Havana Club Ch. 06

I hardly noticed the sights on the ride to the airport. I was looking straight ahead, or at Felicita. I kissed her cheek from time to time, kissing away salty tears. When she recognized that we were approaching the airport, she suddenly turned to me and pulled me into a passionate kiss, our tongues locked in a duel. We separated as the taxi slowed in front of the terminal. I paid the driver, tipping him generously. I opened the door, the whine of jet engines assaulting us. We got out and the driver got our bags out of the trunk. We walked into the terminal, its red décor a stark contrast to the blue of the arrival terminal. There were a few shops, some televisions and check-in counters. Most of the counters belonged to Cubana Air. There were also soldiers. Green uniforms were all around us. I checked the signboard and saw that my flight to Cancun was still on time.

I directed her over to a line where I had to check in. When it was my turn, the lady behind the counter checked my papers – my ticket, visa and passport. She asked for Felicita's papers. I told her that Felicita wasn't on the flight, she was just here to see me off. I asked if she could come with me to the gate. The lady looked wide-eyed for a moment, before explaining that I had to go through Immigration to get to the departure lounge. Felitica could go no further without an exit visa. I felt Felicita sag next to me. We would be saying our goodbyes here, sooner than expected. I was told to be sure to pay my departure tax at the government office and get a stamp before I went through Immigration. I asked how long I had before I needed to do that. The lady looked at her watch. "Twenty minutes," she said without emotion. Twenty minutes. A lifetime wouldn't be enough time. I nodded, collected my paperwork and we walked off to our left.

The government office had a sign over it proclaiming "Airport Tax", in Spanish and English. There was a sign in the window, another of the enigmas. U.S. Currency Only. I guess they didn't take any of that funny Cuban money here, either. Or maybe, this was another of the "dollar stores" – off limits to ordinary Cuban citizens. I paid my tax, receiving a shiny holographic stamp on my boarding pass. Permission to leave the country. Felitica couldn't have one of those. We walked out and strolled around the terminal, trying to make the most of what little time we had left.

I led us to the largest shop. I bought two bottles of Havana Club rum. I would find a way to smuggle them back. They reminded me of Felicita. Havana Club – El Ron de Cuba. I stuffed them into my suitcase. There were postcards for sale on a revolving wire rack. All of them were portraits of Che Guerva. Strange souvenirs in a strange land.

It was time. We had to say goodbye now. I knew it. Felicita knew it. She was trembling as I turned to her, tears again beginning to draw lines down those lovely cheeks. I felt like a condemned prisoner being led to my execution. This was something I did not want to do but I had no choice. I had to leave her.

"Felicita," I started. She looked at me, trying hard not to cry but not succeeding. I reached into my pocket, feeling the large wad of cash. "My company gave me money to pay for my expenses in Cuba. I didn't need to spend as much as I expected to. My boss will not know this. I want you to have what is left." She started to protest, but this time I put my finger on her lips. "Take it. Use some to get home. Use the rest for whatever you want. Meat, clothes," she almost smiled at that one, "something special to remember me by, whatever you want. I wish I could give you everything. I can't. Not yet. Someday..."

She surprised me. As my voice trailed off, as I ran out of things to say, she picked up the conversation, in a clear steady voice. "If there must be happiness, if there must be love, if there must be smiles, it can only be with freedom and dignity." The sweetness of her voice as she said that would be a memory that would stay with me. I just nodded, the lump in my throat making speech impossible at the moment. I took the money out of my pocket and pushed it in her hand, using my other hand to close hers around the roll of twenty and hundred dollar bills. It was more money than she earned in many months. It would buy her a better life for a long time. It would be more useful to her than to me.

I swallowed, tried to wet my mouth enough to speak, then managed to say, "I love you, Felicita."

"I love you, Christopher," she said to me, her eyes tearing up as she studied my face.

We embraced, and we kissed one last time. We made it last for minutes, neither wanting to be the one to end it. Finally, I knew I had to leave. I didn't want to, but I made myself pull back. I looked deeply into her eyes. "I'm coming back, Felicita," I said as I touched her cheek. She took hold of my fingers and kissed them. I turned and walked into the Immigration booth. Behind me, I could hear her sobs. I didn't dare look back.

