Kathleen didn't mean to lose the tour group. They just walked too quickly for her, never stopping long enough to appreciate the sublime decrepitude of Havana's architecture. Besides, she thought, that morose young man in the cheap khaki suite I keep seeing is probably with the secret police. I can't get in too much trouble.
The warm and humid Cuban dusk turned into night, and she wandered lethargically through the busy streets, away from the usual tourist areas. Wasn't it her duty to the travel agency back in Toronto to explore the hidden areas, to get the real flavour of a place, and not just the official Tourist Board line? There's more to Havana than just Varadero Beach and the Malecon.
Entering the Cayo Hueso barrio, Kathleen heard the distant strains of a single trumpet blaring out the melody of an ethereal bolero above the general din. What is that song? I know it. Mesmerized by the plaintive wail, she stepped off the curb without looking, intent on following the sound to its source.
"BOO-YA!! BOO-YA!!" the horn of a '56 DeSoto exploded in her ears as she fell into the street. A crowd gathered immediately. Did she swoon? She didn't think the car hit her, but she was dazed. Was it the oppressive heat, the crowding people yammering a language she hardly understood, the cursing of the driver, the glare of the headlights right at eye level? She wasstill confused when the crowd parted and a hand reached down to her.
"
Señorita
,
por favor
," was all he said. It was the man in khaki. He helped Kathleen to her feet, and gently but firmly directed her into a dance hall on the other side of the street. He's surely State Security, she thought. Once inside, Kathleen was able to take stock of the herself: she was unhurt,merely shaken, a scratch on her leg. And her policeman had such lovely features and intense eyes.
"Let me get you a drink," he said in English. Her eyes followed him across the room, admiring his slim build. As he was speaking to the bartender, she surveyed the hall. The orchestra was coming to the stage, a bandstand illuminated by weak lamps shining through scratched, ancient gels. The players ranged widely in age, from a spotty-faced boy with a stand-up base, to the white-haired piano player, who might have played with Desi Arnaz. But Kathleen was most intrigued with the leader, a
suavecito,
in what (she guessed) was his mid-fifties: tall, light-skinned (by Cuban standards), still slender, with slicked-back black hair and a pencil-thin moustache. He carried himself like a man who knows he's the center of attention and deserves to be. That's a toothsome morsel, she thought,
muy guapo
. The policeman returned with two glasses.
"
Cuba libre
I think they call it. Of course, it isn't real Coke. My name is Ernesto."
"I'm Kathleen. Thanks so much for helping. I don't know what happened."
"The heat, perhaps, the crush of people--who knows? You were startled. Are you feeling better now?"
"Yes, thank-you," Kathleen sighed, noticing for the first time that she was the only woman in the hall. With that the band struck up a tango, and a few male-male couples moved onto the dance floor. So much for Kathleen's conception of Latino machismo. "What an
interesting
