I had been living in Havana for a couple of years when I first met Fiorella. I had found myself there on an assignment for one of the Sunday papers back in the UK. I had been dispatched to do a long form piece on Cuba as power was handed over from the Castros and a new age began on the island. It was meant to be a week's trip, ten days at a push. That had been four years ago. Life on the island suited me, and I think I suited it. I carved myself a comfortable little niche there -- knocking out articles for the English-speaking world about this strange, wonderful corner of the Caribbean. It didn't pay well, but it paid enough. At least for me -- a single man whose only real luxuries were a laptop and a digital camera.
I had made myself very comfy in the city and had managed to build a small circle of friends and contacts. They were a broad bunch consisting of taxi drivers, corporals, pianists and street-philosophers. Whenever the well of inspiration ran dry, I would hit one of them up for some story I could sell to the west. One thing that I had always lacked was romance. I had hooked up with few women, but they were always a temporary thing. I think many thought that one day I would hop on a plane home, leaving them high and dry. Some of them on the other hand were more attracted to my passport than me.
It was Fiorella that was the exception. I met her on a September night. It was the middle of the Caribbean hurricane season, and Havana was being battered. Scorching days had given way to wall of rain torrenting from the sky. At the time I lived in one of the comparatively well-to-do areas of Havana. My contacts, some light schmoozing and a fist full of Pesos had gotten me an apartment in a shabby colonial era building in Regla, just south-east of the harbour. I was on the second floor, and had a kitchenette, a bathroom and a main room. It wasn't much, but thanks to the balcony looking out on the street, I couldn't have been happier anywhere else.
That night the storm battered the crumbling paintwork, while inside the humidity caused me to sweat through my clothes. I was working on a story for an Australian nature website when the electricity finally gave out and the city was plunged into darkness. This was an annoying but regular occurrence. I closed my laptop to conserve its battery and consigned myself to an evening of doing nothing.
Normally when this happened, I would read a book, or sit by the window drinking and watching the rain. As I rummaged around in one the kitchen drawers for some matches and a candle, I heard a knock from my door. I hadn't really had much to do with my neighbours, and I doubted any of my friends had ventured out into the storm to come and see me, so this came as a surprise. I opened the door and found Fiorella.
A few things came to mind when I first laid eyes on her. Firstly, she was short. 5'2" at a push. Secondly, she was beautiful. Although she was at that point in her early 50s she didn't look a day over 40. She was stunning. Her skin was a deep brown, the colour of toffee and her hair, a riot of black and silver curls, was held back by a jade-coloured headscarf. The most obvious thing I noticed, however, was that she was soaking.
"Sorry to bother you but I need your help," she said after I had opened the door and stared at her without saying anything.
"Oh, sure," I fumbled out. My English accented Spanish threw her for a second, a look of surprise crossing her face as I spoke.
"Oh, you're...American?" she asked
"No. English. Close enough though. You needed my help?" I was eager to know why this beautiful, drenched woman was on the landing in front of my front door.
"I need to borrow a bucket or something. Part of my wall has come away and now my apartment is flooding. I tried to block it with whatever I had but that did not go so well." She gestured to her clothing. She wore blue trousers and a white top, all soaked. Her blouse had gone transparent, and I couldn't help but linger on the outline of her bra through her wet shirt. Her nipples were hard, and pressed tight against the fabric of her underwear.
"So can you help?" her tone indicated she had caught me looking and was unimpressed.
"Yes, of course. Come in and I will see what I can find. I'm Nick, by the way."
I left the door open and started rummaging around the room for what I could find that might be helpful. I knew I had a bucket knocking around, and I had a plastic sheet somewhere which I had used as a ground sheet when doing research in the countryside.
She stepped into the room after me but lingered by the front door.
"Thank you for helping me. I am Fiorella. I live on the floor above."
"That's no problem. Couldn't leave you exposed to the elements, could I? Is it just you up there?"
"At the moment, yes. I'm luck it happened tonight. I usually have my grandson staying with me. I'm so glad he is with his mother."
She was a grandmother. That was... surprising.
With a grunt of triumph, I found the plastic sheet under the chaise-lounge that had come with the apartment and acted as both as my sofa and bed.
"Have you called the landlord?" I asked, as I went to the kitchen to locate the bucket. It was a redundant question, really. Even if the landlord could do something, I doubt they had the time and resources to do so. If Fiorella wanted it fixed, then it would be up to her to do so.
"No, I haven't. My phone broke and I have not replaced it."
"Oh! Well, would you like to use mine?"
Her eyes lit up at the mention. Cell phones are still something of a luxury for most Cubans. Without waiting for an answer, I fished my phone out and powered it up. I pulled the bucket out from the kitchen corner, shoved the plastic sheet into it and returned to Fiorella. Without saying a word, I handed the bucket and my phone to her.
"You are so kind. Thank you for this. I need to call the landlord, my daughter and my boss. Is that okay?" She was clearly frayed by the situation.
"That's fine. Make all the calls you need and then bring it back once you're done."
