Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

Should I beat my chest? Or let out a Tarzan scream? “Fine.”

“Breakfast is being served in the Veranda.”

“Thank you, I’ve eaten.”

Sara and I left the hotel. The sun was up and the air was already steamy. I suggested we walk to our hotel — or swing from tree to tree — but Sara said it was more than a mile to the Parque Central, and we should take a taxi so we’d get there before our group started coming down for breakfast.

“But I want everyone to see us staggering into the hotel together.”

“I’m sure you do.” She said to the doorman, “Taxi, por favor.”

The only transportation available was a Coco cab, an open, three-wheeled Lambretta-type vehicle that reminded me of the ones in Kabul. We got into the rear seat, and off we went through the quiet streets of Havana. Sara said, “This is romantic.”

I could see the pavement through the rusted floorboards.

There wasn’t much traffic on this Saturday morning, but there were a lot of people walking, and the city looked spectral in the morning mist. This place totally sucked, but it was starting to grow on me.

Sara put her arm through mine and said, “I’m sorry I lied to you about the boyfriend. But I’ll never lie to you again.”

“And don’t lie to him.”

“I’ll try to call him from the hotel phone.”

“It can wait until you get back to Miami.”

“I want to do it now... in case I don’t get back.”

“In that case, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yes... but... it’s the right thing to do. Even if you cheat, you shouldn’t lie.”

Really? I thought lying and cheating went together. But maybe Catholics needed to confess. “Let’s decide tomorrow.”

We got to the Parque Central and entered together. The breakfast room was just opening, but I didn’t see anyone from our group. “Coffee?”

“No. I don’t want to be seen with you wearing the same dress I wore last night.”

“Who cares?”

“I do. And you need to change.”

“I need coffee.”

“I’ll see you later.” She went to the elevators.

I walked into the breakfast room and ran into Antonio at the coffee bar. “Buenos días,” he said. “I was looking for you and Miss Ortega last night in Floridita.”

Really? Why? “We took your advice and walked on the Malecón.”

“Ah, good. Did you enjoy that?”

“I did.” I scanned the tables and saw an empty one near a sunny window. “See you later.”

“Yes, for the walking tour. But you don’t need a sports jacket.”

“Actually, we just got back to the hotel.”

“Yes, I saw you come in. I hope your evening was beautiful.”

“It was, and now I’m going to have a beautiful cup of coffee.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“I won’t.”

I got a cup of coffee and sat at the table near the window.

Antonio also sat by himself and made a cell phone call. I was annoyed that he had service and I didn’t. Antonio hung up and took some papers from his shoulder bag. Today’s itinerary? Or his police informant’s report? The man was an asshole. Maybe worse — a chivato.

But the world looked a little different this morning, and I was as close to happy as I’d been in awhile.

My heart said that Sara and I should just get a flight out of here and go live happily ever after.

But my head said I’d regret it if I let three million dollars slip through my fingers. I’d rather regret the things I did than the things I didn’t do. Also, I’d made a commitment to do this.

This was getting complicated, as I knew it would.

And what was she keeping from me? Something that would please me. I could not possibly imagine what that was. But if we pressed on, I’d find out.

Back in my room, I changed into jeans and my new Hemingway T-shirt, then stuck two bottles of water in my backpack along with my Swiss Army knife, my binoculars, and my new treasure map. I was ready for my Havana recon.

I joined our group in the hotel lobby at 8 A.M. where Tad was taking attendance.

Sara was looking good in white shorts, a Miami Dolphins T-shirt, and a baseball cap. She had her big shoulder bag, which I assumed was filled with pesos and her map.

Sara and I held hands, and the Yale group, to the extent that they cared, understood that we were having a holiday romance. Antonio, too, noticed.

Antonio led us across the street to the small park, where he began by telling us that downtown Havana was divided into three areas: Habana Vieja, the Old Town, where we were going to walk this morning, Centro Habana, where we were standing, and the area called Vedado, the newer section of Havana where the Riviera and Nacional were located and that was once controlled by the American Mafia and their Cuban underlings.

Antonio went on a bit about the Mafia, which seemed to be an obsession of his. Antonio had probably seen Godfather II a dozen times.

Finally he said, “We will have lunch in a beautiful paladar, then we return to Centro to continue our walking tour.”

I thought Antonio was finished, but he asked, “Who has been to Havana before?”

A middle-aged couple — who looked otherwise normal — raised their hands.

“Ah, good. So you can have my job today.”

The Yalies, who were mostly humorless with each other, made an exception for the charming Cuban and laughed.

Antonio asked, “Anyone else?” He looked at Sara, who had not raised her hand. “Miss Ortega, weren’t you here last year?”

“Why do you ask?”

He kept looking at her, but didn’t reply. “So, we will begin our walk.” He began walking east toward the harbor.

The streets and sidewalks got narrower as we entered the Old Town and the group was strung out for fifty meters as Antonio stayed in the lead and gave his talk, which, happily, I couldn’t hear, but Sara gave me and the Yalies around us a commentary on the historic architecture.

Habana Vieja, some of it over three hundred years old, was very picturesque, but also hot, airless, claustrophobic, and aromatic. It was Saturday, so the cobblestoned streets were mostly free of traffic but filled with locals bartering for scarce goods and food, as senior citizens hung out their windows and watched the world go by. For people who had nothing, they seemed happy enough. Or maybe it was my outlook that had changed. Getting laid will do that.

Another thing that struck me was the number of buildings that had totally or partially collapsed. You could actually see the interiors of the rooms where the front walls had fallen away and vegetation sprouted from rotting stucco. Maybe my landlord wasn’t such an asshole.

We came to a small square where Antonio began a commentary on the Catedral de San Cristóbal de la Habana, which, he said, was almost three hundred years old and had once held the remains of Christopher Columbus. But when the Spanish were defeated in the War of 1898, they stole Christopher and took him to Spain. “We want him back!” shouted Antonio. “He will be good for tourism!”

The Yalies laughed on cue, and I said to Sara, “Spain and Cuba should just divvy up the bones. They could flip a coin for the skull.”

She glanced at me and said, “Yes, the bones need to come home... There are answers in the bones.”

I had no idea what she meant, but she seemed suddenly far away. I took a bottled water from my backpack and made her drink.

Antonio was still talking and I tuned out. Tonight I was going to meet Jack at the Nacional, and I hadn’t mentioned that to Sara, and I didn’t think I needed to explain my being AWOL to her. But that was before we became lovers. Now I needed to say something. That’s what happens when you sleep with someone.