jumped up and retrieved the device, booting it up and setting it on the bed between us. We watched the black screen, then the Windows logo and finally the wallpaper as The Microsoft Sound floated through the room, cutting the stillness. I opened Polyview and browsed through the special folder I had kept hidden in there. I pulled up an image of an angel, that lovely face which still made my heart quicken and my stomach feel tight.

"She's beautiful," Stacy breathed.

"Yes, she is." I didn't realize how impolite that sounded. I should have been receiving a compliment. Instead, I was stating a fact. "This is Felicita." Seeing her image, here in this room, made me feel a little dizzy.

Stacy didn't notice. Her tone was business-like. She had a mission. "Let's go find her." She didn't wait for an answer. She got up, went into her room, and returned with Brian in tow. I looked up at them.

"You'll do this for me?" I asked my friends.

Stacy nodded, then pointed to the screen for Brian's benefit. They were going to help me find my lost love. I stood while Brian shut down the computer. "We never know when we'll lose power," he explained. "Need to conserve the battery." Stacy hugged me. I held on to her. For a moment, feeling the softness of a woman's body, in this room, I was again holding Felicita. I realized what I was doing and let her go. I was losing my focus.

We went downstairs and out the front of the hotel. On the walk, I was explaining how she drove a scooter. At least, she did when I was here before. They had seen the pictures of her and the scooter so they would be able to help me look. We walked up the palm lined driveway and turned left, headed for the taxi stand. I was walking faster and faster. Finally, unable to contain myself, I was practically running up the hill. I got to the stand before the other two. I frantically looked around at all the drivers. They, in turn, looked expectantly at me. They thought I was looking for a taxi. I was looking for a driver – a specific driver. I didn't find her. It would have been an amazing coincidence if I had found her that quickly. I explained who I was looking for and asked if the drivers knew her. None of them did. My heart dropped. Brian and Stacy had caught up to me by now and were listening to the exchange.

"What about her cousin?" Stacy asked. "Remember, Chris? You told us her cousin also worked here."

I tried that, but he was also not known to these drivers. I asked if the drivers rotated where they worked. I was told that they did that regularly, to give all the drivers a chance to work for the foreign tourists. That gave me fresh hope – quickly dashed by the realization that Felicita could be anywhere in the city. And Havana is a big city.