I noticed that Richard Neville was mopping his brow with a handkerchief and also downing a mojito while simultaneously grabbing hors d’oeuvres from passing waitresses and somehow managing to smoke a cigarette. Amazing. His pretty wife, Cindy, was alone, staring out over the parapet at the lighted city, sipping a mojito. Under other circumstances I would have joined her, but I was about to be swept off my feet by Sara Ortega.
I spotted a bar and walked over to it. Former combat infantry officers don’t drink cocktails that come in primary colors with little umbrellas in them, so I gave my mojito to the bartender and ordered a vodka on the rocks.
Sara suddenly appeared beside me and said to the bartender, “May I have a Cuba Libre?” She added, “Por favor.”
She seemed to notice me for the first time and said, “Excuse me, what did you order?”
“Vodka.”
“You should be trying something local.” She said to the bartender, “Please give this gentleman a Cuba Libre.” She asked me, “Have you ever had one?” She smiled.
Playacting is fun. “Once. On my boat.”
“Do you sail?”
“I’m a fisherman.”
“What do you fish for?”
“Peace.”
“That’s good.” She put out her hand. “Sara Ortega.”
“Daniel MacCormick.” We shook, and I reminded her, “We met at the airport and took a picture together in the plaza.”
“Your arm was sweaty.”
Sara was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder silk dress that reached down to the straps of her patrician sandals. Her lipstick was that frosty pink that used to drive me crazy when I was a teenager.
The bartender gave us our Cuba Libres and I raised my glass. “To new adventures.”
We touched glasses. Here’s looking at you, kid.
She asked, “What brings you to Cuba?”
“Curiosity. How about you?”
“I’m looking for something.”
“I hope you find it.”
“I will.”
She walked to the parapet and gazed out over the city. “It’s beautiful from up here. But down there, not everything is beautiful.”
“I noticed.”
“But still romantic in a strange way.”
Sara pointed out some of the landmarks of the city, then drew my attention to the harbor. “You can see the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal on the far side of that plaza.” She stepped out of character and said, “We saw this on Google Earth.”
I nodded and asked, “Where is the Nacional?”
She pointed to the tall building, silhouetted against the sea, then pointed out the wide boulevard that snaked along the seashore. “That’s the Malecón, where half of Havana gathers on hot nights.”
“To do what?”
“To walk and talk. It is a place for lovers, poets, musicians, philosophers, and fishermen... and those who gaze toward Florida.”
Well, I thought, if you don’t have air-conditioning, television, money, or hope, the Malecón might be better for the soul than church. I was actually beginning to feel sorry for these people, though I almost envied their simple lives. As for Sara, she was more Cuban than she knew.
Sara said we should be sociable, and she took my arm and led me around the rooftop to meet our fellow travelers, introducing me as Mac, though I was Daniel when she picked me up at the bar. She told a few people that I wasn’t a Yalie, but that everyone should be nice to me anyway. That got some polite chuckles.
We circulated a bit, and Sara did most of the talking. I was starting to feel like a hooked tuna, so I joined in the dumb cocktail conversations. I remembered an old Bowdoin joke and said to a group of people, “I hear Yale is going co-ed. They’re going to let men in.” That didn’t go over well.
Anyway, about half the group seemed normal and the other half needed more mojitos, or an enema.
I used to be good at cocktail parties in Portland, college, the Officers’ Club, and Wall Street. But four years at sea and too many Key West dive bars had apparently taken the shine off my silver tongue. Not that I gave a shit.
Sara, on the other hand, was good with tight-assed strangers, poised and charming. Her eyes sparkled. What was more impressive was that she knew she was possibly facing death, and she was handling that well for a rookie.
My own face-offs with death had made me see death differently. Death had become not a possibility, but a probability, so I made peace with that dark horseman, and that peace has stayed with me on my borrowed time.
I looked at Sara, who was engaged in a conversation with four men who obviously found her to be the life of an otherwise dull and awkward icebreaker party. It would be ironic, I thought, if I finally found the love of my life on the eve of... whatever.
I found myself in a conversation with two of the younger and better-looking women in our group — Alexandra Mancusi and Ashleigh Arote. Alexandra and Ashleigh were wearing wedding rings, but I couldn’t remember if their husbands were on the group roster. Nametags would have been helpful for me tonight, indicating marital status and where the spouse was. But then I remembered that my dance card was filled. Old bachelor habits die hard.
Ashleigh said, “You look familiar. Were you TD?”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. “If you mean totally drunk, yes.”
Both ladies laughed.
I confessed, “I’m not Yale.”
Ashleigh explained that TD was Timothy Dwight, the name of one of the twelve residential colleges that made up Yale.
Alexandra was JE — Jonathan Edwards — and they were both Class of ’02, which was my class at Bowdoin, but somehow I felt older. The Army will do that to you.
A young man joined us, maybe thinking I needed reinforcements, and introduced himself to me as Scott Mero. I asked him, “Are you TD?”
“No, JE.”
Who’s on first?
Anyway, I was hoping that Sara noticed that I was talking to these attractive young ladies, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The mating game is TD — Totally Dumb.
Scott Mero, as it turned out, was married to Alexandra Mancusi, who’d kept her maiden name, she told me, and only married Scott Mero because she didn’t have to change her monogramed towels. Funny. I needed another drink and was about to excuse myself and go to the bar, but Tad called for our attention and the group obliged, except for Richard Neville, who couldn’t tear himself away from Sara.
Tad officially welcomed us to the Yale alumni educational tour of Cuba. He kept it short, ending with, “Put your prejudices aside and discover Cuba for yourself,” which seemed to be the theme of this trip — though we had to stay with the group to discover Cuba for ourselves.
Tad introduced Alison, who also kept it short and counseled us, “There will be some challenges ahead in the coming days, but when you get home you’ll be glad you came.” Alison introduced our Cuban tour guide, Antonio, who she said was the best guide in Cuba. Certainly he had the tightest pants.
Antonio was about thirty-five, not bad-looking and he knew it. He gazed out at the group, smiled, spread his arms, and shouted, “Buenas noches!”
A few people returned the greeting, but not enough people, apparently, because Antonio shouted again, “Buenas noches!”
The response was better and Antonio flashed his pearly whites. “Bienvenido. Welcome to Cuba. Welcome to Havana.” He let us know, “This is a beautiful group. And intelligent, I am sure.”
I asked Sara, “What is the Spanish word for bullshit?”
She gave me an elbow in the ribs.
Antonio continued, “This will be the most amazing experience for you. And you are so lucky to have Tad and the beautiful Alison to be your group leaders, and I am sure we will all make your experience beautiful.”
Antonio was not only full of shit, he was enthusiastic about it.