Miguel Mejides - Havana Noir

Suddenly he sensed someone next to him, and when he looked to his right he saw a round bristly face peering up at him. Johnny’s blood turned cold, the back of his neck tensed up.

“Señor, what’s the problem?” The man was being overly formal given the circumstances.

“Nada,” answered Johnny, too nervous to say anything else.

The man looked at the truck’s wheels sunk halfway in the sand, then back up at Johnny.

“It looks like something to me.”

Manolo came over and asked the man what he was doing there at such an hour.

“The same thing you’re doing, trying to get off this shitty island.”

He led them on a path through a stand of sea grape to the water where a boat, or what passed for a boat, was waiting to shove off. The man called to two others who were helping some women and their children board, and between the five of them — Obdulio remained blissfully asleep — they were able to unload the Ana María and drag it across the sand to the water’s edge. The three men were impressed by Johnny’s launch and wanted to tie it to their ramshackle vessel, an old wooden boat with no motor but a sail made out of two bed sheets sewn together. Four empty oil barrels, fastened on either side, kept the boat from sinking. Johnny said no. “We have women and children with us,” one of them complained.

Johnny had heard of men fighting over provisions out in the open sea and pushing the weaker ones overboard. Besides, the Ana María could move faster without dragging the boat. He said that he and Obdulio were going it alone. One of the men made a threatening move in Johnny’s direction but Manolo intervened, thanking them for their help and offering the men four liters of water and a few cans of Russian meat for their efforts. Two of the men finally went back to their boat. The guy who had first approached them remained behind.

“Who do you think you are?” he said to Johnny. “This is a Socialist country.”

Johnny waited until the other vessel was well out to sea and out of his sight before pushing the Ana María into the water. She bobbed a few times; then her prow settled squarely against the waves. She was a good boat, he thought with no small amount of pride. After feeling the bottom with his hands to check for leaks and finding it dry as bone, he helped Obdulio on board.

Johnny shoved off and took their leave of Manolo, who stood on the sand with his shoulders hunched and his large hands dangling helplessly at his sides. Johnny heard him crying and assured him that his son would soon be sending a thousand dollars home every month. Manolo’s weeping grew more pronounced, then stopped altogether. Obdulio waved at the darkness and sat on the leather car seat, giddy with anticipation.

Once the Ana María was in deep enough, Johnny lowered the Russian outboard into the water, opened the throttle, and gave a pull on the starter rope. The motor sputtered and died. Johnny yanked several times, each time harder than the last, until he was out of breath. Stupid Russians! They can’t even build a good motor. No wonder the Soviet Union fell apart. Then he heard a dim voice through the gloom, “Ta hogao. It’s flooded. Let it rest.”

At first he thought it was Manolo; then he realized it was Obdulio’s voice, which was like his father’s but younger and rougher. Johnny found the bottle of chispa de tren wedged under the seat and spilled some on the water as an offering, then took a drink. He offered the bottle to Obdulio, who refused, saying, “Eso eh’ el diablo.” Now he sounded less like his father and more like Bola de Nieve, the singer.

After listening to the water lap the sides of the boat for what seemed an eternity, Johnny tried again. The motor coughed and started, releasing a burst of burnt oil smoke that smelled like the perfume of his dreams.

“Hold on, Obdulio,” he said, and revved the engine as high as it would go. The Ana María lurched, gained speed, and was soon skimming the flat sea like a flying fish.

It was about two miles out that Johnny turned and looked back at Havana. From this distance the city was nestled in a soft gray light that made it float over the sea, over the land, over all material things. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Havana was the world to him, heaven and hell and purgatory combined, and he understood that he was leaving his world behind for good; yet even as he was reaching this realization, he started turning the boat around until it was pointing back to shore. Obdulio sat calmly at first, like a prince enjoying a ride on his private launch, but slowly became aware of what Johnny was doing.

“No, no,” he said. “Coño, no!”

Johnny woke from his reverie and headed back north. When he reached the approximate spot of the first turning, he remembered his mother whom he had abandoned. This time he slowed the boat down and made a broader arc, and when the city came into view, Obdulio said, “I want to go to La Yuma.” His childish voice cracked with plaintiveness. Johnny kept turning until the boat completed a full circle. This time he thought of the girl on the balcony with the pearly skin and beautiful black hair. How could he abandon those delights? Now Obdulio was screaming and it sounded to Johnny like a high-speed circular saw cutting through a dry log. He turned again.

The Ana María circled seven times. Every time Johnny thought of someone or something he was leaving, he pointed her back in the direction of Havana, then hearing Obdulio’s scream over the sound of the motor, he would turn the boat northward. As he was about to circle yet one more time, the sun appeared over the eastern horizon, red and massive, spreading its rays until the sea, the city, and the sky grew indistinct and became suspended in a blaze so pure and ubiquitous it was directionless. Johnny screamed louder than Obdulio, louder than the Russian motor, and passed the turning point, weeping for what he had left behind and hurtling faster than his longing toward the new.

Siboney

1959

The Chinaman lurched violently to the left, the impact of the slug blasting open his blue silk robe, drenched by the gush of blood out his side. Dropping his knife, he felt his ribs, his features distorted into a mask of incomprehension, as though it was inconceivable that he, of all people, should be on the receiving end of my smoking .45.

He stumbled backwards, bumping against the rickety wall, arms flailing, knocking down the porcelain vase with the tulips, the long clay opium pipe, the little smiling Buddha. The framed scroll with the hand-painted tigers fell on his lap as he eased down to the floor, his eyes wide in the knowledge of swift death.

It was only then that I heard the girl screaming. Dressed in the pasties and g-string of her chosen profession, Miss Raquel La Pasión’s full mocha breasts were aquiver with the emotion closest to lust, terror. She pointed at the dying Chink and let out a loud string of Spanish curses as she cowered behind the shirtless tow-haired boy. Tall and lanky, with the soft features of the country club set, the boy held a.38 in his trembling hands. He fired, the bullet smashing into a fruit bowl. I jumped over the settee, grabbed the gun out of his limp hands, and then I slapped the girl, hard.

“Cállate!”

She whimpered, hid behind the boy.

“David Souther?” I asked, as I slipped his gun into my jacket pocket. The show tunes from the theater above had stopped, the clatter of footsteps on the stage booming in the stillness.

He turned to me slowly, his eyes still hazy from the drug. “Who the fuck are you?” he drawled.

“Jason Blue. I’m a private detective. Your dad sent me to get you out of Havana. Let’s go!”