Havana Club Ch. 02

The doors were louvered, but solid behind the louvers. Perhaps they were a holdover from before the building was air-conditioned. Now, the windows did not open. The room was spacious, but dated looking. It was like out of a brochure from the 1960's. The bellman, who spoke English, proudly showed me around the room.

"You can watch American television. We get it by satellite." I nodded, a little surprised. He opened the mini-bar. "Would you like a cold Coca-Cola?" OK, now I was stunned. I took the offered can and checked the label. Canned in Mexico. He pointed to the telephone on the nightstand. "On that telephone, you can call anywhere in the world."

"But not the United States. You don't have telephone circuits connecting there," I countered.

He heard the first part and ignored the second, instead looking upward in thought. His fingers touched imaginary keys as he thought aloud, "For United States, dial 223 ... area code ... and number," now smiling at me. With that, he left me to my dizzying thoughts. I sat on the bed, trying to absorb all I had just seen and heard. I couldn't believe that I was in Cuba. The nervousness returned as I realized the ramifications of my trip. If I got into trouble, I was screwed. If I didn't, I might have big troubles returning to the United States. I took a deep breath, realized I had a mission to perform, and stood. I went to the window and looked out. To my left, the blue water of Havana harbor beckoned. In front of me, a Soviet-era apartment building was decaying. Beauty and the beast.

I put away my things, then made a telephone call to Ontario. I knew Ross would be waiting to hear that I had arrived and entered the country successfully. I called the number. It rang (a funny ring) a few times, then a voice answered. I asked for Robert. A pause, then he came on the line. I ordered ten crates of chestnuts. This request, when relayed to Ross, would tell him where I was. He confirmed my request, sounding like he understood, then ended the call. Next, I set off to begin exploring. I wasn't sure where to start. I went back down to the lobby, carrying my passport (which wouldn't leave my body) and my digital camera.

I walked down the driveway to the street. To my left was a taxi stand of sorts, filled with more of those yellow scooters. I walked up to the group of young men standing around, apparently awaiting fares. I asked in Spanish if I could rent one of the scooters for the afternoon. There was some discussion, and some shuffling from the back of the group. The men in the front turned around to see, and moved aside. It appeared that the shortest of the men was trying to turn around a scooter and walk it out to the street. A few of the others were helping him. As he looked up, I saw he was a she. A lovely she. She looked at me with a sheepish grin and I nearly fell into her brown eyes. Her hair was long, curly and chestnut brown – almost a reddish hue. She looked about nineteen or twenty. Apparently, she was next in line at the taxi stand. With difficulty (and assistance), she got the scooter away from the sidewalk. Jumping on the starter, she coaxed the engine into starting. It made a kind of fast put-put-put sound. She waved me to the seats in the back and I took the left one. She sat in a seat but steered with motorcycle handlebars. After I was seated, she gunned the throttle and we put-putted down the street. I sat back and looked around, but my gaze kept returning to my driver. I could catch glimpses of her face as she looked left or right, checking for traffic at intersections or making turns. Like all the scooter drivers, she wore a white t-shirt that advertised Havana Club, the local rum. I figured out that, since billboards were reserved for extolling the virtues of communism, the businesses had to turn to other methods of advertising. While I'm sure it was equally effective on the male drivers, I found it very attractive on this nymph. I know all the clichés about love at first sight. I guess I was experiencinglust at first sight. All memories I might have had at that point about my last few nights with Ellen had been banished. In the breeze made by our passage, wisps of her long hair would trail behind her, glowing brownish-red in the tropical sun.

She drove for several minutes, maybe longer, before she spoke to me. I guess this was standard practice for tourists. It was a good way to see the city. The open carriage afforded an excellent view. I quickly noticed the policemen in bluish-grey uniforms and soldiers in mint green fatigues at every street corner. Occasionally, there would be another patrol in the middle of the block. Security was tight. Probably a low crime rate as a result. I'm sure it also was very effective at preventing public displays of disapproval with the current government. At a point some time into our drive, the little pixie turned around and asked where I'd like to go. I asked if she spoke English and she shook her head. I was starting to realize that English was not very common. It was now mid-afternoon and I was feeling a little hungry. Remembering where I was, I asked her to take me somewhere that I could get a good Cuban sandwich. She nodded and made a U-turn. We put-putted along a wide street, finally stopping in front of an open-air café. The sign said Bienvenidos Pan.Com. I wondered if that was a web address. Pan probably referred to the bread. She pointed to the restaurant and told me she would be back in 45 minutes to pick me up.

