Well, I didn’t want my back to this guy, so we, too, stopped, about five feet from him. The three of us stood there, then Sara said to him, “Buenos días.”
He returned the greeting, then said to her in English, “Are you interested in Cuban pottery?”
CHAPTER 39
As the bus made its way from the cemetery to the Parque Central, Tad reminded us that our afternoon was on our own—for meaningful independent cultural experiences—until our 5 P.M. lecture given by Professor Nalebuff. Then to dinner at 6:30 at Mama Inés.
“Chef Erasmo,” said Antonio, “has cooked for Fidel Castro and Hugo Chávez. Also Jane Fonda, Jack Nicholson, and Jimmy Carter.”
All of whom got the senior citizen discount.
Well, our much-anticipated meeting with our man in Havana wasn’t as interesting as Sara’s meeting with Marcelo on the Malecón. Our guy just handed Sara a flyer advertising a nightclub called Cabaret Las Vegas. This is the kind of thing you toss in the next trash can, but the man said the magic words, so Sara scanned the flyer as we walked toward the bus, then handed it to me.
Written in pencil on the flyer was an address: Calle 37 No 570, El Vedado. And a time, 22 h, which five years in the Army taught me meant 10 P.M.
Sara said that this would be where we would meet our Havana contact, who would give us our instructions for meeting our contact in Camagüey, and provide our means of transportation.
Or sell us pottery. I asked, “Should we thank La Milagrosa for this timely miracle?”
“I already have.”
“Right.”
We committed the address to memory and Sara made confetti out of the flyer and dropped it into a storm drain on our way to the bus. As we boarded, Antonio said to Sara and me, “We will meet in the rear of the lobby.”
My dance card was filling up.
* * *
Our tour bus pulled up to the Hotel Parque Central and Alison advised, “Dress at Mama Inés is casual.”
Which was good, because we’d be living and sleeping in the same clothes for awhile.
We filed off the bus and Sara and I walked to the rear of the lobby, where Antonio joined us. Tad noticed, and he hesitated before he got on the elevator. I was sure this was going to be his last trip to Cuba. Mine, too.
Antonio looked at Sara. “Thank you for the envelope.” He patted the side pocket of his tight black pants. “And I have good news for you. I made calls last night and you will be expected at the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal tomorrow morning at seven.” He glanced around and said in a conspiratorial voice, “A man named Ramón will meet you at the entrance and walk you through passport control and onto the British cruise ship The Braemar, which sails at nine for Bridgetown in Barbados.” He looked at Sara. “I assume you wish to be on that ship?”
She nodded. “We do.”
“Good. You will be ticketed onboard and pay for your passage with a credit card.” He smiled. “I am your travel agent. And your guardian angel who will give Ramón a thousand dollars to pay people who will get you through security.”
The only possible response to all that bullshit was, “Muchas gracias.”
“De nada.” He continued, “It’s a two-day cruise to Bridgetown, and when you arrive there”—he smiled again—“you can continue your Caribbean holiday in Barbados.”
Nothing could top my Cuba vacation.
He advised us, “You should leave a message for Tad and Alison tomorrow morning that you are not feeling well and will remain in your rooms.”
“We know that.”
“Also, it would not be good for you to be seen leaving the hotel with your luggage, so you will leave it in your rooms, as though you are going out for a morning walk.”
“Good thinking.”
“You can buy what you need on the ship.”
Actually, we’ll be on our way to Camagüey Province to find sixty million dollars. And Antonio would be explaining to his police pals that the two Americanos disappeared during the night. Maybe they’d beat him up.
“Ramón has a description of you both. He is a short man, about sixty years old, and he will be wearing the green uniform of the security guards.”
But he’s actually an undercover agent for the Ministry of the Interior, and he has our photos from the airport.
“All you will need are your passports and your exit visas.” He asked, “Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
He looked at us and said, insincerely, “I’m sorry about this, but you have been caught up in historical events—a chess game played in Havana and Washington—and you are the innocent pawns.”
No, we’re actually guilty of something, but you don’t know what it is, asshole.
He informed us, “I need to see Ramón tonight, so I will not be at the dinner, but . . .” He glanced at me, then said to Sara, “I think I will see you later for the three hundred thousand pesos.”
What a deal. He gets laid, gets paid, and walks away, leaving us to get arrested.
Sara said to him, “I will see you later.” Then she said something to him in Spanish.
Antonio nodded, then looked at me. “I don’t think I should apologize. Do you?”
“I think you should leave.”
But he didn’t and said, “This is Cuba. My country. And you are lucky I am getting you out of here. So instead of your arrogance, I think perhaps you should thank me.”
Well, since he wasn’t going to fuck Sara, and since we were going to fuck him, I said, “Thank you.” I added, “Gracias.”
“De nada.” He smiled, then said to Sara, “I look forward to tonight,” and left.
She said softly, “I hate him.”
“Put the hate on hold.” Though, to be honest, if I had him alone I’d probably snap his neck. I asked her, “What time are you entertaining Antonio?”
“I confirmed midnight.”
Well, that would give us a little head start in getting out of Havana.
I asked her, “What other meaningful Cuban cultural experience would you like to have now?”
“We need to get my backpack.”
“Right. And we need to recon Calle 37.”
We went out into the heat of the city and took a Coco cab to the Vedado district, then walked to Calle 37, which was a street of nondescript buildings that looked like warehouses or auto repair shops. Number 570 was a ramshackle stucco building with an old wooden barn-like garage door, barred windows, and a rusty steel entrance door.
Sara said, “This looks like a place where there’d be a vehicle for us.”
I was reminded of the garage where the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre took place, but I didn’t share that thought with her.