Habana Triste

It was a little after ten when I reached Calle Hospital. Searching for a handle that was no longer there, I pushed a heavy wooden door and stumbled into a dark and humid passageway. The party was being held in one of the many courtyard tenements of Central Havana, just around the corner from Vedado, a few blocks east of the Hotel Nacional. Guided by a thread of light and the sound of salsa music, I jostled my way past the partygoers, asking the few familiar faces I knew if they had seen Ivan. Most of them shook their heads, explaining they, too, had just arrived. A middle-aged woman in a brown dress two sizes too small and spotted with grease stains frowned at the mention of my friend’s name, asking why anyone would be looking for that shameless good-for-nothing. Later, Ivan explained that she was the neighborhood watchdog and that it was her job to report Cubans who had a habit of talking to foreigners.

I found Ivan dancing with a lithe Black teenager at the far end of the courtyard. Once he saw me, my friend's eyes lit up, and he lifted a small brown wax cup in my direction. Elegantly attired for this special occasion, he was sporting a colorful shirt and had exchanged his weathered sandals for a pair of Adidas. He continued his slow shuffle, twirling his partner through a small crowd of dancers to the rhythm of songo. By the time the song ended, Ivan had managed to corner the young girl with corn rows and pouty lips against the wall and was now whispering playfully into her ear. Giggling at first, Ivan’s dance partner grabbed his arm and pushed him to the side.

“A shot of rum isn’t going to win my heart,” she said, wagging her finger. “Besides, I already told you, I only drink beer.”

As the girl meandered off in search of her friends, the sound of a small tinkling bell trickled out from one of the apartments.

“Come,” said Ivan, “the saints are calling us.”

I followed him into the crowded entrance of his godfather's apartment and inched my way toward a festive altar surrounded by palm branches and blood-red gladiolas. Religious ornaments and ceramic shrine figures representing African deities were nestled in the palm branches. Urged on by my friend, I knelt in front of the altar and placed a handful of small coins into an oval-shaped copper dish. As I got up, three heavy-set men clad in white suits pushed their way through the crowd. The priests had arrived. A hushed silence quickly took over the room. Next to me, a frail black woman reached for a little bell and rang it three times. The Santeria mass had begun. Nudging me, Ivan nodded his head in the direction of a mulatta girl with honey-colored hair and whispered:

"You will see. Before the mass ends, she will become possessed."

It was now past midnight. The ceremony was over, and most of the guests had dispersed, including the three santeros and the mulatta, who, according to Ivan, had been overpowered by the spirits. All I could remember was the beating drums and the girl with the golden-colored skin shaking her body convulsively. Alone in the semidarkness, I found myself sitting on a rickety wooden bench. Ivan’s new friend, Yurienne, had convinced him to take her to the Café Fiat down by the Malecón and buy her some beer. Shaking his head and smiling, he told me to wait for his return.

“Français? Italiano? Deutsch?” asked the polished voice.

I turned around. A willowy middle-aged man with weathered skin was staring at me. His eyes were green and watery, his features soft, and his graying hair slightly wavy. Because of the humidity, his sweet cologne filled the air with a sickening smell.

“American,” I replied, startled by the way he had crept up on me. Looking at him carefully, I was certain he had not attended the ceremony.

“I live nearby on Calle Principe,” the man explained as if reading my mind. “I just stopped by to say hello to some old acquaintances.” Through his thin lips, he offered a cold and feeble smile, his emerald eyes observing me closely.

“Oh.”

“Are you a student?”

“Yes, I am with the Cuban Studies Program.”

“What do you study?”

“Culture and Anthropology.”

“Ah! How interesting!” he said.

He pointed to the bench and asked if he could sit down.

“Please,” I said, making room for him.

“Thank you. And what part of America are you from?”

“Boston,” I replied.

“Boston,” the man repeated with expressionless eyes, his slender fingers rubbing his face. “My brother lives in New Jersey. He is a doctor. I, myself, used to be a teacher.”

Extending a sinewy hand, he then introduced himself:

“Osvaldo Cordero.”

“Matt,” I answered back, “Matt Kerner.”

“Is this your first time in Havana?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Almost two weeks now.”

“And what are your impressions so far?”

Like almost everyone else, all I could think of was that Havana was a city unlike any other, a city where time seemed to have stopped.

“That is true,” Osvaldo said, sweeping the air with an open hand. “Our beautiful capital is like a museum. Or, as one of the great Cuban poets once said, ‘Here, time has taken a detour.’ So, tell me, Matt, have you done much sightseeing?”

“Not really. I’ve been rather busy with classes. I am working on my master’s thesis and...”

“Have you heard of the Old Spanish Casino?" he then asked abruptly.

