Tony Montana (part 2) — The Glorified Gypsy

Tony was eager to get going. I’d just turned up with my backpack and my t-shirt was soaked with sweat. At 9am it was hot and humid already and the sun bore down on us as we looked over the Caribbean ocean from the crumbling balcony. My new home.

Tony’s black brother and black family made a fuss over my arrival and explained they could cook me breakfast, lunch and dinner if I wanted. They seemed desperate to lock me in but all I wanted to do was get out and explore.

I noted their disappointment.

“Vamonos” he shouted in his gruff voice, clapping his hands loudly. As with most Habaneros he swollowed the “s”.

I nodded.

“Tony Montana gonna show joo Old Habana. Gonna show joo best cigars!” He mimicked puffing on a fat Churchillian cigar, lolling his head to the side to blow the imaginary smoke into the air.

“Sí,” I nodded, going along with his charade. I held my thumb and fingertips to my mouth, then air kissed them. Universal sign language for: buenisimo; or, the bullshitters’ sign language for going along with something to appease a nutter.

We descended the narrow staircase and stepped onto the street below. The Malecón was in full flow by now. Almendrones creaked slowly along, trailed by plumes of thick exhaust fumes and soundtracked by the incessant squeaking of their suspension and brakes; motorbikes and Cocotaxis – none more powerful than 200cc - buzzed hyperactively past; guaguas– pink semi-trailer buses rumbled along, diesel spewing from the trucks’ exhaust stacks, crammed full of passengers.

The façade of every building along this stretch of the Malecón was decaying before my eyes.

We turned off the Malecón straight away, heading south down Lealtad for a couple of blocks. Tony led the way, striding out in front. His scalp, easily visible through the thinning bleached hair, burned pink under the sun.

“Vamos,” he said, waving me to catch up. “Before go into la Havana vieja,” he shouted, “I do some chores first.”

Not knowing any better, I nodded. Crossed San Lazaro, then Lagunas and Ánimas and, before long, we’d turned off Lealtad too. He stopped outside a house and grinned.

“I gonna introduce joo to my wife,” he growled, an ugly grin on his face. He hammered a pink fist against the timber door of the house. Flecks of brown paint – centuries old – drifted to the ground. Human-caused erosion.

The street was filled with people. Some pushed carts along selling avocados and potatoes; others: brooms and cleaning gear. Many sat in the shade of their doorways and just looked on, nothing better to do. All of them seemed to enjoy looking at me.

Tony banged on the door again as we stared at one another. He pulled a wad of pesos cubanos from his faded black wallet and counted them nonchalantly.

Despite knowing the moneda nacional was worth bobbins, Tony thumbed the stack with admirable flamboyance. I nodded to indicate just how impressed I was as Tony rammed the notes into his jeans pocket.

He broke off our gaze to thump at the door again.

“Maria!” he bellowed. “Abre la puerte!”

A loud but indecipherable female voice barked back. A chain lock jangled inside and the door swung open. A thin woman stood in the doorway, her hand on her hip. She was barefoot, wore a pink faux-leather miniskirt and green vest which she had rolled up above her small pot belly. A trail of thin black hair stretched from the waistband of her skirt to her exposed navel.

Tony briefly introduced us, before engaging in a clandestine conversation none of which I understood. Their furtive glances at me, however, gave me a rough idea.

It finally ended when Tony reached into his pocket to retrieve the money and placed it into her outstretched hand. Maria counted it, nodded at both of us, then closed the door behind her.

Tony wasn’t finished. We stopped at two other houses, giving each woman who answered the door a decreasing amount of notes, so that I estimate the last woman received approximately a third of what Maria had.

“My wife always get more,” he grinned. “My girlfriends not so much.”

It was 11am already My guide had so far only shown me how he keeps his wife and mistresses sweet.

“I want you to show me la Habana Vieja now, please,” I said to Tony.

“Ok ok. Jus’ one more thing,” he said.

“What?”

“I gonna introduce joo to mis padres.”

The look on my face must have said it all.

“Don’t worry, it just round the corner.”

He led me on without waiting for my response. For once he wasn’t exaggerating. Just around the corner he stopped to beat at a blue door.

A black couple answered. The woman was in an ankle-long green nightie; the man in loose-fitting cream chinos and a black vest rolled up over his substantial belly. Both were old and portly and with matching stern faces.

“This is my parents,” said the very white, very pink, Tony Montana. He leaned in to kiss the woman on her cheek.

Tony looked back over his shoulder. “Mama, this is the inglés I tell you about.”

Before I could register this piece of information I was pushed inside the house.

“Sigué,” they all said, leading me through a labyrinth of hallways and doors. We were in a building that would have once been a huge colonial house for a single family, but which, post revolution, was divided up into about eight different apartments with eight different families.

Every door to every apartment was open, and deep in the recess of each dimly lit home was TV blaring out the same Cuban telenovela.

Grey water from all the washing machines pooled into the centre of the open court area and slowly trickled out through an open gutter. Dogs barked from every apartment and frail mangy cats wobbled on their legs in a state of malnourished shock.

We turned left then right, then right again. Finally, Tony waved me into a smaller open court area paved with broken terracotta tiles, three metres by three metres. I expected to carry on through another door, but Tony’s father Raul closed it and then glanced around.

“Ok” he bellowed, apparently satisfied the coast was clear.

A skinny man walked in with three milk crates and a small wooden chest. The crates were thrown in the centre of the courtyard upside down and the chest placed carefully in the middle. The skinny man nodded at Tony’s father and left.

Tony closed the green-gated door behind him and locked it shut. It was then I realised it was just the three of us: Tony Montana, Raul and me.

Raul clapped his paws loudly together and rubbed then eagerly.

“Bueno, muchacho,” he barked, smiling a crooked grin.

He gestured to the upturned milk crates. I took a seat.

“My son tell me you want buy cigar,” said Raul, clapping a hand on Tony Montana’s pockmarked shoulder.

Tony nodded in agreement and gestured for me to follow suit. I frowned instead,

Raul leaned over his bulbous stomach for the small chest. Balancing it on his pudgy thighs he opened the unlocked chest, then, wedging his fat fingers down either side, he lifted out an amber-coloured cigar box, with “Cohiba” branded into lid.

Tony observed me for signs of being impressed.

“The inglés want cigar for sure,” he said, punching me playfully in the arm and puffing an invisible cigar with his other hand.

“Disculpa,” I said, rubbing my bicep. “There’s a misunderstanding.”

“Joo want cigar?” said Raul. “These Cohiba. Best in Cuba!” He lifted one out of the box and ran it under his nose, sniffing loudly. “Hmm. I sell you only the best, straight from factory…”

“Mi padre has friend at factory. Cohiba the best in Cuba, Inglés,” said Tony like an unconvincing marketer.

I leaned in toward Raul and gestured for the cigar. I had no intention of buying it but I felt the need to look interested all the same. The thing is, although I’d done no research on Cuba prior to my visit, I had read about their cigars. Specifically, what I’d read was to beware of the black market. For two reasons: (1) the black market cigars do not come with the official seal, meaning they may be confiscated by customs upon departure; and (2) black market cigars were just as likely to be filled with toenails and dirt as they were to be the real deal.

Oh, there was a third reason: I had no money.

As I inhaled the earthy smell of the chubby cigar, I eyed the locked gate and calculated the height of the walls. Then I closed my eyes and wondered how Tony and his father were going to kill me, and how they’d dispose of my body.

To read the concluding part read Tony Montana (Part 3)