[2012] Havana Lost by Libby Fischer Hellmann

Author:Libby Fischer Hellmann [Hellmann, Libby Fischer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller
ISBN: 9781938733383
Google: XR8jDQAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00CS7TICY
Barnesnoble: B00CS7TICY
Goodreads: 17941795
Publisher: Elizabeth F Hellmann
Published: 2013-01-01T07:00:00+00:00

• • •

They ate at a small Cuban café with rickety tables and linoleum surfaces that were chipped and marred. The menu, written on a sheet of cardboard tacked to a wall, consisted of rice and beans with a morsel or two of pork, or rice and beans with a morsel of chicken. Michael chose the pork, Carla the chicken.

“They used to have ropa veija,” Carla said wistfully.

“What’s that?” Michael asked.

“It’s a stew. Lamb or beef, slow-cooked with peppers, tomatoes, onions, and garlic. Muy ricos.” She smiled dreamily for a moment. Then she said matter-of-factly, “I suppose we are lucky it is still open.”

“I’ll bet he does.” Michael motioned toward the owner, who was bussing trays at another table. Despite the meager menu, the place was almost full.

He understood when their meals arrived. The food was excellent: generous portions, perfectly cooked, aromatic, and spicy.

Michael watched Carla wolf down her food. He knew food was a scarce commodity in Cuba. The average Cuban had lost twenty pounds during the Special Period, particularly in Havana, where farms and arable land were rare. People had begun to grow their own fruits and vegetables on rooftop gardens and whatever plots of earth they could scrounge, but it would take time before those efforts became self-sustaining. Michael was glad that, at least for today, Carla’s stomach would be full.

It was after eleven when they finished dinner, and they wound through the narrow cobblestone streets of Old Havana. Despite the late hour, it was crowded. Shops that were still in business remained open, although they didn’t have much on the shelves. Jineteros and prostitutes, both white and black, advertised their wares. Stray dogs—and there were a lot—begged for food. A gentle breeze carried the scents of cheap perfume, musky sweat, and body odor, and everywhere was music: guitarists, singers, and percussionists.

Beneath the festive atmosphere, though, it was clear everyone was either looking for a handout or to trying to “resolver” their way to survival. It reminded Michael of what he’d read about Germany during the last days of the Weimar Republic, when the partying grew increasingly desperate, forced, and hollow. Then again, Cuba wasn’t always like that. His mother had walked the streets of Old Havana thirty years ago when Cuba was thriving. He wondered what she’d think of the place now.

Carla, whose good humor seemed to be restored now that she’d been well fed, turned to him with an impish expression. “I have an idea.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.” She led him around a corner and down a narrow passage. She threaded her way around other streets until Michael was hopelessly lost. Finally she stopped halfway down a narrow alley. The odor of incense floated out from an open door.

Carla stuck her head in and spoke to someone. A moment later she beckoned Michael.

The breeze stopped at the door, and Michael walked into a room cluttered with so much furniture, junk, and kitsch he felt claustrophobic. In the middle at a small covered table sat an enormous black woman dressed in white.

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