A hot tropical sun glinted off the handlebars of the bicycle taxi as Michael rode to La Havana Vieja that afternoon. After his encounter in Chinatown’s Italian restaurant, a paradox he would find forever ironic, he hailed another bicycle taxi, which took him to another Havana—not the Havana of the Malecón, or that of Carla’s apartment. Parts of Old Havana, especially near the port, were almost a shanty town. Streets had crumbled from neglect, laundry was strung up across yards, and telephone pole wires were strung so haphazardly it was no wonder the Cuban phone system was unreliable.
Michael asked how much he owed and was astounded when the guy told him the fare was less than two dollars American. He gave the guy a huge tip. The cyclist’s eyes widened as he stuffed the cash into his pocket. Michael hoped the guy’s family would eat well that night.
As he stepped down from the taxi, Michael pulled out his map. The officer in Chinatown said the shop was near the Cathedral of San Cristóbal. Michael set off. Burrowing deep into Old Havana, he wound around narrow cobblestone streets and buildings that reflected Cuba’s Spanish heritage. Eventually he reached a wide plaza.
Before him was the cathedral. He stood in front, studying its elegant baroque stone façade and the asymmetry of its two towers. Someone had a sense of humor, he thought. He remembered his mother telling him she used to light candles inside, so he went in. No one was there, but the marble floor, granite columns and gentle arches cast a cool hush. He walked around the nave, admiring the ornate carvings and artwork. Sure enough, in the rear of the church, near the door he’d entered was a table filled with flickering votive candles.
He exited the church and turned right. The thought that his mother had walked these same streets filled him with a curious sensation. What was she doing here? Who did she spend time with? A small café sat about a hundred feet down from the plaza, and he had a feeling he should stop in for a coffee. He started towards it, but then remembered he had a job to do. Coffee would have to wait.
He retraced his steps to the plaza and made a circuit around its wide perimeter. The buildings on and off the plaza weren’t as architecturally sophisticated or well-maintained as the church; in fact most looked downright seedy. Michael peered down one area off the plaza. It wasn’t long enough to call a street. It was more like a recessed alley or alcove and ended abruptly at a three-story building with two wide doors that might be the entrance to a warehouse.
Was this the place?
Michael crept closer. The doors had once been painted white, but like everything else in Havana, the paint was chipped and peeling. He looked up. The eaves of the roof sagged, and there were no windows. He let his gaze wander and spied a narrow walkway to the left of the doors. He went over. Dark shadows dimmed his view, but twenty yards down, the walkway spilled into a tiny courtyard surrounded by dilapidated buildings. On the second floor balcony of one, a black-skinned woman in a white gown and turban stared down at him. As soon as they made eye contact, she disappeared inside so quickly Michael wasn’t sure she’d been there at all. What was that about?
He backtracked to the doors of the warehouse and leaned his ear against them. A radio blared jazz from inside, but it was competing with a high-pitched whine, which periodically started then stopped. Michael took note of his surroundings, in case he had to make a hasty retreat. Then he took his nine millimeter out of his backpack, pulled out his shirt, and stashed the gun under his waistband.
He approached the doors, knocked, and waited.
Nothing happened.
He wasn’t surprised; if someone was inside, the noise of the radio and whatever machine was working probably drowned out his knock. He grasped a door handle. It turned easily, and the door opened. Cautiously, he peered inside.
A light bulb swung from the ceiling, providing dim illumination, but it was helped by bars of light slanting through the open door. The floor was cement with spider-web cracks running through it. The fact that it was cement suggested that at one time, the place must have been a working factory. The walls, down to studs in places, were corroded and bare, and an assortment of wires ran randomly across them. One cord led to a self-standing fan, which, by its screech and rattle, was responsible for much of the noise.
At the back of the shop two men hunched over what looked like an old-fashioned printing press. Two huge wheels turned a drum that was attached to an elaborate metal frame. Their backs were toward Michael, but the men looked to be in their fifties, maybe older. One was practically bald with droopy jowls. The other had a mop of greasy gray hair. Both wore sweat-stained undershirts and baggy pants. The bald man went to the wall, plugged in a cord, and the high-pitched whine Michael heard outside resumed. The wheels turned for about three rotations, then stopped.
