I confessed, “I’m not Yale.”
Ashleigh explained that TD was Timothy Dwight, the name of one of the twelve residential colleges that made up Yale.
Alexandra was JE—Jonathan Edwards—and they were both Class of ’02, which was my class at Bowdoin, but somehow I felt older. The Army will do that to you.
A young man joined us, maybe thinking I needed reinforcements, and introduced himself to me as Scott Mero. I asked him, “Are you TD?”
“No, JE.”
Who’s on first?
Anyway, I was hoping that Sara noticed that I was talking to these attractive young ladies, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The mating game is TD—Totally Dumb.
Scott Mero, as it turned out, was married to Alexandra Mancusi, who’d kept her maiden name, she told me, and only married Scott Mero because she didn’t have to change her monogramed towels. Funny. I needed another drink and was about to excuse myself and go to the bar, but Tad called for our attention and the group obliged, except for Richard Neville, who couldn’t tear himself away from Sara.
Tad officially welcomed us to the Yale alumni educational tour of Cuba. He kept it short, ending with, “Put your prejudices aside and discover Cuba for yourself,” which seemed to be the theme of this trip—though we had to stay with the group to discover Cuba for ourselves.
Tad introduced Alison, who also kept it short and counseled us, “There will be some challenges ahead in the coming days, but when you get home you’ll be glad you came.” Alison introduced our Cuban tour guide, Antonio, who she said was the best guide in Cuba. Certainly he had the tightest pants.
Antonio was about thirty-five, not bad-looking and he knew it. He gazed out at the group, smiled, spread his arms, and shouted, “Buenas noches!”
A few people returned the greeting, but not enough people, apparently, because Antonio shouted again, “Buenas noches!”
The response was better and Antonio flashed his pearly whites. “Bienvenido. Welcome to Cuba. Welcome to Havana.” He let us know, “This is a beautiful group. And intelligent, I am sure.”
I asked Sara, “What is the Spanish word for bullshit?”
She gave me an elbow in the ribs.
Antonio continued, “This will be the most amazing experience for you. And you are so lucky to have Tad and the beautiful Alison to be your group leaders, and I am sure we will all make your experience beautiful.”
Antonio was not only full of shit, he was enthusiastic about it.
Carlos had advised me—and I’m sure Sara also knew—to be wary of the tour guides, because most of them were informants who had the secret police on their speed dial. Antonio looked more like a gigolo than a chivato, but I’d keep Carlos’ warning in mind.
Antonio concluded, “I am keeping you from a beautiful dinner, and you will not forgive me, so I will close my big mouth and open it only to eat.”
Laughter from the Americanos who wanted to show their love to the ethnically different bullshit artist.
There were four round tables set up for dinner and it was open seating, and when that happens there’s usually some hesitation and confusion. You don’t want to wind up next to assholes. Sara sat and patted the seat next to her. “Sit here, Mac.”
I sat, and as the table of ten filled up I saw that Richard Neville had planted his butt on the other side of Sara. The other seven people included Cindy Neville, Professor Nalebuff, the two couples who hadn’t laughed at my Yale joke, and unfortunately, Antonio, who said, “We will have a beautiful dinner.”
A waiter took drink orders and I ordered a double vodka, straight up.
Shrimp tartare was the appetizer, and Professor Nalebuff, a bearded gentleman of about sixty, said he’d been to Cuba twice, and advised us, “This may be the best meal you’ll get in Cuba.”
Antonio disagreed, saying, “I have booked eight beautiful paladares—you know this? Privately owned restaurants which are a new thing to Cuba.”
Nalebuff said dryly, “We also have privately owned restaurants in America.”
“Yes, good. But they are expensive. Here, not so much. And everyone should try a government restaurant. Where the people eat very cheaply.”
The two middle-aged couples across from me thought that was a swell idea.
Antonio did not keep his mouth shut as promised, and he held court as I knew he would. He sounded like a dyed-in-the-wool Commie, or he was just trying to provoke a response from the privileged Americans as he shoved shrimp tartare in his mouth. The two couples seemed to be getting instantly brainwashed, agreeing with Antonio about the justice and humanity of socialism. If they spent an hour in a kennel, they’d probably come out barking. So much for an Ivy League education.
Neville had little to say except, “Pass the wine,” and his wife began a tête-à-tête with Nalebuff.
Antonio looked at Sara for a few long seconds, then said to her, “So you are Cuban.”
“I am an American.”
“Yes. But a Cuban. Do you speak Spanish?”
“Poco.”
“We will practice. You should speak your native tongue.”
I thought he was going to ask her if she was born in Cuba, or how her parents or grandparents had come to America. But then I realized this was a loaded subject for those who left and those who stayed.
Antonio said to her, “Welcome home.”
Sara didn’t reply.
Antonio had apparently gotten tired of his own voice, so he began asking each of us to say something about ourselves, starting with the two middle-aged couples, but he was not a good listener and his dark eyes went dead.
Barry Nalebuff told us he was a history professor at Yale and he had two lectures scheduled, the topic of which was Cuban-American relations since the Spanish-American War. He assured us, “I’ll keep them short, and the takeaway is that it’s a love-hate relationship, like a troubled marriage, and both sides need serious anger management counseling.”
Antonio said reflexively, “America has always treated Cuba as a colony. Until the revolution.”
Nalebuff replied, “I address that in my lecture. Please come.”
Antonio didn’t commit, though the lecture might do him some good. He looked at me. “And you? Why have you come to Cuba?”
“I thought the brochure said Cayman Islands.”
That got a laugh. Even Antonio smiled. He looked at Sara again, then said to Neville, “So Tad tells me you are a famous author. Tomorrow we go to Hemingway’s house. You will be inspired.”
“I don’t like Hemingway.”
His wife, of course, contradicted him. “You love Hemingway, darling.”
Antonio didn’t know what to say to that, so he called the waiter over for another bottle of wine. Antonio had a good gig.
The fish course was served and Sara asked me, “What is this?”
I can identify a hundred kinds of fish on the line, but not on the plate. I actually don’t eat fish. “It’s a henway.”
“What’s a henway?”
“About three pounds.”
“Stupid joke.”