rusting urns the next, resoled old riding boots. Then he’d dragged his refurbished wares from door to door in his dilapidated wooden cart. At night he’d slept on Calle Baratillo, near the palace where the Count de Santovenia once hosted a three-day feast that ended with a sunset ride in a gas-filled balloon.
Early one Sunday, Chen Pan had saved the count from a bandit’s assault. As a reward, the count had offered him protection for life. In this way Chen Pan had obtained his Letter of Domicile, which guaranteed his freedom. Then with the count’s support and the money Chen Pan won playing
botón,
he’d opened his shop.
There’d been only a few businesses on Calle Zanja then, mostly fruit stands and a laundry. Now there were four Chinese restaurants, a shoemaker, a barber, several greengrocers, and a specialty shop where Chen Pan bought dried squid and duck’s feet. For steamed dumplings, he went to Paco Pang’s place (which everyone called Dogs Won’t Touch ’Em). And for his red wine, Chen Pan patronized the Bottomless Cup because they served the best eggs pickled in brine.
Chen Pan noticed a young harpist plucking out a discordant tune behind the rejas of her mansion. The windows of all the finest houses in Havana were embellished with wrought-iron grates. On the plantation the criollos had locked up the slaves, but here in the city they locked
themselves
in. Against whom were they protecting themselves? Chen Pan understood them too well. Without a second thought, the criollos took the lives of others to ensure their own survival. Then in defending themselves, bad somehow became good.
In the interior patio of another house, double rows of cane-bottom rockers (ninety pesos for a used one in good condition) were occupied by gossiping women of all ages. A few pulled ivory combs through their hair. Others did needlework or watched the passersby with feigned disinterest. The women looked harmless, but they could be as wicked as their brothers. (How many innocent slaves had been put to death by these dainty ladies’ accusations?) At dusk they crowded into their carriages in a cloud of lace and perfume and rode along the Paseo Prado to the Plaza de Armas, redolent of gardenias, to listen to the parading military bands play their polkas and marches.
A
chino
like Chen Pan in a white linen suit and a Panama hat was something of a spectacle, like a talking monkey or a sheep in evening dress. Many people glared at him before turning their heads. The Spaniards were the worst, often pelting the Chinese with stones. Chen Pan, though, was too well dressed for them to menace. (He made a point of dressing well.) And the police, who normally arrested dapper
chinos
on charges of gambling, were under strict orders from the powerful De Santovenias to leave him alone.
Chen Pan knew that the Cubans would have preferred that he still worked for them in the fields, or sold garlic at their kitchen doors. The manner in which they spoke to him—and expected to be spoken to in return—infuriated him. But he had learned to control his temper. A gracious tip of his hat was more unsettling to the enemy than a stream of curses, and impossible to retaliate against.
The criollos managed to find other uses for the Chinese. They relied on the herbalists and acupuncturists of Calle Zanja when their own remedies proved worthless. Everyone knew that
los chinos
had special unguents for sore joints, roots with abortive properties, seeds to rid the intestines of parasites. And their fire-heated needles relieved the worst cases of arthritis.
The house where the slave girl worked was freshly painted in yellow and lavender. Lucky colors, Chen Pan thought. Next door was a convent with crumbling walls where pigeons stirred and shed feathers among the ancient stones. The bell in the convent tower struck twelve as Chen Pan knocked on the door. Soon the siesta would claim all of Havana.
Don Joaquín Alomá seemed surprised to see Chen Pan. He looked
Early one Sunday, Chen Pan had saved the count from a bandit’s assault. As a reward, the count had offered him protection for life. In this way Chen Pan had obtained his Letter of Domicile, which guaranteed his freedom. Then with the count’s support and the money Chen Pan won playing
botón,
he’d opened his shop.
There’d been only a few businesses on Calle Zanja then, mostly fruit stands and a laundry. Now there were four Chinese restaurants, a shoemaker, a barber, several greengrocers, and a specialty shop where Chen Pan bought dried squid and duck’s feet. For steamed dumplings, he went to Paco Pang’s place (which everyone called Dogs Won’t Touch ’Em). And for his red wine, Chen Pan patronized the Bottomless Cup because they served the best eggs pickled in brine.
Chen Pan noticed a young harpist plucking out a discordant tune behind the rejas of her mansion. The windows of all the finest houses in Havana were embellished with wrought-iron grates. On the plantation the criollos had locked up the slaves, but here in the city they locked
themselves
in. Against whom were they protecting themselves? Chen Pan understood them too well. Without a second thought, the criollos took the lives of others to ensure their own survival. Then in defending themselves, bad somehow became good.
In the interior patio of another house, double rows of cane-bottom rockers (ninety pesos for a used one in good condition) were occupied by gossiping women of all ages. A few pulled ivory combs through their hair. Others did needlework or watched the passersby with feigned disinterest. The women looked harmless, but they could be as wicked as their brothers. (How many innocent slaves had been put to death by these dainty ladies’ accusations?) At dusk they crowded into their carriages in a cloud of lace and perfume and rode along the Paseo Prado to the Plaza de Armas, redolent of gardenias, to listen to the parading military bands play their polkas and marches.
A
chino
like Chen Pan in a white linen suit and a Panama hat was something of a spectacle, like a talking monkey or a sheep in evening dress. Many people glared at him before turning their heads. The Spaniards were the worst, often pelting the Chinese with stones. Chen Pan, though, was too well dressed for them to menace. (He made a point of dressing well.) And the police, who normally arrested dapper
chinos
on charges of gambling, were under strict orders from the powerful De Santovenias to leave him alone.
Chen Pan knew that the Cubans would have preferred that he still worked for them in the fields, or sold garlic at their kitchen doors. The manner in which they spoke to him—and expected to be spoken to in return—infuriated him. But he had learned to control his temper. A gracious tip of his hat was more unsettling to the enemy than a stream of curses, and impossible to retaliate against.
The criollos managed to find other uses for the Chinese. They relied on the herbalists and acupuncturists of Calle Zanja when their own remedies proved worthless. Everyone knew that
los chinos
had special unguents for sore joints, roots with abortive properties, seeds to rid the intestines of parasites. And their fire-heated needles relieved the worst cases of arthritis.
The house where the slave girl worked was freshly painted in yellow and lavender. Lucky colors, Chen Pan thought. Next door was a convent with crumbling walls where pigeons stirred and shed feathers among the ancient stones. The bell in the convent tower struck twelve as Chen Pan knocked on the door. Soon the siesta would claim all of Havana.
Don Joaquín Alomá seemed surprised to see Chen Pan. He looked
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