Jose Latour - Havana Best Friends

‘Well, sir, this is very…’ Pablo groped for ‘generous’ unsuccessfully as he thrust the bill into a pants pocket ‘…very good of you. If I can help…in any other way…?’

His eyes on Pablo, head cocked, a budding grin on his lips, the tourist seemed to ponder the offer.

‘Maybe you could. This is my first trip here, I don’t know my way around, and I was hoping for a good time, catch my drift?’

Pablo grinned. ‘You mean fun, girls?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

‘I think…no, I thought so. But now, it’s morning. In the mornings, beautiful girls sleep. In the evenings they have fun. We meet in the evening, I take you to the most beautiful girls in Havana.’

A bunch of lies, the big guy figured. ‘Tell you what. You take me to the most beautiful girls in Havana, I’ll pay you a hundred bucks. You take me to the most beautiful girl in Havana, I’ll pay you two hundred. How’s that?’

‘That’s excellent, Mr…?’

‘Splittoesser.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Just call me John.’

‘Okay, John. So, where do we meet?’

‘Let’s see…’ John pretended to reflect. ‘There’s this bar-restaurant where I had dinner last night, La Zaragua…something.’

‘Spanish food? In Old Havana?’

‘That’s it.’

‘La Zaragozana.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘John, I’ve been to all the right places in Havana.’

The tall overweight man considered this for a moment. ‘Swell. At eight then?’ he said.

‘Eight’s fine with me.’

‘Can I drop you somewhere?’ John asked.

‘No, thanks. My office is right across the street.’

‘See you then,’ John said and extended his right hand. Pablo’s hand got lost in the man’s paw. The Cuban marched along, occasionally craning his neck, watching the tourist unlock his car. John waved him good-bye; Pablo did the same before crossing Fifth Avenue. Is this a lucky break or is this a lucky break? he was thinking.

John Splittoesser spent the afternoon completing the reconnaissance he had initiated three evenings earlier, driving around Santa Maria del Mar and Guanabo, two adjoining beach resorts fifteen miles to the east of Havana.

After dinner at La Zaragozana, Pablo suggested a leisurely stroll into Old Havana. Leaving the rental in the custody of the restaurant’s parking valet, they took Obispo, a street turned pedestrian mall. Passers-by stared at the strange pair: some recalled Twins, the movie starring Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

The temperature had dropped considerably as a consequence of a late-afternoon heavy shower. Lighting from the shop windows of well-stocked, dollars-only stores reflected on the wet asphalt. Insubstantial dialogue from a Brazilian soap opera and various pop songs blared out from radios, CD players, and television sets, producing an ear-splitting cacophony.

There were policemen on every corner, most of them alert young men fresh from the countryside, still in awe of city slickers: the pickpockets, whores, pimps, drag queens, sodomites, shoplifters, drug pushers, and black marketeers that trained eyes can detect along the Havana tourist trail.

A handful of veteran cops in their thirties could also be spotted. With bored expressions and cynical grins they whispered advice to the rookies. Guys who have stayed in the force and the neighbourhood long enough to know who they can let get away with petty crime because he or she won’t mug a tourist, deal coke, or hold up a truck delivering products from the warehouse. Cops who survive by recognizing the limit of permissible corruption: yes to a three-dollar sandwich, no to a one-dollar bill; yes to a hooker’s free ride, no to a pair of jeans presented by her pimp; yes to a packet of cigarettes, no to a box of fake Cohibas.

Pablo and John turned left on to Havana Street and after three blocks took a right on to the seedier Emped-rado Street. Watching them walk side by side, two candidates for the priesthood returning to the San Carlos and San Ambrosio Seminary were reminded of the David and Goliath story. A dark-skinned black youngster and a white teenager, both insufficiently versed in the Old Testament, approached the strange pair.

‘Mister, mister, cigars, guitars, girls…’ they accosted John in English.

‘I’m with him,’ Pablo said in Spanish, glaring at them.

They weren’t impressed by the news and ignored the short man with the stumpy ponytail. ‘Girls, beautiful. Cohibas, forty dollars. Fine guitars, eighty dollars.’

‘No,’ said John.

‘Coke? Marijuana?’

‘No.’

‘I’m taking him to Angelito’s,’ said Pablo, again in Spanish, trying to act nonchalant.

That stopped the hustlers cold. Apparently miffed, they turned their backs and disappeared into a doorway. John stared at the narrowest sidewalk he had seen in his life; not more than twenty inches wide.

‘Now, look up, at the… balcón? You say balcón in English?’

John frowned in incomprehension.

‘The balcón of the house on the next corner,’ Pablo said, extending his arm and pointing.

Four young women leaned on the wooden railing of a wrought-iron balcony projecting from the top floor of a two-storey house built in the 1850s. Light from a nearby streetlamp made it possible to see that two of the whores sported shorts, a third had a miniskirt on, the fourth a French-cut bikini bottom. All wore halter-neck tops and from their necks hung chains and medals. Gazing down at the street below, they were sharing a laugh prompted by an amusing comment made by the one in the miniskirt.

‘Interested?’ Pablo asked.

‘Let’s take a closer look.’

They climbed a marble stairway with handrails in the same material. On the way up Pablo said this place was La Casa de Angelito, Angelito’s house, according to his translation. Greeted warmly on the landing by a white, effeminate bodybuilder in green Lycra shorts and a pink tank top, they were showed into a dim living room with four loveseats, a CD player, a minibar, and side tables for drinks and ashtrays. Three French windows opened on to the balcony where the women remained, unaware that potential clients had arrived. The body-sculpting fanatic clapped his hands and ordered, ‘Girls, saloon.’

One of the hookers upstaged the others completely, John realized. She belonged to the precious few women from all walks of life who try to de-emphasize their devastating sex appeal and fail miserably. The blessing or curse of her breed – depending on the final outcome – is as indefinable as inexorable; impossible to disguise or accentuate with clothing, jewellery or perfumes. A gorgeous American actress worth maybe a hundred million who had the seductiveness of a refrigerator sprang to mind. And here in Havana, in a tumbledown whorehouse, he was facing a two-bit hooker capable of driving tycoons and presidents and kings nuts, and him too, truth be told.

No older than twenty, she had a lovely face framed by long chestnut-coloured hair. Something of a child’s sweetness and innocence survived in her dark pupils and gentle smile. Her naked body had to be a sight for sore eyes, he was sure, and he felt tempted to ask her to undress and pace up and down the living room until he remembered that he had an assignment to carry out.

‘Is this the best you can do?’ he asked Pablo, apparently unimpressed.

The Cuban was taken aback. ‘You don’t like?’

‘Can we shop around some more?’

Pablo marched John to Marinita, three blocks east, where they had a beer; then to Tongolele, five blocks south. Everywhere the short bald Cuban was greeted with affection. John noticed his guide was somewhat hyped up when they left Tongolele. The next stop was La Reina del Ganado, in San Isidro, translated by Pablo as ‘The Queen of Cattle’. The tourist learned that the name was derived from a Brazilian soap opera, El rey del ganado – ‘The King of Cattle’ – whose main character owned hundreds of thousands of cattle. The brothel proprietress’s herd, comprising some twenty women, were displayed posing naked in a snapshot album. She only showed it to foreigners who were not attracted to any of those immediately available at her house. John peered at each photograph, carefully considered three promising candidates, finished a Cuba Libre, then turned to Pablo.