Remi edged close to Sam. The strumming of the Mexican bar band and the harmony of the singers perfectly complemented the intoxicating brandy they were sipping. They returned to their room, the future as uncertain as ever but their present as pleasant as any they could wish for.
Sam called Selma, anxious for word on her hunt for a Cuban guide. Kendra answered Selma’s line.
“You’re in luck. Selma’s got a suggestion from one of her contacts: a doctor in Havana who agreed to show you around and who I’ve been assured is as resourceful as they come.”
“She vouched for him?”
“She did. He’s a fan of several of her articles and they’ve corresponded for years. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good luck.”
Sam paused. “How’s Selma doing?”
“Still rolling with the punches, but the physical therapy takes its toll on her.”
“It can do that. Is she following the doctor’s instructions?”
“I think so. Probably doing more than she should. She told me yesterday that she just wants to get back on her feet as soon as possible.”
“Tell her she’s in our thoughts.”
“I will.”
On their way to the Cuban consulate, it became clear that the taxi driver had no idea where it was. After asking three pedestrians for directions, he finally deposited them in front of a run-down white residence two blocks off the main street, which he assured them was the “new” location of the elusive Cuban headquarters.
The hot waiting area was barely ventilated by a struggling stand-up fan that predated the combustion engine. When the woman at the counter finally held up their travel documents, they gratefully approached her, and, after paying the token fee, they couldn’t get to the exit fast enough.
The pair ambled down the long blocks, the tropical sun beating down on them. When they made it to the main street, Sam was soaked through. He scanned the shops and pointed to a hardware store.
Ten minutes later, they emerged, several hundred pesos poorer but with a bulging sack of supplies. They flagged down a taxi to return to their hotel.
Lunch by the pool, along with a final margarita, revived their flagging spirits, and when they arrived at the airport, they checked their luggage and supply bag through security without a problem. Their previous evening’s positive sentiment lasted until they were informed by the Cubana Air hostess that the flight was running an hour late due to unspecified delays. The departure area was as far from the Ritz pool as one could get, but Sam made the best of it with a cold Tecate beer and a bag of potato chips while Remi sipped a bottle of water.
One hour turned into two, and by the time they were in their plane seats Remi had mentioned several times that she didn’t have a great feeling about the trip.
“Relax. What could—” Sam started and then caught himself.
Remi glared at him. “I warned you. You’re going to bring bad juju on us.”
“I didn’t say it.”
“You thought it.”
Sam had no comeback to that, so he just gazed out the window at the palms baking on the edge of the tarmac. The ancient jet lumbered across it in preparation for takeoff, and then they were rumbling down the runway, the plane shaking alarmingly as it struggled to propel itself into the sky.
José Martí International Airport in Havana was larger than they’d expected, with three terminals and a host of planes on the ground. Remi noted quietly to Sam that the interior was as shabby as the gray concrete exterior. The customs agents were serious and unfriendly, frowning determinedly before waving them through.
Sam changed four hundred dollars at the currency exchange window and pocketed the Cuban bills. When they walked out onto the sidewalk to make their way to the taxi line, the heat hit them like a blow. Hot and more humid than Cancún, even the breeze was uncomfortable as it blew from the surrounding jungle. A line of new Mitsubishi cabs waited under a rusting steel awning, where a cadaverous man in a faded blue uniform blew a whistle with all the enthusiasm of a mortician.
The ride into Havana took forty-five minutes, first through countryside and then the outskirts of the city. Sam and Remi were surprised by how many of the vehicles were modern—they’d been expecting a fleet of 1950s-era junkers, based on the movie depictions. Apparently, the Cubans hadn’t studied the same films because their appetite for Nissan and Honda seemed as insatiable as anywhere in America, although there were still plenty of aging Fiats and Ladas belching blue exhaust as they rolled down the streets.
When they arrived at the Iberostar Parque Central Hotel, a uniformed bell captain held Remi’s door open as Sam paid the driver. The hotel was located in an elegant colonial building across the street from a park, a huge green square that served as the downtown city center—buzzing with activity as evening approached. A saxophone player blew a haunting riff to the accompaniment of revving car engines and peals of laughter from loitering groups of teens. Sam paused for a moment to listen before turning and accompanying Remi into the hotel lobby.
Once they were in their room, Sam called the contact Selma had provided: Dr. Lagarde. When he answered, he immediately switched to passable English after hearing the telltale American accent in Sam’s hello.
“Ah, I presume this is Selma Wondrash’s friend?” Lagarde said.