Thank You for the Kiss

Reader Reviews

I could not remember how long I sat on that stone bench under the dark trees but, when I did finally stand up, my watch glowed midnight. Sitting for hours, waiting for him to arrive as he had promised when I got off the bus that morning, had dissolved away my anger. I felt oddly calm, almost numb.The plaza was deserted except for a couple of nightlife opportunists.It seemed strange to look around and see a lack of vibrant nightlife. The plaza had taken on a conservatism which I found odd but, on reflection, I remembered its socialist history of austerity. Even though my numbed brain thought that there would be a night bustle, it was quite the opposite. Hotel Inglaterra across the plaza, its front veranda caught in pools of shadowy light where tired white-shirted waiters sat at tables devoid of customers, their heads propped on tired hands. The urgency and verve of the daytime bar had lost its allure, when the throb of its four-piece salsa band had played to the delight of enchanted overweight couples of no fixed nationality.Crossing in and out of quiet back streets I made my way to Plaza Vieja, staying at El Meson de Flota, an old Spanish-style five-roomed hostel in Mercaderes Street. Although the taxi had taken me to Hotel Beltran on my arrival in Havana, they had to book me into El Meson de Flota, its sister hostel.Walking back, I quietly slipped through shadowy potted streets getting lost, turning down the wrong left and right. In the quiet of those shadows, I felt no fear of unwarranted attention. Throughout Cuba, there is a code where foreigners have safe passage and, experiencing the lonely walks through those night streets, I was grateful for that.I moved in a trance. Now and then, I picked up on a familiar smell, a smell from childhood, a hot, sweet, sticky, fruity perfumed smell. It reminded me of the experiences of the last few months. For me, Cuba was beautiful to look at, rich and warm like the deep-orange mangoes of June, hanging ripe and lush, but reach out, pluck them, cut them open and you will find that in the soft perfumed engorged flesh lies the deepening black, the beginnings of decay, its flesh tasting bitter, even poisonous. Its perfume reminded me of dark unfathomable eyes which hid secrets that I had begun to uncover. It was all beautiful and now part of my disillusioned soul.The lights of the hostel shone brightly in the darkened street, and my weary footsteps dragged me forward to the entrance. I still could not believe that I had been played for a fool. It was not so much that my pride had been lacerated but that I had acted so stupidly, that every one of his family and friends I had met in Mayari, Levisa, Matanzas, and Cienfuegos, knew that I had been played for a fool.I felt I was walking through the streets of an old Alfred Hitchcock film where the audience sat watching with wide gaping mouths, teeth-bared, eyes wide open, then roars of laughter at this most stupid protagonist.The hotel manager stood behind his desk, and I asked for his help telling him that I needed to contact a man whom I was friendly with but unable to reach by phone. He looked at me for a while then nodded his head. I told him that I needed him to ask his family if they knew where he was and what was happening with him. I took a piece of paper from my passport holder which had Silvana’s number on it and handed it to him. The manager called her, a long-distance call to Santa Rita near Levisa, and, after several moments of chat, confirmed that Alex was in Santa Rita having travelled from Holguin to her home on his motorbike the previous day.My anger screeched at me. My head pounded from sitting out in the sun all day and, looking at the manager, I asked him to call the police as I wanted to make a formal complaint that a man had taken £2500 from me under false pretences. The manager stared incredulously, his face blanching, as I mentioned the sum of money, which was equivalent to many years of a man’s salary in this country.Three police officers arrived within minutes of the phone call, and I explained to them what had happened. They stood solemnly, expressionless, and one of the three, a young woman who spoke excellent English, told me that if I made a report, I would have to stay in Cuba for one week so that they could investigate the serious allegation. I gave them his name and address in Levisa.I tasted the thought of bitter-sweet revenge.Again, I was informed that I would have to remain in Cuba for one week.Waves of tiredness overcame me. I told them that I could not remain as I had a flight booked in three days to fly to Miami for business and my flight could not be cancelled. A hot trickle of tears gathered behind my eyes. The police officers appeared genuinely concerned about my story. I guessed that maybe it was another part of a code of care, or law, to protect foreigners but more so for locals stepping out of line and misbehaving with “extranjeros”.They left.The hard metal room key dug into the palm of my right hand as I walked up a flight of cold stone steps to the room. As I opened the door, a rush of hot