Tony Montana (part 3)
Avid readers of Tony Montana (part 2) will have been salivating at its cliff hanger ending: of me, trapped in a small open courtyard, with two angry Cubans. How, you’ll have been asking, did I get out of that mess?
Tony looked at Raul. Raul looked at me. The cigar waivered in his hand and for a moment I thought he’d snap it in two and offer some pithy analogy about that being what he’d do to my neck if I didn’t buy some cigars. [1] His finger tips whitened and contrasted against the burned caramel colour of the fat cigar, but at last he dropped it back into the wooden box. His eyes certainly suggested he’d happily kill me and then dump my body in the Malecón.
I returned his steely stare – the kind I usually reserve for backpackers unfolding the map section from their Lonely Planet.
“Are joo sure?” he said finally, defeated.
“Te dije, padre,” my voice like gravel. “I don’t want to buy.”
Tony punched his own thigh in frustration and Raul began shouting. I unclenched my fists [2] and relaxed. I could tell from the amount of spittle erupting from his mouth that Tony Montana was the recipient of his diatribe. Tony leaned back on his milk crate in an effort to dodge the shower. Eventually Raul finished. He slammed the lid down on the wooden chest and stood up, kicking his milk crate with his heel and sending it skittering into the wall. I stood up cautiously and kicked mine into the wall too.
“Lo siento, don Raul,” I said, having always wanted to call someone “don”. “I told Tony I didn’t want any cigars. It is his fault.”
Raul stared beyond me at the forlorn milk crate and shook his head. He shouted more and pointed at the green gate, jabbing his pudgy forefinger like it was a knife. I didn't need asking twice. I hurried over to the gate but there was no obvious handle; instead I grabbed the bars like a wrongfully incarcerated inmate and rattled the gate in its hinges. The clanging echoed down through the darkened hallways of the conclave.
“Callate,” shouted several voices from within.
The man who brought in the crate now appeared at the door brandishing a rusty skeleton key. He turned it in the lock and the swung the door open. I didn’t look back. I hurried down the mazy hallway, by following the light of the larger courtyard. A small mongrel dog scuttled alongside me on overgrown claws, its piercing bark amplified by the tiled floor and high ceilings.
Finally I arrived at the front door, which was open to the street. I leapt through it as though bursting over the finish line in a marathon. As I rested my hands on my thighs to grab my breath, a clammy hand squeezed my shoulder.
To my disappointment, when I looked up, partially blinded by the ferocious sun, Tony Montana’s pink face – the acne scars appearing deeper on account of the midday sun – stared down at me. The sparkle in his squinty eyes – that had been there on the night I met him and earlier this morning – was gone.
“Vamos,” he said joylessly.
There really was no need to continue with the charade. Tony Montana clearly didn’t want to guide me around Havana any more than I wanted him too. Yet, naturally, he didn’t want to give up totally. Not until he’d gotten something out of me. So he carried on, walking three metres or so ahead and turning only occasionally to wave a raw arm for me to catch up.
Eventually we ended up in old Havana. I didn’t know where I was on the map; I only remembered landmarks: Hotel Inglaterra, Parque Central, Hotel los Ambos Mundos. Then a museum or another plaza. He’d poke out a raw arm to point at a building or hotel and shout something gruff and indecipherable. I’d slow down hoping to lose him in the crowd of tourists but he’d always find me and clap his hands together. Vamonos.
He was in a hurry to finish the tour. We both had that in common.
Along the way I began pondering what I’d do at the end. Despite Tony being the worst guide imaginable, I’d agreed to his offer of guiding me around Havana knowing he’d expect payment at the end. How much or, more applicable, how little, could I comfortably pay him? Given he hadn’t allowed me to stop and admire any of the landmarks interesting me, did this count as a tour? Can a thinning bleach-blond man with little interest in guiding me around truly be called a “guide”? I dived a sweat-drenched hand into my shorts pocket and discreetly thumbed my wad of pesos convertibles. On cue, Tony sniffed the air as though sensing the cash.
Looking on the map later I saw we’d walked east until the harbour, then walked south as far as el Museo de Ron Havana Club, and then headed back west. I was hot and cranky. My stomach gurgled and seemed to contract as though squeezing the pitiful remains of its last meal over five hours ago.
“Tony,” I called, waving him to stop. “Tengo hambre.”
“Yo tambien,” he said, rubbing his sizeable stomach. “I take joo somewhere good.”
I had no idea where we were. All the appealing restaurants seemed some way behind us.
“Ok.” I conceded. I followed him a few more blocks – my feet aching and a sore forming on the top of my foot.
And that’s how we ended up in Chinatown.
Blink and you miss it. As far as I could tell, Havana’s Chinatown consisted of some red lanterns hung outside one or two restaurants.
We turned into a narrow street, made even narrower by the outdoor dining area each restaurant had. I wasn’t paying attention to exactly where we were going on account of not knowing where we were heading. Tony did though. He ignored the hawkers standing outside other restaurants and headed straight for the one at the far end. He nodded at the hawker outside.
Tony guided me through the main dining room and up the stairs at the back to a smaller dining area. We were the only two people upstairs yet there were eight waiters standing around in crisp white shirts and bowties.
“Ok Tony. Here’s the deal. Once we finish lunch the tour is over.”
“Que?” He was slumped down in his seat like a surly teenager.
“We eat, then you can go”
He smiled his piggy-eyed smile.
“Bueno,” he said, perking up. “But we talk payment.”
“Sure,” I said, bracing myself. Partly excited, partly concerned. “How much?”
“100 CUC,” he said immediately without a trace of sarcasm.
