Havana Best Friends (3 page)

“And to live in a place like this?” Marina asked as she produced a lipstick from her purse and turned to the mirror.

“Well, maybe two centuries,” Elena said with a wide grin. “Apartment buildings like this are a thing of the past. This one was built in 1957. It’s ugly, looks like a big box, but back then we had professional construction workers and those guys knew their business, they built to last.”

“It’s a great apartment,” Marina said once she’d pressed her lips together and capped the lipstick. “The rent on a place like this in Manhattan? No less than five thousand dollars a month, as much as eight thousand in a nice area.”

“Really?”

“Really. This could use some refurbishing, though. You haven’t made any repairs, have you?”

“Never. But it’s in good shape. No cracks or fractured pipes. Paint is what it needs, badly. But it’s sixteen dollars a gallon.”

“That’s not too exorbitant.”

“No, not for you. Probably you make as much in an hour.”

“More,” Marina admitted.

“You know what my monthly paycheque is? Fifteen dollars.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a special-needs teacher.” Elena stole a glance at her watch. “I teach disabled children in their homes. Let’s go back to the men before they accuse us of babbling the night away.”

It was dark and crickets were chirping happily in the Parque de la Quinta by the time the two couples got into the rented Nissan. Pablo and Elena sat in the back of the car. At the wheel, Sean followed the directions given by the bald man. They had been heading west along Fifth Avenue for two minutes, the Cubans pointing out the sights, when Marina turned round, wanting to learn more about Elena’s job.

“Well, there are children so seriously incapacitated they can’t attend the special-education schools,” Elena began.

“Oh, my God,” Pablo moaned in English. “Not tonight.”

“Some are disabled from birth, some suffered an accident,” Elena, ignoring him, went on. “They are hooked up to some life-support system that’s difficult to carry around, or are quadriplegic. There’s a team of teachers to teach them at their homes. I’m one of them.”

“Isn’t your job … a little depressing?” Marina asked, after interpreting for Sean.

“Not to Mother Teresa,” Pablo butted in. “Turn right at the next light, Sean.”

“Okay. But let me hear how your sister makes a living, please?” Sean said in a dry tone.

Marina shot a quick glance at Sean. Pablo sulked. Elena had trouble suppressing her smile. She hadn’t understood Sean’s words, but his tone spoke volumes.

“Contrary to what almost everyone believes, it’s rewarding,” she went on. “These kids are the happiest kids on Earth. They act as if nearly everything happens for their personal delight. They see you come in, it’s like a fairy godmother came in to wave her magic wand over them. And being in daily contact with them, seeing their parents trying to conceal their suffering, makes you realize how much we healthy people take for granted, how petty most of our problems are.”

“How many children do you teach?” Marina asked.

“Two. A nine-year-old boy in the mornings, an eleven-year-old girl in the afternoons.”

“All the subjects?”

“All except for physical education.”

“Who pays for it?” Sean wanted to know.

“The Ministry of Education, of course.”

Sean was staring at the red light, his foot on the brake pedal. “She makes fifteen dollars a month,” Marina told him.

“What?”

Elena smiled mirthlessly. “Low salaries make many things possible. If Cuban teachers and doctors made half the money their colleagues make in Mexico, Jamaica, or any other Latin American country, the government wouldn’t be able to provide the health care and education it does.”

“Green light,” Pablo said. “Take a right on the second corner.”

Marina finished the translation after Sean rounded the corner.

The two-storey mansion surrounded by a cyclone fence appeared to be in perfect condition, no mean feat considering that its backyard fronted onto the sea. On its covered front porch there were four wooden rocking chairs, several flower pots, and
an iron-and-glass lamp hanging from the ceiling. From the roof, spotlights flooded a small, well-tended garden. An old man standing by the driveway entrance swung back the gate to a garage and waved them in. After pulling the garage door closed, he silently welcomed the foursome with a series of nods and a smile, then pointed to a small door.

