So after a few weeks, he left.
Upon arrival, he realized how small José Martí International Airport was, and to an inversely proportional extent, how many mustard-colored police uniforms there were.
Obliged to go through the whole process of checking, he noticed the presence of only one detector at gate number two and realized that it would not be quick.
His high enough forehead surmounted a regular, rather handsome, but common face.
What made it special was a scar on the corner of his right eye.
It was that something lived, unique and personal.
The fact that he always wore a suit and tie made a loud squeak with his appearance, to which a leather jacket would be more in tune.
An overwhelming smell of fried food rose up his nostrils, so much so that he felt as if he had gone straight into a fryer, the predominance of red present and the anachronistic structure of the building made it look like an old bus station from the fifties.
After recovering his suitcase, he changed some money into pesos, stopped in the bar near the waiting room, according to the recommendations of friends who had already been there and enjoyed that glass of rum that many found fantastic.
It was so good that it made him forget the bad smell of fried food.
Once outside the airport, he passed under yellow columns and was run over by a host of hands, arms and eyes determined to give him the keys to houses of all prices and all kinds.
Dodging them, he approached a taxi that was not far away.
He asked the sweaty man, in white shirt, to be accompanied to the hotel indicated on a business card that he showed him.
Stephen found himself with his suitcase on the edge of Plaza Vieja, opposite the entrance to a typical Cuban building of colonial architecture.
His attention was drawn to the distraught voice of a waiter on the other side of the square who was railing against some kids who were playing football and had bumped into the chairs and wrought iron table in front of his bar.
Some arches introduced him into a small alleyway paved with red bricks and framed by flowered balconies, then he passed through a very well-kept and ancient courtyard, certainly restored.
He noticed how wonderfully baroque mixed with Spanish influences before entering the lobby of his hotel.
He approached the reception desk, where a young mulatto concierge in a green suit cordially welcomed him.
He put the suitcase on the floor and handed her the papers. She went away to make photocopies, Stefano followed her with his eyes until the girl returned to the counter.
The girl gave him the key to room 28 and the documents.
- Obrigado, senhorita...Azuleya. –
He thanked her, with the few words in Portuguese he knew.
She looked at him with an air of questioning, he pointed to her with his index finger the badge, pinned on the green jacket and from which you could clearly read the name.
- Oh, Claro. Or badge! –
He exclaimed by touching his badge. Then she smiled and shook his hand.
- You are from Italy eu vejo. I speak your language. Nice to meet you. -
He pulled the bangs out of his eyes with his hand.
- Can I help you again? -
-No thanks. In fact, maybe you could set an alarm clock for me by 7:00 tomorrow morning?
- Of course, no problem. I wish you a pleasant stay at the Hotel Diaz. -
When the phone rang, Stefano was awake: he had slept poorly and badly and had attributed the cause to rum, drunk at the airport.
His stomach seemed to be on fire.
The day had to start anyway, he decided to have a coffee at the hotel bar and headed for a taxi, called by the receptionist on duty.
The representative office was not far away. That morning, he met with the engineers selected on site, felt the ground, trying to figure out what the real potential of these young people was and how it could be deployed in view of the new trade route.
He drew up an initial timetable for the training of new recruits.
In the evening he returned to the hotel exhausted but found the big black eyes of Azuleya, who with pleasure proposed to be his guide the next day through the streets and alleys of the city.
The girl was able to arouse man's curiosity as a source of historical and folklore curiosities from which a thirsty man can draw.
A couple of times, during the following weeks, they found themselves drinking in the company of some colleagues from Azuleya who, as usual, met at the shift change at a bar not far away.
The following Saturday, Stefano found himself with nothing to do. A phone call to Anna, a shower and then he opted for a walk along the streets of central Havana, drawn to the music coming in through the window.
The city centre was a riot of colour, young street musicians cheered the passers-by.
In the afternoon he visited the old town and its fortifications, remnants of its glorious Spanish colonial past for over four hundred years. Passionate about history, he did not fail to notice the preponderance of indigenous influence linked to local building requirements and how that very resistance made them unique and very special monuments.
He returned to his hotel late at night, after staying in one of the many jazz bars scattered throughout the city, packed with tourists despite having stayed away from the larger and more famous ones.
Back at the hotel, he met Azuleya again. They chatted for almost an hour, about everything he had seen and the many tourists present in that season.
- If you want to know the real Cuba, you have to get away from the center. Tomorrow morning, when I get off, you can come with me to Santa Maria, the village where I live. Expect only so much "Cubanity", the real one, the one that is not seen by tourists. And don't think about renting a car, we'll take the bus. -
The heat was suffocating on that vehicle, even though it was nine o'clock in the morning, air conditioning not even talking about it.
The seats were anchored to the floor with nails larger than those that would actually be needed, the old driver started singing the popular songs that came out of a small radio that he kept strictly resting on his legs.
Azuleya's green uniform had given way to a white blouse and black pants.
The big dark eyes seemed to reach deep inside him, scrutinize him, analyse him finely and understand him.
Stefano noticed that she was wearing a bracelet on her wrist with a medal, he took her hand to look at it better.
- I am of the Yoruba religion. This is Yemaya, Mother of Life and Lady of the Sea. - She explained.
- I guessed she was a Virgin Mother because of the veil on her head. But why is she holding a machete? She asked.
- She likes to hunt and handle the machete, she's indomitable and cunning. The elders of the village invoke her harsh punishments and her terrible anger in their prayers, when they want her to be the executioner for some wrong at once. But she is also a sweet mother who listens to her children's demands and cares about their catch. Catholics worship her as the Virgin of the Rule. -
- That's interesting. This is the first I've heard of a Virgin Mother with a machete. - She hinted at a laugh - It's true, you'll find it's a custom. -
After about thirty minutes, the bus stopped near a rusty road sign, at the crossroads of a dirt road, at the foot of which were laid provisions, and then continued on the main road.