"I want to hire your scooter for the entire afternoon. I don't want to wait when I am ready to leave. I will pay your fare for the entire time. Come in with me."

She looked at me with a quizzical gaze. My request seemed very strange to her. I'm sure itwas a very strange request. I didn't like eating alone, we would be able to talk about where I wanted to go next if we were away from the noisy engine (and its gasoline fumes), and I wanted to spend some time with her face-to-face. I related the first two of these reasons to her and assured her I would pay for the meal. She looked like she was unsure if it was a good idea. Then, she looked at me and smiled. With a nod, she shut off the engine and we stepped through the arched front of the establishment.

It wasn't very crowded, only four or five people eating. There was a patio off to the right, not under the roof, where Cuban music was playing on a stereo of sorts. An old man wearing sunglasses sat near the stereo. Near the entrance to the left, a table had been setup covered with a canvas umbrella. The umbrella advertised Tucola. I almost snorted as I saw it, now that I knew how easily a Coca-Cola could be acquired. We had to walk to the very back of the dining area to where the counter was. As we were standing there, waiting to be served, I absent-mindedly noted that most of the restaurant equipment was Canadian. I asked my driver if she would like to eat, and she readily agreed. I ordered two Cuban sandwiches and two Cristal beers. The entire meal cost me about as much (in U.S. currency) as two large Cokes at a convenience store. We watched as the sandwiches were made and pressed, then took them to a table. I noticed that the driver was looking hungrily at the food as I was purchasing it. I sat across from her and realized that I didn't even know her name. I explained this and introduced myself.

"My name is Felicita," she responded.

"What a lovely sounding name," I told her. Felicita – a name that meant great happiness. That held promise. She smiled a little and looked down. "Eat," I told her. "Don't let it get cold." Not that anything would get cold quickly in this heat.

With that, we started eating. The food was very good and Felicita ate with a vengeance. I wondered how regularly she got to eat. She must have sensed this because she began explaining after two bites.

She wiped the mustard from her mouth with a paper napkin, took a sip of the beer, then began, "I don't get meat like this very often. It is hard for us to buy. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I am glad to be able to share."

We ate a little more in silence. Felicita shyly looked my way from time to time as she ate, clearly enjoying the meal. After we had satisfied the worst of our hunger, the conversation picked up.

"This sandwich really is wonderful. You picked a great restaurant," I complimented my lovely dining partner.

"The tourists love this place. I've never eaten here before."

My expression conveyed my unspoken question.

"They only take dollars here," Felicita explained. "Even if we could afford the prices, they won't take our money. Locals don't eat at places like this."

I looked around. Except for the workers, there were only one or two people who I might take for Cubans. Felicita saw me looking around and continued with her explanation.

"People in the government have access to dollars. Working in the tourist trade gives some dollars, like for tips. The dollars I do get are too valuable to waste on luxuries like restaurants."

"How do you get to work in the government," I innocently asked.

Her eyes grew a little larger. She looked to her right and left, then leaned over the table to whisper, "Not here."

It took me a moment to comprehend. Then Igot it. You never know who is listening. I was asking a political question. I looked around the restaurant again, this time sizing up the other occupants.

The old man sitting on the patio saw me studying him. He got out of his chair and walked over to our table. It wasn't until I realized he was heading straight to us that I panicked.Great! My first afternoon in the country and I'm going to be picked up by the secret police.I felt the sweat appearing on my face. It wasn't the temperature, though it suddenly felt a lot warmer.Why wasn't I more careful?

The old man stopped at the edge of our table and looked down at us. He was carrying something in his hand. His voice was old and raspy.

"I heard you speaking English," he said, then paused. He spoke as slowly as he walked. I was trying to decide whether to answer when he continued. "American, yes?" I nodded. No point in trying to deny it. "I was wondering if you would be interested in buying some music?" He held out a few CD cases. I took them from his outstretched hand. They were audio CDs. The labels looked like photocopies.

"Thank you, but I won't be able to take them through customs. I can't bring anything back from Cuba."