dry air enveloped me. I let my head bend backwards as it swept over me, closed the door behind and stood in the middle of the room, looking out to the balcony with its doors half-open. I felt a surge of self-pity as I looked at the long diaphanous white curtains gently blowing inwards. I stood and stared at the huge double bed under its high cathedral-domed ceiling, feeling small and fragile. At another time I would have felt a thrill of delight to be staying in that famous old hostel, with visions of making love.I called him again. No answer, of course. There was an unfathomable part of me that, although I had reported all his details to the police, was still reluctant to have their involvement and I wanted to resolve it myself.Exhausted, but restless for the remainder of the night, I called him a further dozen times, with no response until, finally, I knew he had turned off his phone.As the clock wound its way around to the early hours of the morning, sleep overtook me, and I finally woke, hot and dehydrated. The fetid heat in the room was suffocating, with the overhead fan whirring warm air. Having left the balcony door open, I heard the relentless hum of outside traffic and noisy passersby.I suddenly caught the strumming of guitars and the stamp of rhythmic feet from the bar below. I jumped out of bed like a tight spring uncoiled, remembering from a previous trip that superb flamenco dancers and guitar players played there daily. A leap of joy burst forth because I loved the raw sensuality of Flamenco, with its Cuban origins rooted in the early Spanish settlers.I phoned him again and this time he answered. He was quiet at the other end. I waited until I could find my voice.‘I’ve reported you to the police here in Havana, giving them your name and address in Levisa. Silvana told me that you were staying with her. You rode your black Kawasaki from Holguin to her home yesterday, after you dropped me off at the bus station in Holguin last night.’Quiet.Controlling the anger in my voice, I querulously demanded the return of the £2500 I had given him the previous day, which he said was for his car repairs, visa to England and lawyer fees, which I knew was a lie. All the money had been taken under false pretences. He had to bring it all to Havana by the next day, Friday, as I had already told him I was flying to Miami on Saturday. If he did not, I would further report him to the Immigration Department and, as a foreigner making this serious complaint against him, he would suffer consequences and could be imprisoned.He finally spoke, sighing heavily, ‘OK, Gina, I’ll come to Havana tomorrow morning with the money, but the car has given me many problems, too big a headache. The car is in Matanzas.’His words sent a bolt of lightning through me, making me feel as though I had been scorched by one of those bolts. I let the phone slip through my fingers and fall to the ground, knowing I would not succeed at recovering the money, but I would keep on trying.The thought of the day ahead on my own, in a city in the July heat, was unbearable. Having been to Havana, I had seen almost every tourist attraction and walked those worn-out streets of Havana Vieja. I no longer felt the sense of marvel or desire for further cultural delights.My breathing eased as I left the hostel. I entered Plaza Vieja, bought a café con leche from a corner stall and sat on one of the many steps against a Delphic column, where I gathered my thoughts. I waited, wanting my old self to return.A further café con leche and I found my old self, rising through the shadows of self-doubt. As I sipped my coffee, I decided that I was a strange creature.I had put myself through an experience which was unfolding into someone else’s story. It couldn’t be happening to me. I’d always been sensible and disciplined and thought things through while travelling and passing through unfamiliar cultures.But the new story had turned into a burrowing worm, into a Dantesque soliloquy. I no longer wanted to stand on that podium of hellish self-vindication.Another coffee and my old humorous, adventurous, curious self slowly percolated to the surface. My constant sense of optimism and hope, which I carried like a mantle around my shoulders, began to whisper words of comfort.The sun-drenched plaza, with its bleached flagstones reflecting its dazzle, created a theatrical illumination as people sat in small groups under large white umbrellas or strolled across that vast space. Children ran around, with ice creams dripping over the tops of cones, leaving colourful trails of spots as they weaved in and out of each other. Their laughter was infectious.Waiting until I boarded the plane to Miami was going to be long and hot. In my heart, I knew he would not come, and I knew that I would never really know what had been done with that accursed money. What a mess money creates. Those of us who have it think we can do good with it, then we try to do good with it but cause problems of Olympian proportions.A swaying movement, a distraction from my thoughts, and I noticed a group of Cuban women walking closely together, their hips bumping