"Did you enjoy your stay in Cuba," the dark-haired lady in mint green fatigues asked me cheerily.

Did I enjoy my stay? Totally. I just hated leaving. "Yes, it was very nice," I answered.

She smiled as she stamped my paperwork. I tried to look pleasant, but all I could think about was hoping that her government would hurry up and fall so I could return. She wished me a pleasant trip and the lock on the exit door buzzed. I stepped through. The lock clicked behind me, sealing me off from Felicita.

I walked into a normal looking airport terminal. There was a snack bar, gift shops with better merchandise, a large bar and, beyond that, the gates. This area was exclusively for the international travelers. No ordinary Cubans even got to see this part. It was as if I was already entering the free world. Behind me, behind the barriers, Felicita was probably still standing there and crying. Here, life was getting back to normal. Well, not normal. I didn't think my life could ever be normal again after leaving Felitica. I walked to the bar and ordered a mojito. I drank it, hoping that the rum would numb the pain I was feeling. I had a second one. The pain was too great to be numbed so easily. The taste of the Havana Club only made me think of Felicita's t-shirt. I wondered if she had left the terminal yet.

After trying to desensitize myself with the mojitos, I walked on to my gate. At check-in, my paperwork was again checked thoroughly. An announcement was made in several languages that no passengers would be able to board the plane unless they had their airport tax sticker. As I waited for my flight to board, I walked around so no one would see me crying. I saw one last reminder of the embargo that wasn't. The display screens that the gate attendants were using to check in passengers were all connected to Compaq computers. I laughed through my tears. "What embargo?" I asked one last time.

My flight was called. I got in line. We shuffled forward slowly. Cubana Air employees were again checking every passenger's paperwork. I looked through the glass windows at the plane. Heavily armed soldiers were patrolling the landing gear. Having passed the latest scrutiny, I was allowed to enter the jetway. When I reached the door of the aircraft, a soldier with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder was making the final check of papers. He looked about sixteen years old. He took my papers in his right hand and examined them. His left hand held onto the sling of his rifle. I was used to normal airport security where guns were prohibited anywhere near the aircraft. Here, guns were used to keep ordinary citizens from rushing aboard the aircraft and escaping the tyranny. My paperwork passed final scrutiny and I was waved on to the door. I glanced at the Cyrillic evacuation instructions on the inside of the door, bent down to pass through the low opening, and stepped onto the plane.

Inside, I found my seat at a window. I looked out the window, again wondering if Felicita had left for home yet. I imagined her crying in the backseat of a taxi as she rode towards home – and away from me. I felt tears running down my cheeks again. I touched them and felt the wetness, knowing that her cheeks felt the same way right now.

The plane left the gate and took off. I felt a new pain, a new separation, as the wheels lifted off Cuban soil. I looked out the window, trying foolishly to spot her taxi. Once we were up in the air, I leaned back against my seat, closed my eyes and tried to think about nothing. I was unable to clear my thoughts. Images of Felicita flooded my mind. I opened my eyes sometime later, just in time to see Cabo San Antonio pass beneath the plane. I had left Cuba, and Felicita.

My arrival in Mexico was without incident. I deplaned and joined the mob waiting to go through Immigration. When it was my turn, I had the presence of mind to try to avoid getting a visa stamp in my passport. I didn't want to have to explain to a U. S. Customs Agent where I had gone while I was in Mexico. The Mexican agent checking my paperwork looked like the kind of bandit you would see in an old western, bushy mustache and all. I tried to sound pleasant and friendly.

"I just came from Cuba," I told him. He knew this from my papers. "I am an American. Is there any way I can not get a stamp on my passport?" I was nervous now. I was trying to bribe a federal official. Sure, this was Mexico and bribes had a way of being a part of everyday life here, but it was still a crime. Unless he accepted the bribe.

The gringo behind the counter smiled at me and said, "Sure, amigo. I will take care of you."

"Thank you." I took a deep breath before saying the next words. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

He answered without even looking up from the papers on his desk. "Yes, amigo. My fee for this is twenty dollars, U.S."None of those funny pesos for you, eh, Gringo?I thought.

