of his frequent, inexplicable confusions in English was to pronounce the ‘i’ as an ‘e’ and vice versa. He produced a small notebook and a ballpoint from a pocket of his guayabera, wrote down the name, then tore out the page.
‘Well, thanks,’ the tall overweight man said as he took it. Then, staring at the five letters, he added: ‘Most amazing trees I’ve seen in this country.’
‘Is that so?’ Pablo was taking in the stranger, his mental wheels turning fast. The big bastard wore a navy-blue polo shirt, khaki shorts, white cotton socks, and sneakers.
‘I hadn’t been able to learn their name. Not many people here speak English.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what’s the name of this park?’
‘Parque de la Quinta.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Well…’ Pablo scratched his bald head, looked around, then shrugged his shoulders as if picking his brain for the right translation. ‘Quinta in Spanish is…like a country house, know what I’m saying? Like a villa.’
‘So, it’s the Park of the Country House.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, thanks for the information,’ the big man said. ‘Wait a minute,’ he added, fishing for his wallet and producing a twenty-dollar bill. ‘Here you are. Thanks.’
Pablo pounced on the bill thinking it was a fiver. When he saw the Jackson portrait he was dumbfounded. Twenty bucks for the name of a tree and a park? What would this huge asshole fork out for being taken around town?
‘Well, sir, this is very…’ Pablo groped for ‘generous’ unsuccessfully as he thrust the bill into a pants pocket ‘…very good of you. If I can help…in any other way…?’
His eyes on Pablo, head cocked, a budding grin on his lips, the tourist seemed to ponder the offer.
‘Maybe you could. This is my first trip here, I don’t know my way around, and I was hoping for a good time, catch my drift?’
Pablo grinned. ‘You mean fun, girls?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘I think…no, I thought so. But now, it’s morning. In the mornings, beautiful girls sleep. In the evenings they have fun. We meet in the evening, I take you to the most beautiful girls in Havana.’
A bunch of lies, the big guy figured. ‘Tell you what. You take me to the most beautiful girls in Havana, I’ll pay you a hundred bucks. You take me to the most beautiful girl in Havana, I’ll pay you two hundred. How’s that?’
‘That’s excellent, Mr…?’
‘Splittoesser.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Just call me John.’
‘Okay, John. So, where do we meet?’
‘Let’s see…’ John pretended to reflect. ‘There’s this bar-restaurant where I had dinner last night, La Zaragua…something.’
‘Spanish food? In Old Havana?’
‘That’s it.’
‘La Zaragozana.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘John, I’ve been to all the right places in Havana.’
The tall overweight man considered this for a moment. ‘Swell. At eight then?’ he said.
‘Eight’s fine with me.’
‘Can I drop you somewhere?’ John asked.
‘No, thanks. My office is right across the street.’
‘See you then,’ John said and extended his right hand. Pablo’s hand got lost in the man’s paw. The Cuban marched along, occasionally craning his neck, watching the tourist unlock his car. John waved him good-bye; Pablo did the same before crossing Fifth Avenue. Is this a lucky break or is this a lucky break? he was thinking.
John Splittoesser spent the afternoon completing the reconnaissance he had initiated three evenings earlier, driving around Santa Maria del Mar and Guanabo, two adjoining beach resorts fifteen miles to the east of Havana.
After dinner at La Zaragozana, Pablo suggested a leisurely stroll into Old Havana. Leaving the rental in the custody of the restaurant’s parking valet, they took Obispo, a street turned pedestrian mall. Passers-by stared at the strange pair: some recalled Twins, the movie starring Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
The temperature had dropped considerably as a consequence of a late-afternoon heavy shower. Lighting from the shop windows of well-stocked, dollars-only stores reflected on the wet asphalt. Insubstantial dialogue from a Brazilian soap opera and various pop songs blared out from radios, CD players, and television sets, producing an ear-splitting cacophony.
There were policemen on every corner, most of them alert young men fresh from the countryside, still in awe of city slickers: the pickpockets, whores, pimps, drag queens, sodomites, shoplifters, drug pushers, and black marketeers that trained eyes can detect along the Havana tourist trail.
A handful of veteran cops in their thirties could also be spotted. With bored expressions and cynical grins they whispered advice to the rookies. Guys who have stayed in the force and the neighbourhood long enough to know who they can let get away with petty crime because he or she won’t mug a tourist, deal coke, or hold up a truck delivering products from the warehouse. Cops who survive by recognizing the limit of permissible corruption: yes to a three-dollar sandwich, no to a one-dollar bill; yes to a hooker’s free ride, no to a pair of jeans presented by her pimp; yes to a packet of cigarettes, no to a box of fake Cohibas.
Pablo and John turned left on to Havana Street and after three blocks took a right on to the seedier Emped-rado Street. Watching them walk side by side, two candidates for the priesthood returning to the San Carlos and San Ambrosio Seminary were reminded of the David and Goliath story. A dark-skinned black youngster and a white teenager, both insufficiently versed in the Old Testament, approached the strange pair.
‘Mister, mister, cigars, guitars, girls…’ they accosted John in English.
‘I’m with him,’ Pablo said in Spanish, glaring at them.
They weren’t impressed by the news and ignored the short man with the stumpy ponytail. ‘Girls, beautiful. Cohibas, forty dollars. Fine guitars, eighty dollars.’
‘No,’ said John.
‘Coke? Marijuana?’
‘No.’
‘I’m taking him to Angelito’s,’ said Pablo, again in Spanish, trying to act nonchalant.
That stopped the hustlers cold. Apparently miffed, they turned their backs and disappeared into a doorway. John stared at the narrowest sidewalk he had seen in his life; not more than twenty inches wide.
‘Now, look up, at the…balcón? You say balcón in English?’
John frowned in incomprehension.
‘The balcón of the house on the next corner,’ Pablo said, extending his arm and pointing.
Four young women leaned on the wooden railing of a wrought-iron balcony projecting from the top floor of a two-storey house built in the 1850s. Light from a nearby streetlamp made it possible to see that two of the whores sported shorts, a third had a miniskirt on, the fourth a French-cut bikini bottom. All wore halter-neck tops and from their necks hung chains and medals. Gazing down at the street below, they were sharing a laugh prompted by an amusing comment made by the one in the miniskirt.
‘Interested?’ Pablo asked.
‘Let’s