Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

The guy sitting next to me got tired of the view and said, “It’s about time we normalized relations.”

“Right.”

“And end the trade embargo.”

“Good idea.”

“Our government has been lying to us.”

“Now you tell me.”

“Seriously, the Cuban people are like us. They want peace. And better relations.”

Actually, they wanted to escape to Miami, but I said, “That’s good.”

“I think we’re going to be pleasantly surprised.”

I heard a chime and said, “The captain just turned on the no talking sign.”

My companion turned back to the window, and I took the opportunity to fill out my customs declaration form. Was I carrying any firearms with me? I wish. Did I have any alcohol with me? Just what’s left in my brain.

The form also asked if I was carrying Cuban pesos, and if so, how much. My answer was No , though I wasn’t sure what Sara would decide to do. Honesty is the best policy, unless you could lie and get away with it.

I also had an immigration form to fill out. Was this my first time in Cuba? Yes. And last. Where was I staying in Cuba? The Parque Central Hotel in Havana. Should I mention the cave? No. As for my departure info, I wrote my return flight number and departure date — though I reserve the right to escape earlier by boat, under fire. I signed the form.

I looked up and saw Sara coming toward me. She didn’t make eye contact as she headed for the lavatories in the rear. On her way back, however, she brushed her hand on my shoulder. I was getting into this secret relationship. It was exciting.

As we descended, I could see Havana in the distance, a city of over two million people, built around a large harbor that gave access to the Straits of Florida and the world beyond — if you could get there.

We made our final approach into José Martí International Airport, and I saw a few passenger terminals next to mostly empty parking lots. I noticed that one end of the airport was military, and the Cuban Air Force seemed to consist of five vintage Soviet MiG fighters, a few Russian-made helicopters, and an antique American DC-3 with a red star painted on its tail. Hopefully the MiGs and choppers were grounded for parts and repairs and I wouldn’t see them overhead when I sailed out of Cuba.

I’d read in my guide book that José Martí Airport had been bombed by Cuban exile pilots in 1961, in preparation for the CIA-backed Bay of Pigs Invasion. The attack bombers were American-made, apparently provided by the CIA. I could see why the Castro regime might have some unresolved anger issues. Anyway, the airport looked okay now, but I was sure the memory lingered on.

The MD-80 touched down and I was in Cuba, a long ninety miles from the Green Parrot.

We deplaned and walked in single file across the sweltering tarmac, under a blazing sun and the gaze of security police who carried Russian AK-47s. The last time I saw one of those, it was firing at me.

We filed into Terminal Two, a dark, unwelcoming structure, built, according to my travel guide, during the days of the Cuban-Soviet alliance, specifically to accommodate — or segregate — Americans arriving on charter flights. I looked for a sign saying WELCOME AMERICANS! but it must have been in the shop for repairs. Also, the air-conditioning was not working or nonexistent, but there were floor fans.

Tad was holding up a Yale sign and the group congregated around him. I also saw raised signs for cultural institutions and art museums, and signs for other college alum groups. Apparently Cuba was the hot new destination.

Tad was urging the Yale group to get closer, and I thought he was going to lead us in “The Whiffenpoof Song,” but he shouted, “Please stay together!” Sara wound up next to me, and she looked a bit tense, which was understandable, so to buck her up I said, “Hi. I’m Dan MacCormick. What’s your name?”

She gave me a quick glance. “Sara.”

“First time here?”

“No.”

“Do you know where I can buy cigars?”

“In a cigar store.”

“Right. Are you traveling alone?”

She didn’t reply but I saw a smile flicker across her lips, and I gave her a reassuring pat on her arm.

Alison had found a uniformed official who directed the Yale group to an immigration officer sitting in a booth behind a tall counter.

We formed a queue and Sara was several people ahead of me. She looked totally composed now, but somewhere on her body or in her luggage were three hundred thousand Cuban pesos that would need some explaining if she was searched. Also, she had a hand-drawn hiking map that might arouse suspicion if a sharp security officer asked to see the Yale itinerary.

The immigration officer motioned for the first person on line — who happened to be one of Sara’s Mexican restaurant companions — to step forward into the booth.

The robotic officer took her immigration form, then matched her face to her passport and her name to a list that he had on a clipboard. He asked her a few questions that I couldn’t hear, then asked her to step back, remove her glasses, and look at the camera mounted over the counter. I really didn’t want my picture taken but I didn’t think this was optional.

The immigration officer stamped the lady’s visa, kept one half, then stamped her passport. He pressed a buzzer and motioned for her to go through a door and exit the left side of the booth. I wondered if we’d ever see her again.

The officer motioned for the next Americana, Alison, to step forward, and the process was repeated.

The line moved slowly, and at one point a couple approached the booth together and the immigration officer had a little shit fit and yelled out, “Uno! Uno!” like he didn’t get the memo about the Cuban Thaw.

It was Sara’s turn and she walked into the booth like she owned it.

The immigration officer took special note of Señorita Ortega, and I could see that they weren’t getting along. She stepped back to have her picture taken, then collected her visa and passport and disappeared through the door.

The guy picked up a phone and spoke to someone, then motioned for the next person in line. I hoped he was calling about getting more ink for his stamp, and not about Sara Ortega.

After about fifteen minutes, it was my turn, and I walked into the booth.

The immigration officer stared at me with his dead eyes. I gave him my passport, my immigration form, and my visa tarjeta del turista.

He looked at my passport photo and flipped through the pages, discovering that I hadn’t been out of the U.S. since I’d sailed The Maine to the Cayman Islands two years ago.

He asked in a heavy accent, “You travel with someone?”

“No.” But I’m trying to screw that lady who pissed you off.

I was ready for my close-up, but he kept staring at my passport, and I wondered if I’d given him my Conch Republic passport by mistake.

Finally he said, “Step back, look to camera. No smile.”

I stepped back, frowned, and had my picture taken for the secret police. The guy stamped my passport and visa, kept his half, and pushed the buzzer to unlock the door, which probably led to a hole in the floor.

I exited into the customs area where dogs were sniffing people and luggage, and I passed through a scanner as my backpack was X-rayed. The customs guy opened my backpack and examined my binoculars, which I thought would come in handy on our way to the cave and to Cayo Guillermo. He also found my Swiss Army knife and waved it at me. “Why you have?”

“To open my beer. Cerveza.”

“No legal. Tax. Ten dollar.”

I think he meant a fine, which was actually a shakedown, but I gave him a ten and he gave me my knife and said, “Okay. Go.”