Cuba blue Read online

  “That’s not funny. At all.” She smiled in spite of herself.

  “Look, I’m famished. Let’s just eat, anywhere. Please, my treat.”

  He started to stand, but she grabbed his arm, pulling him down. “Wait…have you seen Liliana and Antonio dance? They’re so good together.”

  The dance music had started, and as he turned to watch, the two began a slow tango. Languorously slow. Antonio and Liliana moved around and about one another like two birds in flight but of one mind. A study in seduction, arms sliding, lightly touching, eyes full of promise, legs entwining. Qui was right. They expressed the passion and essence of the very word tango in a way that compelled JZ’s eyes to watch. He simply could not do otherwise. “I love the tango,” he whispered in Qui’s ear.

  “Yes, so do I.”

  “It’s like watching an unfolding poem this dance, a poem of movement set to music. It’s like…like fine-”

  “-fine sex,” she said, “I know.”

  “Wine…I was about to say wine, but frankly, you’re more on target.”

  “In life the dance is everything.” Her eyes never leaving the dancing pair, she added, “Life and death and everything in between, it’s all a tango.”

  “Like good literature, yes.”

  “Yes. What we do with the time between the dates on our tombstones, you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah…I think I do.”

  She laughed lightly. “Or something like that.”

  After a few moments, JZ realized he’d better start talking before his body responded to this incredible display of stylized foreplay on the dance floor, and the surprising turn of words at the table whispered between them. He wondered just how devoted she was to this boyfriend she’d mentioned. All of this colored by the scent of her enticing perfume.

  “You’re right, they’re very good,” he commented on the dancers while staring at Qui, who also watched the floorshow in rapt attention, lips slightly parted. While JZ wanted to touch her cheek and trace her full lips with a finger, instead he reached over and laid a hand on her arm, discovering warm, soft skin.

  “Shall we-”

  “-dance? No one dances when Antonio is on the floor. Unwritten law.”

  “Then shall we go?”

  She smiled, back in character. “Yes, I’m hungry now.”

  17

  JZ met the Varelas, a large gregarious family, who indeed routinely turned their home into a restaurant of Cuban cuisine. They liberally plied JZ and Qui with all manner of delicacies and specialties: fried plantains, black beans and rice, yucca, boliche, tomatoes with fresh cilantro, finishing with flan.

  “Now this is Cuban food with attitude,” Qui told JZ.

  “Agreed, Liliana didn’t exaggerate,” he replied. “The food’s great, and I’m stuffed.” The Varelas’s meal proved the best JZ’d had since he’d arrived in Havana. Having paid outrageous prices at the Palacio, he gave the Varelas the equivalent even though they insisted no charge for a friend of Quiana’s.

  For JZ there was so much in the experience beyond the meal itself. He’d been openly welcomed into the Varela home, and it had afforded him the opportunity to watch Qui in a family setting. He enjoyed watching her delight in this simple exchange. At the same time, the Varelas took enormous delight in cooking and in pleasing their guests. By the time they sliced into the flan, JZ felt he’d devoured enough for the rest of the week.

  Swallowing the last of his dessert, JZ groaned. “Ahhh… now I really need to begin jogging again.”

  “The Malecon’s great for a morning jog or the beach sand! That’s a real workout.”

  The talk, laughter, and camaraderie made JZ feel like a stray taken in and surrounded with sustenance for body and spirit-something he’d not felt since arriving in Cuba, the entire experience a welcome surprise. “This hospitality…so unexpected in a communist country, closed in so many ways,” JZ said quietly.

  “You see how Cubans radiate a love of life-”

  “Yes, an openness, a spirit of giving that I find pleasantly surprising.”

  “-this spirit exists, but your American prejudices can blind you to it.”

  On a deeper level, JZ, while not fully understanding the complexity of this woman, had seen beyond her professional veneer to her spirit. Further, this evening clearly illustrated how caring and trusting relationships in this tortured paradise could be. As a result, JZ privately conceded his own preconceived notions of Cuba and its people. While he was himself Cuban-American, having grown up in Miami, he had a great deal to learn about Cuba and its people.

