“I’m hot and very thirsty,” she said. “What would be good?”
His smile widened. “Orange juice, just squeezed,” he said. “Or lemonade.”
“From a bottle or fresh?” she asked.
“Both are bottled,” he answered.
“Lemonade would be excellent,” she said.
He nodded and disappeared. She turned her attention to the plaza. She watched the city live and breathe. She was relieved that no one paid her any special attention. She was used to catching the eyes of men, and she was used to being able to ignore it. The linen dress she wore was reasonably demure. The hem was at her knee. She felt highly vulnerable.
She finished the lemonade and was hungry again. She ordered a small plate of shredded pork with rice and beans. She noticed from people at other tables that Coca-Cola had slipped past the embargo. So she ordered one. Then a second, both with ice. A slight breeze kicked up. She felt better and began, for the first time, to relax.
For a moment, she scanned the city street. There was not a brand, nor a neon sign, nor an advertisement of any sort. Rather, there was just a view of time slowly drifting from the far past into the present, with no particular hurry. The square was baked in Caribbean sunshine. Cuban socialism had created a strange mid-twentieth-century aesthetic, a city freed from agitation, caught in a strange state of decay and quietude.
She saw vast spaces, away from the assault of every form of commercial message and, for that matter, far from Twitter and email as well. The global mall was nowhere to be seen in this city, and, in a way, she cherished it. It was so different from New York. Even when she took a taxi in New York, a television would come on with its infomercials. Here she could watch the square, watch the modest traffic, watch the sunlight on the walls of the old city, watch lovers passing, watch businessmen expounding, watch cab drivers negotiating, watch children smiling. Here was the idle sensuality of the pre-Blackberry age.
Beyond street-level doors were courtyards, some shabby, some fine. Her eyes, rising one flight up, saw that Havana had also preserved its antique wrought-iron balconies and its old baroque Castilian flourishes. Even if the city was crumbling, even if it could be interpreted as a monument to the failure of communism, it had its charm.
She left the cafe and wandered across the square to the hotel once again. She took stock. She decided to walk to a nearby hotel called La Posada Cubana, a faded plaster building, just off the main square, with a tattered blue awning. She registered without a problem. The posada was close enough to the Ambos Mundos to be convenient, but far enough away to help her keep a low profile. She didn’t want to register at the Ambos in case it was a trap.
She went to her room. The window looked out onto a backstreet. She examined the ledge and the nearby rooftop and quickly assessed that the window could make an escape route if necessary. She was pleased.
She drew the curtain and took out the cell phone. She opened it and turned it on. The connection remained. What was that number again? Who were those two presidents? Bush Johnson. Eight eight six four. Better pick the correct Bush and the correct Johnson, she mused. It was the first funny thought she had had since the bullets had hit the boat.
Again she was aware of the sweat on her back. It told her that even if she felt calm, her insides were set to explode. On the other end of the phone was the click of a pickup. No voice, no human hand, just an electronic response.
“I’m here,” she said and then disconnected. Then she dialed another random number and clicked off before it answered. That way she cancelled out any record of the last number she dialed. Okay, she told herself. At least her better instincts were working.
Good vibe: She felt as if she were back in Lagos or Kiev or Paris or Madrid or Cairo. She was back in the game, liking it against her better judgment.
Bad vibe: Things had blown up in all those places. So much for better judgment.
She glanced at her watch. It was 3:45 p.m. She went back to a cafe on the square and ordered a cold drink. Then she examined the cell phone. Yes, it had worked. But there was no return message. The waiting game for the scummy Roland Violette, such that it was, had begun.
She finished her meal and paid. The cost was equivalent to five American dollars. She stood, crossed the square, and fell in with the pedestrian traffic. Again she entered the Ambos Mundos. It was still rendezvous time. Or not.
The faded yellow lobby was cool and refreshing again after the hot city streets. The old elevator continued to crank and creak, and once again, Alex felt as if she had walked into the past.
Again in the lobby, she looked each way – there was no Paul. She walked to the piano bar where the large fans still whirled on the ceiling and lazily cooled the room. The wicker chairs had been rearranged in the past hour. No surprise there. The carpet was still reddish and threadbare, and the piano player was still playing sambas.
