Havana Best Friends (2 page)

“Good you come. This” – a sweep of the arm – “your home,” Pablo added, his grin seeming rather forced.

“Pablo,” said Elena through clenched teeth.

“Oh, yeah, my sister, she don’t understand English.”

Elena pursed her lips in disapproval.

Pablo slid into the remaining club chair and impatiently waited for Marina to finish her espresso, then started questioning her in Spanish. What had happened? Did her husband feel better now? Was she from Argentina? Yeah, he had guessed it, had identified the accent. From Buenos Aires? Ah, “Mi Buenos Aires querido,” he sang, the only line he knew from the most famous of all tangos, while his eyes stole a lascivious glance at her thighs. And her husband? Oh … how nice. What city? Toronto? So, she lived in Toronto now, right? And when did they arrive in Cuba? Where were they staying?

As his wife answered all kinds of questions, Sean sipped his coffee slowly, eyes moving from the brother to the sister, appraising them coolly. Elena seemed okay; Pablo too garrulous for his taste. He emptied the demitasse and put it on the tray, then reached for Marina’s and did the same. Elena rose and took the tray back to the kitchen. When she returned to her club chair, they were all laughing about something. Her brother lit a cigarette and blew smoke to the ceiling.

“This is a nice apartment,” Marina commented, her gaze shifting around the living room. “Have you lived here long?”

“All our lives,” Pablo answered. “We were born here. Our parents …”

“How is Sean feeling?” Elena asked, interrupting her brother, who frowned.

Marina interpreted. Sean said he was fine now.

“Well, then you’ll have to excuse me. I mustn’t be late for work.”

Pablo widened his eyes. “Elena, that’s very rude of you.”

“Listen, Pablo …,” said Elena testily, trying not to get into an argument with her brother in the presence of strangers.

“But of course,” Marina butted in, jumping to her feet. Sean, seemingly surprised, uncoiled himself from the chesterfield. “You’ve been very kind. Would you allow us to reciprocate in some way? Take you to dinner maybe?”

“No, thanks, this is nothing …”

“We’d be delighted,” Pablo said, leaping at the offer with a fresh grin.

“Pablo! No, Marina. We just …”

“But I insist. We would enjoy your company enormously. We don’t know anybody here. It would be great to take you guys out
tonight. Learn from you about a nice place, somewhere off the beaten track. In fact, you’d be doing us another favour.”

“I would gladly take you to wherever you want to go,” Pablo said, also in Spanish. “There’s this nice private restaurant. It would have to be after five, you know. That’s when I leave the office.”

Marina interpreted for Sean.

“By all means,” he said when his wife had finished speaking. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Sean says he would consider it an honour to take both of you to dinner tonight. It has to be tonight because we are leaving tomorrow. We rented a car, so we can pick you up.” And turning to Elena. “Please, Elena, you admitted two complete strangers into your home. That’s real hospitality. Don’t turn us down. Please?”

Elena shook her head and forced a smile.

“C’mon, sis,” Pablo said in a false pleading tone.

Elena considered it. “Okay, tonight. At eight.”

“Eight’s perfect,” Marina said.

Once they had said their farewells, the joggers left the apartment building, walked to the corner of 24th, turned left, and disappeared from view. Unaware that he had got away with a traffic violation, the tall, overweight man shot a last admiring glance at the big trees before climbing back into his rental and speeding off.

Early evening was turning to dusk, birds had settled in their nests in the ficus, and bats were beginning to swoop when Marina again rang the apartment buzzer. The door was immediately swung open by a perky Pablo in a garish shirt, a pair of jeans, and pigskin loafers with two-inch heels.

“Come in, my friends, come in,” he said in English as he stretched out his hand to Marina first, then to Sean. “And how is my …,” he frantically searched for the words, didn’t find them, and reverted to Spanish “… 
mareado amigo?”

“Dizzy friend,” Marina interpreted.

“Much better, Pablo, ready for a wild night out, if you know what I mean,” Sean said with a conspiratorial wink.

“Good! Good!” Pablo exclaimed, but then cast a slightly worried glance at Marina. “I want to … offer you mojitos. You know what a mojito is?”

Sean and Marina nodded.

“Okay. You sit down on the sofa. I go prepare mojitos. My sister is getting dressed. Women, always late. One minute.”

The living room had been tidied up. The marks on the coffee table were barely visible, the ashtray was empty and clean, the floor mopped. The black-and-white TV was on, its volume low. From the kitchen came the sounds of tinkling ice cubes, the opening and closing of cupboards, a metal spoon stirring the drinks.

Anticipating that Elena had no evening gowns, Marina had dressed casually in a pink, short-sleeved blouse, an ivory-coloured mid-calf skirt, and leather sandals. Her makeup was very light, her blond hair was gathered at the back of her head in a bun, her only piece of jewellery a gold wedding band; she looked stylish in a quiet way. Sean wore a maroon-and-white fine-striped dress shirt, its cuffs folded up to his elbows, khakis, and cordovan loafers. They glanced at each other and Sean pulled a face at Marina. She grinned and crossed her legs.

Pablo returned to the living room carrying a tray with three tumblers filled to the brim with the cocktail. He handed the
drinks to his guests and clinked his glass to theirs before easing himself into a club chair.

“Salud.”

“Salud,”
concurred Marina and Sean.
He didn’t mix one for Elena
, Marina observed as she extracted a sprig of mint before sipping.

“Great,” Sean said, lifting his eyebrows in admiration.

“You like it?” Pablo asked, obviously pleased.

“Best I’ve ever had,” Sean replied.