  When finally they escaped the ‘clutches’ of the Varela family and stood in the cool night air, Qui turned and said to him, “I will never go hungry for food or friends.”

  “Absolutely. I can see why.”

  “Now you’re not gonna say awe-some, are you? Spare me.”

  They laughed at this.

  Taking her hand in his, he kissed it, all the while staring into her dark eyes. “A tarnished knight, thanking you for a lovely evening.”

  She slightly laughed and then JZ did the unexpected. He turned her hand and kissed her palm; he next lightly kissed her fingertips-his hot breath penetrating her skin. Taken aback by the depth of her response, Qui’s skin flushed, her breathing stopped, and her pulse raced. His seductive overture felt right between them. She couldn’t’ve predicted her reaction to his gambit, and could not help but wonder how his lips might feel against hers. Nervous, she laughed a bit, unsure what to say. She turned to hide her reaction, declaring, “It’s late. I–I should get you back.”

  As she fidgeted with the key in the car door, he placed a gentle hand on her arm and turned her round to face him. She tried avoiding his eyes, but a mere fingertip was all it took to raise her face. Softly, he said, “I just want to say I’ve had a lovely evening. Thank you, Qui.”

  She felt his closeness, the warmth of his breath. “You still prove my point about Americans,” she said, trying to dispel the mood between them.

  “Americans? What do you mean?”

  “You’re…you take too many liberties, JZ.”

  He took a long moment to examine her eyes. Then taking a step back, he said, “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable; I certainly didn’t intend that.” He shrugged, grinned wolfishly at her, and raised both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “Sorry if my nibble turned into a bite, but you are… hard to resist.”

  Taking a deep breath, Qui acknowledged his comment with a half-smile. “It’s been…a very pleasant evening. Food was great…good company…I love the Valeras…” Qui realized she’d begun to babble like a teenager on a first date. She struggled to regain composure. “Look JZ…ahhh, it’s really late and…and we’ve had more wine than we ought’ve, and it’s a beautiful night with the sea breeze…but you and I… we come from different worlds. I can’t be getting involved with you.”

  “Is that because you’re already involved?”

  “Yes, in part.”

  “And the other part?”

  “You’re American and I’m Cuban. World’s apart.”

  “Ahhh but the world’s getting smaller every day,” JZ countered. “Look, I hope this guy of yours knows how lucky he is. Hope he appreciates you.”

  This made her think of the last time she’d seen Montoya-earlier, asleep at the Santa Isabela. Her face softened with an inscrutable Mona Lisa smile.

  “OK…right…” he stammered, unhappy at her reaction, resignedly going around the car for the passenger seat. “So then… you’d best drop me at the Palacio.”

  Qui slide into the driver’s seat, wishing she didn’t have to share such intimate space with this intriguing man. She nervously fidgeted with the radio and mirror. They shared few words on the drive, Qui playing the role of a tour guide, pointing out places of interest. When the car stopped at the hotel, they looked across at one another-a fire building again, but she quickly dispelled it, saying, “Good night, JZ. We’ll no doubt see one anoth
er again.”

  “When?” he eagerly asked.

  “On the dance floor, perhaps.”

  “I’d love to share a dance with you, and again, I had a wonderful evening.” He lingered even though he realized she’d already closed the door on anything so personal as a goodnight kiss. “Thank you for dinner.”

  “For what? You paid.”

  “For showing me the real Cuba, and for feeding me well.”

  “Ahhh…yes, agreed. You do owe me a debt of gratitude for that, but why try to repay it?” she half joked.

  “I mean it, sincerely.” He slipped from the car, quickly came around to her open window, and leaned in to add, “I’d invite you in for a nightcap, but I know you’re tired.”

  She nodded. “To say the least.”

  He stepped away from the car and watched her little black Peugeot speed off into the neon-lit darkness of Havana.

