I got checked in and went up to the sixth floor and found my room.
The park-view room was clean and functional and had a queen-sized bed and a flat-screen TV. It also had its own safe, which I wouldn’t trust to be safe from the policía. There was a minibar but it was empty.
The room was sweltering and I lowered the temperature, which didn’t seem to do anything. I unpacked my few belongings, got out of my sweaty clothes, and hit the shower. I don’t know why I expected hot water, but cold showers were what I needed to lower my libido until Sunday.
I got dressed in clean clothes, including my blue blazer, and went down to the lobby bar. They didn’t have Corona, so I ordered a Bucanero. Six CUCs. A third of a month’s wages. The only person I recognized from our group was Tad, who was reading a stack of papers at the end of the bar, sipping a bottled water. I sat next to him and asked, “What are you reading?”
He looked up at me. “Oh . . . Mr. . . .”
“MacCormick. Call me Mac.”
“Okay . . . these are my lecture notes.” He put his hand on them, and I felt I owed him an explanation for my intemperate roster-snatching, but instead I bought him a Bucanero.
To make conversation as I kept my back to the bar, looking for Sara in the lobby, I told Tad, “My four-star room has no hot water, and the A/C has asthma.”
“Sorry. It’s intermittent.” He gave me a tip. “There’s actually hot water in the sink and the tub. The showers seem to be on a separate system.” As for the A/C, he said, “Mine’s out, too. Havana has power problems.”
“What’s going to happen when a half million spoiled Americans hit this city?”
“God only knows.”
“At least the beer is cold.”
“Usually.”
We chatted a bit as I looked at people getting off the elevators. Tad was actually okay, but he took the opportunity to lecture me, “We missed you at lunch. It’s important that you stay with the group.”
“Why?”
“This is a group tour. If you go off on your own to someplace that we are not licensed to visit—like the beach, or on a boat, or any place that is not considered educational—then we risk losing our educational tour license from the State Department.”
“How does the State Department classify bordellos?”
He actually smiled, then confided, “As a practical matter, you’re free to do what you want after the group dinners.”
“So no bed check?”
“Of course not.” He suggested, “There are some good nightclubs in Havana. I’ll mention them at my first lecture tomorrow night.”
“Great. What’s your lecture about?”
“The history of Cuban music.”
“I don’t want to miss that one.”
“Actually, attendance at the lectures is required.”
I guess TBA didn’t mean what I thought it meant. “Can I see your notes? So I can ask intelligent questions.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“That’s okay. Let me ask you something—there’s a lady in our group, the one I helped with her luggage at the airport, Sara Ortega. Do you know anything about her?”
He shot me a look. “No. I don’t know any of the people in our group.”
“I hope you get to know Alison.”
He ignored that and asked, “Is there anyone from your class in the group?”
“I’m not a Yalie. Can’t you tell?”
He smiled politely.
I asked him, “Did anyone go off on their own last time you were here?”
“No . . . Well, a couple did go to a Havana beach.”
“Did you have them arrested?”
He forced a smile. “I just spoke to them in private, and I also reiterated the rules to the group at my next lecture.”
“Are you obligated to call the embassy if someone breaks the rules?”
“I . . . Well, last year the embassy wasn’t open. But . . . why do you ask?”
“I was hoping I could go scuba diving while I’m here.”
“Sorry, you can’t.” He added, “It would cause all of us trouble.”
“But no problem with a bordello?”
He again forced a smile. “I don’t think they exist here. But if you discover otherwise, let me know.”
I smiled. Tad was really okay—just a little uptight and anxious about his responsibilities as a group leader in a police state. I hoped he handled it well when Sara and I disappeared. Bye-bye license.
We chatted a bit, and Tad asked me, “What do you do for a living?”
Good question. And that’s what I was asked on my visa application. Carlos and I both knew that my cover story—my legend, in Intel parlance—should be close to the truth in case the Cuban authorities did a background check. You don’t want to be caught in an unnecessary lie, so Carlos and I agreed that my occupation was “fisherman,” and there was no way anyone would connect “fisherman” to the Pescando Por la Paz, especially now that I wasn’t the registered owner of a boat in the tournament.
“Mister MacCormick?”
Also, Tad would have photocopies of everyone’s Yale travel application, so I replied, “I’m a fisherman.”
“I see. Well, I hate to say this to you, but Cuba is a fisherman’s paradise. Though not for you.”
“Maybe next time I’m here.”
“Eventually Americans can come here as tourists with no restrictions.”
“Can’t wait.”
Well, I had set the stage, delivered a few lines, and it was time to exit left. “See you at cocktails.”
I took my beer to a cocktail table in the lobby and surveyed the lounge. A few of our group had drifted in, but not Sara.
Carlos, in his briefing, had told me that the hotels used by Americans were under surveillance by undercover agents from the Orwellian Ministry of the Interior. But because Cuban citizens were generally not allowed in the hotels for foreigners, these surveillance men tried to look like Latin American tourists or businessmen. I should be able to spot them, Carlos said, by their cheap clothing, bad manners, or by the fact that they never paid for their drinks. Sounded more like a scene from an Inspector Clouseau movie than Big Brother in Cuba. But maybe I should listen to Carlos.
As I was sitting there, it hit me—I was in Communist Cuba, where paranoia was a survival tool. And at some point in the next ten days, I was going to be either rich in America, or in jail here, or worse. Also, I was going to have sex with a woman I barely knew—not a first, but exciting nonetheless.
Regarding Sara, empathy is not one of my strong points, but I thought about the risks she was taking. She had much stronger motivations for being here than I did, but that didn’t diminish her courage. In fact, to be less empathetic, her motivations could lead her into some risk-taking that I wouldn’t approve of. Beware of people who are ready to die for a cause—especially if they’re your team leader.