Castro's Downfall (part 3):
Citrus for the Mistress
On the eighth day in Trinidad Alejandro asked us if we wanted something other than lobster. He said he could procure a whole fish big enough to feed us all. We agreed. We no longer bothered with Casa de la Musica to drink or socialise; Alejandro’s illegal paladar served as our personal restaurant, meeting place and hang out. From his terrace we looked down upon the swathes of bronzed tourists hobbling along the cobbled streets and considered ourselves infinitely superior to them.
The swindle which led to Kristian and Martin losing all their money on day one in Havana did not have the effect of making them more wary or street smart. Instead, as though desperate to prove their deception to be an aberration of the Cuban psyche rather than the norm, the Danes threw all their trust into Alejandro. When we told him we were leaving Trinidad and returning to Havana, a teary-eyed Kristian expected Alejandro to beg him to stay and dine on his lobster forever, or at the very least to tear up as well.
“Excellent,” said Alejandro upon being told. Then he huddled us together and lowered his voice. “I have girlfriend in Vedado and she has casa particular which joo can stay.” He glanced over his shoulder to check his wife was not around, then placed his large hand on Kristian’s chest. “I give you present to take her.”
CASA DE LA MUSICA: Though these steps provided us with nightly entertainment at the beginning of our turn in Trinidad, the lure of Alejandro’s illegal paladar, with its lobster dinners, cheap mojitos, and opportunity to sneer at other tourists going to Casa de la Musica was difficult to refuse.
Kristian was touched. He took Alejandro’s hand in his and placed the other on Alejandro’s shoulder. He looked into the Cuban’s brown eyes the way some men insist you do when saying “cheers”, as though doing so means more.
Before leaving I settled my account with Nancy and Winston. It was a bit awkward because I’d only eaten a couple of times with them and thus deprived them of some extra money. Nancy had come up the stairs to the terrace to hand me the bill, where I was throwing my grubby t-shirts into the backpack. A yellow sarong was draped over the wrought iron rocking chair.
She handed me the bill, written on carbon paper.
“Life so hard here,” began Nancy as I checked the bill. “Muy difficult to have casa particular. The government take everything, take money each month even if nobody kind like you don Carlitos stay.”
I shook my head sympathetically and tutted appropriately. “Que pena.”
“Look how hard we work don Carlitos. But no money. Life very hard in Cuba.”
Nancy held a hand decorated with green and red fake nails to her head and patted the lime green rollers still in her hair. Her lips were pursed and her eyes cast helplessly at the sarong.
“No hay comida. No hay nada.”
“It’s terrible,” I said, shaking my head to signal my disgust with her Communist rulers. I was trying to calculate the bill discreetly but I could barely read Nancy’s handwriting. Only the final figure was visible. CUC20 a night sounds cheap up front, but the when totalled over the course of two weeks, plus breakfast every day and drinks, I was hoping to find a mistake in her calculations to bring the bill down a bit.
“The only way to make money with a casa is to sell food. Look at abuela.” Nancy pointed a talon down the terracota terrace stairs, where abuela Victoria could be seen hissing at passers by to buy her Cohibas. “Even she need work. Need make money.”
I reluctantly pulled out my wallet and, with it tilted towards me, thumbed the convertible pesos for the exact amount. Extracting the notes using the thumb and forefinger is a skill I’ve mastered when in poorer countries, as is the wistful sigh I follow it up with to signal that my parting with this money has left me poor as well. You know, we’re very alike, you and I is how I planned to explain away my lack of tip.
Nancy’s eyes were on the notes now, scanning from a distance. I handed them over to her and she lowered her closed fists in front of her. She did her best to pretend she trusted me to give her the correct amount, but her thumbs, though dextrous, belied the pretence.
“This very beautiful,” she said at last, pointing to the sarong.
“Thanks,” i said.
“Of course I made the trade neither of us wanted to make, but I vowed to never allow a person from the third world to emotionally blackmail me again.”
