A Chill in Cuba

Carolyn B Healy

The scene -
Hotel lobby, Havana

• A polished wooden bar ringed with rattan stools, bathed in soft light

• Polished mosaic tables arranged at the base of a spectacular marble staircase; a wide balcony overlooks the entire lobby

• Potted tropical plants sit everywhere

• A guitar player roams from table to table

The main characters -
Five American travelers:

• My husband David and me who can best be described as touristy looking Midwesterners

• Our two new trip friends, Sue, a gentle 70 year-old former bank CFO who looks about 45 and her wisecracking friend Linda, who could also pass for 10 or 20 years younger than she is

• Matt, late 20’s, the baby of our humanitarian tour group, as all the other travelers are 30 to 50 years his senior. His gelled hair and dark blue eyes make him stand out from the other young people in the lobby, as does his formal Southern gentleman manner.

The supporting cast:

• An amiable bartender who shows off a bit in the production of his drinks and engages customers in pleasant banter, just like your local bartender at home

• A cranky expressionless waitress upon whom it seems lost that she has one of the best jobs in Cuba, in that she works in a ritzy spot where she can receive tips in CUC’s, the dollar-like currency usually reserved for foreigners

• A fluid assortment of other patrons, all Europeans and Canadians, sampling cigars and local drinks

Tipoff that you are in Havana:

• Solemn business-suited guards stand at various stations on the balcony, surveying the scene. Every half hour they rotate.

• At first we figure that they are watching us. We eventually learn that we are of little interest. They really watch their fellow Cubans, with good reason. With the black market about the only part of the economy that’s thriving, just about every commodity, from toilet paper to bathrobes to eggs, apparently tries to walk out the back door.

• That, and the housekeeping staff being dressed in French maid outfits. They don’t even have those in France anymore from what I’ve seen. Although this hotel started out as a joint venture with the Dutch, and they may know better than I. Actually, it was that until the Dutch bailed out, one year in, finding the flow of items out the back door untenable when it came to making a profit, kind of an unfamiliar concept in Cuba. So Cuba’s former colonial oppressor Spain came through to take over for the Dutch, suggesting that they either have greater risk tolerance or a tougher protocol to keep an eye on the goods.

Opening scene:

David and I enter the lobby, back from an evening stroll through Parque Central, a large tree-lined square across the street. Sue and Linda wave us over to their table where they enjoy Mulatas, Cuban specialty drinks personally prepared by our featured bartender. They launch into stories about the friend of a friend who they spent the afternoon with, an American woman married to a Cuban musician. We try to get the attention of the surly waitress who stares at a boisterous group of German tourists.

Lurching past the table comes young Matt, apparently overserved again as he had been at the opening night welcome party. He slows, raises a hand in greeting and lands in our empty chair. It is unclear whether that was his intention or the result of impaired balance.
“Would you like to join us?” Sue asks, a little late.

He looks from right to left, as fast as his depressed central nervous system can manage, and finds no way out. “Sure, I’ll have a drink with you. What’re ya having?” he asked, eyeing the Mulatas.

He snaps his fingers in the air and the snappish waitress appears at his elbow. “We’ll have a round of…these,” he said lifting Sue’s drink as an example, “Honey.” Eager to see how she would show her displeasure, we all turn in time to see her smile warmly at him.

Matt, incapable of multitasking at the moment, pauses in order to concentrate on her departing rump. We watch him watch her until she reaches the bar.

The story unfolds:

“So Matt,” Linda says, “How is it that you are here? Are those people we saw you with your parents?

In the next 20 minutes we learn that

• He was not related to the couple. “We are not traveling together. We are just on the same trip.” What?

• They did have a connection.”We are both pilots.” Pause for effect. “He is my friend.” The man in question was a handsome fast-moving fellow who didn’t say much, but seemed like a solid citizen. Matt acknowledged that he and his wife had taken him under their wing, leaving us to wonder why he needed that protection.

• Every night he trolled Cuban night spots until 4am. “It makes it a bitch to make the bus,” which left every morning at 8 to transport us to the day’s activities.

• He was reluctant to say how he made his living except that it involved his plane and the Caribbean. “Well, this and that. I couldn’t go to a job in a suit. I’d have to shoot myself.” He did look spiffy in a crisp Hawaiian shirt and pleated khakis straight out of wardrobe for Miami Vice.

• His parents had disappointed him in a major way. “Well, my mom. Let’s just say she’s out of my life. And my dad. They went to New York. I’m an orphan.” That sent my writer’s imagination flipping through death, divorce, suicide, abuse – wait, I think that’s my therapist’s imagination. He waved off further questions.

• He was enraptured with the Cuban people, the ones he was meeting in his nightly forays. “You meet such fabulous people out there. You have to get out of here to do it. They don’t let them in here you know.” We did know that Raul, having taken over from Fidel some months before, had quickly changed the policy that allowed no Cubans in hotels unless they worked there. Fidel’s reasoning: Why let people limping along on ration cards see how other people live, unless they work there and benefit from it; not to mention the prostitution thing. Raul’s: What the heck? Let them live a little. Besides, they can’t afford it. The Cuban pesos they get paid in don’t spend there.

His popularity with the Cubans he was meeting – was it his personality, looks, CUC’s? Was he being courted for what he would be willing to do? He invited David to accompany him that night. He declined, partly because it was past his bedtime, partly out of good radar for trouble.

Matt made every effort to turn on the charm, but the attempt fell flat except for his effect on the waitress. He employed the disorienting lack of eye contact that makes you look over your shoulder to see what he’s really looking at – and find that there’s nothing there. Again, this raised the question of whether this was intentional or a temporary alcohol-induced inability to focus.

The conversation stayed all about him, with our complicity, each of us throwing in leading questions to keep him going, hoping we’d hit a vein of authenticity if we dug hard enough.
I began to develop a chill, the same chill I’ve felt when I’ve met people over the years, clients and others, who consider harm to others or themselves an acceptable risk if it allows them to get what they want – thrills, revenge, financial gain, whatever. That chill comes from being in the presence of a person who might do anything because he is missing a part or two.

What was he up to? Gun-running, drugs, unauthorized immigration, whatever he was told? Or was it just posing, an attempt to inflate an underdeveloped self?

He rose, attempting gallantry, “It’s been a pleasure…”

We let him go and resumed our talk about what Sue and Linda had learned in their afternoon trip to real Havana.

A few minutes later, we noticed him back at the bar, a new drink and giant cigar in hand, leaning over two blonde tourists, a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Bond,” I said, “James Bond.” We called him James Junior after that, or Junior for short. We shared our speculations about his actual business and motives, and concluded that we were just glad he wasn’t our kid, drifting untethered in a sea of potential trouble.

As Matt stooped lower to talk more intimately into the girls’ faces, David said, “I’ll tell you this – he’s not going to be able to consummate whatever he starts tonight. Guaranteed.” Our pals whooped, a little scandalized, and we retreated back into discussion of the packages of clothespins their friend had requested and how she planned to barter them for other rarities like eggs and milk. With one of the front desk receptionists she had befriended among others.
We broke up after a nightcap and retreated to our luxurious rooms with marble and bathrobes and a view of the slums, and continued to try to make sense of Cuba, where people seemed so like us and the world they lived in so different. And wondered about Matt’s world, where with any luck, we would never have to visit again.

CBH 02/09