“¡Mierda!” one of the men snapped.
Absorbed in whatever the press was—or wasn’t—doing, the men didn’t notice Michael, so he rapped on the door again, this time from inside.
“Buenos dias, Señores.”
The men turned and looked at him. Frown lines appeared on the bald man’s face. The man with all the hair stuck out his lower lip in disapproval. Neither replied.
Michael continued in Spanish. “I was told by a former army officer in Chinatown that the owner of this shop served in Northern Angola.”
The bald man’s frown deepened, and he exchanged a glance with the other. They both stared at Michael as if he was a space alien.
Michael persevered. “I’m looking for a man. A colonel who was stationed in Lucapa two years ago.”
Another look passed between the men. The bald man rubbed his chin, which had at least three days’ worth of stubble. “Quién carajo es usted?” he asked. Who the fuck are you?
Michael had prepared his cover story on the way. “I was also in Angola. Not a soldier. A doctor.”
The bald, jowly man arched his eyebrows. “Where?”
“Dundo.”
“A hell hole, that place. The whole country, in fact.”
Michael nodded his agreement. “So you’re the owner of this—factory?”
The bald man laughed, but it was a hollow, raucous sound. “You call this a factory?” He waved a hand. “No lights. No power. No money.” He shook his head. “And I don’t own it.”
Of course he didn’t, Michael thought. The state owned everything. He tried to smile away the mistake, but the second man, who’d been watching him carefully, broke in. “So who is this colonel you’re looking for?”
Michael turned to him. “His name is Luis Perez.”
“And who are you?” His gaze turned calculating.
“I am Michael DeLuca.”
“DeLuca? Italiano?”
“My father. My mother is Cuban,” Michael lied. “She almost left in fifty-nine. Then changed her mind. My father was a sailor,” he said. “I didn’t know him.”
The second man’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you looking for this colonel?”
“He has information I need.”
The man’s face darkened. A gust of wind—or was it the fan—swept the scent of burning rubber across the room.
Michael could tell the men weren’t buying his cover. They probably suspected him of being CDR. Maybe secret police. He wondered if they might try to take him down, although he wasn’t too worried. He was thirty-two, well-trained, and armed. They were in late middle-age, paunchy, and looked like they could throw a punch about as far as a goat. Still, they might have friends around the corner who were in better shape. He should play it cool. After all, they didn’t have to believe his cover; they only had to believe he was no threat.
“What kind of information does this—colonel—have for you?”
Michael looked around the shop, as if searching for bugs or other surveillance equipment. “You know how walls have ears. But it is nothing illegal, and nothing political. It is simply something this man saw in Angola. Something that’s important to me.” He hesitated. Then, “I am prepared to compensate you for the information.”
The second man snorted. “I thought so. Your accent is not Cuban. Or Mexican. You are Americano?”
Michael didn’t answer. They probably figured he was CIA. Even so, he sensed they were considering his offer.
Finally the bald man said, “How much?”
Michael tilted his head. “Depends if you find him.”
“You pay in dollars?”
“If you want.”
The men exchanged another glance. The second man dropped his arms. It was a signal.
Jowly Man rubbed his chin again. “I will ask,” he finally said. “But people—you know how it is here—they don’t talk.”
Michael nodded. “How much to loosen their lips?”
They bartered and came to an agreement. It was more than Michael expected. Then again, Cuba was in a bad way. Still, as he forked over the cash, he didn’t doubt for a minute that he was being conned.
“Come back in day after tomorrow. Viernes. Maybe I will have information for you.”
“And if you don’t?”
The man licked his lips, then broke into a grin. “Then you will have contributed to the betterment of the revolución.”
At Carla’s apartment that evening, Michael said, “Let’s go to dinner. I’ll take you to a paladar in Old Havana.”
Carla, who was changing out of her work clothes, stopped, her blouse half-unbuttoned. “No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not a good idea.”
“What’s the problem?”
She took off her blouse and put on a t-shirt and shorts. Then she turned to Michael and planted her hands on her hips. “You Americans! You think all you have to do is come to our country, flaunt your dollars, and we will bend over backwards to serve and obey.”