  A short while after climbing into bed, JZ’s last thoughts centered on Qui’s smile, the soft hand he’d caressed with his lips, her sexy dancing, and the fun they’d shared with the Varela family. Any personal involvement with Quiana Aguilera, he feared could get him replaced, but he’d been so enraptured by how she’d moved on the dance floor, and how her eyes sparkled when she laughed, that the risk-taker in him was willing to take that chance. That part of him wished that Qui was with him now, in his arms, warm and soft. His more rational side knew intuitively there was truth in what she’d earlier said about their being from different worlds; regardless of his attraction, she embodied certain danger on more than one level, not unlike the deep Havana itself. As when she danced, ebbing, flowing, calm and beautiful, the next moment spirited and unfathomable. She might so easily, casually destroy a man, at least emotionally. Still, JZ found reason to chuckle aloud at his attraction to the Cubano who didn’t like Americans. Even as a child, he’d liked playing with fire.

  JZ knew full well the kind of skewed portrait of America and Americans Qui had grown up with. Layer that with a restless undercurrent in this passionate woman and JZ had to wonder if he were up to the task of changing this interesting and complex woman’s mindset.

  Still, he intuitively sensed that part of her reserve was meant to keep him at arm’s distance, a familiar self-protective feminine pose. The chip on her shoulder was understandable, reflecting her frustration with her department, with which he’d himself so recently done battle. Just the brief encounter he’d had with Gutierrez and Pena pissed him off to no end.

  Her stance toward Americans was certainly validated by such men as the so-called Maui Jim as well. Still, the attitude seemed a long-standing one, perhaps ingrained in youth, perhaps from a lifetime of seeing adversarial US-Cuban relations. The state-run media was suffused with a politically correct, anti-American posture, but JZ knew-even with his limited time in Cuba-that most of the population, like Liliana, desperately wanted to find a way to America and opportunity. While a few thought that open relations with the US would jump-start Cuba’s sagging economy, others believed that only the politicians and the rich would benefit, not unlike the situation in Mexico since NAFTA. However, at this moment, the only thing filling his mind was her face.

  Qui, lying in bed at home, stared up at the ceiling fan, which whirled much like her emotions, as she recalled the evening. She couldn’t remember a time on the town with Montoya where she’d been made to feel as appreciated as she’d felt tonight.

  What an old-fashioned thing to do kissing the back of my hand. Then there was that thing he did with his breath against my skin. Thank God, he didn’t know what an effect he’d evoked. If so, I might not be in this empty bed just thinking about him. JZ, mister Americano, you are not at all what I expected. But what did I expect from a security officer in the American Interest Section?

  With this last question, a creeping doubt came over her as to his motives. A cop’s suspicion. He was, after all, interested in locating two missing Americans. Is it possible, she asked herself, that this is what he’d truly wanted from her? Information? Had he all along simply been doing his job tonight? It was a consideration she could not shake, and in fact, she’d be disappointed in him if there were no truth to it…and then again, she’d be disappointed in him to learn that it was true-that his interest in her was a cover for his interest in her case. “Qui, stop thinking and analyzing everything!” With this, exhausted, she fell asleep with the memory of Julio Zayas’s sea-green eyes watching her.

  18

  The next day, Sunday, Miramar district, Havana

  Hearing chirping overhead, Tomaso Aguilera squinted up through the thin leaves of the lemon tree and into the brilliant blue sky. His hands juggled three flowerpots at the same time as he watched an advancing rare-for-its-size cloud of magnificent black birds, flying in formation-darting left here, right there-as if of one mind. He dropped the flowerpots, breaking two, in order to grab his latest toy, a digital Nikon, to get a shot of the passing parade overhead.

  The birds did not disappoint. While individual birds at a distance could be hard to see, a mere dot on the horizon, a flock this size created an iridescent blue-black ribbon that made for a dazzling aerial dance of solidarity not to be missed. The creatures soon disappeared into the safe Miramar forest canopy as immediately as they’d appeared. He’d only the single instant to get off a single shot. As a professional photographer, he knew he’d captured something, but exactly what must remain a mystery until later when, using his computer, he’d convert the digital image on his screen. Until then, Tomaso could only hope he’d captured the splendor of the aerial tango. He thought of this just as a lone bird came into his peripheral vision- a slacker, trailing after. But the single creature fascinated Tomaso. Again, he aimed his camera, this time zooming in as the lone bird came ever nearer. He caught this single creature against the vastness of sky and cloud at exactly the right moment.