I reached into my pocket and retrieved a twenty-dollar bill. I put it on the counter. He never looked up.

"No, no! Pick it up! I will get in trouble if anyone sees that! I will tell you when to give it to me." As he said this, he never skipped a beat shuffling paperwork.

After a few minutes, he casually slid a stack of papers to my side of the counter and said, in a whisper loud enough for only me to hear, "Put the money under the papers." I did. He waited a minute before he pulled the papers back off the counter and down to his desk. From where I was standing, I could see him reaching under the stack and sliding the twenty into the middle desk drawer. I wondered how many twenties found their way in there every day.

"Everything is fine," he told me with a smile. "There is no need to stamp anything. You can go."

I thanked him, breathed a sign of relief and made my way to customs. Another line. This time, I got lucky. When it was my turn to play traffic light roulette, I got a green light and didn't have to open my bags.

"Welcome to Mexico," the female customs agent cheerfully told me.

I took a taxi to the hotel and entered my room for the first time in almost a week, for the first time since meeting Felitica. This room seemed too quiet, too empty. I sat down on the bed and collected my thoughts. As much as I missed Felicita, I still had a task to finish. I picked up the phone and dialed my office. I asked for Ross and was connected to Agnes.

"Hi Agnes. This is Chris. May I speak to Ross, please?"

"Sure, Chris. How is Mexico?"

"It's Mexico. Hot, bad water, spicy food, good music."

"Sounds wonderful. I'll get Ross for you."

There was a click, then "Chris! How are you? Where are you?" I could hear the happiness and relief in his voice.

"I'm back in Cancun. Mission accomplished."

"Great,partner. You sound tired. Take some time to relax on the beach. Did you have any problems?"

"None worth mentioning," I lied.

"Great to hear it. We'll do the debriefing Monday. Have a good weekend."

"You, too. I'm going to rest now."

"OK, bye."

The line went dead. I put down the phone, lay face down on the bed, and cried. At least in crying I knew I was sharing something with Felicita. She was probably doing just that at that moment. In Cuba.

I spend much of the afternoon alone in the room. Finally, I decided that the room was too empty without Felicita. I needed a change of scenery. I took a walk outside, to the beach. I looked to the east, to Havana, to my Felicita. The waves upon the sand made a melancholy sound, a lonely sound. I found a few shops, buying two cheap bottles of rum and some souvenirs. I put my purchases in my room and returned to the beach; I walked until sunset, wondering if Felicita was looking towards the sunset, and towards me, that evening. As darkness began to descend, I made my way back to the hotel and ate dinner alone for the first time since Sunday.

After dinner, I went back to my room. I opened the two bottles I had bought earlier that afternoon and poured the rum down the drain. I refilled the bottles with Havana Club. I knew it would be dangerous to try to smuggle the bottles with Cuban labels. I had a better chance using these bottles. As I poured, the aroma of the Cuban rum brought back memories of her.

I packed the souvenirs. They would be needed to keep up appearances. I still had to convince U. S. Customs (and my friends back home) that I had actually spent a week in Mexico. Next I hooked my digital camera up to the television and reviewed the photographs I had taken. I spent a lot of time looking at the pictures of Felicita. My heart ached when I looked at the pictures of the two of us together, Tearfully, I touched the cold glass of the screen, wanting to feelher. The cold of the television screen was nothing like the warmth of her body. Seeing her didn't make me any happier, just emptier. I finally got into bed and drifted off to sleep with her nude body still on the TV.

When I awoke the next morning, it was to an empty bed. The batteries in the digital camera had long since run down and the TV screen was dark. I thought about her, about what I had done with her just yesterday morning. I missed her so much. The loneliness was a physical thing. Thinking about her did make my morning erection even harder. I got up, swapped the batteries with the ones in the charger, and found a picture of us making love. I went back to bed and masturbated as I looked at the picture and remembered the previous morning. When I came, sperm shot up and onto the sheets. In my mind's eye, I was shooting into her tight pussy.

I got up and showered – alone this time. I got dressed and left for the airport. I was going home.

The greatest risk still lay ahead of me. I had to get back into the United States. Assuming I didn't raise suspicions in Customs, I should have no problems. Otherwise...