Startled, Michael stepped back. “It’s just dinner, Carla. To—thank you for letting me stay here.”
A flush crept up her neck, and she ran her hand through her short brown-blond hair. Michael wasn’t sure what to say. The anger bubbling under the surface gave her a perversely attractive quality, and in her shorts and t-shirt, with her hair swept back, she looked sexy. But she must have sensed his thoughts, because she wheeled around and stomped into the living room.
“Think about it, Miguel,” she called over her shoulder. “The paladars are for foreign tourists or high government officials. When they figure out I’m a nobody, and they will as soon as I open my mouth—with my Havana accent—they will report me.”
“For what? Having dinner with a friend?”
“For consorting with a foreigner who flashes around money. Technically, the paladars are still illegal, you know. At least for Cubans. Someone will tell the CDR official in that district they saw me. That official will report it to my CDR, and they will start watching me. Who knows? Maybe they already are. They know everybody’s business. So.” She turned back to him. “That is why it is not a good idea.”
Michael opened his hands in a gesture of frustration. Living in Cuba was clearly difficult for many reasons, only one of which was the failing economy. How could people survive in such an oppressive environment? He moved in on Carla, hoping to wrap his arms around her.
But she stepped back. “Why do you play at these deceptions?”
“What deceptions?”
“Who are you, Miguel DeLuca?” Her eyes blazed.
“A man who cares about you.”
She let out a snort. “Que pendejada. Bullshit. We just met. We had good sex. That is all. I am not stupid.”
Surprised, Michael stepped back. He lowered his voice. “I never thought you were. But it’s better that you don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Are you CIA? FBI? Or maybe Mafia? If you are any of those, they will find out. The CDR… the police…” Her tone softened, but worry lines dug into her forehead. “I’m sure they are already watching. I was a fool, una tonta. I should never have let you stay.”
He cleared his throat. “Carla, I’m not CIA. Or FBI. I have a job to do. When the time is right, I will tell you.” He paused. “Look. I understand your concern. If we can’t go to a paladar, why don’t you take us to a more ‘appropriate’ place? I want to buy you dinner.”
They ate at a small Cuban café with rickety tables and linoleum surfaces that were chipped and marred. The menu, written on a sheet of cardboard tacked to a wall, consisted of rice and beans with a morsel or two of pork, or rice and beans with a morsel of chicken. Michael chose the pork, Carla the chicken.
“They used to have ropa veija,” Carla said wistfully.
“What’s that?” Michael asked.
“It’s a stew. Lamb or beef, slow-cooked with peppers, tomatoes, onions, and garlic. Muy ricos.” She smiled dreamily for a moment. Then she said matter-of-factly, “I suppose we are lucky it is still open.”
“I’ll bet he does.” Michael motioned toward the owner, who was bussing trays at another table. Despite the meager menu, the place was almost full.
He understood when their meals arrived. The food was excellent: generous portions, perfectly cooked, aromatic, and spicy.
Michael watched Carla wolf down her food. He knew food was a scarce commodity in Cuba. The average Cuban had lost twenty pounds during the Special Period, particularly in Havana, where farms and arable land were rare. People had begun to grow their own fruits and vegetables on rooftop gardens and whatever plots of earth they could scrounge, but it would take time before those efforts became self-sustaining. Michael was glad that, at least for today, Carla’s stomach would be full.
It was after eleven when they finished dinner, and they wound through the narrow cobblestone streets of Old Havana. Despite the late hour, it was crowded. Shops that were still in business remained open, although they didn’t have much on the shelves. Jineteros and prostitutes, both white and black, advertised their wares. Stray dogs—and there were a lot—begged for food. A gentle breeze carried the scents of cheap perfume, musky sweat, and body odor, and everywhere was music: guitarists, singers, and percussionists.
Beneath the festive atmosphere, though, it was clear everyone was either looking for a handout or to trying to “resolver” their way to survival. It reminded Michael of what he’d read about Germany during the last days of the Weimar Republic, when the partying grew increasingly desperate, forced, and hollow. Then again, Cuba wasn’t always like that. His mother had walked the streets of Old Havana thirty years ago when Cuba was thriving. He wondered what she’d think of the place now.
