Oscar Hijuelos - Twain & Stanley Enter Paradise

Within the hour we were making our way along the densely packed streets of Havana, a city unlike any I had ever seen before: New Orleans, for all its mazes, had many a street that opened wide to the sky and air, but here the buildings seemed narrowly separated from one another, the passageways between them barely wide enough for two carts to pass side by side. Where movement was not slow it had stopped completely, for those streets were congested with carriages and donkey-drawn carts and poor farmers pulling along their mules, their woven cane panniers filled with bunches of bananas, oranges, and the local favorite, a tuber called plantain. And many of them were on foot, hauling chickens tied by their feet and hung off sticks on their backs. There were slaves here, too, none rushed in his labors and all of a generally poorer condition than the slaves of New Orleans. Many of them, steeped in misery, were going shoeless or were huddled off, sickly and malnourished, in some shady cubbyhole with their loads at their sides. Occasionally we saw a fancier kind of slave, usually a postilion in attendance of an expensive silver-rimmed carriage, dressed in white leggings, long spurs, and a bright red jacket (but that was more the exception than the rule). Beggars, deformed and diseased, were everywhere, and lepers, too, their hands wrapped in rags or covered in worn mittens.

Striking as well was the abundance of Chinese — many of them, Clemens noticed, missing their right ears — conscripted former criminals, we would later learn, brought to Cuba under strict seven-year contracts as indentured servants. These Chinamen were valued by the planters for their resourcefulness and tenacity at labor (and because they were cheaper to keep than slaves). Their imprint on the city came from the exotic flavor of their shops and restaurants, for alongside the Spanish stores called bodegas and the usual haberdashery and ladies’ dress establishments — my clerk’s eye could not fail to notice such places of commerce — there would be a window scrawled with Chinese characters, a dim doorway, and, in the half-light of day, one could see high shelves stocked with all manner of exotic-looking goods. These shopkeepers wore their hair in long black braided pigtails, or they shaved their heads completely, their white pantaloons and coolie hats common among the Chinese of that city.

Strange to say, Clemens was generally delighted with the colorful attractions of the place, whereas I, having seen both the highs and lows of what a locality could afford, remained somewhat mystified by Mr. Stanley’s attraction to the city, for from what I could observe, the first impressions I had of impending decline and neglect were reinforced at nearly every turn. Still, despite its apparent chaos, there seemed some promise to Havana — for there were many fine buildings to be admired, some of them tranquil-looking places set back behind palm-filled, marble-floored courtyards, off the street. There were bars and billiard halls, and we noticed that virtually every Cuban man of commerce was quite well — if not practically — dressed, in dark suits with cravats and heavy French hats. And the Cubans we saw — whether lowly peasant or aristocrat — smoked, either small cigarillos or the Cuban cigars for which the island was famous.

WE ENDED UP at a hotel owned by an American woman in the old city, not far from the city’s Plaza de Armas, where the gardens were in bloom. It was called the Hotel Cubano, and it was where Mr. Stanley had occasionally stayed while visiting that city, as its guests were mainly southerners like himself. Indeed, when Clemens and I finally arrived — in midafternoon, in the extreme heat of the day — a group of southern gentlemen was shooting billiards in a room off the reception area. The owner, a certain Mrs. Rosedale, late of Savannah, Georgia, was the sort of lady in perpetual bloom despite her middle-aged years, gracious of manner and friendly. When I signed the register, she asked me if I was a relation of Mr. Stanley. When I said that I was, she chanced to remark: “Oh, how is he?”

“I imagine that he is well, ma’am — it is my hope, anyway; you see, we have had some difficulty in communications. But I hope to find him. Surely he is known around here?”

“He is. Last I saw of him, he was in that very bar conducting some business — a few months ago, I believe it was. I spoke to him then: It seemed he was in attendance of some urgent matter involving his brother.” Then: “But I am sure you will find him shortly if he is in Havana. Here the community of southern folk find each other, and quickly, especially now, with the probability of war.”

And then she turned to Clemens and, reading the entry he had made in the guest book, declared: “A riverboat pilot! And one who dresses so elegantly! Goodness! What a romantic and courageous profession!” Then: “Rest assured, my dear friends, for as long as you are here at my hotel, you will not go wanting for anything.”

As we followed her down a corridor to a broad marble staircase leading to the upper floors, we could see that the hotel was a grand and cavernous affair. Behind a grillwork gate, along an inner hall, was a palm courtyard and fountain, and a choir of parrots chortling in an immense cage. Somewhere upstairs an opera company was rehearsing — their voices, ringing throughout the halls and echoing throughout the place, attested to its scale.

“This was once the residence of a very highly placed Spanish lord,” she told us. “Over a hundred years ago, he was poisoned by one of his sons in a dispute over a woman, and so, as is very common in these parts, his ghost dwells in this place. Now and then he is known to come around to greet the guests; but do not be alarmed. He is mainly a sad ghost, and not as vengeful or malicious as one would think.”

“And you’ve seen this gentleman yourself?” Clemens asked her.

“Oh, I have. His English is not very good — you would think it would be, after he’s spent so much time around my guests — but my Spanish is very fine, and we do communicate, though I find some of his antique words hard to understand sometimes.”

“And what do you speak about, ma’am?” Clemens inquired.

“Well”—she seemed amused at the question—“just ’cause he’s dead doesn’t mean he can’t fall in love! As my late husband has told me, there is no end of emotions on the other side. No, gentlemen, he has often confessed to me that I am the very sight that makes his spirit heart tremble with joy! He calls me his beautiful angel and regales me with sonnets. I am flattered, of course, but my one loyalty is to my late husband. As you can imagine, my Spanish lord — el Conde Miguel Asturiano is his name — is none too happy about the situation. Nevertheless, he persists.”

She led us up to our room on the third floor. The accommodations consisted of two hard beds, each with its own canopy of mosquito netting and separated from the other by a Chinese-style screen; a common sitting area, a dresser, and large closet. The airy chamber’s finest feature was a broad balcony opening out to the inner courtyard.

“Gentlemen, as you can see, you have a sink, but as the water piped in through the city is fetid, use it only for washing. Each morning you will find several pitchers of clear drinking water outside your door. It is brought in from a place about nine miles north of here called Marianao; this will cost you each ten cents a day. I would also caution you to wear slippers and to never walk barefoot on the floors, as there are, in this city, tiny mites that will bore their way into your toes and settle there with an infection. We have a fine restaurant below us, facing the street, and a billiard room next to it. Just a few doors down from us is a public bathhouse; and above, on our roof, there is a promenade from which you will see the harbor and the ocean beyond, an especially delightful view at sunset.”