The Domino Diaries (7 page)

“Order me two more drinks and I can help you. I know athletes over there. Not in boxing, but they all know each other. They all wear their Olympic Cuban tracksuits like uniforms on the street. Stick with me when we get off the plane. I can help you there. But they will hold me at immigration after the flight. They always do. They treat me like a criminal every time I arrive and leave. It's just a routine thing for me over there. They are afraid I'm stealing treasures over there for peanuts and selling them back home for millions. They treat me trafficking books like I'm smuggling Cuban heroes off the island myself.”

“What do you buy?”

“Rare books. Cuba may be famous for old cars and sports, but they have collectibles in many other rare things, too. People are making fortunes off of baseball cards right now. But I love books. That's the extraordinarily beautiful thing about a country that makes certain books illegal to read; it reminds you that books still
mean
something. If you enjoy gray, the paradoxes over there are like nowhere else on earth.”

“I don't have a place to stay in Havana. I was just going to find something when I arrived.”

“That's a bad idea.
Jineteros
—those are the hustlers and prostitutes, latterly ‘jockeys'—love people like you to ride. They will hiss at you all over the tourist areas. Let me take care of everything. Just wait for me after the police questioning and this drunk stranger you just met can give you some keys to open some interesting doors. Havana is my favorite city in the world. Whenever you return to Havana you will always find me here and have a friend. And all my friends will be your friends.”

When we got off the plane, just as he'd predicted, Alfonso was taken in for questioning in a private room and held for three hours by the police. Before we'd gotten off the plane Alfonso had given me some money to buy him a twelve-year-old bottle of Havana Club and a carton of Popular cigarettes from the little airport shop to resuscitate him. I waited for him in airport arrivals until midnight, when they finally released him. Alfonso trudged out of the holding room soaked in sweat, his face blanched, lugging two huge articles of luggage that I ran over to help him carry.

“Brinicito, don't worry about my luggage. Where's my fucking medicine?”

I gave him the bottle and cigarettes as he stumbled over to a chair in the arrivals section of the airport and collapsed on his stomach, moaning. His hands were trembling.

“Do we need a taxi or a fucking ambulance?” I asked him.

“Neither.” Alfonso rolled over and tried unsuccessfully to unscrew the bottle. “Can you do this for me, please? My hands shake too badly. Hurry, please.”

I took the bottle and unscrewed the cap and handed it to him. He slumped down over two chairs and held it over his head with one hand while tearing open the carton of cigarettes.

“I don't need an ambulance or a driver. I have an eighteen-year-old nurse waiting for me where we're going. And our driver has been waiting for us all this time in the parking lot. Just give me some time to recover from that ordeal. Maybe get me some Bucanero beer from the little shop. A twelve-pack, please.”

When I came back with the beer I saw he'd consumed half the bottle while chain-smoking his way through a twisted mass of cigarettes resting under his chair. He was upright now, with the color having returned to his face, eyes alert, hands steady. Miraculously, Alfonso looked almost energized.

“My friend, I'm sorry for how long you've had to wait before meeting this beautiful city. But now you'll always remember your first meeting with Havana at night. That will put a spell in your heart always. Meeting a city for the first time at night is like making love to a woman before you've even spoken with her. I'm very envious of you tonight.”

I stepped outside into Havana's muggy, tropical embrace. Before my eyes could adjust to see anything beyond palm trees swaying in the moonlight, the intensity of Cuba's perfume entered my bloodstream and I dropped Alfonso's bags on the ground. All at once the swirl of belched diesel fumes and cigar smoke, highlighted with the stale sting of oxidized alcohol, hit me before the stench of some nearby forever-unflushed toilet almost knocked me over.

“Even the
smell
of Cuba has the intensity of a priest giving in to sex.” Alfonso smiled, lighting another cigarette. “Don't talk anymore until we're inside the car. Let's go, our ride is waiting for us.”

We walked out into the moonlight toward a mostly empty parking lot when something violently hissed at us. Alfonso laughed and an engine turned on a car about twenty yards off. A lanky, nervous Bill Cosby lookalike in a Cuban tracksuit quickly approached us and grabbed the handles of Alfonso's luggage from me.

“Do I let him take them?”

“Of course. Montalvo is family.”

*   *   *

After we loaded the trunk of his small Lada with our belongings, I got in the backseat while Alfonso threw his arm around the driver. As soon as the car lurched forward it promptly stalled.

“
¡Cubaneo!
” Montalvo slapped the steering wheel. This expression, I later found, was used to describe the particular strain of bad luck indigenous to Cuba.

“
¡Hermano!
” Alfonso laughed, taking another slug from the bottle. “My brother, it is always so good to see you. But always so serious! Brinicito, this is Montalvo. Montalvo was a silver medalist in the hundred-meter dash from the Pan Am games. He's an even better person than he was a runner. Forgive us, but I have some things to discuss with my friend in Spanish, so we can sort out where you will stay and all that.”

We were out on the highway now and it struck me that I had no idea who the two men in the front seat of the car were or where we were going. The Cuban night felt less like reality and more like the dreamscape of Fidel and his people. The Cuban highway was anarchy, with American cars manufactured in the 1950s, Russian-made Ladas, and military trucks with soldiers sitting in the back raging over the broken-down pavement while horse-drawn carriages and bikes drifted along the road shoulder. In addition to the nightmarish jumble of the scene, the highway lacked streetlights or any highway signs, and the only updates about our progress toward Havana were the occasional ghostly billboards that were illuminated in our flickering headlights, featuring political exhortations I couldn't understand.

