Cuba and the Night

Pico Iyer
CUBA AND THE NIGHT

Pico Iyer is a long-time essayist for
Time
and a Contributing Editor at
Condé Nast Traveler, Civilization
, and
Tricycle: The Buddhist Review
. His pieces appear often in
Harper’s, The New York Times
, the
New York Review of Books
, the
T.L.S.
, and many other publications. This is his first novel.

I
 

I
think I’ll always remember the first time I saw him, in the bar of the old Nacional, on one of those messy Carnival evenings in July, the temperature about 120, with the blare of the floats and the trumpets carrying across the lawns, and the dancing young boys on the Malecón jiving over overflowing cups of beer, and the whole city kind of strutting its stuff and shimmying in the tropical night.

Things were pretty much the same as usual in the bar: a couple of Mexicans smooching in the corner, acting as if they were on their honeymoon, or their second honeymoon, or the honeymoon they’d never have; a mulatta at the counter, making time with Boris and Ivan; some Italian girl pressing the Wurlitzer and getting her boy to slow-dance with her to Pablo. Alfredo over by the register, taking it all in, and dreaming of Asunción.

I thought the pasty-faced guy in the gray sweater must be a Bulgarian at first, he dressed so stylishly. Then I was put right.

“Excuse me. This can’t be right.”

“Qué?”

“Well, I don’t want to make problems for you, but I’m sure …”

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Well, you see, he claims he’s got no change for five dollars. And earlier, they told me they couldn’t accept my pesos because I don’t have my passport on me. And now they’re saying I’ve got to give them five dollars and they can’t give me any change.”

I took the guy in again, and turned to Alfredo. “Look,” I said, “this man is a journalist.
Periodista, no?
A very important
periodista
. CIA, M.I.5, all that stuff. You make problems for him, and his friends in the government make problems for you.”

Alfredo looked sullen and went back to his stool.

“Thanks so much. Awfully kind of you.”

“Not at all. What are you drinking?”

“Oh, a beer would be fine.”

“Dos,”
I said to Alfredo, and then turned back to the Englishman. “Are you here for the party?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking.”

“And what manner would that be?”

He looked back at me blankly. People say that Americans don’t have a sense of humor, but the Brits, I can tell you, are no barrel of laughs.

“Your first time down here?”

“It is, actually. I usually go down to Greece for the summer holidays. With my friend—and colleague, actually—Stephen. But this time there was some kind of balls-up, and the travel agent told me she could get me onto a cheap flight to Havana.”

“And now …”

“Well, now I’m just pottering around, really. Looking at a few churches. Visiting the museums. Engaging in a little private research. My uncle used to be posted here.”

“After the war?”

“Right. During Batista. He’d been in North Africa during the forties—something in intelligence, I suspect—and somehow he ended up over here.”

“Protecting Western interests?”

“I suppose that’s what they call it.” He looked into his drink for a moment, as if to cut the conversation short. “In any case, when I was growing up, I was always hearing about this very grand house of his in Miramar.”

“Not so grand anymore.”

“No, I suppose not. But anyway, that’s just a diversion. The main reason I’m here is for the jazz bars. They’re my great passion.”

“Of course,” I said, wondering whether I’d really flown two thousand miles to make small talk with a Brit.

“And you?”

“Oh, the usual. Making a few photographs. The Rumba-Revolution-comes-of-age kind of thing.”

“You’re a journalist?”

“Yeah. If a journalist is someone who makes his living off other people’s misery.”

“No. I believe that’s what they call a schoolteacher.”

“That’s what you do?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“In London?”

“No, Winchester, actually. Where Malory found Camelot.” He smiled at me, not very convincingly, and then fumbled around in his pocket and pulled out a yellow piece of tissue to wipe his glasses. His face had gone an unhealthy kind of red in the sun, and even with the fan going behind the bar, he seemed to be sweating. It felt kind of weird, to tell the truth, to be wasting time with a British schoolteacher while the mulatta was pressing her claims on the Soviets and there were pantings from the corner. The Mexicans looked as if they were inhaling one another.

“It
is
fascinating, though, don’t you think?” he started up again. “This place. I mean, you really feel as if you’re seeing history in the making.”

“Or the unmaking. It’s like history’s on the pause button here. Everywhere else in the world, everything’s either on fast-forward or rewind. This is the only place I know where everything’s moving and nothing ever changes. It’s like instant replay round the clock.”

“Very good way of putting it.”

“Well, I’ll be seeing you,” I said, feeling that life was too short for more of this.

“I do hope so. The name’s Hugo. Hugo Cartwright.” He extended his hand in what he probably thought was the American way.

“Hugo. I’m Richard.”

“Very good. If ever you find yourself in Winchester, do look me up. It’s not exactly Havana, of course, but it’s not without its charms. There are some tremendous wine bars. First-class churches. And the Quiristers, of course.”

“Of course. Take it easy now,” I said, and put my pesos on the counter and went upstairs before Alfredo could ask me why I wasn’t paying in dollars.

•   •   •

I
t was a funny thing, but every time I stepped out of my hotel in those days, on another bright and windless morning, my heart just felt like singing. It was like being in love, I guess, though it’s even easier to be in love with a place than a person. Whatever, I felt wide open and alive, as if anything could happen. And after I’d left, I’d find myself haunted by the memories: just the way the battered buildings followed the beautiful curve of the bay, and the blue sea sat before you in the brilliant stillness of the morning, and when you went out early you could see the first boys gathered in the shade for a bus, and hear the day’s first music coming from some upstairs window. The woman at Black Star used to say that it was like being back in high school for some of us, and I guess she was right. All these lush sixteen-year-olds feeling the power in their smiles, and the handsome boys strutting around like roosters, and the sense of music and rum in the air, and a few unsmiling monitors waiting to report you to the teacher. And everyone living in the moment: no thought of tomorrow, just a blurry haze of past and present, and trying to find a way to get a car for the night, or hustle some cash or some nooky.