‘Green light,’ Pablo said. ‘Take a right on the second corner.’
Marina finished the translation after Sean rounded the corner.
The two-storey mansion surrounded by a cyclone fence appeared to be in perfect condition, no mean feat considering that its backyard fronted on to the sea. In its covered front porch there were four wooden rocking chairs, several flower pots, and an iron-and-glass lamp hanging from the ceiling. From the roof, spotlights flooded a small, well-tended garden. An old man standing by the driveway entrance swung back the gate to a garage and waved them in. After pulling the garage door closed, he silently welcomed the foursome with a series of nods and a smile, then pointed to a small door.
Pablo went in first and found his way to the dining area of a vast space, but he kept strutting – the others in tow – until he reached the lounge section. An overweight, bejewelled and perfumed white woman in her sixties uncoiled herself from a chair and embraced him warmly.
Thick make-up failed to conceal her deep wrinkles and the dark pouches that sagged under her eyes. They touched cheeks and exchanged air-kisses before the short man turned and made the introductions.
‘Meet the best restaurateur in Havana: Señora Roselia. This couple, Roselia, are friends of mine: Sean and Marina. Sean is Canadian, Marina is Argentinian.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ Roselia said in Spanish, extending her hand. ‘I hope you’ll be satisfied with our service.’
Marina turned to Elena, saw the embarrassment in her eyes. ‘You know Elena, señora?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ Pablo muttered.
‘I don’t have the pleasure,’ Roselia admitted.
‘Elena is Pablo’s sister,’ Marina elaborated, thinking it was difficult not to dislike the asshole.
Shaking Roselia’s hand, Elena forced a grin that almost became a grimace.
Pablo rubbed his hands in eager anticipation. ‘Now, what would you like to do? A drink first?’ The longer customers were made to linger, the more they spent, the higher his commission.
They took their seats in the lounge, ordered mojitos, then studied the menu. Elena looked around admiringly. Recently painted walls, comfortable modern furniture, beautiful drapes, an exquisite full-length mirror, fine porcelain and glass ornaments on side tables, two air conditioners blasting away, the lamps, the paintings, the spotless marble floor. She hadn’t been in a place like this in all her life. Songs from the Buenavista Social Club CD flowed from hidden speakers.
The drinks and a bowl of peanuts arrived in the hands of a smiling long-legged blonde waitress in her late teens or early twenties. She wore a black mini-uniform, complete with little cap and a tiny apron in white. Bending over to serve the ladies first, her undersized skirt exposed a round, suntanned behind to the men. Sean couldn’t tell whether she had nothing on or if a dental-floss bikini bottom reposed in the crack of her buttocks. Pablo noticed Sean’s reaction, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Elena and Marina got to see the same sight when the waitress turned to serve Sean. Marina appeared to be unfazed and having fun, Elena gawked. What the women didn’t see were the seductive smile and wink the waitress bestowed on Sean.
Having found out from the proprietress that a paella would take over an hour to prepare, they settled for green salad, lobster cocktail, red porgy basted in olive oil, and mashed potatoes. Pablo asked for a steak on the side. Once she finished thoughtfully studying the wine list, Marina favoured a white Concha y Toro. Sean shrugged his lukewarm agreement, Elena assented in total ignorance, Pablo opted for Heineken.
The second round of drinks was served by a petite, beautiful black woman. Her uniform was white, its cap and apron in black. Her bottom was rounder and larger, the dental floss – if any – invisible, the smile she gave Sean blatantly provocative. Elena seemed uncomfortable. Sean popped two peanuts into his mouth, sipped from his fresh mojito, put the glass on the side table, then turned to Pablo, who was eyeing him with a pleased, take-your-pick expression.
‘What’s your trade, Pablo?’
Marina sighed, interpreted, then shared with Elena a boys-will-be-boys glance.
‘I’m the office manager of a Cuban-Italian joint venture,’ the short man began, pleased by the Canadian’s curiosity. ‘We import clothing, shoes, perfumes, cosmetics, kitchenware, a zillion things.’
‘Really? How many outlets do you have?’
Pablo shook his head and grinned. ‘No outlets, we only have warehouses.’
‘And where do shoppers buy these articles?’
‘Well, you see, retail trade is a state monopoly. We sell wholesale to several state-owned chains that sell retail to the public.’
Sean nodded. ‘I see. And excuse me for asking, but I’m still amazed by what Elena makes as a teacher. How much do you get paid?’
‘Three hundred and forty pesos a month.’
‘How much is that in dollars?’
‘The present rate is twenty-one pesos to the dollar. So, it’s around sixteen dollars.’
‘That’s all? No overtime, no bonus?’
‘No.’
All of a sudden, Elena roared with laughter. She covered her mouth with her right hand, but her laughter was so childlike and irrepressible that Marina and Sean exchanged an amused glance. Pablo, visibly angry, glared at his sister. The teacher made an effort to control herself, failed, but after a moment succeeded. Apparently, she was getting a glow from the mojitos.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself so much,’ said Marina, still smiling.
‘Oh, yes. It’s the drinks, you know? They loosen me up.’
‘And what do you people do for a living?’ Pablo enquired.
Marina said she was a computer programmer and Sean a mortgage broker. Neither Pablo nor Elena knew what a mortgage was, let alone a broker, and Marina spent a few minutes interpreting for Sean. When she was through, Señora Roselia announced that dinner was ready.
‘Just a second,’ Marina said as she fumbled for something in her purse. ‘Let me take a snapshot of you guys, so friends back home can see you.’
With a small but powerful Olympia she took five: one showed the siblings sitting side by side on the sofa, two had Elena standing by a wall, the fourth and fifth caught a beaming Pablo alongside a curtain. Then they all moved to the dining room.
An exquisitely crocheted white tablecloth covered the glass top of a six-seat cedar dining table where four tall candles burned in a gold-plated candelabra. The china was gold-rimmed, the cutlery in heavy silver, the goblets of fine crystal. Elena choked on a sip of water when she realized the waitresses were now topless, but Marina and Sean behaved so naturally that she tried to act blasé.
The food was good, the wine heady. Conversation threw an interesting light on what had happened to Sean that morning, the professions of all four diners, Cuban food and drinks, places of interest in Havana, and other subjects.
For the pièce de résistance the waitresses served a strong espresso wearing only dental-floss bikini bottoms and sandals. Elena was aghast, Sean remained unimpressed, making Pablo feel let down. Were Canadians as cold as their country or was this guy gay? He suspected that Marina was a victim of sexual starvation. Then, as if to confirm this impression, Roselia came out from the swinging door to the kitchen and Marina, tongue in cheek, asked her whether she and Elena wouldn’t get to see the chef in his briefs. The teacher giggled and Sean asked for a translation, following which he chuckled throatily; Pablo’s grin seemed forced. The proprietress countered