Pablo went in first and found his way to the dining area of a vast space, but he kept strutting – the others in tow – until he reached the lounge section. A plump, bejewelled, and perfumed white woman in her sixties uncoiled herself from a chair and embraced him warmly. Thick makeup failed to conceal her deep wrinkles and the dark pouches that sagged under her eyes. They touched cheeks and exchanged air-kisses before the short man turned and made the introductions.

“Meet the best restaurateur in Havana! Señora Roselia. This couple, Roselia, are friends of mine: Sean and Marina. Sean is Canadian, Marina is Argentinian.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Roselia said in Spanish, extending her hand. “I hope you’ll be satisfied with our service.”

Marina turned to Elena, saw the embarrassment in her eyes. “You know Elena, señora?”

“Oh, sorry,” Pablo muttered.

“I don’t have the pleasure,” Roselia admitted.

“Elena is Pablo’s sister,” Marina elaborated, thinking it was difficult not to dislike the asshole.

Shaking Roselia’s hand, Elena forced a grin that almost became a grimace.

Pablo rubbed his hands in eager anticipation. “Now, what would you like to do? A drink first?” The more customers spent, the higher his commission.

They took their seats in the lounge, ordered mojitos, then studied the menu. Elena looked around admiringly. Recently painted walls, comfortable modern furniture, beautiful drapes, an exquisite full-length mirror, fine porcelain and glass ornaments on side tables, two air conditioners blasting away, the lamps, the paintings, the spotless marble floor. She hadn’t been in a place as grand as this in all her life. Songs from the Buenavista Social Club CD flowed from hidden speakers.

The drinks and a bowl of peanuts arrived in the hands of a smiling long-legged blond waitress in her late teens or early twenties. She wore a black mini-uniform, complete with little cap and a tiny apron in white. Bending over to serve the women first, her undersized skirt exposed a round, suntanned behind to the men. Sean couldn’t tell whether she had nothing on or was wearing a thong. Pablo noticed Sean’s reaction, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Elena and Marina got to see the same sight when the waitress turned to serve Sean. Marina was unfazed, but Elena gawked. What the women didn’t see were the seductive smile and wink the waitress bestowed on Sean.

Having found out from the proprietress that a paella would take more than an hour to prepare, they settled for green salad, lobster cocktail, red porgy basted in olive oil, and mashed potatoes. Pablo asked for a steak on the side. Marina chose a white Concha y Toro from the wine list. Sean shrugged his lukewarm agreement, Elena assented in total ignorance, Pablo ordered a Heineken.

The second round of drinks was served by a petite, beautiful black woman. Her uniform was white, its cap and apron in black. Her bottom was rounder and larger, the thong – if any – invisible, the smile she gave Sean blatantly provocative. Sean popped two peanuts into his mouth, sipped from his fresh mojito, put the
glass on the side table, then turned to Pablo, who was eyeing him with a pleased, take-your-pick expression.

“What’s your trade, Pablo?”

Marina sighed, interpreted, then shared with Elena a boys-will-be-boys glance.

“I’m the office manager of a Cuban-Italian joint venture,” the short man said. “We import clothing, shoes, perfumes, cosmetics, kitchenware, a zillion things.”

“Really? How many outlets do you have?”

Pablo shook his head and grinned. “No outlets. The retail trade is a state monopoly. We sell wholesale to several state-owned chains that sell retail to the public.”

Sean nodded. “I see. And excuse me for asking, but I’m still amazed by what Elena makes as a teacher. How much do you get paid?”

“Around sixteen dollars.”

“That’s all? No overtime, no bonus?”

“No.”

Elena burst out laughing. She covered her mouth with her right hand, but her laughter was so childlike and irrepressible that Marina and Sean exchanged an amused glance. Pablo, visibly angry, glared at his sister. The teacher made an effort to control herself, failed, but after a moment succeeded. Apparently, she was getting a glow from the mojitos.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself so much,” said Marina, still smiling.

“Oh, yes. It’s the drinks, you know? They loosen me up.”

“And what do you people do for a living?” Pablo asked.

