Naked in Havana (21 page)

Angel got married in the cathedral one Sunday in December. I was praying for wind and for rain.

Unfortunately, it was an almost perfect day.

I chose a pew halfway towards the back, as far from the aisle as possible so I would not have to catch his eye as he walked past. I watched him standing at the altar, smoothing down his perfect hair, looking nervous, looking happy. The Macheda clan were one of the most influential families in Havana, and it was standing room only inside the cathedral if you weren’t family or close friends.

Papi sat beside me, he looked sallow and tired. I nagged him constantly about his drinking and his smoking, I had even joined forces with Maria who now kept him on a special diet: rice salads, no spicy foods, just one glass of rum in the afternoon. She even tried to hide his cigars. He complained a lot but he did as he was told. He even came home from the club at midnight.

“You’re the best father in the world,” I told him, “but what kind of father will you be when you’re dead? I need you.”

Guilt worked where carping didn’t; he didn’t look well, but he looked better.

I knew my friends were all watching me, but if they thought they were going to see a show they were going to be disappointed. I felt serene. I smiled and waved back at everyone. Ramon, from my father’s bar, was my boyfriend for the day. I clung to his hand and kissed him on the cheek whenever Angel looked my way. I looked radiant, damn him.

It was only when I saw Esmeralda Salvatore walk along the aisle that my resolve began to slip. This was the biggest day in Havana for years and it was supposed to be my day.

It was my pride that was wounded more than anything. I stood a little straighter, fanned my cheeks with the order of service, and just kept smiling, smiling till my jaw ached. And then I smiled some more.

The Nacional was Havana’s most prestigious address, its distinctive twin spires dominated the bluff at Vedado. In fact it was a monument to the Mob, everything that Papi despised. It was also where Angel was having his wedding reception.

The bellboys swooped as our Bel Air pulled up outside. Papi raised an eyebrow at me. Look at the state of their uniforms, his face said. They can’t even buy their busboys new threads.

White limousines pulled up at the portico one after another, splendid military men with wives dripping diamonds, men in tuxedos like my father, some of them trailing bulky men in dark suits.

Papi took my arm and led me up the steps into the lobby. It was a surreal time to be having a wedding: there was a press blackout in Havana and the rebels had cut the phone lines to the rest of Cuba. We were effectively cut off from the rest of the world, all the glamour existed inside a wonderland bubble. Every day there was a fresh rumour; the rebels were on the outskirts of the city; Santa Anna had fallen; Batista was dead; Fidel was dead.

But walk inside the Nacional and the war did not exist, it was a world with no rebels, no calendars and no windows. This was Meyer Lansky's world and Bobbo Salvatore’s world, a green beize universe of roulette wheels and card shoes and blackjack croupiers. They still believed nothing would change. It was surreal.

A buffet had been laid out on the lawns; Morro crab and queen conch enchiladas from the southern archipelago; roast breast of flamingo; roast tortoise with lemon and garlic; crayfish, oysters, and grilled swordfish from Cojímar, grilled manatee from Camagüey.

How did he do it? The roads leading in and out of the city had been blockaded for weeks by rebel militias and many of Havana’s restaurants had shut down. There was even a shortage of sugar - Papi said it was like Detroit running out of cars.

Yet somehow Salvatore and Macheda had flown in the best food from everywhere in the country. Perhaps they would survive the revolution after all.

The reception was one of the biggest parties I had ever been to, and I had seen much extravagance in my short life. The guests were drinking French champagne and
añejo
rum and waiters circulated with boxes of Montecristo cigars.

Everyone in Havana was there; racketeers like “Neno” Pertierra - oh, he was also a member of Congress - and many of Batista’s generals. There was Senator Paco Prío Socarrás, older brother of the prime minister - also wanted by the US Narcotics Bureau, or so Papi told me, for smuggling cocaine and heroin into the United States.

The entire rogue’s gallery all wore their sashes and tuxedos and uniforms, their women were resplendent in fashion gowns and jewels; they might have been crowning a new king of Cuba. Perhaps, I thought, that was exactly they were here to do. None of us were sure how long Bobbo Salvatore would reign.

Even Batista himself was there. He made a grand entrance, late, surrounded by his bodyguards. I had never seen him in the flesh before, and I expected a thug, like his chief of police. Instead he lived up to his nickname “El Mulatto Lindo,” the pretty mulatto, a nickname he apparently hated. It had stuck from his early days because of his perfect teeth and perfect hair.

