Michael sat on Carla’s balcony at dusk that evening, watching a brisk wind whip the fronds of palm trees. Her apartment was off Calle Ocho in Vedado, on the fourth floor of a building that at one time had been a mansion. Vedado, in uptown Havana, was the heart of the city’s financial and commercial district, but its residential parts reminded Michael of Chicago’s Lincoln Park. Unfortunately, many of the buildings, built years ago in the graceful Spanish tradition, had deteriorated so much a feather could knock them down. And while the Soviets had built their share of buildings since the revolution, they were little more than ugly boxes that lacked architectural sophistication. One apartment building, near the former Riviera resort, was particularly unattractive and clashed with the expansive American-style structure behind it.
Inside, Carla’s furniture was old and shabby; her TV was a cheap Soviet model, and her radio looked older than the revolution. But the walls were a cheerful red, and except for the cracks that were becoming all too familiar, looked freshly painted. She also had plenty of plants, which were all flourishing. And the apartment wasn’t too far from the Malecón. Michael smelled a faint tang in the air.
Carla brought out two drinks and handed one to him. He took a sip. Rum and some kind of juice. Slightly chilled and sweet. “You live by yourself?”
She sat in a chair, took a sip, and nodded. “The rent is not expensive. It’s all subsidized. Of course, there’s nothing worth buying, even if I did have money.” She said it matter-of-factly, without anger or regret.
“I know you work for the state, but you’re a doctor. Shouldn’t you be at the top of the pay scale?”
A puzzled expression shot across her face, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether to scold him or explain. “We are at the top of the scale. Seven hundred pesos a month.”
Michael made a mental calculation. “That’s only about thirty-five dollars. How do you get by?”
“Many don’t. People are starving here. There’s malnutrition. And disease. And no medicine. Or vitamins. People have asthma, they go blind, they can no longer have babies. That’s why I do not work full time. My hours have been cut. And when I do work, all I do is send people home to die.”
The wind kicked up again. An open door or shutter banged. Then the lights inside snapped off.
“¡Mierda!” Carla whipped around. “It happens all the time.” She went back to her drink, took another sip. The dim light from the street threw long shadows across her face. “So who are you, Miguel? Why are you here? Are you visiting family?”
“In a way.”
She stared at him. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t like pendejadas. Bullshit. I can smell it a mile away. Cubans have a sixth sense for it.”
Chagrined, Michael leaned forward and swirled his drink. “My mother lived here when she was a child.”
Carla perked up. “Really? What province was she from?”
“She’s American. Her father ran one of the hotels and casinos before the revolution.”
“Which one?”
“La Perla.”
“I know it. I have snapshots of my parents there. They used to go on special occasions. It was a luxurious place.” She laughed. “You know that today the casino is a convention hall, no? In fact, I was—”
A knock on the door cut her off. Michael tensed.
She waved a hand. “Do not worry. It is probably my upstairs neighbor. She will be needing a candle, and I have a secret supply. From the clinic,” she added.
He let himself relax.
She got up and went to the door. “You asked how we get by. Cubans are quite creative at survival. There is an expression for it. ‘Resolver.’”
“To resolve?” he asked.
She held up a finger on one hand and opened the door with the other. He heard the murmur of a woman’s voice.
“Come in,” Carla said. “We’re on the balcony.”
While Carla rummaged around inside, the woman came out. Michael couldn’t see clearly in the dusky light, but he thought she looked emaciated, with limp hair that hung past her shoulders. He had the sense she had been attractive at one time, but that was in the past.
“Buenas tardes,” he said.
When she smiled, her mouth opened. She was missing two teeth. “Buenas tardes.”
Carla returned with two candles. “For you, Juliana.”
“Muchas gracias, Carla.” She wrapped her arms around Carla and hugged her tight. “You are my angel.” Then she waved to Michael and disappeared through the door.
“She doesn’t look good,” he said.
Carla brought another candle out to the balcony, lit it, and sat. “She is sick.”
“With what?”
“The disease you call AIDS.”
He took in a breath. “It’s spread here? How did—”
Carla cut him off. “How do you think? Tourists come, and Cuban women do what they must. It’s all part of ‘resolver.’” Then as if realizing what she’d said, she added, “I choose not to go that route, of course.”
Michael decided to believe her. Or maybe he wanted to. “Does she know how sick she is? She must stop what she’s doing.”
“I have told her she should go home to Camaguey. But her parents say she has disgraced them and is no longer their daughter.” Her voice rose, sounding close to despair. “I can do nothing. We do not even have simple antibiotics.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Carla blinked several times, as if blinking would blot it out. Or perhaps she was fighting back tears. Then she cleared her throat. “You were saying, you are here… why?”
Michael picked up her cue. “To see where my mother lived. They had a house in Miramar before they moved into the hotel.”
“Your father, he is Italian?”
“Yes.”
“So he lived here too?”
“No. We—well—it’s not important.”
“I see.” This time she picked up his cue. “And where are you staying?”
“My bag is at the Nacional.”
She let the silence grow between them. Her gaze was cool. Then, “Why are you really here?”
Michael hung his head, like a student who’s been chastised by the teacher. He didn’t want to lie. “I’m looking for someone.”
In the candlelight he saw deep lines crease her forehead. She looked like she was trying to make a decision. He realized he hoped it would be in his favor.
“OK. I understand you are not ready to tell me the truth. Entiendo. Do not tell me. But be forewarned. What I cannot bear are lies. You must never lie to me, okay? Not—how do you say it in English—a little white lie.”
He nodded. Her eyes didn’t move from his face. Had she extended an invitation?
As if she read his thoughts, she added, “Now, why don’t you get your bag from the hotel?”
A morning sun brushed the clouds with rose and gold as Michael and Carla sipped coffee the next morning. In daylight the view from the balcony was mostly other buildings, but the hint of the bay behind them was a tease.
“That’s the last of the coffee until next month.” Carla’s cup clanked as she put it down on the saucer.
“My mother loves Cuban coffee,” Michael said. “Maybe I can find some.”
She laughed. “You will need to be a magician. The only coffee around is black market, and it costs more than gold.” She stood. She was wearing a ratty Yankees t-shirt. Michael imagined the curves underneath the shirt, curves he had come to know well last night.
But Carla was all business. “I must dress. I work at the polyclinic until seven.”
“Where is it?”
She gestured off the balcony to the left. “A few blocks away. Off La Rampa. In an older building that’s covered with murals. What are you going to do?”
“I guess I’ll start looking for the man I need to contact.” He got up too. “He’s in the military, and he spent time in Angola. Would you happen to know any bars or paladars that cater to soldiers?”
She frowned. He liked how her brow furrowed, then smoothed out when an idea came. “One of the doctors I work with was in Angola. Come with me, and we’ll ask him.”