and brushing each other, carrying baskets of colourful paper flowers on their heads, radiant white blouses slipping off their shoulders, tiered skirts gathered at their waists, with flip-flop adorned feet. From around another corner, a troupe of young girls and men emerged, some walking on high wooden stilts on the cobbled stones, dressed in tight-fitting, brightly coloured long flowing pants with contrasting rainbow ruffles at the bottom hem, their mid-riffs bare, and their painted faces with masked clown-like features. Slender girls wearing the “Bata Cubana”, a traditional Cuban dress resembling a Spanish flamenco dress, all tiered and ruffled and tight-waisted, walked alongside those stilted walkers.The carnival of smiles and laughter was shared with passing tourists, as they stood tiny next to the moko jumbie, having their souvenir photos taken. A Mardi Gras style of infectious gaiety had arrived, uplifting my spirits. Their fresh vigour infused me, and, for the rest of the day, I was able to find that part of myself that others found attractive and magnetic.As I sat, one of the moko jumbie girls came over to me with a black top hat but, instead of asking for money, sat next to me. She looked at me, her eyes soft and childlike, startlingly blue, her skin a soft buttery caramelised brown, a young girl of about eighteen. I noticed how she had balletically walked and settled next to me. I asked if she was a dancer and, of course, she attended the Alicia Afonso School of Ballet near the Jose Marti Square, which was named after the foremost Cuban ballerina.Without prompting, she told me that every year she and her friends took part in the Moko Jumbie carnival. They loved dressing up and soon she would be able to walk on the stilts. She smiled, saying she was afraid of heights.She asked what I was doing in Havana, and I briefly said, ‘Touring and waiting for a friend.’ At that, she looked at me curiously.I asked what her father did for work, thinking that to go to the ballet school her family must be quite well off or she had entered on a scholarship. He worked for the British Embassy in the administration department. She was quite coy about the statement, and I did not pursue it. We chatted a little longer, and she asked if I liked Havana, and how many times had I been.Suddenly, she stood up, hearing her name called, but then sat down again. Turning to me and, to my complete surprise, said, ‘Cuidate, be careful, Cuba can be dangerous. Many foreign women get hurt.’With that, she lithely stood up and walked away, top hat in hand, turning briefly to wave. I sat, perplexed, wondering what that brief episode had been about.The afternoon wore itself into early evening as the sun began to lose its intense heat, casting spikes of everchanging deep indigo shadows across the rooftops. Further above, huge white cotton balls of fluffy cumulus clouds scudded across the changing blue of the sky. I wandered back down the length of Obispo Street, which was always crowded with tourists, as it was the street of restaurants and bars. The party atmosphere reminded me again of Havana’s enchantment and hypnotic allure. Walking slowly, allowing my feet to feel the consciousness of other travellers’ feet, their global steps, mine was then added to theirs. Continuing down, I arrived at my favourite restaurant, Café Paris, with its Latin band still playing classic rhumba, salsa, and American-Cuban jazz.I stopped a moment before crossing over and, like a rewind video, saw myself dancing salsa on the pavement by the café with Jonnie. Later as we sat drinking coffee, he had looked at me and, with a small rueful smile, said, ‘Do you know what it is like to live in Cuba? It’s like living on a beautiful paradise island, but I am caged and cannot fly away. I am a prisoner here. I dance at the Hotel Tropicana every evening for so little money. I am young, but what will become of my life here?’I knew what he meant.I smiled at the memory of dancing with Jonnie as tourists stopped to take a video. I had felt carefree and realised the attraction of the island called Cuba.Café Paris’s culture allowed me to sit till late into the night, and none of the waiters disturbed me. Fresh diners came and went, laughing, chatting, arguing, drinking too much, unsteady as they arose and left with their bodies swaying like musical serpents. I spoke to no one, swallowed ice-cold mojito after mojito, daquiri, mojito, coffee, then daiquiri.More time passed. The evening began to wear its sultry cloak of soft darkness and I felt it wrapping around my bare shoulders.I had not called him all that day or evening.I slept deeply that night. The events of the last three days had siphoned off my energy, the oppressive heat draining me of my usual abundant effervescence. Embarrassment and shame had eaten to my core, and, for a few hours, oblivion hid me and healed me.In the morning, the phone remained silent, and I had to let go. Months later, I discovered what had happened and, if I had known at the time, I do not believe the later events would have been prevented.

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