At that moment the waiter came to take our order. I’d barely had a chance to look at the menu, so glanced at it quickly. It was sticky to the touch. Each page was inserted into a plastic wallet which was covered in a film of grease. I opted for fried rice – the first item I recognised on the menu.
“Y una cerveza por favour,” I said. Tony asked for one too.
“A comer?” I asked, pointing at his stomach, which he’d been holding earlier as though it was a baby on life support.
“No tengo hambre,” he said curtly, dismissing the waiter with a waive if his hand.
Of course. We were discussing money.
“Cuanto?” I said, wanting him to repeat the figure. I was smiling.
“Ciento.” But he wasn’t as confident this time.
“Tony, that is unrealistic.”
He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. I could tell he liked the haggling too because a smile returned to his face.
“How much do joo t’ink? Sixty?”
I just shook my head. The waiter brought two bottles of barely cold Cristal to the table and we both grabbed one thirstily, keeping our eyes on each other as we tossed our heads back to sip.
“You haven’t shown me anything,” I said at last, wiping beer suds from my lips. “It’s not worth 10CUC.”
“40 CUC!”
“Seriously, you haven’t shown me anything. Nada. No quiero pagarte nada.”
Tony began his defence. About the distance we’d covered and all the places he’d waved a finger at. According to him this was top tour guiding.
I grabbed the menu again and looked at the prices.
“I’ll pay you 15 CUC, plus I’ll buy you two beers here.”
At that point my food arrived, suspiciously quick. All I wanted to do was eat in silence without feeling on edge. I wanted him gone. I stuffed a forkful of rice into my mouth and reached into my pocket. I separated the stack, skimming off a few notes at the top. Two battered 10 CUC notes appeared on the table.
“Here you go,” I said, handing him the money. “Make sure you pay for the beer on the way out.”
Big mistake. I should have known by the way in which he snatched the notes from my hand and excused himself that something was up. Of course, anyone naming themselves after one of Cuba’s most notorious gangsters has to be a little suspect anyway.
I collected the last grains of rice on the plate by pushing the bottom of the fork into the greasy plate, collecting them like one of those tennis ball tubes you see tennis coaches use so as not to bend over. I sat back in my chair and sipped my room temperature beer. I was in Cuba and life was good.
After a few minutes of self reflection and of feeling superior to most other backpackers, I waved a hand nonchalantly at a passing waiter and asked for the bill.
When it arrived on a faded piece of carbon paper, I did my best to decipher the waiter’s handwriting [3] but where the description was ilegiible, the total wasn’t.
$130 CUC!
It should have cost no more than $25 CUC, including Tony Montana’s beers.
As always when I hear of injustice towards backpackers, I was enraged. I called back the waiter and waived the bill at him.
My Spanish language skills were limited, but I wasn’t going to/couldn’t afford to pay this bill.
“Yo comí chow mien y dos cervezas,” I said. “Cuesta $15 CUC.”
“No. Joor friend order too,” said the waiter.
“Sí,” I agreed. “Pero yo give him money para pagar.”
“He say joo pay.” The waiter was shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“No voy a pagar,” I said again.
The waiter disappeared down the stairs. Concerned, I grabbed my bag and followed him down, shouting “no voy a pager” to no one in particular
The other waiters overheard and gathered around – a semi-circle of intimidation. The ceiling fan above us creaked above us as it circled asthmatically. As I surveyed the restaurant I realised it was just me and the meseros.
It was a stand off. I didn’t quite know how I’d get out but I had the breezy confidence that comes with being a foreigner in a poor country, where the local police weigh heavily in favour of tourists. I was just about to say “voy a llamar la policia” when Tony Montana’s blistered pink head appeared at the side of the door. The waiters saw my gaze and turned to the door.
“Que pasa?” said Tony, appearing in the frame. In his hand still was the 20 CUC I’d given him.
“Hije puta,” I shouted, pointing at him and at the money in his hand. “What are you doing, you fucking cheat?”
Tony entered the restaurant with his hands clasped at his chest, feigning any knowledge of wrongdoing on his part. The tall waiter turned to him angrily and jabbered away in Spanish. It was clear to me they knew one another. Clearly this wasn’t the first time Tony had taken a foreigner here.
I reached over and swiped the 20CUC from Tony’s hand and thrust it into one of the waiter’s. I gave another 10CUC from my pocket.
“Ya. Pagué.” I said. I pushed through the waiters and pointed an accusing finger into Tony Montana’s face, then strode out onto the street. My chest was pumping and my legs wobbled. I was on a full adrenaline rush. As I glanced up and down the empty lane I realised I had no real idea of where I was; all I knew was where I’d come from. I looked over my shoulder – worried all of a sudden I may be accosted. Quickly I made the decision to walk the same route we’d come from.
It occurred to me as I walked – my feet hot, covered in black soot and aching – that all my belongings were in the casa particular. Everything would be gone by the time I got back.
It took me one hour to retrace my steps all the way to the case. It was dusk and the sunset streaked red and purple across the sky. The Malecón teemed with people enjoying he slight shift in temperature.
It was empty outside the front door of my building.
For the first time in a while I felt alone. I climbed up to the casa particular and let myself in. Tony Montana wasn’t there. In fact, I didn’t see him again. He’d disappeared into the wind.
Click on the link below to read the final part:
[1] And he would have done so too, had he not been trying to encourage me to buy the cigars.
[2] Don’t think for a moment I wouldn’t have gone down without a fight.
[3] For a nation which prides itself on its literacy, here was one waiter who couldn’t write chow mien in noodles.