This was going to be a long night. “Let’s get a drink.”
We walked into the hotel and found the lobby bar, a dimly lit place called Las Orquídeas, The Orchids, though there wasn’t an orchid in sight. There were, however, lots of empty cocktail tables and chairs, and Sara asked the hostess, in English, to seat us by the window because she wanted a view of her Buick that had seventeen skulls and título de propiedades in the back, though she didn’t explain all that.
We put our backpacks on the floor and sat in facing armchairs, leaving a seat for Felipe to form a triangle.
Sara said, “I was afraid you weren’t going to show up.”
“Where was I going to go?”
“I thought you were going to pick up a woman on the beach.”
Why didn’t I think of that?
“I was also worried you’d get stopped.”
It occurred to me that this mission could proceed without me. “That would have solved at least one problem.”
She leaned toward me. “If you didn’t show up here, I would have searched every inch of this island for you.”
“Same here.”
She sat back in her seat and glanced at her watch, then looked around the lounge. “Most of the guests are in the outdoor bar at this hour, and it’s usually empty here.”
I wasn’t overly impressed that Carlos—or someone—had sent an advance party to scout out the terrain. But I was again encouraged that there was a plan to get us out of here.
Regarding that, assuming Sara and I were the subjects of a police hunt, it wasn’t entirely safe to be meeting Felipe in a public place. The original plan anticipated that our disappearance from the Yale group might trigger a police response, but it would have been a low-priority search for two hot tamales missing from their tour group, and the police would have had fun searching the nude beaches around Havana. But because of shithead Antonio, Sara Ortega and Daniel MacCormick were now suspected of . . . whatever. And here we were in the bar of the Melia Hotel, and I wondered if our airport photos were appearing on Tele Rebelde.
Well, the lounge lighting was romantically dim, and the last week had changed our appearance a bit, so I didn’t think the waitress was going to start screaming, “Here are the Americanos they’re looking for!” We’d see soon enough.
Sara was staring at me and I flashed a phony smile.
“Where did you go?” she asked accusingly.
“I took a walk. How about you?”
“I stayed where you left me until I got kicked out at five, then I sat in the wagon and cried and worried about you.”
Daniel MacCormick, you are a true and total shit. “I just needed a walk.”
“Don’t do that again.” She added, “You stuck me with the bill.”
“I’ll buy tonight.” Unless Felipe is buying.
A waitress in a sort of sarong came by, wished us good evening, and didn’t start screaming for the police. She asked, “Are you guests of the hotel?”
Sara replied, “We’re at the Sol Club. We’ll pay in CUCs.”
“Sí, se?ora.”
Sara ordered a daiquiri—just like in Toronto—and I ordered a diet Coke so I could keep a clear head.
Sara said to me, “You should be trying something local.” She said to the waitress, “Please give this gentleman a Cuba Libre.” She asked me, “Have you ever had one?”
I smiled. “Once. On my boat.”
The waitress left to get our drinks and Sara asked, “Do you sail?”
“I’m a fisherman.”
“What do you fish for?”
“Peace.”
“That’s good.”
She looked at me. “I’m Sara Ortega. Do you love me?”
“I do.”
She leaned toward me. “Can we start all over?”
Meaning, can I put all the bullshit behind me? Why not? Life is short. “Sure.”
“The only lies you’re going to hear from me tonight or ever again are what I say to Felipe.”
I remembered a similar promise, but I replied, “Okay.”
“Are we going to be together when we get back?”
“I’d like that . . . but . . . you know, sometimes when people are thrown into a dangerous situation together—”
“They see what the other person is made of. I like what I’ve seen.” She looked at me.
“Me too.” I’ve done a great job. Sara, too.
Our drinks came and we touched glasses. Here’s looking at you, kid. Cue the soundtrack.
I said, “I assume I’m supposed to know that you and Felipe are an item.”
She nodded. “I was supposed to tell you.”
“When?”
“After we landed at the airport.”
I seemed to recall that when we took a walk at the Nacional, on our first day in Havana, she’d told me she didn’t have a boyfriend, which contradicted what she’d said on my boat when she told me she did have a boyfriend. But she later confessed—after sex—that, actually, she had a boyfriend. I should have written this down.
She reminded me, “I did tell you.”
“I appreciate your honesty.” I suggested, “Sometimes a name helps.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
Good question. If I’d known I was cuckolding Felipe, a teammate, would I have gone to bed with her?
“Mac?”
“It’s a moot question.”
“You sound like Carlos. That’s what lawyers say.”
“I’ve never been so insulted.”
“Let’s change the subject.”
That’s what women say. But I didn’t say that.
She sat back in her chair and confessed, “I’m a little nervous.”
“Drink up.”
“I think he’s going to take one look at us—”
“He already knows. Or he thinks he knows. Or he’s just pissed off that we’ve been together, day and night, for a week.”
She nodded.
“Let’s stick to business. And the business is getting the hell out of here without getting killed.” I assured her, “He knows that, and that’s his primary concern tonight. You are his secondary concern.”
“You know how to make a woman feel special.”
I agreed, “I’m a hopeless romantic.”
I also mentioned my concern about being recognized if our photos were being circulated, or broadcast on TV.
Sara had obviously thought about that—or been briefed—and replied, “The average Cuban wants nothing to do with the police, and they would only be good citizens if the police were looking for a murderer or rapist. They don’t care about enemies of the regime.” She added, “Most Cubans like Americans.”
“We’re Canadians.”
She continued, “The chivatos are another matter, but as you saw with Antonio, most chivatos would like to shake you down before they called the police.” She also reminded me, “There are few if any chivatos in the resort islands.”
“It only takes one.” I asked her, “What if the Ministry of the Interior has offered an actual monetary reward for information leading to our arrest?”
She didn’t reply immediately, then said, “Well . . . that would be a problem.” She added, “But we won’t be sitting here long after we meet our contact . . . Felipe.” She explained, “The tournament has booked an extra room at the Melia and Felipe is supposed to have a key, and that’s where we’re going to hide out—and freshen up—until we’re ready to leave here and get our cargo aboard the boat.”
“Okay. And who stays here to watch our cargo, and who goes up to the room?”