And finally, I knew, as Sara did, that sleeping with me was actually not part of the job, and that our romance could easily be faked—and that was the original script that she and Carlos had probably worked out, thus the made-up boyfriend. But Sara had changed the script and changed her mind, and not only was she willing to die for her cause, she was also willing to . . . well, fuck for it. That’s a dedicated woman.
And what Sara wanted from me in exchange for sex was loyalty, reliability, and commitment. Men in combat bond in other ways. Women in dangerous situations with a male partner have figured out that the sexual bond can usually keep the idiot in line.
Or maybe she actually liked me. As unbelievable as that seems. And that could lead to a whole different set of problems. Especially if the feeling was mutual.
I finished my beer and checked my watch. Cocktails in fifteen minutes.
As in a war zone, I had a sense of heightened awareness, coupled with a contradictory sense of unreality. Like, this can’t be happening. But it was, and as I promised Sara on The Maine, if I got here I wouldn’t go back on my word. I’m all in, as we used to say in the U.S. Army. Good to go.
Sex, money, and adventure. Does it get any better than that?
CHAPTER 17
The upscale open-air rooftop restaurant was in a new wing of the hotel, and it could have been in Miami Beach. The winds of change were blowing in Cuba, but not the trade winds, and it was still hot and humid.
I’m usually on time for cocktails and chicks, but about half our group had not yet arrived, including Sara. Tad, Alison, and Professor Nalebuff were standing near a potted palm, talking to a tall guy with long, swept-back hair and tight pants who I guessed was our Cuban guide.
Everyone looked refreshed after their long day of airports, bureaucratic bullshit, and tropical heat. Cold showers are invigorating. As per our Travel Tips, the men in our group wore sports jackets, but no ties. The ladies had repaired their makeup and seemed cool and comfortable in nice summer dresses.
A waiter came up to me with a tray of mojitos, which like the daiquiri had been invented in Cuba and probably should have stayed here. But to get some gas in the tank, I took one.
I noticed that Richard Neville was mopping his brow with a handkerchief and also downing a mojito while simultaneously grabbing hors d’oeuvres from passing waitresses and somehow managing to smoke a cigarette. Amazing. His pretty wife, Cindy, was alone, staring out over the parapet at the lighted city, sipping a mojito. Under other circumstances I would have joined her, but I was about to be swept off my feet by Sara Ortega.
I spotted a bar and walked over to it. Former combat infantry officers don’t drink cocktails that come in primary colors with little umbrellas in them, so I gave my mojito to the bartender and ordered a vodka on the rocks.
Sara suddenly appeared beside me and said to the bartender, “May I have a Cuba Libre?” She added, “Por favor.”
She seemed to notice me for the first time and said, “Excuse me, what did you order?”
“Vodka.”
“You should be trying something local.” She said to the bartender, “Please give this gentleman a Cuba Libre.” She asked me, “Have you ever had one?” She smiled.
Playacting is fun. “Once. On my boat.”
“Do you sail?”
“I’m a fisherman.”
“What do you fish for?”
“Peace.”
“That’s good.” She put out her hand. “Sara Ortega.”
“Daniel MacCormick.” We shook, and I reminded her, “We met at the airport and took a picture together in the plaza.”
“Your arm was sweaty.”
Sara was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder silk dress that reached down to the straps of her patrician sandals. Her lipstick was that frosty pink that used to drive me crazy when I was a teenager.
The bartender gave us our Cuba Libres and I raised my glass. “To new adventures.”
We touched glasses. Here’s looking at you, kid.
She asked, “What brings you to Cuba?”
“Curiosity. How about you?”
“I’m looking for something.”
“I hope you find it.”
“I will.”
She walked to the parapet and gazed out over the city. “It’s beautiful from up here. But down there, not everything is beautiful.”
“I noticed.”
“But still romantic in a strange way.”
Sara pointed out some of the landmarks of the city, then drew my attention to the harbor. “You can see the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal on the far side of that plaza.” She stepped out of character and said, “We saw this on Google Earth.”
I nodded and asked, “Where is the Nacional?”
She pointed to the tall building, silhouetted against the sea, then pointed out the wide boulevard that snaked along the seashore. “That’s the Malecón, where half of Havana gathers on hot nights.”
“To do what?”
“To walk and talk. It is a place for lovers, poets, musicians, philosophers, and fishermen . . . and those who gaze toward Florida.”
Well, I thought, if you don’t have air-conditioning, television, money, or hope, the Malecón might be better for the soul than church. I was actually beginning to feel sorry for these people, though I almost envied their simple lives. As for Sara, she was more Cuban than she knew.
Sara said we should be sociable, and she took my arm and led me around the rooftop to meet our fellow travelers, introducing me as Mac, though I was Daniel when she picked me up at the bar. She told a few people that I wasn’t a Yalie, but that everyone should be nice to me anyway. That got some polite chuckles.
We circulated a bit, and Sara did most of the talking. I was starting to feel like a hooked tuna, so I joined in the dumb cocktail conversations. I remembered an old Bowdoin joke and said to a group of people, “I hear Yale is going co-ed. They’re going to let men in.” That didn’t go over well.
Anyway, about half the group seemed normal and the other half needed more mojitos, or an enema.
I used to be good at cocktail parties in Portland, college, the Officers’ Club, and Wall Street. But four years at sea and too many Key West dive bars had apparently taken the shine off my silver tongue. Not that I gave a shit.
Sara, on the other hand, was good with tight-assed strangers, poised and charming. Her eyes sparkled. What was more impressive was that she knew she was possibly facing death, and she was handling that well for a rookie.
My own face-offs with death had made me see death differently. Death had become not a possibility, but a probability, so I made peace with that dark horseman, and that peace has stayed with me on my borrowed time.
I looked at Sara, who was engaged in a conversation with four men who obviously found her to be the life of an otherwise dull and awkward icebreaker party. It would be ironic, I thought, if I finally found the love of my life on the eve of . . . whatever.
I found myself in a conversation with two of the younger and better-looking women in our group—Alexandra Mancusi and Ashleigh Arote. Alexandra and Ashleigh were wearing wedding rings, but I couldn’t remember if their husbands were on the group roster. Nametags would have been helpful for me tonight, indicating marital status and where the spouse was. But then I remembered that my dance card was filled. Old bachelor habits die hard.
Ashleigh said, “You look familiar. Were you TD?”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. “If you mean totally drunk, yes.”
Both ladies laughed.