“I am not sure.”

“It is one of Havana’s hidden treasures, an incredible yet authentic trip into the past.”

“Oh.”

“It is located off the Prado, on your way to the Parque Central. You must see it before you go back to the States.”

“I know where the Prado is. I am sure I can find it.”

“Are you free tomorrow?” he asked with continued insistence.

“Yes. In the afternoon.”

“Then, let’s say around three o’clock, near the statues of the lions.”

“Okay."

“In case I am late or if I can’t make it, one of my friends can give you a tour. Her name is Marina. You can find her on the second floor.”

“Mi hermano Yuma…”

I glanced over my shoulder. Ivan had just arrived and was looking at both of us. Señor Cordero got up hurriedly and bade me a brief farewell. He then glided past Ivan without saying a word and disappeared down the dark passageway. My friend then handed me a beer.

“I managed to save you one,” he said with a wink. Then, pointing his thumb toward the girl with the braids, he added: “Yurienne was going to drink all of them.”

We were now walking home, the three of us. The streets were still and quiet, but not for long. The sun would rise in less than three hours, and the neighborhood would once again come to life. Hanging onto Ivan’s arm, Yurienne was humming a tune she had heard at the party. We finally reached Calle Infanta and bade each other good night.

“Or whatever is left of it,” added the girl with a yawn.

Then, as he was about to cross the vast and desolate avenue that runs down to the sea, my friend turned around and asked:

“What did that man want?”

“He is going to show me the Old Spanish Casino tomorrow. Why?”

“Nothing.”

The hazy glow of the streetlamp now lit Ivan’s face, and his big eyes were filled with worry. Frowning, he shook his head and repeated, as if to himself:

“Ten’ cuidado por alla, ‘manito, ten’ cuidado.”

“Why?” I asked.

“The saints can’t protect you over there.”

“What do you mean?”

Before I could get an answer, Yurienne tugged on Ivan’s t-shirt and pulled him away. The sound of their voices and footsteps was soon swallowed by the bottomless darkness of the late night. Around me, the large street had fallen into an empty silence.

Set apart from the rest of Central Havana, the Prado was like a small island covered by a canopy of dark green leaves. Along the wide and polished walkway, couples strolled hand in hand while young children chased each other. Occasionally, small groups of high-school girls in yellow or purple skirts jumped up at the sound of horns blaring from the brightly painted American cars, hailing the drivers in piercing, high-pitched voices. Some of them would run down the steps and into the street, asking for a ride. For the most part, though, people lounged on the marble benches or camped on the walls, observing each passerby with curious or forlorn eyes. Unlike Cayo Hueso, there was a loneliness to the Prado, as if lost souls wandered along the former colonial walkway.

The spot where the retired teacher had asked me to meet him was vacant. I stood patiently near one of the bronze lions, scanning the dusty and windblown streets, now emptied of people. The skies were dark and heavy through the trees, pressing on the city. Before long, the tiled promenade and the rest of Havana would be caught in a downpour. I was certain Señor Cordero would not make it. Briefly, someone or something tugged on my hand as if urging me to leave this place. Glancing once more at the skies, I sighed, crossed the street, and pushed a heavy door.

Inside the Old Spanish Casino, the sound of voices echoed indistinctly. Facing the vast entrance stood a foreboding marble staircase. To the right was a large room, surrounded by discolored walls covered with opaque mirrors, all brittle and yellowed with time. Reflections of the room were dark and distorted. A fireplace, its mantel decorated with miniature bronze statues, was next to the wall. In the middle of the room was an oval coffee table made of cheap dark wood, on which someone had placed a chipped crystal vase filled with dust-covered plastic roses. Quietly, I continued to look around. The uninviting room had nothing else to offer. Led on by the afternoon darkness, I climbed the wide marble staircase to the second floor.

"¿Quiere una visita?" asked a raspy voice.

Standing at the top of the steps, a heavyset man in a stained white shirt was examining me with calculated indifference, his forehead beaded with sweat and the rest of his face covered with a three-day-old stubble.

"Soy el custodio, ¿quiere una visita?

When I replied that I was looking for a girl named Marina, the heavy man told me to follow him. Walking across what had once been a ballroom, we approached a group of tourists who were listening to a tall young woman with stark features and light blue eyes. The custodian called out to the guide, asking where Marina was.

"Marina? Está con los españoles."

At the mention of her name, Osvaldo's friend looked up from the other side of the room. After I saw two dark embers staring at me, the heavy man told me that she would be done soon and to wait there.

She was now standing in front of me, a quizzical look on her face. Slender and of medium height, her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

"Are you looking for me?" she asked.

"Yes. Señor Cordero said you could give me a tour."