"Open the box," he urged.

I did. Inside each was an unlabeled CD-ROM, with a brand I immediately recognized. He had pirated the music on a computer. The discs could pass through customs as data. I thanked him, but told him I wasn't interested. Relief spread through me as a breeze cooled my face. I told him I might return another day to buy them. He was satisfied with that, and slowly returned to his table.

"What was wrong?" Felicita asked. "You didn't look so well."

I gave a little laugh. "I thought he might be secret police or something. I was worried he might had been eavesdropping on our conversation."

She laughed at that. "Him? No, not him. Don't worry. I'll tell you when you have to be careful. There are some things we don't discuss in public, though."

By then, we were both finished with the sandwiches and the beer. I stood.

"You are ready to leave now?" my companion asked, looking up at me with those lovely eyes.

"Yes, I have a city to discover. Will you show it to me?"

"Yes, let's go. I just... well, people usually like to take a siesta after a meal." She was starting to figure out I wasn't just any tourist.

"I want to take my siesta on your scooter." It was a half-hearted attempt at a lie. She didn't seem to be concerned.

Before she started the engine, she asked where I wanted to go. I told her I wanted to see where the locals bought and sold goods. She looked quizzically at me, then shook it off. The tiny engine putted to life and we pulled onto the street.

We drove back towards the Malecon. Near the waterfront, she turned off the main road to what looked like rows of ramshackle huts. We were maybe two blocks off the main street. She parked the scooter. When I got out, she took my arm. I felt a thrill as I felt her pressed against my side. "Pretend you are with me," she urged, then led me along the stalls. Here, you could buy books, photographs, paintings, clothes (some looked used), cheap cookware, almost anything. In the states, this would be called a flea market. It was quickly apparent I was the only person who looked like a tourist. Everyone else on the street and tending the makeshift shops was Cuban.

"What do you want to buy?" Felicita inquired.

"Nothing. I want to see how Cubans live."

She looked directly at me. "Oh," she said. Then, "You are not like any tourist I have ever met."

"I can explain that. Later."

She didn't look too surprised at my remark.

I bent down to speak quietly into her ear and asked, "What do you call this place?"

Her answer shocked me. "Black market."

I thought about that for a moment. I looked around. There were no soldiers or policemen around. "Here?" I asked, a little stunned.

"Yes, here."

"Doesn't the government know about this place?"

"Of course they do. Some of the shoppers are soldiers and policemen." She could see my confused expression, so she continued. "There are some things we need that we can't buy in the stores. We have to get them somewhere. These places are allowed to operate. Tourists never come here, only locals. There will be more people here as it gets dark. We should talk about something else, I think. Later, you can ask more questions."

I nodded. We walked along with her holding onto my arm. I was making mental notes of what was being sold and, when I could overhear, the prices being charged. I learned a lot about what goods were in short supply. We walked around for maybe half an hour, then I told her we could return to her scooter. We did and I asked her to show me a beach.

"There are no sand beaches in Havana. Those are outside the city. We have rock beaches I can show you."

"That will be fine," I answered.

We putt-putted along the waterfront. On the left we passed the U.S. Interests Section, located on the site of the former U.S. Embassy. It was strange to see the seal of the United States displayed on a Havana building. When I realized what it was (and how close it was to my hotel), I sat back in the seat as we passed. It was a weak attempt at concealing my face. After awhile, she pulled into a parking lot. Some teenagers were playing soccer. She led me to the seawall. We crawled over it to the "beach". I had seen rock beaches before, but nothing like this. I expected beaches of pebbles. This was a solid section of sharp rocks jutting into the water, with surf breaking over the rock.

"We can talk here. We can't be overheard," she reassured me.

"I have many questions."

"Ask them. I will answer as best I can," she offered.

"You said earlier at the restaurant that you don't often get meat. Is it hard to find food, or is it just too expensive? What kinds of foods do you usually eat?"

She nodded and began explaining, "Meat is a luxury. When we get meat, it is usually pork or maybe chicken. Beef is a special treat. I can have meat for the evening meal. Usually, I don't have meat for the other two meals. It is expensive, and often in short supply at the store even if you have the money. The quality of the food you can buy with nonconvertible pesos is not the same as what you can buy with dollars. I am lucky that I work for tourists. I get tipped with dollars, so I can sometimes shop in the better stores." She paused for me to comprehend this, then continued, "Is everyone in America rich like you?"