“Jellow is my favourite colour. Me gusta mucho,” she said. Nancy moved slowly towards it and sampled the cheap cloth in her hands.
“Muy suave,” she exalted of the polyester/nylon mix, as though sampling the finest cashmere scarves in an Indian bazar.
I could tell where it was going. In Ubud, many years before, my dog meat dinner was interrupted by an artist peddling his wares. The man flicked through his portfolio of landscape oil paintings (rice paddies and volcanos mainly) and quoted the price each time.
“Look,” I said, half a labrador stuck in my teeth. “I’m a backpacker. I have no money. Sorry. Very nice paintings though.”
I patted my pockets at the mention of money and shrugged my shoulders, assuming that was the end of it, similar to how one behaves when accosted by chuggers on a busy high street. The artist was persistent, however, and refused to accept my excuse. I had no money to spend on artwork; however, feeling sorry for the man, I showed a couple of grubby rupiah notes - worth less than five quid to prove I had nothing. The man said he’d sell me the painting for that amount, plus the t-shirt on my back. That t-shirt was my newest t-shirt and I baulked at the idea of trading it for a painting I didn’t want; however, the man now had tears in his eyes and I felt even worse for him; he was anguished to sell the painting for the pittance I’d been obliged into offering. Of course I made the trade neither of us wanted to make, but I vowed to never allow a person from the third world to emotionally blackmail me again.*
“Don Carlitos, do joo think you gift to me?”
When I looked up from my backpack Nancy had wrapped the sarong around her ample hips and was swaying them from side to side in an effort to examine herself. It was awkward and her cheery third world disposition soured somewhat when I asked her to remove the sarong because I wanted to pack it away.
Alejandro arranged two Lada taxis for us to return to Havana in. The Norwegians rode in one while the Danes and I rode in another. Before we left Trinidad behind, Alejandro struggled over with a bulging white sack taller and wider than his torso.
“This is the present for my girlfriend in Vedado. Joo all stay there in her casa. Joo will love it. She expecting joo.”
He pushed the heavy sack through the rear window onto Kristian’s lap, who cradled it as though having been entrusted with an iced kidney in need to transportation to the hospital. Alejandro shook all our hands again and slapped the roof of the Lada as the car creaked slowly away over the cobbled road. Kristian wiped tears from his eyes as he looked through the rear window and waved to his surrogate father. Martin hung his head out the window and waved too. I reached around from the front passenger seat and pulled on the blue ties to open the sack. It was full of oranges.
It was early evening when we arrived in Vedado and located Alejandro’s girlfriend’s post revolution high-rise apartment building. We spent 10 minutes pressing the intercom button before Claudia answered and buzzed us up. Kristian took charge of the oranges. On the ride to Havana we discussed our observations of Cuba so far. Alejandro had restored Kristian’s faith in these island people and concluded there was no greater gift between a middle-aged man and his mistress than a 15 kilo sack of citrus fruit.
I don’t know what the others had expected but Claudia didn’t exactly meet my expectations. She lived on the 15th floor of a dingy apartment building and as we ascended in the world’s smallest and slowest lift, I had my doubts.
“Didn’t Alejandro say this is a casa particular?” I asked.
“Yes it is,” said Kristian.
“Hmm,” I mused. “It’s just that I didn’t see the symbol for a casa downstairs.”
Neither of the Danes said anything.
“I mean, casa particulares have to show that casa symbol outside and I didn’t see one on this building. There was one on the next door block, but nothing here.”
“Alejandro said it’s a casa so it must be,” said Martin calmly.
“Yeah I know. It’s just that Nancy told me all about it in Trinidad. About the signs.”
Nothing.
The lift ground to a halt and the doors wheezed open. A dishevelled man - probably a German tourist - ran his hands through his greasy lank hair. His tanned paunch protruded from the unbuttoned pink linen shirt, while silver chest hair sparkled with all the allure of cobwebs in a haunted forest. He smiled as he pushed past us into the lift and fastened the button on his pale blue chinos just as the doors shut.