"Ah, Osvaldo! Of course."

As she smiled awkwardly, thunder pealed in the distance. She then approached the open window and looked up at the sky. Against the leaden clouds, lightning struck several times, causing the power to go out. Startled by the loud crackling sounds, Marina quickly shut the window and took hold of my hand.

"We must stay in this room until the storm is over. Come, let's sit here," she said, pointing to an old couch, its red velvet cover now threadbare and faded.

Facing the large and grimy window, we remained seated in the ghostlike dance hall, where dark figures moved about, and hushed voices inquired how long the blackout would last. Wishing not to be overheard, Marina pressed her shoulder against mine and confided that her dream was to leave Havana and study abroad. Outside, the rain continued to fall, splattering the windows with large drops. As I listened to her sultry voice describe her monotonous and restricted life, it suddenly felt as if we had both managed to slip away in time—sheltered by the afternoon darkness, in the shadows of centuries gone by.

"Do you have a girlfriend here?" she asked, looking straight into my eyes.

"Neither here nor in Boston. Why?"

"I wasn't sure," she replied, smiling evasively.

"What about you?"

"There is no one," she answered, shaking her head.

“Then, are you free later on?” I asked her.

“Not tonight. But if you come back tomorrow, I will be here. We can spend more time together.”

“In that case, tomorrow."

Then, as the rain began to subside, Marina looked at her watch.

"Excuse me, but I must go now,” she said, kissing me softly on the cheek.

I remained seated on the velvet couch, surrounded by the emptiness she had left behind, waiting for the other tourists to leave.

When I stepped out of the Old Spanish Casino, Ivan was waiting for me. He was sitting on the wall, his white t-shirt drenched and stuck to his dark skin, and his polished skull gleaming in the brooding evening. Although the rain had ceased, the sky was still heavy, and another downpour was on the way. Noticing his silence, I asked him if something was wrong. He shrugged his shoulders, sighed, and then asked:

"It’s her, the one with the ponytail?"

"Yes," I replied, surprised by his somber tone.

"Did you fall in love?"

Looking away, I told him that she was different from anyone I had ever met in Havana.

"Did you fall in love?" he asked with insistence.

"Yes, I think so."

"And you want to see her again?"

"Yes.

"Then you must come with me tonight."

When Ivan picked me up at the university dormitory, the city lights were slowly coming back on. There had been another power outage. He seemed in a hurry, and I struggled to keep up with him as we crossed over into Havana Vieja. Barely acknowledging the greetings of people calling out to him, he was no longer a carefree teenager, but the guardian of a haunted city that had just survived another disaster. With a gaunt look on his face, he forged ahead, saying very little other than to warn me of each pothole that lay ahead. Like a blind man, I was being led forward, only this time into even greater darkness. On Calle Obispo, the pavement was shiny. Beneath me, the wet cobblestones reflected the neon signs of a barren pharmacy and the few open bars. I then knew we were headed for Plaza de la Catedral.

Marina was sitting on the terrace of the restaurant El Patio. She looked almost the same as when I had met her, only older. Was it the make-up or her long hair that she had let down and which now covered her delicate shoulders? Sitting between two tourists, she remained silent, indifferent to the ongoing conversation. The heavier of the two foreigners began laughing and patted Osvaldo on the back. The older one took a sip of rum and reached for Marina’s hand. He then slid his hand down her back. For a second, our eyes locked. At first, Marina tried to smile, then looked away. Soon after, the older Italian placed his plump hand on her neck and drew her closer to him. Listless, her big dark eyes filled with an expression for which I could find no name, Marina allowed the man to kiss her. A few moments later, Osvaldo, Marina, and the two Italians got up. I tried to take a step forward, but Ivan blocked my way.

"It won’t change anything. Just forget her," he said, forcing me to turn my back to Marina, who was following the three men down San Ignacio.

As we retraced our steps on Calle Obispo, images of the dimly lit ballroom came back: the polished wooden floors, the faded velvet couch, along the large raindrops splattering against the large window panes. Had she really meant to ask if there was someone else in my life? Ivan and I parted ways at the corner of Infanta and San Lázaro without saying a word. A few days later, I saw my friend for the last time. That morning, we barely spoke; the secret we shared remained unmentioned. During the last week of my stay, the weather suddenly changed. The days were often gray and humid. Instead of attending classes, I spent hours at the university library, unwilling to return to the present, haunted by memories of that dark and rainy afternoon. I returned to the Old Spanish Casino on the morning of my departure. In the same room where we had met, I was told Marina no longer worked there and would be leaving the country. As I walked down the Prado past the old pastel-colored buildings, I glanced up at the dark sky hovering over the sad city. Another heavy rain was on its way.