Then, just as she was again scanning the men at the bar, whose eyes had once again turned to her as she entered, she heard a familiar voice behind her. “Alex,” said the male voice shyly. It said her name so softly and reassuringly that it seemed to come up out of the ground. English with an American accent. “Well, I’ll be darned,” the voice said. “Imagine seeing you here!”
She turned sharply and looked behind her. Seated in a small alcove, partially obscured by a large potted plant, positioned where he could watch everyone who came and went, was the man she knew. He was alive – in a fresh suit and seeming to be no worse for their crash landing on Cuba’s hostile shores.
“Paul!” she said too loudly. “Holy …!”
He held a finger to his lips. For a moment, she stared. Then, his lies and his anguishing casualness notwithstanding, some pent-up emotion in her broke. She was thrilled to see a familiar face, and just as thrilled to know that he was alive.
“Paul!” she repeated. “Thank God!”
His long legs unfolded, he stood, and his arms opened in a broad welcoming gesture. She rushed to him. She didn’t know whether to kiss him or throttle him, so instead she let him call the tune. He held her in a long powerful embrace and finally planted a kiss on her cheek. With that one gesture, their joint mission seemed to be back on track. And to Alex, the world seemed much less of a lonely, foreboding, frightening place.
Across the square from the Hotel Ambos Mundos, Major Ivar Mejias stepped from an unmarked police car, which had just cruised to an abrupt halt at the curb. His shirt was crisp and white, he proudly displayed his sidearm as well as his badge, and displeasure and impatience were written all over his face.
Two other police cars jounced to the curb behind him. The drivers stayed with the cars as a small phalanx of uniformed city policemen assembled near their commander. Mejias signaled with a nod of his head toward the hotel’s side of the street. Half a dozen other police officers fell in stride behind him.
All of Mejias’s officers wore bulky sidearms. Two carried shotguns. It might have been a routine midday patrol, one that made the tourists feel safer and kept the jineteras, the street hustlers, on the defensive. Mejias and his small detachment would normally go from bar to bar, shop to shop, eyeballing people and places, running with whatever they saw against anyone for whom they might be on special alert.
The shotguns, however, indicated that something out of the ordinary was afoot. Mejias was a very angry man today, and nothing about this patrol was ordinary. In fact, nothing, he felt, could ever be ordinary again until he located the two people – a man and a woman – who had slipped away from the skiff on the beach.
Paul was, Alex was reminded quickly, a big man and a strong one. His arms were tight around her, and he hugged her dearly, as if they were expiating for what had happened at the shoreline. The hug lasted for several long seconds. Then he released her. She looked him in the eye. She had to fight back the wave of anger that was now resurgent.
“What the – ?” she began to sputter. She checked herself, then spoke softly but angrily. “What happened on the beach?”
“Well, I’d say we had a calamitous arrival,” he said in low tones. His breath was boozy. “How would you categorize it?” he asked.
“Sheer hell,” she said.
“That would work as a description,” he answered. “Hey, look. There’s a lot to talk about, but we haven’t been knocked out of the game,” he said. “Not at all.”
He motioned for her to sit down. There was a wicker seat, very welcoming, close by an overhead fan and a huge plant. She settled into the seat. There was a tall mojito on the table, half finished.
“Can we talk here?” she asked.
“There are better places, but I think we’re okay. What the Cuban government can put forth in venality, they surrender in incompetence. I don’t think we’re being recorded, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I mean,” she said, looking around. The piano player, fortunately, covered their conversation, which is probably why Guarneri had chosen the place. With the music and the din of conversation, motor noise, voices from outside, and the activity in the lobby, it would be impossible to eavesdrop. Then, turning back to Guarneri, she said, “Tell me about our reception committee.”
“I don’t know much more than you do,” he said, “other than we both got away.”
“And the three men on the boat?”
“Didn’t make it, apparently,” Paul said. “I’m sorry about that.”
“They got hit badly,” she said.
“Yes, they did,” said Guarneri, working a sprig of mint from the mojito. “Dead, I’m afraid. There’s going to be some nasty feedback in Miami when word gets back.”
