The Eye of Heaven

16

On their way to the Cuban consulate, it became clear that the taxi driver had no idea where it was. After asking three pedestrians for directions, he finally deposited them in front of a run-down white residence two blocks off the main street, which he assured them was the “new” location of the elusive Cuban headquarters.

The hot waiting area was barely ventilated by a struggling stand-up fan that predated the combustion engine. When the woman at the counter finally held up their travel documents, they gratefully approached her, and, after paying the token fee, they couldn’t get to the exit fast enough.

The pair ambled down the long blocks, the tropical sun beating down on them. When they made it to the main street, Sam was soaked through. He scanned the shops and pointed to a hardware store.

Ten minutes later, they emerged, several hundred pesos poorer but with a bulging sack of supplies. They flagged down a taxi to return to their hotel.

Lunch by the pool, along with a final margarita, revived their flagging spirits, and when they arrived at the airport, they checked their luggage and supply bag through security without a problem. Their previous evening’s positive sentiment lasted until they were informed by the Cubana Air hostess that the flight was running an hour late due to unspecified delays. The departure area was as far from the Ritz pool as one could get, but Sam made the best of it with a cold Tecate beer and a bag of potato chips while Remi sipped a bottle of water.

One hour turned into two, and by the time they were in their plane seats Remi had mentioned several times that she didn’t have a great feeling about the trip.

“Relax. What could—” Sam started and then caught himself.

Remi glared at him. “I warned you. You’re going to bring bad juju on us.”

“I didn’t say it.”

“You thought it.”

Sam had no comeback to that, so he just gazed out the window at the palms baking on the edge of the tarmac. The ancient jet lumbered across it in preparation for takeoff, and then they were rumbling down the runway, the plane shaking alarmingly as it struggled to propel itself into the sky.

José Martí International Airport in Havana was larger than they’d expected, with three terminals and a host of planes on the ground. Remi noted quietly to Sam that the interior was as shabby as the gray concrete exterior. The customs agents were serious and unfriendly, frowning determinedly before waving them through.

Sam changed four hundred dollars at the currency exchange window and pocketed the Cuban bills. When they walked out onto the sidewalk to make their way to the taxi line, the heat hit them like a blow. Hot and more humid than Cancún, even the breeze was uncomfortable as it blew from the surrounding jungle. A line of new Mitsubishi cabs waited under a rusting steel awning, where a cadaverous man in a faded blue uniform blew a whistle with all the enthusiasm of a mortician.

The ride into Havana took forty-five minutes, first through countryside and then the outskirts of the city. Sam and Remi were surprised by how many of the vehicles were modern — they’d been expecting a fleet of 1950s-era junkers, based on the movie depictions. Apparently, the Cubans hadn’t studied the same films because their appetite for Nissan and Honda seemed as insatiable as anywhere in America, although there were still plenty of aging Fiats and Ladas belching blue exhaust as they rolled down the streets.

When they arrived at the Iberostar Parque Central Hotel, a uniformed bell captain held Remi’s door open as Sam paid the driver. The hotel was located in an elegant colonial building across the street from a park, a huge green square that served as the downtown city center — buzzing with activity as evening approached. A saxophone player blew a haunting riff to the accompaniment of revving car engines and peals of laughter from loitering groups of teens. Sam paused for a moment to listen before turning and accompanying Remi into the hotel lobby.

Once they were in their room, Sam called the contact Selma had provided: Dr. Lagarde. When he answered, he immediately switched to passable English after hearing the telltale American accent in Sam’s hello.

“Ah, I presume this is Selma Wondrash’s friend?” Lagarde said.

“It is. We’re in town. I wanted to touch base and see what your schedule looked like tomorrow,” Sam said.

“I shall arrange my affairs around your requirements, of course. I have some flexibility in that regard. I’ll let the hospital know I won’t be in.”

“Thank you. I hope it isn’t too much of an imposition.”

“Of course not. Any friend of Selma’s is a friend of mine. I hold her in the highest regard.”

They arranged for Lagarde to meet them at the hotel at nine the following morning.

“So where are we eating?” Remi asked from her position by the window, where she was watching the activity in the square across the street.

“I found a promising name online. My idea is we wander around a little, get a feel for the town, then eat a late dinner. Maybe around nine.”

“Works for me.”

After making a dinner reservation, they stepped out onto the street — a busy avenue that ringed the square and stretched from the famous malecón that ran along the ocean’s edge all the way to the far edges of the city. They followed the Paseo del Prado down to the sea wall and found themselves across the harbor channel from their objective — the Castillo de los Tres Reyes Magos del Morro, or Morro Castle.

