stands on his minuscule lawn, and his house is painted white with bright-blue stripes. Seventeen matching flags surround it, and people come from all over, openly carrying pigeons, sacks of beans, and toasted corn. Cuencaâs best clients are referred to him by the government: foreigners who want an authentic initiation. Cuenca charges them a fortune, too. Four thousand dollars in cash is what Iâve heard. The government, of course, gets its cut. Anything in the name of foreign exchange.
You know things have gotten desperate when the Party needs to buy off the
babalawos
. I donât care if a white dove came to rest on El Comandanteâs shoulder during his inauguration speech, or that he was clearly the godsâ chosen one. I donât think anybody, god or mortal, could have imagined how bad things would get here, to what depths people would stoop for a pork leg or a rusty saw. You always hear how the revolution divided families left and right. But whatâs going on now is worse than anything that preceded it. I heard of one family committing their grandmother to an asylum to get her apartment in Old Havana, of a brother killing his twin over a used battery for his Chevrolet.
⢠⢠â¢
The Malecónâs
been getting rough lately with lowlifes and black marketeers. The hustlers carry knives now, work the strip in pairs. You have to be careful. They donât appreciate girls like me, who come out only occasionally and give them competition. See this scar on my stomach? Some bitch came after me with a metal nail file when her French boyfriend dared look me over. Thatâs when I decided to try my luck at the Habana Libre Hotel. No Cuban woman worth her salt would wear the ugly sandals and calf-length skirts I see on the tourists, so thatâs what I put on to pass for an
extranjera
. My English is pretty convincing too, for about ninety seconds, just enough to get me a seat at the rooftop bar. Thatâs where I met Abelardo.
At first, I thought he might be an undercover cop, on account of his exaggerated Castilian accent (one of their stupider tricks). But he started off by telling me how he lives with his widowed sister in a tiny high-rise apartment in Madrid. His left hand is partially withered, and he held it up in what little intermittent light reflected off the revolving mirrored ball, as if to say,
Are you sure you still want to talk to me?
He seemed surprised when I did.
Then he told me he had a tumor the size of a plum on his balls, but the doctors assured him it was benign. I almost lost my nerve right then, but he took my hand and told me, sincerely, I thought, that I was the most beautiful woman heâd ever seen, and the kindest, and would I give him the pleasure and honor of becoming his wife.
The old man scared the hell out of me, and it must have shown, because he pulled back, apologized profusely, andâ
¡Coño! ¡Cojones! ¡Hijo de la gran puta que es tu madre!
âhe began to cry. Not a little disappointed snuffling but loud, heartrending sobs. Everyone turned to stare at me. The room became utterly still. Out. Out. Get out of there. But Iwas glued to my seat like an idiot while Abelardo wailed on. Hotel security arrived three abreast and arrested me.
I
was arrested at the bar of a Cuban hotel because I couldnât produce a foreign passport.
The rest is too tedious to tell in detail, but hereâs the bottom line: I got booked for prostitution, lost my job coaching volleyball, worked two hours in a cement plant with no cement before walking out, and decided to marry Abelardo.
TREE DUCKS
M
y father liked to boast that heâd arrived in Cuba with ten pesos in one pocket, a volume of verse by the great Romantic poets in another, and his handmade violin. For one month he played his caprices and sonatinas, collecting coins on the streets of Havana, interspersing his selections with the more mundane requests of passersby. One day, a young
You know things have gotten desperate when the Party needs to buy off the
babalawos
. I donât care if a white dove came to rest on El Comandanteâs shoulder during his inauguration speech, or that he was clearly the godsâ chosen one. I donât think anybody, god or mortal, could have imagined how bad things would get here, to what depths people would stoop for a pork leg or a rusty saw. You always hear how the revolution divided families left and right. But whatâs going on now is worse than anything that preceded it. I heard of one family committing their grandmother to an asylum to get her apartment in Old Havana, of a brother killing his twin over a used battery for his Chevrolet.
⢠⢠â¢
The Malecónâs
been getting rough lately with lowlifes and black marketeers. The hustlers carry knives now, work the strip in pairs. You have to be careful. They donât appreciate girls like me, who come out only occasionally and give them competition. See this scar on my stomach? Some bitch came after me with a metal nail file when her French boyfriend dared look me over. Thatâs when I decided to try my luck at the Habana Libre Hotel. No Cuban woman worth her salt would wear the ugly sandals and calf-length skirts I see on the tourists, so thatâs what I put on to pass for an
extranjera
. My English is pretty convincing too, for about ninety seconds, just enough to get me a seat at the rooftop bar. Thatâs where I met Abelardo.
At first, I thought he might be an undercover cop, on account of his exaggerated Castilian accent (one of their stupider tricks). But he started off by telling me how he lives with his widowed sister in a tiny high-rise apartment in Madrid. His left hand is partially withered, and he held it up in what little intermittent light reflected off the revolving mirrored ball, as if to say,
Are you sure you still want to talk to me?
He seemed surprised when I did.
Then he told me he had a tumor the size of a plum on his balls, but the doctors assured him it was benign. I almost lost my nerve right then, but he took my hand and told me, sincerely, I thought, that I was the most beautiful woman heâd ever seen, and the kindest, and would I give him the pleasure and honor of becoming his wife.
The old man scared the hell out of me, and it must have shown, because he pulled back, apologized profusely, andâ
¡Coño! ¡Cojones! ¡Hijo de la gran puta que es tu madre!
âhe began to cry. Not a little disappointed snuffling but loud, heartrending sobs. Everyone turned to stare at me. The room became utterly still. Out. Out. Get out of there. But Iwas glued to my seat like an idiot while Abelardo wailed on. Hotel security arrived three abreast and arrested me.
I
was arrested at the bar of a Cuban hotel because I couldnât produce a foreign passport.
The rest is too tedious to tell in detail, but hereâs the bottom line: I got booked for prostitution, lost my job coaching volleyball, worked two hours in a cement plant with no cement before walking out, and decided to marry Abelardo.
TREE DUCKS
M
y father liked to boast that heâd arrived in Cuba with ten pesos in one pocket, a volume of verse by the great Romantic poets in another, and his handmade violin. For one month he played his caprices and sonatinas, collecting coins on the streets of Havana, interspersing his selections with the more mundane requests of passersby. One day, a young
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