There was a panoramic view of the Malecón and the harbour from the gardens, and as the sun set, the glow from the hotel lights turned the sea to turquoise. It was every bride’s dream: the perfect setting, the perfect day.

But the truth was Alberto Macheda could not have afforded this on his own, and Papi certainly couldn’t. I knew now why Angel had never taken me seriously. Papi had told me this was about money and connections and now I could see it for myself. People said I was beautiful, but there was nothing as cheap as beauty in Havana. I could resent Esmeralda Salvatore for taking all this away from me but I realized now that she didn’t steal it; it was never mine to own.

I saw Consuela and Lourdes looking for me but I stuck tight to Papi. I didn’t want to talk to any of that crowd. If I could just get through this afternoon, I told myself, I wouldn’t have to think about Angel Macheda ever again.

And it really didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Let him marry his freckle-faced yankee. There was only face I wanted to see, and I searched the crowd for him. If he was back in Havana I knew he would not miss this.

If he was still alive.

I had asked Papi about him, a few weeks ago - as casually as I could - but he said he hadn’t heard news of him in months. If something had happened to him no one would ever know, I supposed.

Ramon appeared with champagne and took my arm. He smiled at me. Perhaps he thought there was some hope for us. He was a nice boy but...well, he was just that. A boy.

I wanted Reyes.

The band struck up the bridal waltz as the bridal party walked in. Angel waved to everyone as if he was the President of the United States walking across the White House lawn. The bride looked pale in my opinion, and the sun had brought out her freckles. “She looks beautiful,” Papi murmured, always willing to be generous, damn him.

“Is it wrong if I trip her up as she walks past?”

“Why would you want to do that?” he said. “She did you a favour, cariña.”

He was right. I could still hear his footsteps as he ran off down the cobblestones, leaving me to the police.

“Don’t you don’t feel sad today?” someone asked me. It was Angel’s sister, Lourdes, hoping for a tear, hoping for a confidence.

“I’m very happy for him,” I said.

Lourdes seemed unimpressed. Well, I didn’t need to convince them, this was a face saving exercise, that was all.

I watched Esmeralda doing her round of the guests. The dress must have cost a fortune. She looked like a giant meringue. Though I supposed Papi was right, she didn’t look too bad. It’s a wonder what a good hair stylist and a little make-up can do.

Angel was being congratulated by his friends, they were all slapping him on the back and laughing too loud. His father came over and clapped him on the back as well. He had done the right thing for the Macheda family. Today he became the perfect son with the perfect hair, and soon, the perfect life. He looked over and saw me staring and our eyes locked for a moment.

He smiled at me. I turned away.

There was a Cuban jazz band playing on the lawn. Lourdes told me that she had heard Eartha Kitt or even Frank Sinatra might show up later to sing for them. There were long speeches, thanking everyone. Angel and Esmeralda played the part of the perfect couple. I saw him put his arm around Esmeralda’s waist, pull her towards him and kiss her. I looked away. I needed another drink, where was that damned waiter?

All this smiling and pretending was all too much. “I have to find the bathrooms,” I said and slipped away, lost myself in the crowd.

I found myself in the lobby, wandering between the show-cases of Italian shoes and Danish ashtrays and Swedish glass. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, a tall, dark-haired young woman in a long red dress with diamonds at her throat. Was that really me? That young woman looked so much more poised than I felt. I knew men were staring at me; why was the world full of so many staring men, and why did none of them make me want to stare back?

What good was it to be beautiful when the only man you had ever really loved turned out to be a coward and a liar?

I found a quiet corner, hidden by a potted palm, and slid into a leather banquette. I decided to hide here for a while until I could put my mask back on and face Havana society again.

I put my hands on my knees and hid my face in my hands.

“That bad?”

I tried not to let him see how relieved and excited I was to see him again. If he had known, I think he would have been unbearable.

I held out a hand for a cheroot, and he wordlessly took one from the cigar case and handed it to me. He held the lighter for me. I drew as deep as I could and then started coughing. He handed me a drink of water. But it wasn’t water, it was white rum, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. There were bright flashes in front of my eyes.

“There, that must feel better.”

Well, not straight away but it did after I could see again. My nose and my eyes were running. He handed me another of his inexhaustible supply of handkerchiefs. “Are you sure? You know what happened to the last one.”

“I have a hundred at home just like it. I have an aunt in Poughkeepsie sends me a box every Christmas.”

I took the handkerchief and carefully wiped my mascara, tried to discreetly blow my nose.

“It’s all right, I don’t want it back,” he said.