As we got closer to Havana I thought of Alfonso's description of meeting a city at night for the first time. The silhouettes of palm trees whisked past us, and after a while I could see the dim copper glow of Havana spread out like broken glass shattered across the hulking darkness of the city's skyline. We turned off the highway and entered a narrow, pothole-laden side street winding into a neighborhood like a hand reaching into a dark cupboard. Finally there were a few streetlamps and I could read some of the billboards on the side of the road. A painting of Castro's beaming face was situated beside the words
¡VAMOS BIEN!

“What is that referring to?” I asked Alfonso.

“That everything is going well. It's
always
going well.”

Alfonso translated what he'd said to me to Montalvo and Montalvo moaned in response, “
S
í
, s
í
. ‘Vamos bien.' Cuarenta y un a
ñ
os y siempre
¡
vamos bien
! Dios m
í
o
.”

“There is a joke about the revolution, which says that literacy, health care, and sports are its great achievements. And its failures are breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When I first started coming here during the worst of the Special Period in the early 1990s, parents would name their pets Breakfast, Lunch, or Dinner to protect the children from attachment before they ate them.”

We passed another sign on the side of the road with a Che Guevara mural next to an illegibly scrawled sentence.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“‘Be like Che!' You'll find out how it is. Much is a lie here just as it is in America.” Alfonso laughed. “I think Cubans believe the bullshit less than you. Cuban advertising tries to help individuals get over human weakness, while American advertising encourages you to give in to it.”

“Does Montalvo have a place for me to stay?”

“We're taking you to somewhere that should be available near the Plaza de la Revoluci
ó
n, the huge square where you will be able to see Castro give a speech while you are here. Seven-hour speeches sometimes!”

“Seven fucking hours?”

“This is what Americans always say. But in Lincoln's time he did the same thing. The population was informed and had an attention span. Remember what Gore Vidal said about genius in America?”

“What did he say?”

“That if students year after year insist American history is the most boring subject, you need look no further than American history teachers to find geniuses at work. Look out your window,
that's
the Plaza. We're close to where you're staying.”

The Plaza itself looked like one enormous vacuum of an empty parking lot surrounded by distant, stale government structures, and then I saw Che's face glowing, six stories high, stenciled against the side of a building.

Cuba's secular saint was once declared by America's CIA as the most dangerous man in the world before they gave the order in 1967 to execute him in Bolivia. The man who pulled the trigger still proudly wore Che's watch in Miami as a souvenir he claimed from the execution. This country's adoptive hero was America's terrorist distilled now into a mouse pad, T-shirt, the flotsam of kitsch. Out the other car window a three-hundred-foot-high marble tower, seemingly donated by the Klingon Empire's most distinguished architect, loomed as a monument to the poet Jos
é
Mart
í
. Shadowy buzzards circled over the tower. In all of the darkness the junglescape felt like a nightmare predator ready to spring into action and blindside you.

That first night, watching the scenery slide by outside my window, every inch of the island I saw was accompanied by the reminder that this population had rallied behind a leader who had been instrumental in bringing the world closer to oblivion than at any point in human history. Castro had closed every casino and outlawed all gambling, yet this was a man who was willing to risk destroying the world itself rather than cave an inch against the American way of life.

“The monuments here mean nothing.” Alfonso laughed. “Fidel doesn't have a statue or a plaque anywhere. There's no cult of personality. It's these fucking people themselves and their culture that are bigger than any pyramid or Empire State Building. If Cuba contributed the eighth wonder of the world it would be the Cuban people themselves. You'll see. My friend lives close to here and you'll be staying with him at the house of Jes
ú
s. Tomorrow I'll send a friend over to get you who can be your tour guide, and I'll sort out getting you in contact with the boxers.”

Montalvo turned off the Plaza and drove around a bend surrounded by groomed hills that merged with the jungle. Even in the shadows it was evident the area was heavily guarded by bereted soldiers either patrolling or staring out from treehouse-like towers. Motorbikes and a fleet of bicycles loaded down with girls passed by on the shoulder of the road as we turned down a quiet side street that Montalvo carefully navigated to avoid potholes and stray cats skittering across the pavement. I could see children playing stickball on the next street under a flickering streetlamp. As we neared, the streetlamp cut out and Montalvo stopped the car, his headlights the only illumination left for their game.

At night in a broken, new place it's easy to lose your thoughts and find them drifting toward people you care about who are holding bad cards. Sometimes they have their own deck and sometimes they've invited someone else's into their lives. You think about faces you've loved getting older. I was warned Havana was a heavy place on a lot of people. Many lives worn out searching for things they can't find.

“You see the small man pitching to his son?” Alfonso asked. “Both are wearing the Industriales baseball caps. Industriales are the New York Yankees of Cuba. That's Jes
ú
s and Jesusito. They'll look after you. Jes
ú
s has a little apartment attached to their home.”

I got out of the car with my bags just as Jes
ú
s lofted his pitch well over his son toward me. “
¡OYE!
” Jesus hollered, as the kids laughed. “Think fast, gringo!”

 

8

PUNCHING YOUR WEIGHT

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.… Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, “whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches,” by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, “Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,” and he would have meant the same thing.

—John Steinbeck

J
UST BEFORE DAWN MY APARTMENT
was caught in the crossfire of roosters on the rooftops scattered across the block declaring morning. There was a knock on the door; completely disoriented, I opened it to find Jes
ú
s still wearing his Industriales baseball cap from the night before, holding a tray of sliced fruit while his son handed me a thermos of coffee. Jesusito was wearing the same cap as his dad and might have been eleven, but they were nearly the same height at around five feet. They shared the same kind face and intelligent eyes.

“My friend, breakfast is early at our house. My English no goo'. No baa', but no goo'. I have to go work soon.”