Marina said she was a computer programmer and Sean a mortgage broker. Neither Pablo nor Elena knew what a mortgage
was, let alone a broker, and Marina spent a few minutes interpreting for Sean. When she was through, Señora Roselia announced that dinner was ready.

“Just a second,” Marina said as she fumbled for something in her purse. “Let me take a snapshot of you guys, so friends back home can see you.”

With a small Olympia she took five photos: one showed the siblings sitting side by side on the sofa, two had Elena standing by a wall, the fourth and fifth caught a beaming Pablo alongside a curtain. Then they all moved to the dining room.

A beautiful crocheted white tablecloth covered the glass top of a six-seat cedar dining table where four tall candles burned in a gold-plated candelabra. The china was gold-rimmed, the cutlery heavy silver, the goblets fine crystal. Elena choked on a sip of water when the waitresses appeared topless, but Marina and Sean behaved so naturally that she tried to act blasé.

The food was good, the wine heady. Conversation threw an interesting light on what had happened to Sean that morning, the professions of all four diners, Cuban food and drinks, places of interest in Havana, and other subjects.

For the pièce de résistance, the waitresses served a strong espresso wearing only thongs and sandals. Elena was aghast, Sean remained unimpressed, making Pablo feel let down. Were Canadians as cold as their country or was this guy gay? Perhaps Marina was sexually starved. Then, as if to confirm this impression, Roselia came out from the swinging door to the kitchen and Marina, tongue in cheek, asked her whether she and Elena would get to see the chef in his briefs. The proprietress countered by saying she felt sure the ladies wouldn’t find a short, fat, forty-nine-year-old pansy in boxer shorts attractive. Silly laughter ensued.

“Would you like something else?” Sean asked of nobody in particular when only smiles remained.

Heads were shaken. “Then could you bring me the bill, please?” the Canadian asked.

The bill came to eighty-five dollars. Sean gave a ten-dollar tip to each waitress and they all returned to the living room, where a liqueur was served. Elena, feeling a little woozy, declined.

“Well, where would you like to go next?” Pablo asked. “We can catch the show at Tropicana or at the Havana Café, go to a nightclub, maybe visit a
santero
, have him throw the shells for you.”

Marina looked at Sean, who pulled down the corners of his mouth and lifted his eyebrows to indicate his hesitancy. Then she turned to Elena. “What do you suggest, Elena?”

“I … wouldn’t know. I seldom go out. Pablo is the expert. But whatever you decide, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m feeling a little queasy.”

“What’s the matter?” Marina asked.

“I’m afraid I had too much to drink. You can drop me off at home, then go wherever you feel like. I’m sorry, Marina.”

“What a shame,” Marina said before translating for Sean.

An uncomfortable silence followed. “You know what?” Sean said. “We have an early flight. We should call it a night.”

Pablo filed away the grin he’d been flashing. He was hoping for one of the best nightclubs, Chivas Regal, a fragrant Cohiba Lancero, ten statuesque
mulatas
in thongs wiggling their asses to salsa music.

“Oh, no. Don’t let me spoil your evening,” Elena objected.

“You’re right, darling.” Marina said to Sean. The idea of spending time with Pablo without the neutralizing influence of
his sister did not appeal to her. “Would you mind if we take a rain check on the rest of the evening, Pablo?”

“Suit yourself. My only regret is that my sister is to blame for it,” Pablo grunted.

“I’m not feeling well, okay?” Elena retorted.

“It’s not her fault, Pablo. Can we leave now?”

“If you can find your way back to my place, I think I’ll stay here for a little while,” Pablo said, eyeing the black waitress, who stood by the swinging door to the kitchen, between Roselia and the blond woman. She beamed and winked at him.

“Cool,” Marina said. “Do you need help, Elena?”

“I don’t think so,” Elena said, getting to her feet.

Roselia and Pablo escorted them to the car. The tourists formally thanked Elena’s brother for all his trouble, promised they would touch base the minute they came back to Havana, and assured Roselia they’d had a wonderful time at her
paladar
. From the garage door, smiling and waving, the restaurateur and Pablo watched the car speed away. The same old man closed the gate and trudged into the garage.