“Who was shooting at us?” she asked again. “Militia? Army? I thought I saw uniforms.”
“You did see uniforms,” Guarneri said, “but I didn’t recognize them. I was trying to keep my head down too. I got to the controls of the boat and reversed the engines, while I got in a few last shots. I hit the water not long after you did and went in the opposite direction. That way at least one of us would have a better chance of making it to shore … or that’s what I hoped.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t see us,” she said.
“Remember that mist on the water,” he said, “like a low cloud? It must have been just enough to hide us. You’re religious – say a prayer of thanks sometime.” He looked for a waiter and signaled. “What are you drinking?” he asked.
“I just had a Coca-Cola,” she said.
“That’s what you just had, but what are you having now?” he asked.
“Paul, I’m not looking to get smashed in the middle of the afternoon.”
“Why? You got something better to do?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I have a certain Mr. Violette to locate.”
“He’s waited twenty-six years,” Paul said. “He’ll wait twenty-four hours more.”
She reached into her tote bag and pulled out the cell phone.
“Ah. You’ve been to the dead drop already,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And that’s the phone?”
“That’s it.”
A waiter arrived, a nice-looking young man in a short white service jacket and black pants. He looked like he could have fit into Perez Prado’s band in 1957. Alex covered the phone. They were still uncommon in Havana, cell phones, though not illegal, which they had been till recently.
“The mojitos are excellent,” Guarneri said. “If I had ten bucks for every mojito that Hemingway knocked back in this place, I could retire. Try one.”
“I don’t like to mix.”
“Don’t be a killjoy,” he said. “We’re not doing anything else for a while. Let some air in your sails. Somos de vacaciones. Mia querida. ?Viva la vida!” he added facetiously. “We’re on vacation. Have some booze. Live a little.”
The waiter smiled patiently.
“Un mojito, por favor,” she said, acquiescing.
“?Un grande, como Senor?” the waiter asked. “?Double?” A double?
“No, no,” she said.
“?Si, si!” Paul insisted, ordering a double for her. He shooed the waiter away.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” she said. “Despite everything.”
“And I’m glad you are, Alex,” he said. “I was worried. I really was.”
He placed a hand on her leg and gave it a squeeze. Then he released it.
The bartender, watching them, made a show of assembling the drink. Mint leaves crushed on ice, lime wedges, rum, rum, and more rum, then a dash, and just a dash, of club soda. He proudly moved his concoction to a serving tray.
“By the way, that’s the law over there,” Guarneri continued in a very low voice. “Cops. Undercover. Clandestino.” He didn’t move his head. He signaled by pointing his eyes toward the far end of the bar.
Alex scanned fast and found two men in a conversation.
They wore plantation shirts, long and not tucked in. She saw just enough of a bulge on their hips to conceal side arms. Both men were right-hand draws, so she knew what to watch for. Everyone could see the weapons, but then again they couldn’t. That’s how it worked here, she concluded. Police, but don’t ask and don’t tell. Stay away from them and hope they stay away from you. The men were keeping an eye on the crowd. She began to sweat again. She wondered if they were after her. Not these cops, particularly, but whatever cops dealt with shore intrusions.
“I should find another line of work. I didn’t see them,” she said. “What if they come over?”
“We speak Spanish to them and make nice. And we remain very, very polite. You have your Mexican passport?” he asked.
“Of course. You have your Canadian one?”
“Wouldn’t travel in a commie country without it,” he said.
“And what if they ask how we know each other and what we’re doing in Cuba?”
“Our original cover story stands. Husband and wife. Tourists.” He eyed her. “What’s the matter? Nervous?”
“You bet I’m nervous,” she said in a low voice. “We just entered this country illegally. Or have you already forgotten?”
“Just chill and go with the flow,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”
The waiter arrived with the drinks. He set the frosted glass in front of Alex. She reached for her purse, but Guarneri stayed her hand. “When I order drinks, the woman never pays,” he said. “You have your religion and I have mine. That’s mine.” He handed a carefully folded ten dollar bill to the waiter. “Quedese con el vuelto,” he said. Keep the change.
“Gracias, Senor,” the waiter answered. He gave a respectful nod and took off.