“It’s certainly imposing,” Remi said, gazing up at the fort’s towering stone walls. “How do we get to it?”

“There’s a tunnel that runs under the harbor for automobile traffic.”

“So we’re not going to have to swim the channel?”

“Not tonight.”

“You want to go over there right now?”

“We can tour it tomorrow. Tonight we’re sightseeing. Taking in the city’s sights and sounds.”

A group of young women passed them on the malecón, their perfume lingering on the light wind. Remi and Sam followed them, having no special destination in mind. They walked east along the waterfront and then turned up a small street into the historic section of old Havana, a lively area where locals and tourists wandered along the sidewalks. Bricks poked through battered building façades like skeletal bones, the mortar long ago eroded away, lending them an aura of seedy disrepair.

They rounded a corner and nearly collided with a wizened man sporting a panama hat, his skin as dark as a well-worn saddle, puffing on a cigar almost as big as his arm. He smiled, a flash of pink gums, his teeth long ago sacrificed to age and circumstance, and muttered a sandpaper “Perdón” before continuing on his way, trailing a cloud of pungent smoke behind him.

“Are you sure about this, Sam?” Remi asked in a whisper.

“Absolutely. All the guidebooks say this section of town is as safe as the womb.”

As if to underscore the point, two soldiers with machine guns approached, their eyes watchful, studying the surroundings with the vigilance of a patrol in a war zone.

“There, does that make you feel any better?” Sam asked.

“It might if they were over sixteen.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

They stepped around a pool of stagnant water gathered in a low spot among the ancient cobblestones.

Remi pointed to a small yellow sign fifty yards to their left. “Look. There’s one of Hemingway’s haunts. La Bodeguita del Medio.”

“I regard that as an omen. It’s the universe commanding us to stop.”

“According to Papa, this is the best mojito in Havana.”

“That’s good enough for me. Lead the way,” Sam said.

The bar was crowded and smaller than expected. Its walls were covered with autographs of the notorious, the famous, and the forgotten. Obligatory photographs of Che Guevara and Fidel Castro glared at them from dingy frames. A stool freed up and Sam elbowed through the tourists and held it for Remi, who took the seat gratefully and caught the bartender’s eye.

“Dos mojitos, por favor,” she said, holding up two fingers.

The man nodded and moved to make the drinks, crushing the mint leaves with focused concentration before pouring a liberal slug of rum into a stainless steel shaker. He added lime juice, sugarcane syrup, and soda and then shook the concoction with sincere intensity, making a production out of the cocktail preparation while several cameras clicked behind Remi’s head.

The drinks arrived on the scarred wooden bar, each with a sprig of mint atop it. Sam held his sweating glass up in a toast that was met by Remi.

One mojito led to another and soon they were chatting with a Canadian group bound for Varadero the next day — a beach resort seventy-five miles east of Havana famous for its hospitality and its sun-drenched shores. As the crowd got louder, Sam glanced at his watch and gestured to the bartender for the tab.

Outside, the darkened street seemed more ominous than when they’d arrived at dusk. They hurried along with other tourists, making their way from the waterfront toward the city center. When they arrived at a large hotel, Remi approached one of the loitering taxi drivers and asked him how far the restaurant was. The old man looked her up and down without expression.

“San Cristobal Paladar? Too far to walk. Maybe ten minutes, maybe less, by car. You want me to take you there?”

Sam nodded and they got in.

The restaurant was in a colonial home in the middle of town and the food was divine — an unexpected treat. When dinner was over, the owner called a taxi for them and waited by the front door for the vehicle to arrive, chatting with Remi about the ups and downs of operating a business in a Communist country.

Back at the hotel, Sam convinced her to have a nightcap in the lobby bar. They savored snifters of aged Havana Club Gran Reserva fifteen-year Añejo rum as a tuxedoed musician stroked the keys of a grand piano in the atrium.

“Well, so far, I have to say this hasn’t been terrible,” Remi conceded.

“Good food, good drink, and good company. Always a winner in my book.”

“I just hope we don’t have hangovers tomorrow from all the rum.”

“It’s common knowledge that when you drink it in the islands, you never get a hangover.”

“Interesting. I hadn’t heard that. Sounds like another Sam Fargo invention.”

For a few short hours in their usually hectic lives, the world was perfect, the mood tranquil, the music hypnotic, the trade winds blowing outside, as they had for centuries and would for countless more.