Palms, Paradise, Poison by John Keyse-Walker

Author:John Keyse-Walker [Keyse-Walker, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2021-09-06T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-TWO

The further Subteniente Garcia drove from Havana, the more free and easy she became. Our east-trending course took us deep into the Cuban hinterland and on a rising path. The morning was warm and humid, but not yet hot. Fat clouds dotted a cobalt sky, making our route a patchwork of shadow and sun, placing us in one or the other for times not long enough to be bored, or hot, or low-spirited. The road, still gravel, was unpopulated, the countryside picturesque, with rolling hills, deep verdant copses, and, always, the dusty green of the cane fields.

Garcia halted the bike two or three times to allow us to stretch our legs, always where a curve or a rise in the road provided an invigorating vista, the significance of which she explained enthusiastically – this farm, that collective, down that side road the birthplace of one of la Revolución’s venerated fathers or mothers.

By noon, we reached Victoria de Las Tunas, having passed through the larger city of Camagüey earlier in the morning. We stopped in the small main square, a pleasant grove of shade trees surrounded by colonial and neoclassical buildings painted baby blue, yellow, umber, and pale green.

There was a tourist restaurant with outside seating on the fringe of the square and I persuaded Luz to allow me to buy us lunch there, spending some of the CUCs I had been given as expense money.

Our waiter was a diminutive man with a pencil-thin mustache, a white jacket, and an officious attitude. He eyed Luz warily and me with open suspicion, as he had seen us drive up on the police motorcycle and sidecar, and this was not the kind of place frequented by the police. A few words in Spanish from Subteniente Garcia elicited an elaborate bow and the production of menus written in English.

‘Would you care drink?’ The mustache twitched upward contemptuously in the presence of mere non-tourists.

‘I place myself in your hands, Subteniente Garcia,’ I said.

‘Dos Tinima Claras,’ she said, dispensing with the usual ‘por favor’ at the end of the order to demonstrate she could match our waiter contempt for contempt.

‘He thinks we will not pay the bill because we are police,’ she said when the waiter strolled to the bar.

‘How much will our drinks be?’ I asked.

‘One CUC should cover them,’ Luz replied.

The waiter returned, carrying two pilsner glasses of beer beaded with condensation, on a round tray. When he placed the beer on the table, I put two single CUC notes on the tray. The waiter’s attitude of contempt magically transformed to solicitousness, with much fawning and bowing. Living on a tourist island does provide some life lessons.

Drinking beer for lunch was something I had never done on duty and I got the feeling that by-the-book Luz Garcia hadn’t either, but the pleasant morning drive and the thawing of relations between us made the day feel more like an outing than duty. Besides, Garcia had ordered it and I didn’t want to upset the apple cart.

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