Jose Latour - Havana Best Friends

For an instant the woman stared at the man. He seemed exhausted, an embarrassed flicker of a smile on his lips. ‘Sure, come on in,’ she said, stepping back and pulling the door wide open.

Marina and Sean entered a spacious living room in a deplorable condition. A Chesterfield with overstuffed arms and two matching club chairs, all three pieces upholstered in what, fifty years earlier, had been an excellent brocade, were now badly frayed with dark stains of human grease and dirt on their arms and backs. At some point the nice cedar coffee table had lost its glass top and now showed multiple rings from glasses; on it stood an ashtray full of reeking butts. The folds of cloth which framed the French window to the balcony, like the shades of two floor lamps, were also soiled. A solitary light bulb hung from the ceiling and the cream-coloured vinyl paint on the walls was beginning to flake off.

‘Take a seat, please,’ the hostess said. ‘I’ll bring the water.’

She disappeared into a hallway, her heels clicking on the granite floor. Realizing that a few extra drops of sweat wouldn’t worsen the Chesterfield’s present condition very much, the joggers eased themselves down on to its edge and took in a beautiful still-life in a baroque frame hanging to their left, two mismatched chairs, a TV set facing them. From somewhere inside a man bellowed: ‘Who the fuck was it, Elena?’ The couple swapped a curious glance. A refrigerator door slamming shut was the only response.

The woman returned to the living room with two glasses of cold water on a tray which she placed on the coffee table.

‘There you are. Let me know if you want some more.’

The man reached for a glass and drank avidly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every gulp. Having returned the glass to the tray, he leaned back on the sofa, and closed his eyes.

‘The family doctor is two blocks away. I can fetch him, if you want,’ the hostess suggested, a dash of solicitude in her tone, as she slid into a club chair.

‘Let’s give him a minute,’ Marina said, still frowning at her companion. ‘Nothing like this has ever happened to him. It may just be sunstroke.’

‘I asked who the f—’ a short bald man bellowed from the entrance to the hallway. He was barefoot, wearing only his boxer shorts, and part of his pubic hair could be seen through the opening at the front. With a surprised expression he checked himself, turned and fled to put on something more. Long hair at the back of his head flopped ludicrously.

Repressing a snicker, Marina took a sip from her glass, then drained it. Sean had opened his eyes at the man’s voice. ‘Thanks, ma’am,’ he whispered in English before sliding forward on the seat and extending his right hand. ‘Sean,’ he added, apparently recovered.

‘Elena,’ the hostess said with a firm handshake. She stood up to reach Marina and shook hands with her too.

‘Feeling better?’ Elena asked of the man as she returned to her seat.

Marina interpreted for her husband. ‘He doesn’t speak Spanish,’ she explained.

‘Much better, thank you,’ said Sean, beaming and resting an ankle on the other knee.

‘He says much better, thank you.’

‘Well, my English is lousy, fifty words maybe, but that I can understand. Would you like some espresso? Coffee is a great stimulant, you know. And here in Cuba we brew it pretty strong; a sip might do him good.’

‘We don’t want to trouble you.’

‘No problem. Ask him.’

Sean yielded at Elena’s insistence. She went back to the kitchen and the joggers exchanged grins, then waited in silence. A few minutes later the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of angry whispering wafted into the living room. The joggers exchanged a questioning glance.

Another minute went by. Elena returned with two demitasses on tiny saucers. She was followed by the short bald man, now in a blue guayabera, white chinos, and three-inch Cordovan boots. The dark hair either side of his bald crown was brushed straight back to combine with the long hair at his nape in a meagre ponytail. Before handing the cups to the visitors, Elena made the introductions.

‘Meet my brother Pablo,’ she said with a neutral expression.

Pablo shook hands with a grin. ‘How do you do?’ he said in English with a heavy accent. Elena rolled her eyes. Marina wondered how siblings could be so physically different. Elena was perhaps four inches taller than his five feet three or four, a fit, big-boned woman with dark eyes, supple lips, and nice curves in all the right places. Pablo had green irises, thin lips, an unhealthy pallor, narrow shoulders and skinny arms that made him seem frail. Perhaps that was why he looked younger than his sister. Only one parent in common? Maybe. But she had said ‘brother’ not ‘half-brother’. Little love lost between them, from the look of things.

‘Good you come. This –’ a sweep of the arm – ‘your home,’ Pablo added, his grin seeming rather forced.

‘Pablo,’ said Elena through clenched teeth.

‘Oh, yeah, my sister, she don’t understand English.’

Elena scowled, shook her head, and pursed her lips in disapproval.

Pablo slid into the remaining club chair and impatiently waited for Marina to finish her espresso, then started questioning her in Spanish. What had happened? Did her husband feel better now? Was she from Argentina? Yeah, he had guessed it, had identified the accent. From Buenos Aires? Ah, ‘Mi Buenos Aires querido,’ he sang, the only line he knew from the most famous of all tangos, while his eyes stole a lascivious glance at her thighs. And her husband? Oh…how nice. What city? Toronto? So, she lived in Toronto now, right? And when did they arrive in Cuba? Where were they staying?

As his wife answered all kinds of questions, Sean sipped his coffee slowly, eyes moving from the brother to the sister, appraising them coolly. Elena seemed okay; Pablo a trifle garrulous for his taste. He emptied the demitasse and put it on the tray, then reached for Marina’s and did the same. Elena rose and took the tray back to the kitchen. When she returned to her club chair they were all laughing about something. Her brother lit a cigarette and blew smoke to the ceiling.

‘This is a nice apartment,’ Marina commented, her gaze shifting around the living room. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘All our lives,’ Pablo answered. ‘We were born here. Our parents…’

‘How is Sean feeling?’ Elena asked, interrupting her brother, who frowned.

Marina interpreted. Sean admitted he was fine now.

‘Well, then you’ll have to excuse me. I mustn’t be late for work.’

Pablo widened his eyes. ‘Elena, that’s very rude of you.’

‘Listen, Pablo…’ said Elena in a testy way, trying not to get into an argument with her brother in the presence of strangers.

‘But of course,’ Marina butted in, jumping to her feet. Sean, seemingly surprised, uncoiled himself from the Chesterfield. ‘You’ve been very kind. Would you allow us to reciprocate in some way? Take you to dinner maybe?’

‘No, thanks, this is nothing…’

‘We’d be delighted,’ Pablo said, leaping at the offer with a fresh grin.

‘Pablo! No, Marina. We just…’

‘But I insist. We would enjoy your company enormously. We don’t know anybody here. It would be great to take you guys out tonight. Learn from you about a nice place, somewhere off the beaten track. In fact, you’d be doing us another favour.’

‘I would gladly take you to wherever you want to go,’ Pablo said, also in Spanish, shaking his head and lifting his hands, palms up. The body language was meant to emphasize that he was the most friendly and helpful of habaneros. ‘There’s this nice private restaurant. It would have to be after five, you know. That’s when I leave the office.’