drum went everywhere with me. Beto and Bobo were more instrumentally challenged, but they were never left out of our colorful performances. Beto and Bobo would accompany Chaki and me with any type of homemade instrument they could get their hands on—a guiro carved from a hollowed block of wood or a set of maracas made by filling coconut shells with uncooked frijoles.
Those times when we were able to slip into one of our favorite nighttime hangouts—the famous Hotel Nacionál—without inviting too much attention from the authorities, we could earn pocketsful of pesos from the swarming tourists and wealthy patrons at the hotel’s bars and casinos. It certainly beat diving for measly coins that tourists would toss into the waves of the ocean just to watch young Cuban kids desperately dive in after them. To the wealthy foreigners, this was great entertainment. They threw their loose change into the water like it was nothing. But to us Cuban children, those coins meant everything. Extra coins each day was the difference between being able to get things like gas for the car and sugar for our coffee or having to desperately hunt for things on the growing black market.
There was an extensive wall developing and dividing the citizens of Cuba. The rich remained loyal to Batista’s government, holding their collective breaths hoping to get richer; while the poor protested, got abused by the system, and got poorer. Corruption, crime, and political divide was growing. Political threats were rising to dangerous proportions around our tiny island, but Havana was still our pocket of pride and hope.
My compadres and I had become regular confidantes of the bookies and gangsters that discreetly (and not so discreetly) stirred through the more exclusive and wealthy tourist spots in our city. Visits to the Hotel Nacionál were made even more enticing with run-ins with famous international celebrities that frequented our proud and colorful city. Like the great American pelotero Mickey Mantle or the actor Johnny Weissmuller. (Imagine, Tarzan himself inaugurated the swimming pool at the hotel! What a day that was!) Boy, did I wish to be as famous and rich as those guys. My number one obsession in those days was Meyer Lansky—aside from the money and celebrity that he brought to the Hotel Nacionál and to Cuba, he was Jewish too! He was the manifestation of cool in every way for me. Another one of our community’s mantras was, “If we don’t take care of our own, who will take care of us?” Bless the members of our tribe—each and every one, near and far.
One memorable summer afternoon, we nearly lost our wits when we were hanging around the hotel and spotted the legendary Frank Sinatra inside the Starlight Terrace Bar. My compadres and I were completely starstruck, glued to our places like the columns that surround the Plaza de Armas in central Havana. The famous crooner was encircled by his massive entourage, laughing loudly and causing quite the commotion in the back of the bar. In Chaki’s eyes, Sinatra was the most suave ladies’ man in the whole world.
By the time we could compose our starry-eyed foolishness at running into “ol’ blue eyes” right on our own turf, the famous entertainer with his mischievous grin had vanished into the smoky interior of the bar’s private back room. Los Cuatro Compadres would not soon forget the electrifying run-in that afternoon!
In the midst of all the glitz and glamour that we so desperately sought, there were those days when I would wake up with my head set to explode from those persistent dreams, always of the father I never knew. Sleep those nights simply would not settle on me, and in the mornings that followed I would wake up with nothing short of an emptiness weighing heavy on my shoulders. I would wander aimlessly on the eight-kilometer stretch of beach along the Malecón before the sun even had a chance to rise over the boardwalk, the sound of the crashing waves against the mortar of the old Spanish fort and the smell of the salty water offering up a sense of grounding, a place to be. My fingers would twitch nervously, wildly and involuntarily, first searching for my father’s gold chain around my neck and then balling up into fists.
Stumbling around on the beach by myself and looking to strike deals to make some cash, I would then wait impatiently for the announcing of the daily bolita, lottery, with the results of the winning numbers that broadcasted precisely at 2:00 p.m. on Radio Progreso. Ghastly cockfights might have stopped in Cuba, but those clandestine bolita numbers were always good to me. I wasn’t going to dive for coins like a circus monkey. No, not me. I was too lucky for that bullshit.
5
I was reciting my morning prayers with Abuelo one morning after a night of welcomed restful sleep. I never knew what to pray for, as my grandfather led me in those obligatory traditional prayers, so I just repeated my memorized supplications and my wishes for my guiding star—my guardian angel, my father, up in heaven—to continue watching over me. The weathered leather straps of the tefillin, prayer phylacteries, wrapped tightly on my arm and head kept me tethered to my grandfather, to our family, and to our faith. Something—what was it really?—had been protecting me for as long as I could remember, and whether it was God or Gabriel Stein, I wasn’t going to test fate. We Jews might have been a flawed and tragic bunch, but our faith and legacy kept us bound to survival and hope. So I prayed with Abuelo.
That morning, I was suddenly distracted by screeching shouts and whistles from the street below our second-floor window. I knew right away it was El Bobo. Concealing the religious phylacteries on my forehead and arm behind the sun-faded lace curtains that hung in the window (hoping Bobo wouldn’t catch me in my vulnerable state and hoping Abuelo would not notice my distraction from the street below us), I cautiously leaned over the windowsill and saw Bobo standing on the sidewalk holding a long stick in his hands. The stick had a crude hook tied around one end.
What is Bobo up to now? I wondered playfully.
“Come on, Jefe,” Bobo was yelling. “It’s getting late, and I have a great idea to make muchos billetes. Lots and lots of money!”
“I’ll be right down, mi compay! Meet me at the patio de recreo,” I shouted.
The school’s playground was our meeting place. Abuelo shot me a silent sideways glare that told me, with no misgiving, that I had better get away from the window and get on with my prayers. He continued to sing the ancient Hebrew words, intoning a bit louder now so that I could pick up and continue where I had left off with my own recitations.
Maldito prayers, I cursed to myself and immediately felt the shame and guilt fill in my scrawny chest. This morning ritual was so important to my dear grandfather, so for Abuelo’s sake, I begrudgingly carried on.
When I finally got to the school’s playground on the corner of Miguel Figueroa Street, a mere five-minute walk from my grandparents’ place, Bobo was already back with Chaki and Beto. Chaki had shimmied barefoot halfway up the trunk of a coconut palm, and Beto cautiously held the long stick with the hook in his two hands.
“¿Qué, coño, están haciendo, mis compadres?” I yelled, approaching the group with a mischievous grin. What are you guys doing?
Beto scrunched his eyebrows and pouted as if he had just been caught stealing a guava from the local market.
“We’re getting agua de coco, Jefe.” Bobo’s tone was as serious as a heart attack.
“Agua de what did you say?”
“Agua de coco,” Bobo repeated. “Coconut juice is all the buzz nowadays! It is very healthy to drink it. We’re going to sell it by the beach.”
All three of us looked up at Chaki who was now hanging precariously from the fronds at the top of the palm tree.
“Oy vey,” I snorted. We were going to get rich on coconut juice? Had Bobo lost his mind? “You can find coconuts for free everywhere you go on this island! You must have coconuts in your head, Bobo!” I chanted.
Beto prodded the soles of Chaki’s feet with the long stick. He blushed wildly and mumbled, “I tried to tell them that this was a complete waste of time. No one will buy this senseless idea.” Beto was always at the ready with empathy while making light of Bobo’s purely stupid ideas. Always the voice of understanding, always patient—that was Beto.
The relentless Caribbean sun burned brightly in our eyes and blinded our vision. Suddenly, there was a loud thud from above. Then another