  How like my Qui this one is, he thought, always the loner, and never one for a parade…yet so beautiful.

  This magic of freezing a moment in time created a wondrous effect that communicated, influenced, and persuaded because it evoked passion and compassion. As a teenager, he’d learned to exploit this effect in provocative ways using photography as his weapon of choice. As a small child with his first camera, he’d had no notion of this power. “What did I know?” he muttered. “I was just a boy.”

  The only son of wealthy parents, Tomaso was one of several children, in fact the youngest child. At age six, he’d begged for a camera and had gotten his way, but it’d been a cheap Eastman Kodak Brownie, a mere child’s toy instead of the one he’d wanted. Even so, when his pictures were processed, the developer complimented his mother on her new hobby and how wonderfully her photos had come out. Taking a much closer look at his pictures, his parents decided the photo-developer was right, so Tomaso soon got the Rolleiflex he wanted.

  Not long after, he learned how to develop his own pictures. Tomaso loved to watch the fluid black images magically coalesce onto the white paper, freezing each into permanence. Tongs forgotten in his excitement, Tomaso’s fingers turned an unsightly yellow-brown from the developing solution-much to his parent’s dismay.

  His reverie ended, Tomaso now set his camera aside, knelt, and began collecting the shards of clay pots that he’d earlier dropped. Tomaso tended his plants like a shepherd his sheep, his fingers now stained with dirt rather than photographic solution. He spoke to the plants, encouraging each. Who else am I going to talk to, he thought. Like Qui, I am a loner, always have been, a cruel thing to be if one is also an idealist looking for justice in this world. His thoughts wandered once again into his past as if reading his life history. My birthday…dredging up old memories. His hands continued to work the soil, while the breeze whispered through the branches.

  He reached over to scratch Palo, his German shepherd; while the dog’s chin never left the pillow of his paws, Palo’s eyes followed Tomaso’s every movement, as if to ask why he worked so hard.

  “In the old days, Palo, th
e more I looked through the camera lens, the more I saw only poverty and misery-as if the lens focused only negatives! Such poverty. So shocking to see how our people lived, not unlike here in Miramar.”

  With a small groan, Palo rolled deeper in the shade, escaping the rising heat.

  “When I was a boy, Palo, I never knew we were rich…never understood how hard my father worked to provide for us either. To me, he was just gone all the time.” Tomaso shrugged and frowned. “I only knew he went to work…a meaningless word to a child! Now Qui aha…she always knew what I did, and how I did it. My work was here and in the darkroom. Not in an office like my father.”

  He arranged the moss in each of the baskets he intended to hang here in the courtyard. Palo yawned at his master’s activity.

  “To succeed today, I knew my girl needed to understand how important work is to a person. The poor, now they understand the meaning and value of work, and yet they have nothing. God must love to see them suffer. Music and dance their only escape from poverty and pain and death. But what do I know? Only what my camera tells me, ’eh, Palo?”

  As if in complaint, Palo arched his eyes and barked before returning to his nap.

  No suffering goes on now in Cuba, none whatsoever, not according to The Beard. The old fool’s impoverished all of us, in Soul if not in pesos. So much for the promises of revolution.”

  Tomaso straightened and stretched, his back aching, but he wanted these baskets planted and hanging by the time Qui crawled from bed. He’d heard her come in late the night before, but no sign of Montoya. He wondered if they were again feuding over her case.

  He muttered aloud, “Tomaso, you need a break.”

  “Tomaso, you need a break,” echoed the rich feminine voice of Marie Elena, his housekeeper. “Here, I’ve made you some lemonade, not too sweet, just the way you like it. Sit with me. Tell me half as much as you tell Palo.”

  “Maria Elena, you spoil me!” he chided the young woman, pleased to see her smile. “If you must know my thoughts, I’m too old to be having birthdays.”