We reached the tree-lined drive of the Nacional and entered the hotel lobby, which, unlike the Riviera, was hopping and crowded with what looked like an international clientele. I hoped Jack didn’t show up here tomorrow in one of his inappropriate T-shirts.
Cocktails on the terrace appealed to me, and we went out the back door.
The terrace was crowded, but for five CUCs the hostess found us two comfortable chairs that looked out at the Straits. A waitress appeared and Sara ordered a daiquiri and I got a Bucanero, por favor. A three-piece steel band played Caribbean Island music.
A soft breeze came off the moonlit water, stirring the palms, and the air was sweet with tropical flowers. The combo was playing “Guantanamera,” one of my favorites. Out over the water a jetliner was climbing out of José Martí Airport.
This would be the perfect end of a nice evening if I was going to get spontaneously laid.
On a different but somewhat related subject, Sara said, “This is romantic.”
Our drinks came and we clinked. “To a new friendship,” she said.
“And to you,” I replied.
We stared out at the water, and I could see the silhouettes of the old and new fortifications along the beach. People have a way of screwing things up, even in a tropical paradise.
She said, “I never asked you—do you have a woman?”
The best and shortest answer was, “No.”
“Why not?”
“I was married to my boat.”
“Be serious.”
“I never found the right woman.” I added, “But I’m open to that possibility.”
“Sounds like bullshit. That’s okay. When we leave here, we go our separate ways.”
I hate these kinds of conversations. “Let’s focus on getting out of here.”
“And if we don’t, we’ll always have this time together.”
I had the feeling I was being manipulated, but I also felt that Sara honestly liked me. If we actually got out of this place alive, we could sort it out. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking—two more days until sex on Sunday, then a few more days after that until we had to make some big decisions. Regarding the first subject, I spontaneously suggested, “Let’s get a room here.”
She didn’t reply.
“We could get arrested tonight and executed in the morning.”
She laughed but it was a nervous laugh. Clearly she wasn’t ready.
I was about to drop the subject but she said, “Get the check.”
“And a taxi?”
“And a room.”
“Wait right here.”
I moved quickly to the front desk and inquired about a room. The clerk sensed that I was on a pepino mission, and he said that only luxury rooms were available, and I had my choice of four—the Errol Flynn room, which sounded exciting, the Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra room, where I could also get laid, the Walt Disney room, which might be a little weird, or the Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan room, which sounded like a winner, for five hundred CUCs—more than I had in my wallet. But the clerk wanted me to get laid—or he wanted to pocket some cash—so he said he’d take part of the payment in American dollars, plus ten percent. Why is free sex so expensive?
I had to show him my passport and visa, and I signed in as “Dan MacDick,” which was either a Freudian slip or good tradecraft. He handed over a big brass key whose tag said: 232, Tarzan. That’s me.
I returned to the terrace, where Sara was downing another daiquiri. I asked, “Do you need a few more to do this?”
“It relaxes me.”
I put an American fifty on the cocktail table. “Ready?”
She nodded and stood.
We walked into the lobby and got on the elevator, neither of us saying anything.
On the second floor, we followed the hall sign to 232. The brass plaque on the door read: JOHNNY WEISSMULLER, TARZAN.
Sara either didn’t notice or had no comment. I unlocked the door and we went into the room. I turned on a light, which revealed a big space whose décor was sort of eclectic, with a few tacky touches such as the leopard skin on the floor and the tiger-striped bedspread. Maybe I should have asked for the Walt Disney room.
Anyway, there was a bar, thank God, and I said, “What would you like to drink?”
Sara seemed to have zoned out and was staring out at the water.
I opened the bar fridge and found a split of Mo?t and popped the cork, then filled two flutes and handed one to her.
She took it and stared at the bubbles.
I’m not pushy, but Major Johnson was in command now, so I had to strike the right balance between romance and sex. I turned on the radio and found some soft Son guitar music, which was sort of romantic.
Sara seemed to come out of her zone and I raised my glass. “To us.”
We clinked and drank. I asked her to dance, and we danced to the rhythmic guitars. Her body felt good against mine.
She said softly, “I don’t just jump into bed with any man.”
“Me neither.”
Anyway, the clothes came off as we danced and drank champagne, and we wound up in the shower together. I saw that Sara had a bikini cut and she sunbathed topless. You can learn a lot about people in the shower.
She ran her finger over the scars on my chest. “This makes me sad.”
“Could have been worse.”
She explored further, one hand cupping my bolas and the other wrapped around my pepino.
“It’s all there,” I assured her.
“Put it in a safe place.”
I grasped her buttocks and slid inside her.
She put her hands on my shoulders then arched her back, and the water ran over her face and breasts as I got into the slow, rhythmic beat of “Chan Chan” coming from the radio.
Olé!
* * *
Later, in bed, Sara wrapped her arms and legs around me and whispered, “I’m happy, but now I’m also . . . frightened.”
“That’s okay.”
“Last week, I lived for the day I could return to Cuba and steal the money from under their ugly noses . . . Now, I have . . . maybe something else to live for.”
“I had the same thought.”
“Were you frightened when you were there?”
“Every day.”
She stayed quiet awhile, then said, “I don’t want them to capture me.”
“I understand.” Same in Afghanistan. If you fell into the hands of the Taliban, you’d wish you were dead. I also remembered what Carlos had said about Villa Marista prison, and I was sure conditions there hadn’t improved much.
She cuddled up to me. “It would be nice to be rich in Miami with you. But it would also be nice to just be in Miami with you.”
“That would be nice.”
She rolled out of bed, went to the bar, and poured two more glasses of champagne. She noticed the key on the bar and asked, “Why is this called the Tarzan room?”
“Come here and I’ll show you.”
CHAPTER 24
If you fell into the hands of the Taliban, you’d wish you were dead.