The hallway smelt musty, like a holiday apartment in the Algarve which hasn’t been used for 6 months. A single 60 watt bulb was responsible for illuminating the floor in a dim splash of urine-yellow light.
Claudia answered the door in a silky black dressing gown, dishevelled black hair tied up in a bun, and heavy makeup. The gown was tied low, revealing a sun damaged cleavage, while a chunky thigh poked out coquettishly towards us. A strong smell of perfume billowed out from the apartment. Despite these obvious alarm bells we heeded the siren’s call and followed her beckoning hand inside.
“Hola niños,” she said once we’d followed her into the kitchen. Her voice was deep and croaky as though formed by cigars and rum. She gestured Kristian to put the sack of oranges on the rickety aluminium table, and he dutifully struggled over with his load and placed it down.
“Mi amor has told me lots about joo all. Joo are looking for a casa, jess?”
We all nodded politely.
“I ‘ave two rooms. Come I show joo. Santi’s room is CUC20; my room is CUC30.”
Claudia sashayed out of the kitchen and into the living room and through to the first bedroom. I surveyed the apartment. It’s decor was that uniquely Cuban mix of old and new: a beautiful dark wood sideboard was decorated with cheap china and tacky plastic dolls; pastel coloured doilies - their colours dulled and tinged yellow - covered a circular coffee table. The living room was cluttered with books stacked on the floor; two rocking chairs were positioned in front of the small TV - one old and made of wood, the other made of cheap aluminium and green plastic coated chord. The apartment smelled of ingrained must, cigars and her perfume. Kristian and Martin followed her guilelessly around, beatific smiles across their sun drenched faces. If Claudia was good enough for Alejandro then Claudia was good enough for them.
CITRUS FOR THE MISTRESS: How were we to know kind hearted Alejandro’s mistress was also a lady of the night? From street level it was just another run down apartment building with a disproportionate number of middle-aged European men entering and leaving.
“Ok ok,” she said as she pushed open a bedroom door and beckoned us inside. “This is my son Santi’s room but he is no here so one of you can stay here.”
The room was dark and the small rectangular window positioned three quarters of the way up the far wall did little to brighten it. Probably just as well. The black bedsheets were clearly dirty and used and the bed was unmade. Best of all, the walls were covered with pornographic images of women torn from magazines. Not just one or two images but wall to wall. If it was a little weird neither Kristian nor Martin nor Claudia showed it.
“Muy bueno,” I whistled sarcastically to Claudia’s approval. “Very comfortable,” I said.
“Jess, I know joo like but wait and see next room.” Claudia pulled the gown apart to uncover her legs and spun on her heels.
“Siga,” she called as she strutted from the room.
She led us into a much larger bedroom bathed in sunlight and with a view offering glimpses of the Hotel Nacional and beyond. The silky black sheets covering the bed were ruffled and strewn across it and Claudia’s underwear was dotted unashamedly around the room. The room hummed of sex and the stains on the sheets were barely dry.
“She was nice,” said Kristian down stairs after we elected not to stay with Claudia.
“She was,” agreed Martin, straining his neck to look up towards the 15th floor.
Even the Danes noticed something odd about the apartment but they stopped short of questioning Alejandro’s intentions in setting us up with Claudia. We lugged our backpacks onto our shoulders and wandered to la Rampa in search of a legal casa particular that, preferably, wasn’t inhabited by a hooker. I found one on calle Vapor while Kristian and Martin found one on calle Jovellar. The Norwegians booked into one on San Lazaro. All a stone’s throw from Hotel Colina opposite la Universidad de la Habana.
In two days it would be 1st May and hundreds of thousands of people would gather in Plaza de la Revolucion to hear Fidel Castro give his annual día de los trabajadores speech. It would be the last one he ever gave.
Carlitos’s duel with Fidel continues below: