Cuba blue

17

JZ met the Varelas, a large gregarious family, who indeed routinely turned their home into a restaurant of Cuban cuisine. They liberally plied JZ and Qui with all manner of delicacies and specialties: fried plantains, black beans and rice, yucca, boliche, tomatoes with fresh cilantro, finishing with flan.

“Now this is Cuban food with attitude,” Qui told JZ.

“Agreed, Liliana didn’t exaggerate,” he replied. “The food’s great, and I’m stuffed.” The Varelas’s meal proved the best JZ’d had since he’d arrived in Havana. Having paid outrageous prices at the Palacio, he gave the Varelas the equivalent even though they insisted no charge for a friend of Quiana’s.

For JZ there was so much in the experience beyond the meal itself. He’d been openly welcomed into the Varela home, and it had afforded him the opportunity to watch Qui in a family setting. He enjoyed watching her delight in this simple exchange. At the same time, the Varelas took enormous delight in cooking and in pleasing their guests. By the time they sliced into the flan, JZ felt he’d devoured enough for the rest of the week.

Swallowing the last of his dessert, JZ groaned. “Ahhh… now I really need to begin jogging again.”

“The Malecon’s great for a morning jog or the beach sand! That’s a real workout.”

The talk, laughter, and camaraderie made JZ feel like a stray taken in and surrounded with sustenance for body and spirit-something he’d not felt since arriving in Cuba, the entire experience a welcome surprise. “This hospitality…so unexpected in a communist country, closed in so many ways,” JZ said quietly.

“You see how Cubans radiate a love of life-”

“Yes, an openness, a spirit of giving that I find pleasantly surprising.”

“-this spirit exists, but your American prejudices can blind you to it.”

On a deeper level, JZ, while not fully understanding the complexity of this woman, had seen beyond her professional veneer to her spirit. Further, this evening clearly illustrated how caring and trusting relationships in this tortured paradise could be. As a result, JZ privately conceded his own preconceived notions of Cuba and its people. While he was himself Cuban-American, having grown up in Miami, he had a great deal to learn about Cuba and its people.

When finally they escaped the ‘clutches’ of the Varela family and stood in the cool night air, Qui turned and said to him, “I will never go hungry for food or friends.”

“Absolutely. I can see why.”

“Now you’re not gonna say awe-some, are you? Spare me.”

They laughed at this.

Taking her hand in his, he kissed it, all the while staring into her dark eyes. “A tarnished knight, thanking you for a lovely evening.”

She slightly laughed and then JZ did the unexpected. He turned her hand and kissed her palm; he next lightly kissed her fingertips-his hot breath penetrating her skin. Taken aback by the depth of her response, Qui’s skin flushed, her breathing stopped, and her pulse raced. His seductive overture felt right between them. She couldn’t’ve predicted her reaction to his gambit, and could not help but wonder how his lips might feel against hers. Nervous, she laughed a bit, unsure what to say. She turned to hide her reaction, declaring, “It’s late. I–I should get you back.”

As she fidgeted with the key in the car door, he placed a gentle hand on her arm and turned her round to face him. She tried avoiding his eyes, but a mere fingertip was all it took to raise her face. Softly, he said, “I just want to say I’ve had a lovely evening. Thank you, Qui.”

She felt his closeness, the warmth of his breath. “You still prove my point about Americans,” she said, trying to dispel the mood between them.

“Americans? What do you mean?”

“You’re…you take too many liberties, JZ.”

He took a long moment to examine her eyes. Then taking a step back, he said, “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable; I certainly didn’t intend that.” He shrugged, grinned wolfishly at her, and raised both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “Sorry if my nibble turned into a bite, but you are… hard to resist.”

Taking a deep breath, Qui acknowledged his comment with a half-smile. “It’s been…a very pleasant evening. Food was great…good company…I love the Valeras…” Qui realized she’d begun to babble like a teenager on a first date. She struggled to regain composure. “Look JZ…ahhh, it’s really late and…and we’ve had more wine than we ought’ve, and it’s a beautiful night with the sea breeze…but you and I… we come from different worlds. I can’t be getting involved with you.”

“Is that because you’re already involved?”

“Yes, in part.”

“And the other part?”

“You’re American and I’m Cuban. World’s apart.”

“Ahhh but the world’s getting smaller every day,” JZ countered. “Look, I hope this guy of yours knows how lucky he is. Hope he appreciates you.”

This made her think of the last time she’d seen Montoya-earlier, asleep at the Santa Isabela. Her face softened with an inscrutable Mona Lisa smile.

“OK…right…” he stammered, unhappy at her reaction, resignedly going around the car for the passenger seat. “So then… you’d best drop me at the Palacio.”

Qui slide into the driver’s seat, wishing she didn’t have to share such intimate space with this intriguing man. She nervously fidgeted with the radio and mirror. They shared few words on the drive, Qui playing the role of a tour guide, pointing out places of interest. When the car stopped at the hotel, they looked across at one another-a fire building again, but she quickly dispelled it, saying, “Good night, JZ. We’ll no doubt see one another again.”

“When?” he eagerly asked.

“On the dance floor, perhaps.”

“I’d love to share a dance with you, and again, I had a wonderful evening.” He lingered even though he realized she’d already closed the door on anything so personal as a goodnight kiss. “Thank you for dinner.”

“For what? You paid.”

“For showing me the real Cuba, and for feeding me well.”

“Ahhh…yes, agreed. You do owe me a debt of gratitude for that, but why try to repay it?” she half joked.

“I mean it, sincerely.” He slipped from the car, quickly came around to her open window, and leaned in to add, “I’d invite you in for a nightcap, but I know you’re tired.”

She nodded. “To say the least.”

He stepped away from the car and watched her little black Peugeot speed off into the neon-lit darkness of Havana.

A short while after climbing into bed, JZ’s last thoughts centered on Qui’s smile, the soft hand he’d caressed with his lips, her sexy dancing, and the fun they’d shared with the Varela family. Any personal involvement with Quiana Aguilera, he feared could get him replaced, but he’d been so enraptured by how she’d moved on the dance floor, and how her eyes sparkled when she laughed, that the risk-taker in him was willing to take that chance. That part of him wished that Qui was with him now, in his arms, warm and soft. His more rational side knew intuitively there was truth in what she’d earlier said about their being from different worlds; regardless of his attraction, she embodied certain danger on more than one level, not unlike the deep Havana itself. As when she danced, ebbing, flowing, calm and beautiful, the next moment spirited and unfathomable. She might so easily, casually destroy a man, at least emotionally. Still, JZ found reason to chuckle aloud at his attraction to the Cubano who didn’t like Americans. Even as a child, he’d liked playing with fire.

JZ knew full well the kind of skewed portrait of America and Americans Qui had grown up with. Layer that with a restless undercurrent in this passionate woman and JZ had to wonder if he were up to the task of changing this interesting and complex woman’s mindset.

Still, he intuitively sensed that part of her reserve was meant to keep him at arm’s distance, a familiar self-protective feminine pose. The chip on her shoulder was understandable, reflecting her frustration with her department, with which he’d himself so recently done battle. Just the brief encounter he’d had with Gutierrez and Pena pissed him off to no end.

Her stance toward Americans was certainly validated by such men as the so-called Maui Jim as well. Still, the attitude seemed a long-standing one, perhaps ingrained in youth, perhaps from a lifetime of seeing adversarial US-Cuban relations. The state-run media was suffused with a politically correct, anti-American posture, but JZ knew-even with his limited time in Cuba-that most of the population, like Liliana, desperately wanted to find a way to America and opportunity. While a few thought that open relations with the US would jump-start Cuba’s sagging economy, others believed that only the politicians and the rich would benefit, not unlike the situation in Mexico since NAFTA. However, at this moment, the only thing filling his mind was her face.

Qui, lying in bed at home, stared up at the ceiling fan, which whirled much like her emotions, as she recalled the evening. She couldn’t remember a time on the town with Montoya where she’d been made to feel as appreciated as she’d felt tonight.

What an old-fashioned thing to do kissing the back of my hand. Then there was that thing he did with his breath against my skin. Thank God, he didn’t know what an effect he’d evoked. If so, I might not be in this empty bed just thinking about him. JZ, mister Americano, you are not at all what I expected. But what did I expect from a security officer in the American Interest Section?

With this last question, a creeping doubt came over her as to his motives. A cop’s suspicion. He was, after all, interested in locating two missing Americans. Is it possible, she asked herself, that this is what he’d truly wanted from her? Information? Had he all along simply been doing his job tonight? It was a consideration she could not shake, and in fact, she’d be disappointed in him if there were no truth to it…and then again, she’d be disappointed in him to learn that it was true-that his interest in her was a cover for his interest in her case. “Qui, stop thinking and analyzing everything!” With this, exhausted, she fell asleep with the memory of Julio Zayas’s sea-green eyes watching her.