"Why do you think I am rich?" I asked.

"You spend money so freely. You fed your taxi driver. You dress in nice clothes. Do you do this always in America?"

"My taxi driver in America is never as pretty as you," I told her. She put her head down. When she looked up again, she was smiling and blushing.

"I think the difference is because of the economies. What you think is expensive here is not expensive in America. It is very different." I felt I could trust her, so I decided to break the biggest rule of my preparation. I would ask political questions. "The biggest difference I see here is the lack of freedom. I am not used to having to be careful about what things I talk about." I took a deep breath, then came out and said it. "Do you feel oppressed by Castro?"

She tried not to react, but I saw it in her face. There was a concern, or maybe a thrill of venturing into dangerous territory. "We are afraid of Fidel. There is nothing we can do about it. We just have to live with him. After him, we are afraid Raoul will be worse."

"You call him 'Fidel'. Does everyone address him by his first name?"

"Of course. He wants us to think of him as a brother. A cruel brother, I think." She gave a hard laugh. "I shouldn't be talking like this."

"You don't have anything to fear from me. I will not hurt you. Let me tell you why I am here."

I told her my story – the real reason I was there. She listened attentively as I explained about my company's plans for when relations between our countries changed. I said how we wanted to help improve the Cuban economy by opening trade, but the American government opposed that. I told her how I had come illegally. She could not understand that. She thought all Americans were free. I told her that there are some things that are not free, even in America. I reassured her that there really was freedom in America, and that very few things were forbidden. When I finished, she asked me questions about life in America. The emotion in her voice as she asked about living free, about being able to shop in any store, about buying as much food as you wanted, or going to school touched my heart. I wanted to hold her and tell her everything was going to change, but I knew it wouldn't be that easy. I just wanted to hold her.

We talked for a few hours, until it started to get dark. The sound of the crashing waves had protected us with privacy. We compared lives, and she touched mine. I knew I would never be the same after that conversation. I didn't want to be the same. I had come to peek in a window to see how the Cubans lived. Instead, she invited me in to experience her life. She understood what I was looking for. I asked her if she would be my guide for the rest of the week. I offered to hire her scooter everyday, if she would take me outside of the tourist areas, introduce me to her friends, show me what it was like to be Cuban. The look in her eyes as I explained this scared me a little. I was seeing in her expression the feelings I was starting to experience for her. It wasn't lust I was feeling. It was something deeper and that scared me. I hadn't felt like that for a long time, if ever. I knew my time here was limited, but I couldn't help myself. I knew I had never felt like this about anyone else. This might be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I had decided not to pass those up anymore. I wasn't about to change that new rule now.

I took a chance. Again. I had risked a lot telling her all this. She had taken a bigger risk by speaking openly with me. I was going home in a few days. She wasn't. If I couldn't be trusted, I could ruin her life. Maybe I could be the cause for ending it. She had only known me for an afternoon. She saw in me what I was seeing in her. I put my arms around her. I wasn't sure how she would react. I knew what I wanted to see, but I was prepared for a different outcome. She looked into my eyes. Those big brown eyes of hers glistened with unshed tears. Were they tears of joy, fear, love? She put her arms around my neck. I felt her warm skin touching mine. I hugged her. I could feel her slight body beneath her thin t-shirt pressing against me. Her breasts flattened only slightly as she pressed herself against me. My face was in that brown hair I had admired all day from the back seat. My hands ran over the back of a t-shirt, my fingers passing over her bra strap. We held each other, as I stared out to sea. Ninety miles away to my right was all I had ever known. Here was all I had been searching for. I just hadn't known it until that moment. I pushed her back. She looked quizzically at me, wondering why I was pushing her away. I tilted my head, and I kissed her. She met the kiss with such passion that the half erection she had given me became full. Our mouths intertwined. Two tongues, one free, one oppressed, met. I held her and felt her holding me. My heart was racing, my erection was pulsing. I wanted to slip my hand into her pants or at least cup her breast. I had been admiring the way her tits looked through the thin fabric of the t-shirt all afternoon. I wanted to go further, but I didn't want to go too fast. I didn't know the cultural rules. I restrained myself, content to hold her and kiss her.