I presented my passport to the Mexican official for the fourth time in a week. My tourist visa showed I had just entered Mexico from Cuba. This was the last evidence of my actual trip and it would be left here in Mexico. A few stamps later, I was finally aboard the plane.

As I flew back to the United States, the plane passed north of Cuba. The pilot made an announcement that those on the right side of the plane could see Havana. Before my life had changed, before this week, I would have been glued to the window, looking and taking pictures of the "forbidden city". Now, I only glanced over casually. I could see the skyline, hazy in the distance. In my mind's eye, I saw the streets as I knew they looked. I saw a yellow scooter being driven by a brown-haired girl. She was crying softly – and so was I.

On the flight, the stewardesses handed out landing cards. I filled out mine. I got to the question that made me pause. List all countries you have visited since leaving the United States. I wrote Mexico. Next, I read the section that said, "Under penalty of perjury, I declare that all statements made by me are correct." I signed my name. I had just committed one more crime. I had lied on a customs document. Perjury is a felony.

Fear nagged me from the back of my mind. I tried to push it away. Appearing overly nervous in Customs was the kiss of death. I kept thinking of Felicita. If I had any chance of seeing her again, I had to keep my trip concealed. That got me through. The agent asked a few questions, mostly routine. I lied to the agent and said I had been to Mexico. Well, Ihad been there. Before and after. I just left out the part in the middle. He let me go and I was back in the United States. I was home free. After all the worry, all the fear, all the concerns, the passage through U. S. Customs was almost a letdown. I guess it was like the embargo. It was imagined to be a lot worse than it actually was. It had been the fear of the unknown. I had done it. I had earned my partnership. I missed Felicita.

When the taxi dropped me off at my door, I walked into the empty living room. I smelled that funny smell of a home that had been closed up for a few days. I thought of how I had felt when I left there a week before. I had made it back after all. Well, most of me. I had left my heart in Cuba, in the care of a brown haired girl. I knew I was going back to get it. Someday.

On Sunday, I copied the pictures from the digital camera to my computer. I separated the pictures of Felicita, burning each set to a CD, then making a backup copy of each disc. I went through the pictures of her. I had many pictures, some of her, some of us, even pictures of her naked and of us making love. I knew which picture I was going to frame for my bedside table and for my desk. It wasn't one of us together on the seawall. It wasn't us making love. It was the view I saw when I was falling in love with her. It was the picture I took from the back seat of the scooter, of her driving, of the back of her t-shirt. It just showed a side view of her face. This was the way I wanted to remember her, wearing her Havana Club t-shirt, with gold hoop earrings, and sunglasses perched atop her light brown hair.

Monday morning came and I returned to work. I felt hollow as I entered the familiar building. Something was missing. When I got there, I stopped off at my office and put a framed photograph on my desk. After selecting the perfect spot where I could see it all day long, I went to see Ross.

Agnes gave me a big smile. I think she still didn't know the true nature of my trip. She commented that I looked tired, and maybe not well. She asked if I had a difficult trip. Difficult? I told her it was fine, I had a nice time. I just hated coming home. It was the truth. She accepted that and gave her usual cheery smile.

Ross was behind his desk, waiting for me. He stood up, smiled broadly, and extended his hand as I walked in. His smile faded as he saw the look on my face.

"What's wrong?" he asked with genuine concern. He could see it in my face, probably even in the way I carried myself. I couldn't hide the sadness I carried.

"Everything's alright. I did what you wanted. I have all the information, all the pictures. We're ready to go when conditions warrant."

He still wasn't convinced. "Your face tells me something isn't right. Close the door and sit down. Let's talk."

I closed the door and sat in one of the chairs facing his desk. I took a deep breath and began to speak

"While I was in Cuba, I met a woman and fell in love with her. We spent a week together; she was a great help to me. That I accomplished as much as I did there is because of her. We both knew I had to leave at the end of the week. Now, all I can think about is going back to her."

All through my confession, Ross just listened and nodded. He was like a father, getting all the facts before trying to give advice. I told him about how I met Felicita, how we worked together. I told him how I promised to return to her. I talked for a long time, revealing a lot of things I would tell a close friend, but not an employer. I became a lot closer to Ross during that conversation.