“I guess I thought it would be a little more difficult than that,” I said. “I mean, aren’t they kind of mad at us or something?”
Chutsky laughed. “I think you’re gonna find out that they like you,” he said. “It’s just your government they can’t stand.”
I shook my head. “Can they really separate them like that?”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s simple Cuban Logic.”
And as nonsensical as that seemed, I had grown up in Miami and knew perfectly well what that was; Cuban Logic was a running joke in the Cuban community, placed right before being Cubanaso in the emotional spectrum. The best explanation I’d ever had was from a professor in college. I’d taken a poetry course in the vain hope of learning to see into the human soul, since I don’t have one. And the professor had been reading aloud from Walt Whitman—I still remembered the line, since it is so utterly human. “Do I contradict myself? Well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.” A
nd the professor had looked up from the book and said, “Perfect Cuban Logic,” waited for the laugh to die down, and then gone back to reading the poem.
So if the Cuban people disliked America and liked Americans, it involved no more mental gymnastics than I had seen and heard nearly every day of my life. In any case, there was a clatter, a buzzer blasted a loud note, and our baggage began to come out on the belt. We didn’t have a lot, just one small bag each—just a change of socks and a dozen Bibles—and we wrestled the bags out past a female customs agent who seemed more interested in talking to the guard beside her than in catching us smuggling in weapons or stock portfolios. She merely glanced at the bags and waved us through, without losing a syllable of her rapid-fire monologue. And then we were free, walking improbably out the door and into the sunshine outside. Chutsky whistled up a taxi, a gray Mercedes, and a man stepped out in gray livery and matching cap and grabbed our bags. Chutsky said, “Hotel Nacional” to the driver, who threw our bags in the trunk, and we all climbed in.
The highway into Havana was badly pockmarked, but it was very close to deserted. We saw only a few other cabs, a couple of motorcycles, and some army trucks moving slowly along, and that was it—all the way in to the city. Then the streets suddenly exploded into life, with ancient cars, bicycles, crowds of people flowing over the sidewalks, and some very strange-looking buses that were pulled by diesel trucks. They were twice as long as an American bus, and shaped something like the letter M with the two ends going up like wings and then sloping down to a flat-roofed low spot in the middle. They were all packed so full of people that it seemed impossible for anyone else to get on, but as I watched one of them stopped, and sure enough, another clump of people crowded in.
“Camels,” Chutsky said, and I stared at him curiously.
“Excuse me?” I said.
He jerked his head at one of the strange buses. “They’re called camels,” he said. “They’ll tell you it’s because of the shape, but my guess is it has to do with the smell inside at rush hour.” He shook his head. “You get four hundred people inside there, coming home from work, no air-conditioning and the windows don’t open. Unbelievable.”
It was a fascinating tidbit of information, or at least Chutsky apparently thought so, because he had nothing more profound to offer, even though we were moving through a city I had never seen before. But his impulse to be a tour guide was apparently dead, and we slid through traffic and onto a wide boulevard that ran along the water. High up on a cliff on the other side of the harbor I could see an old lighthouse and some battlements, and beyond that a black smudge of smoke climbing into the sky. Between us and the water there was a broad sidewalk and a seawall. Waves broke on the wall, sending spray up into the air, but nobody seemed to mind getting a little wet. There were throngs of people of all ages sitting, standing, walking, fishing, lying, and kissing on the seawall. We passed some strange contorted sculpture, thumped over a rough patch of pavement, and turned left up a short hill. And then there it was, the Hotel Nacional, complete with its facade that would soon feature the smirking face of Dexter, unless we could find Weiss first.
The driver stopped his car in front of a grand marble staircase, a doorman dressed like an Italian admiral stepped up and clapped his hands, and a uniformed bellboy came running out to grab our bags.
“Here we are,” said Chutsky, somewhat unnecessarily. The admiral opened the door and Chutsky climbed out. I was allowed to open my own door, since I was on the side away from the marble stairs. I did so, and climbed out into a forest of helpful smiles. Chutsky paid the driver, and we followed the bellboy up the stairs and into the hotel.
The lobby looked like it had been carved out of the same block of marble as the stairs. It was somewhat narrow, but it stretched away past the front desk and vanished in the misty distance. The bellboy led us right up to the desk, past a cluster of plush chairs and a velvet rope, and the clerk at the desk seemed very glad to see us.
“Señor Freeney,” he said, bowing his head happily. “So very good to see you again.” He raised an eyebrow. “Surely, you are not here for the Art Festival?” His accent was less than many I had heard in Miami, and Chutsky seemed very pleased to see him, too.
Chutsky reached across the counter and shook his hand. “How are you, Rogelio?” he said. “Nice to see you, too. I’m here to break in a new guy.” He put his hand on my shoulder and nudged me forward, as if I was a sullen boy being forced to kiss Granny on the cheek. “This is David Marcey, one of our rising stars,” he said. “Does a hell of a sermon.”
Rogelio shook my hand. “I am very pleased to meet you, Señor Marcey.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You have a very nice place here.”
He gave a half bow again and began to tap on a computer keyboard. “I hope you will enjoy your stay,” he said. “If Señor Freeney does not object, I will put you on the executive floor? That way you are closer to the breakfast.”
“That sounds very nice,” I said.
“One room or two?” he said.
“I think just one this time, Rogelio,” Chutsky said. “Gotta watch the old expense account this trip.”
“Of course,” Rogelio said. He tapped out a few more quick keystrokes and then, with a grand flourish, slid two keys across the desk. “Here you go,” he said.
Chutsky put his hand on the keys and leaned in a little closer. “One more thing, Rogelio,” he said, lowering his voice. “We have a friend coming in from Canada,” he said. “Name of Brandon Weiss.” He pulled the keys toward himself over the counter, and a twenty-dollar bill lay on the counter where they had been. “We’d like to surprise him,” he said. “It’s his birthday.”
Rogelio flicked out a hand and the twenty-dollar bill disappeared like a fly grabbed by a lizard. “Of course,” he said. “I will let you know immediately.”
“Thanks, Rogelio,” Chutsky said, and he turned away, motioning me to follow. I trailed along behind him and the bellboy with our bags, to the far end of the lobby, where a bank of elevators stood ready to whisk us up to the executive floor. A crowd of people dressed in very nice resort wear stood waiting, and it may have been only my feverish imagination, but I thought they glared in horror at our missionary clothing. Still, there was nothing for it but to follow the script, and I smiled at them and managed to avoid blurting out something religious, possibly from Revelation.
The door slid open and the crowd surged into the elevator. The bellboy smiled and said, “Go ahead, sir, I follow in two minute,” and the Right Reverend Freeney and I climbed in.
The doors closed. I caught a few more anxious glances at my shoes, but no one had anything to say, and neither did I. But I did wonder why we had to share a room. I hadn’t had a roommate since college, and that hadn’t really worked out very well. And I knew full well that Chutsky snored.
The doors slid open and we stepped out. I followed Chutsky to the left, to another reception area, where a waiter stood beside a glass cart. He bowed and handed us each a tall glass.