Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

I nodded and asked, “Where is the Nacional?”

She pointed to the tall building, silhouetted against the sea, then pointed out the wide boulevard that snaked along the seashore. “That’s the Malecón, where half of Havana gathers on hot nights.”

“To do what?”

“To walk and talk. It is a place for lovers, poets, musicians, philosophers, and fishermen... and those who gaze toward Florida.”

Well, I thought, if you don’t have air-conditioning, television, money, or hope, the Malecón might be better for the soul than church. I was actually beginning to feel sorry for these people, though I almost envied their simple lives. As for Sara, she was more Cuban than she knew.

Sara said we should be sociable, and she took my arm and led me around the rooftop to meet our fellow travelers, introducing me as Mac, though I was Daniel when she picked me up at the bar. She told a few people that I wasn’t a Yalie, but that everyone should be nice to me anyway. That got some polite chuckles.

We circulated a bit, and Sara did most of the talking. I was starting to feel like a hooked tuna, so I joined in the dumb cocktail conversations. I remembered an old Bowdoin joke and said to a group of people, “I hear Yale is going co-ed. They’re going to let men in.” That didn’t go over well.

Anyway, about half the group seemed normal and the other half needed more mojitos, or an enema.

I used to be good at cocktail parties in Portland, college, the Officers’ Club, and Wall Street. But four years at sea and too many Key West dive bars had apparently taken the shine off my silver tongue. Not that I gave a shit.

Sara, on the other hand, was good with tight-assed strangers, poised and charming. Her eyes sparkled. What was more impressive was that she knew she was possibly facing death, and she was handling that well for a rookie.

My own face-offs with death had made me see death differently. Death had become not a possibility, but a probability, so I made peace with that dark horseman, and that peace has stayed with me on my borrowed time.

I looked at Sara, who was engaged in a conversation with four men who obviously found her to be the life of an otherwise dull and awkward icebreaker party. It would be ironic, I thought, if I finally found the love of my life on the eve of... whatever.

I found myself in a conversation with two of the younger and better-looking women in our group — Alexandra Mancusi and Ashleigh Arote. Alexandra and Ashleigh were wearing wedding rings, but I couldn’t remember if their husbands were on the group roster. Nametags would have been helpful for me tonight, indicating marital status and where the spouse was. But then I remembered that my dance card was filled. Old bachelor habits die hard.

Ashleigh said, “You look familiar. Were you TD?”

I wasn’t sure what that meant. “If you mean totally drunk, yes.”

Both ladies laughed.

I confessed, “I’m not Yale.”

Ashleigh explained that TD was Timothy Dwight, the name of one of the twelve residential colleges that made up Yale.

Alexandra was JE — Jonathan Edwards — and they were both Class of ’02, which was my class at Bowdoin, but somehow I felt older. The Army will do that to you.

A young man joined us, maybe thinking I needed reinforcements, and introduced himself to me as Scott Mero. I asked him, “Are you TD?”

“No, JE.”

Who’s on first?

Anyway, I was hoping that Sara noticed that I was talking to these attractive young ladies, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The mating game is TD — Totally Dumb.

Scott Mero, as it turned out, was married to Alexandra Mancusi, who’d kept her maiden name, she told me, and only married Scott Mero because she didn’t have to change her monogramed towels. Funny. I needed another drink and was about to excuse myself and go to the bar, but Tad called for our attention and the group obliged, except for Richard Neville, who couldn’t tear himself away from Sara.

Tad officially welcomed us to the Yale alumni educational tour of Cuba. He kept it short, ending with, “Put your prejudices aside and discover Cuba for yourself,” which seemed to be the theme of this trip — though we had to stay with the group to discover Cuba for ourselves.

Tad introduced Alison, who also kept it short and counseled us, “There will be some challenges ahead in the coming days, but when you get home you’ll be glad you came.” Alison introduced our Cuban tour guide, Antonio, who she said was the best guide in Cuba. Certainly he had the tightest pants.

Antonio was about thirty-five, not bad-looking and he knew it. He gazed out at the group, smiled, spread his arms, and shouted, “Buenas noches!”

A few people returned the greeting, but not enough people, apparently, because Antonio shouted again, “Buenas noches!”

The response was better and Antonio flashed his pearly whites. “Bienvenido. Welcome to Cuba. Welcome to Havana.” He let us know, “This is a beautiful group. And intelligent, I am sure.”

I asked Sara, “What is the Spanish word for bullshit?”

She gave me an elbow in the ribs.

Antonio continued, “This will be the most amazing experience for you. And you are so lucky to have Tad and the beautiful Alison to be your group leaders, and I am sure we will all make your experience beautiful.”

Antonio was not only full of shit, he was enthusiastic about it.

Carlos had advised me — and I’m sure Sara also knew — to be wary of the tour guides, because most of them were informants who had the secret police on their speed dial. Antonio looked more like a gigolo than a chivato, but I’d keep Carlos’ warning in mind.

Antonio concluded, “I am keeping you from a beautiful dinner, and you will not forgive me, so I will close my big mouth and open it only to eat.”

Laughter from the Americanos who wanted to show their love to the ethnically different bullshit artist.

There were four round tables set up for dinner and it was open seating, and when that happens there’s usually some hesitation and confusion. You don’t want to wind up next to assholes. Sara sat and patted the seat next to her. “Sit here, Mac.”

I sat, and as the table of ten filled up I saw that Richard Neville had planted his butt on the other side of Sara. The other seven people included Cindy Neville, Professor Nalebuff, the two couples who hadn’t laughed at my Yale joke, and unfortunately, Antonio, who said, “We will have a beautiful dinner.”

A waiter took drink orders and I ordered a double vodka, straight up.

Shrimp tartare was the appetizer, and Professor Nalebuff, a bearded gentleman of about sixty, said he’d been to Cuba twice, and advised us, “This may be the best meal you’ll get in Cuba.”

Antonio disagreed, saying, “I have booked eight beautiful paladares — you know this? Privately owned restaurants which are a new thing to Cuba.”

Nalebuff said dryly, “We also have privately owned restaurants in America.”

“Yes, good. But they are expensive. Here, not so much. And everyone should try a government restaurant. Where the people eat very cheaply.”

The two middle-aged couples across from me thought that was a swell idea.

Antonio did not keep his mouth shut as promised, and he held court as I knew he would. He sounded like a dyed-in-the-wool Commie, or he was just trying to provoke a response from the privileged Americans as he shoved shrimp tartare in his mouth. The two couples seemed to be getting instantly brainwashed, agreeing with Antonio about the justice and humanity of socialism. If they spent an hour in a kennel, they’d probably come out barking. So much for an Ivy League education.

Neville had little to say except, “Pass the wine,” and his wife began a tête-à-tête with Nalebuff.