Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

Sara looked tired, so I suggested, “Go get some sleep.”

She stood. “You too.”

“I’m right behind you. Room 615 if you need to call me.”

“I’m 535. See you at breakfast.” She walked to the elevators.

The piano player was playing the theme from “Phantom of the Opera.”

Hard to believe I was in Miami this morning, annoyed that they’d under-toasted my bagel.

I walked into the breakfast room at 7:30 A.M., wearing khakis, a short-sleeved shirt, and running shoes. I spotted a few people from our group, but not Sara. The buffet was American with some Cuban touches, including beans, to propel us through the day. I got a cup of coffee, sat, and waited for Sara.

I’d gotten back to my room at a reasonable hour, but I couldn’t get to sleep so I’d checked out Cuban TV. There were five channels: Tele Rebelde, which was a news channel, CubaVision, an entertainment channel, and two educational channels to put you to sleep. The fifth channel told you to turn off the TV. Actually, there was CNN, in English, and according to my guide book, the satellite signal was pirated by the Cuban government and available only in select hotels and to the Communist elite, leaving the other eleven million news-hungry people on this island dependent on Tele Rebelde — which meant Rebellious, but could be translated as Government Bullshit.

I’d watched a little CNN, which reminded me of why I don’t watch TV news, then I watched a news cycle on Tele Rebelde, looking for a mention of Pescando Por la Paz, but I didn’t see anything. Maybe the regime was trying to decide if this was the kind of event they wanted to cover with reporters and a brass band, or wanted to ignore. If Sara was right, the Cuban government was not enthusiastic about the Cuban Thaw.

I intended to buy a newspaper, but there was no newsstand in the hotel, and no newspapers in the breakfast room, not even Granma , the Communist Party newspaper, which I could pretend to read instead of looking at the door. Where the hell was she? Maybe I should ring her room.

I had the daily itinerary in my pocket and I unfolded it on the table. I read: Hemingway’s house is just as he left it in 1960 . Probably because the Commies wouldn’t let Ernest take anything with him when he left.

After Hemingway’s house, we’d go to lunch, then a visit to Vivero Alamar, a co-operative research farm where we’d learn about growing organic food. I wondered what sadist put this together.

“Is this seat taken?”

Before I could reply, Sara sat.

“Good morning,” I said. She was wearing jeans and a white Polo shirt and looked good.

“Have you had breakfast?” she asked.

“I was waiting for you.”

“If you do that, you’ll starve to death.”

“Right. Did you sleep well?”

“No. Did you?”

“I watched Tele Rebelde all night.”

“You should have watched the Cuban soaps on CubaVision. Margaretta is cheating on Francisco again, same as when I was here last year. I don’t know why he doesn’t leave her.”

I smiled, then asked, “Were you here alone?”

“I was.” She stood. “Let’s get something before the bus comes.”

We went to the buffet table, where Richard Neville was cleaning out the breakfast sausage, but he left a strip of bacon for me. Sara piled her plate with fruit and a glob of yogurt.

We sat and she said, “You’ll never see fresh fruit in the countryside.”

“Actually, we will at the organic food farm.”

“That’s all show, and what you see in the hotels is all imported.” She explained, “The farms are government-owned and mostly deserted because the work is backbreaking, still done with animals and human labor. Farmers get the same twenty dollars a month that they’d get pushing a broom in the city, so there’s no incentive to stay on the farm.”

Sorry I mentioned it.

“Ninety percent of the Cuban diet is beans and rice, imported from Vietnam, and even that is rationed.”

I stared at my strip of bacon and my scrambled eggs.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. Eat up.”

I sensed a change in Sara, maybe as a result of her being here, and she was getting herself worked up, like Eduardo. I tried to imagine me returning to an America that had gone into the crapper because of government stupidity... Well, maybe that wasn’t so hard to imagine.

Sara said, “The important thing regarding the Cuban countryside is that most people have moved to the towns and cities. That could be good for us, but maybe bad if we’re the only people driving a vehicle on a lonely road.”

“Right.” I asked her, “Do you know how big this haul is going to be?”

“My grandfather told me it was all packed in steamer trunks.”

“Good. How many trunks?”

She glanced at the nearby tables, which were empty. “A typical steamer trunk filled with hundred-dollar bills will hold about fifteen million dollars, and weigh about four hundred pounds.”

“Okay... one in each hand, two people, that’s sixty million.”

She ignored my math and said, “But there are also fifty-dollar bills, and twenties, so there are more than four trunks.”

“How many?”

“My grandfather said ten.”

“Each weighing four hundred pounds?”

“Yes. A twenty-dollar bill weighs the same as a hundred-dollar bill.”

“Right. That’s four thousand pounds of steamer trunks.”

“Give or take.”

If I’d known this in Key West I would have gone to the gym. “How about the gold and jewels?”

“The gold may be too heavy to take. But there are four valises of jewelry which we’ll take.”

“Always room for jewelry. And how about the property deeds that you mentioned?”

“That’s another steamer trunk.”

I pointed out, “This could be a bit of a logistical problem. You know, getting the trunks out of the cave, onto a truck, then to the boat.”

“Carlos has a plan.”

“Well, thank God. Would you like another cup of coffee?”

She stared at me. “We wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t think we could do it.”

“Right.”

A pretty waitress cleared our plates and smiled at me.

It was almost 8 A.M. and people from various tour groups were making their way toward the lobby. We stood and I left two CUCs on the table, and Sara said, “That’s three days’ pay.”

“She worked hard.”

“And she had a nice butt.”

“Really?”

The Yale group was already boarding and Sara and I got on the bus together, said good morning to José, Tad, Alison, Professor Nalebuff, and our travel mates as we made our way toward the rear and found a seat together.

The efficient Tad did a head count and announced, “We’re all here.”

Antonio hopped aboard and called out, “Buenos días!”

Everyone returned the greeting so we could get moving.

“We will have a beautiful day!” said Antonio.

Sí, camarada.

The bus wound its way out of Havana and again I had the impression of a once vibrant city that was suffocating under the weight of a rotting corpse.

Hemingway’s house, Finca Vigía, was a handsome Spanish Colonial located about fifteen kilometers from Havana, and we got there in half an hour.

The house was well-maintained, according to Alison, because of a rare partnership between the U.S. and Cuban governments. Art and culture bring people together, said Alison, and that was why we were here; we were ambassadors of goodwill.

Even as ambassadors, we weren’t allowed inside, but dozens of tourists were peering through the open doors and windows into the rooms that had been left exactly as they were when Hemingway left Cuba after the revolution.