Her Man in Havana

This was Havana. Hot, humid, loud, semi-derelict and enigmatic. No wonder Hemingway and Greene found material for their novels here.

As I strolled past a ruined edifice that would once have been a jewel in this city of a thousand mysteries, a flock of pigeons took to the skies from the hollows of its skull-like recesses.

I’d been aware of a swarthy young guy wearing white jeans and a white T-shirt not far behind me. He hadn’t passed when I stopped for the peanuts. He was still behind me. I wondered if he intended to roll me for cash. At least, he wouldn’t try anything in broad daylight on this street with so many people around.

Straight ahead was what I was looking for. A row of about fifteen American automobiles backed up to the kerb.

‘Try the pink one,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned to see the guy in the white pants and T-shirt.

‘The pink one is good. I recommend it. Thirty-five CUC$.’

I relaxed.

The pink car he pointed out was a ’54 Chevrolet convertible with white seats. I just love that period with its big cars, full-bodied women and music. Coming to Havana was like stepping back in time.

A black guy in a white T-shirt and orange shorts held a map in a plastic cover as he came over. ‘You want ride in car? Take tour. Thirty-five CUC$,’ he said, running his hand across the map.

‘He wants the pink one,’ said my white-dressed friend.

A bunch of guys stood around smoking and shooting the breeze on the far side of the cars.

One young man stood separate from the others, leaning on a tree, tapping something into a mobile phone.

‘Miguel!’ The black guy called over to the one on his own.

He sauntered over as if he was some A-list celeb instead of a tourist jockey. He stood about five-ten and probably worked out. I had two inches on him but he had the muscle. He wore a pair of Ray-Bans, a black T-shirt and black shorts. Around his neck hung a heavy, gold-coloured necklace with a matching ear stud.

‘You want the tour, Señor? Thirty-five CUC$. We do the Malecón and the jungle in the middle of the city and all the other main sites,’ said Miguel. He had a slight accent, but his English was good.

‘Yeah, that’s what I want.’ I crossed the road, watching for the bicycle rickshaws that silently crept up and down the streets.

Miguel opened the driver’s door and lifted forward the front seat. I climbed into the back, onto a long, white, plastic bench that looked original. The same kind of car I’d seen in the old films with couples making out at the drive-in movies

The other drivers looked at me sullenly. I didn’t know what Miguel had done to upset them or if I had somehow made a mistake in the local etiquette, but there was no doubt that my chauffeur was not high on their popularity list.

Miguel slipped into the driver’s seat, turned the key and the engine sputtered into action. Away we went with a cloud of black smoke billowing from the exhaust.

‘This is Chinatown,’ he said as we joined a queue of traffic being held up by a horse and buggy.

I looked over at an arch similar to the one in London’s Chinatown. ‘I can’t see any Chinese people,’ I said, searching the faces of the pedestrians.

‘No, they all left after the Revolution, Señor.’

Looking at the state of the buildings in this city, I reckoned they had made a wise move. ‘So how do you keep this old engine going, Miguel?’ I said as we sped along the Malecón. A trail of black smoke followed us.

‘Well, Señor, I don’t usually tell anyone but it’s a Mitsubishi engine.’ He laughed. ‘What brings you to Cuba, Señor? Business or pleasure?’ said Miguel.

‘Both,’ I said.

‘Really, Señor? What’s your business?’

He was just friendly, I thought. ‘I’m the international representative of a major British importer. I’m here to buy rum and cigars. Cuba’s finest.’ It sounded cooler than, ‘I’m a buyer for a supermarket chain.’

‘Si, Señor. You will find the finest rum and cigars here in Havana. And the pleasure? You like our Cuban women? I know some girls who would like to get to know you, Señor.’

‘I’m going to do some touring. Yes, I like your women but I’m not looking for one. Thanks but no thanks, Miguel.’

‘As you please, Señor.’

We arrived back at the American car parking lot. I handed over thirty-five CUC$, the Cuban tourist dollar, plus a tip of ten.

‘Thanks, Señor. Good luck with your business.’

He shook my hand and seemed sincere. I guess he was a good actor.

***

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