“And you, Mrs.…”

“Marina, please. It’s superb.”

“I’m glad you like it. Now, I tell you about this place I’m taking you to. Would you please interpret for Sean, Marina?”

“But you don’t need it. Your English is very good.”

“You think so? Not very good, I know. But it’ll improve with time. I’m studying hard.”

From the TV set’s speaker came a fanfare of trumpets.

“Oh, the news. Ugh!” Pablo fumed. “Always the same. Everything in Cuba is perfect, the rest of the world is a mess. Just a moment.”

Marina translated the bald man’s blanket contempt of the Cuban newscast as he turned the TV set off and returned to his seat. Sean seemed amused.

“Please, Marina, interpret for your husband. For many years, the government didn’t allow private businesses in Cuba. Now, some are allowed. They are heavily taxed, can’t expand beyond a certain point, have to comply with many regulations. It’s why some are … clandestine. In fact, all the best are clandestine. I’m taking you to what Cubans call a
paladar
, a private restaurant. How would you translate
paladar
, Marina?”

“Sense of taste?”

“I’ll remember that. Now, few foreigners dine at a clandestine
paladar
. You need a sponsor to get in, someone whom the management trusts and can make a reservation. We’ll be the only customers there tonight. The food is excellent, the service great, fine entertainment …”

“Good evening,” Elena said with a pleased smile on entering the living room. Sean stood up. Fresh out of the shower, with just a touch of makeup, she was even more attractive than twelve hours earlier, Sean observed. Her thick dark-blond hair fell past her shoulders gracefully and her black, long-sleeved silk blouse embroidered with multicoloured butterflies was exquisite.

“What a beautiful blouse!” Marina said with sincere admiration.

“You like it? It belonged to my grandmother, my mother inherited it, then she gave it to me a few years ago.”

“It’s lovely. Your brother mixes excellent mojitos. Would you like one?”

“Yes, I would.”

Pablo was nonplussed for a moment, but he recovered fast. “Sure,” he said, before getting to his feet and marching into the kitchen. Marina zeroed in on Elena and girl talk prevailed for a couple of minutes. Pablo returned with the cocktail and handed it to his sister. “Drink it quickly,” he snapped. “We are late because of you.”

“I wouldn’t have been late had my dear brother helped me to tidy up a little,” Elena remarked wryly to Marina. “But he never does, you know, never.”

“Oh, it’s only ten past eight,” Marina said, glancing at her
watch and pretending not to notice the intense antagonism. “And these mojitos merit slow appreciation. Tell me more about your grandmother’s Spanish fans …”

After a minute of feathers and sticks inlaid with mother-of-pearl, when the topic became so esoteric that the men were effectively excluded, Pablo moved away from the two women, closer to Sean. “You said ‘wild night’ and, in this
paladar
, two girls, beautiful, incredible, one black, the other blond,” he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, “but you are with wife …”

“I’ve got to pee,” Marina mouthed to Elena as Sean considered his reply.

“Excuse us for a moment,” Elena announced, rising to her feet. They left their cocktails on the tray and disappeared down the hallway.

Pablo sighed with relief. “I want you have good time. I don’t know if you can … send wife back to hotel?”

Sean shook his head. “No, Pablo, I can’t,” articulating slowly, making it easier for the bald man. “Marina has this fiery Latin temperament. She’d get pretty mad if I did that to her in public. When I said ‘wild’ I meant, you know, a nice meal, drinks, driving around, maybe going to a nightclub. I might return soon – alone – then you can take me to the best places to refine my ‘sense of taste.’ Okay?”

From the toilet seat, Marina examined the bathroom. The usual plus a bidet. An old plastic shower curtain frayed at the bottom, a circular swing window by the bathtub. Two gaping holes by the sink indicated where a towel rack had been. Marina wondered
what purpose a plastic bucket full of water served. No toilet paper was in sight and she fished for a tissue in her handbag.

After zipping her skirt up, Marina inspected the ceramic soap dishes recessed in the wall alongside the bathtub, by the sink – where a sliver of soap survived – and next to the bidet. Then she turned to the toilet-paper holder. The four pieces were level with the light-blue glazed tiles on the wall. In all probability they had been there since the tiles were installed.

Marina flushed the toilet. Aside from a little gurgling, nothing happened. So that was what the bucket was there for. She poured half its contents into the toilet bowl, closed the lid, looked around. She filled a glass jar by the sink with water and washed her hands. She was inspecting her face in the medicine-cabinet mirror, shaking the drops off her hands to pull out a fresh tissue, when there was a knock on the bathroom door. Marina said, “Come in,” and Elena turned the knob and handed her a towel.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there weren’t any in here.”

“It’s okay.”

“We have running water from 5:00 to 7:00 p.m. only. It’s when I shower and fill up all the buckets and pans in the house.”

“Why is the water restricted?” Marina asked as she wiped her hands dry.

“For two reasons, according to the president of the Council of Neighbours,” Elena said, watching Marina’s manicured hands with envy. “The system of pipes supplying water to the city is in ruins; half of what’s pumped into it is lost underground. So, the cistern never has water for more than three or four hours of normal consumption. Secondly, the pump that fills the tanks on the roof of the building is too old and breaks down frequently, so
the neighbour who tends to it turns it on two hours a day only.”

Marina returned the towel to Elena. “Such a nuisance. Life here seems to be fraught with problems.” Feeling her way.

“It is, it is. Inconveniences, nothing tragic, but you may have to wait two hours for a bus, two months for a beef steak, save for two years to buy a decent pair of shoes.”