Carla, whose good humor seemed to be restored now that she’d been well fed, turned to him with an impish expression. “I have an idea.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.” She led him around a corner and down a narrow passage. She threaded her way around other streets until Michael was hopelessly lost. Finally she stopped halfway down a narrow alley. The odor of incense floated out from an open door.
Carla stuck her head in and spoke to someone. A moment later she beckoned Michael.
The breeze stopped at the door, and Michael walked into a room cluttered with so much furniture, junk, and kitsch he felt claustrophobic. In the middle at a small covered table sat an enormous black woman dressed in white. She wore a white turban. Her wrists and ears jangled with jewelry, and her lips were so red they made her teeth look as white as her robes. Michael blinked. It wasn’t the woman he’d seen in the courtyard near the Cathedral, but it could have been her sister.
“Come Miguel, Yelina will tell you if your job will be a success.”
He hesitated. Many Cubans flocked to Santería priests and priestesses to find out about their health, relationships, and finances. A blend of voodoo, Catholicism, and African-based faiths, Santerías were famous for their prophecies and fortune telling. They were the Cuban version of gypsies, although they were slowly being replaced by machines that spat out fortunes, like the one at Coney Island. In other words, scams.
Yelina, the priestess, must have sensed his uncertainty because she flashed him a wide smile. She was missing two teeth. “Come, my son,” she said in Spanish. “Sit.”
Michael sat. He told himself he was only doing it to please Carla, especially since they had quarreled earlier.
“You do not want to be here, do you? You are only doing this for your woman.”
He was taken aback. Was it that obvious?
Yelina smiled at his discomfort, then got up and went to another small table covered with a cloth and strewn with beads. Two candles sat on top, as if the table was a tiny altar. Yelina lit the candles, chanted, and made circles with her hands. Michael had once dated a Jewish girlfriend, and had watched her mother do the same thing on Friday night when she blessed the candles.
She picked up a small bag on the altar, came back to Michael, and sat. She opened the bag and spilled over a dozen shiny egg-shaped seashells across the table. Again she chanted. Then she moved a few of the shells around, studied them, moved a few more. She looked up at Michael, then murmured in an unfamiliar language.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I am inviting the saints and disciples of Orisha to join us.” She paused. “You know who the saints are. I can tell.”
She knew he was Catholic. So what? Most people here were. Or had been.
She moved a few more shells, then looked up at Michael again. “You will be lucky at love.” She stole a glance at Carla and smiled. “In fact, you have met the love of your life.”
That was par for the course.
She glanced down at the shells. “You have come to Cuba to search for something. And someone.”
Also pretty easy. His clothes weren’t threadbare or shabby. She probably guessed he was a foreigner.
She went back to her shells. “You have no money problems. Indeed, someone close to you… will be giving you more wealth. Quite soon.”
That could be his mother. Or father. Or grandfather. They were all well off.
She was rearranging a shell when Michael heard a gasp. The woman sat back in her chair, then looked up at him. Her smile was gone.
“What?” Michael asked.
She glanced at Carla. Michael twisted around. Carla’s face registered fear.
He turned back to Yelina. “What is it, dammit?”
She spoke rapidly to Carla in Spanish.
“I do not want to ignore it,” he said, making sure she knew he understood. “I want to know.”
Yelina’s eyebrows arched, and Carla’s cheeks reddened.
“I apologize, Miguel,” Carla said. She motioned for the woman to proceed.
The woman ran her tongue around her lips. A speck of lipstick ended up on a tooth. “You will meet the person you came to Cuba to find. Very soon. This person has the answers you have been seeking.”
Michael canted his head. “What answers would those be?” he asked skeptically.
“That I do not know.”
“Well, that sounds about right,” he said, figuring he’d wasted a few dollars.
Yelina and Carla studied the shells, then exchanged a glance.
“Why are you looking at each other?” Michael asked.
Yelina hesitated. “Because you may decide afterwards that you did not want to know those answers.”
“Why not?”
She laced her fingers together on the table. “Because the shells say the answers may spell your doom.”