a wedding ring on his finger and dirt under his nails, so Jack figured he could probably use the Treasury Department–issued Andrew Jackson bookmarks that Jack had left inside.
Nothing to read. No CNN on the tube. No cell phones or laptop computer to check e-mails. The chewing gum lost its flavor in thirty seconds, and Jack kept himself busy folding the empty foil back into its original rectangular shape and trying to reinsert it into the paper sleeve. The flight to Cancun was already more than an hour late inboarding. Once in Mexico, they’d catch another flight for the final leg to Miami. Jack was sitting close enough to the check-in counter to notice dozens of other Americans with the same itinerary, all with great suntans, all without travel licenses—and all in defiance of the U.S. government’s trade embargo against Cuba.
“Lots of yanquis here,” said Jack.
Sofia had her nose in her magazine. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t understand it. How do they not get into trouble when they pass through U.S. customs with ‘Cuba’ stamped in their passport?”
“Simple. You fly to Cancun, then you hop another flight to Havana. The Cuban immigration guys know enough not to stamp your passport, but just make sure you put a ten-dollar bill inside when you hand it to them. You fly back to Cancun when you’re done, then back to the States. The U.S. government has no way of knowing that you were partying till dawn every night at the Copacabana. They think you were in Cancun. Honest to God, it’s that easy.”
“Sounds like the only idiots who get caught are the ones who come back with one of those goofy souvenirs that says, ‘My parents went to Cuba and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.’ ”
“Pretty much. Why do you think this trade embargo is such a joke?”
“Just bugs me,” said Jack. “People like those two slobs over there.”
“What about them?”
“I was listening to them when I bought my coffee. They were practically tripping over their own tongues, talking about how cheap and beautiful the girls are in Havana. Of course they’re cheap, you morons. Their own government is starving them to death.”
“You surprise me, Swyteck. It’s refreshing to know somebody who actually gives a rat’s ass about the girls with no choice but to come to the big city and sell their bodies to tourists.”
“I surprise a lot of people. My mother was Cuban.”
“Really? Tú hablas español?” Do you speak Spanish?
“ Sí. Lo aprendí cuando yo era un escurridero.” Yes, I learned it when I was a drainpipe.
She chuckled and said, “I think you meant, when you were a schoolboy.”
“What did I say?”
She was still smiling. “You said it exactly right. I wouldn’t change a word of it.”
He knew she was lying, and he felt the urge to redeem himself by telling her that he understood the language better than he spoke it. But he let it go.
Sofia said, “Funny, I voted against your old man in two gubernatorial elections. I don’t recall hearing anything about his being married to a Latina.”
“My mother passed away when I was young. Just a few hours old, actually.”
“Oh, how awful. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Obviously it was a long time ago.”
“Was she born in Cuba?”
“Yes. A little town called Bejucal.”
“I’ve heard of it. That’s actually not far from here.”
“I know. I checked the map before coming over.”
“You ever consider going there?”
“Every now and then. Only lately have I gotten serious about it.” Jack opened his carry-on bag and removed a photograph from inside a zipped pouch. “This is her,” he said as he offered it to Sofia.
“You brought a photograph?”
“I have a few keepsakes that my father and grandmother gave me. Not sure why I brought it. Coming to Cuba for the first time, it just seemed right to have her with me.”
“She’s beautiful. Just a teenager here, I would guess.”
“Yes. Seventeen. It was the last picture
Nothing to read. No CNN on the tube. No cell phones or laptop computer to check e-mails. The chewing gum lost its flavor in thirty seconds, and Jack kept himself busy folding the empty foil back into its original rectangular shape and trying to reinsert it into the paper sleeve. The flight to Cancun was already more than an hour late inboarding. Once in Mexico, they’d catch another flight for the final leg to Miami. Jack was sitting close enough to the check-in counter to notice dozens of other Americans with the same itinerary, all with great suntans, all without travel licenses—and all in defiance of the U.S. government’s trade embargo against Cuba.
“Lots of yanquis here,” said Jack.
Sofia had her nose in her magazine. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t understand it. How do they not get into trouble when they pass through U.S. customs with ‘Cuba’ stamped in their passport?”
“Simple. You fly to Cancun, then you hop another flight to Havana. The Cuban immigration guys know enough not to stamp your passport, but just make sure you put a ten-dollar bill inside when you hand it to them. You fly back to Cancun when you’re done, then back to the States. The U.S. government has no way of knowing that you were partying till dawn every night at the Copacabana. They think you were in Cancun. Honest to God, it’s that easy.”
“Sounds like the only idiots who get caught are the ones who come back with one of those goofy souvenirs that says, ‘My parents went to Cuba and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.’ ”
“Pretty much. Why do you think this trade embargo is such a joke?”
“Just bugs me,” said Jack. “People like those two slobs over there.”
“What about them?”
“I was listening to them when I bought my coffee. They were practically tripping over their own tongues, talking about how cheap and beautiful the girls are in Havana. Of course they’re cheap, you morons. Their own government is starving them to death.”
“You surprise me, Swyteck. It’s refreshing to know somebody who actually gives a rat’s ass about the girls with no choice but to come to the big city and sell their bodies to tourists.”
“I surprise a lot of people. My mother was Cuban.”
“Really? Tú hablas español?” Do you speak Spanish?
“ Sí. Lo aprendí cuando yo era un escurridero.” Yes, I learned it when I was a drainpipe.
She chuckled and said, “I think you meant, when you were a schoolboy.”
“What did I say?”
She was still smiling. “You said it exactly right. I wouldn’t change a word of it.”
He knew she was lying, and he felt the urge to redeem himself by telling her that he understood the language better than he spoke it. But he let it go.
Sofia said, “Funny, I voted against your old man in two gubernatorial elections. I don’t recall hearing anything about his being married to a Latina.”
“My mother passed away when I was young. Just a few hours old, actually.”
“Oh, how awful. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Obviously it was a long time ago.”
“Was she born in Cuba?”
“Yes. A little town called Bejucal.”
“I’ve heard of it. That’s actually not far from here.”
“I know. I checked the map before coming over.”
“You ever consider going there?”
“Every now and then. Only lately have I gotten serious about it.” Jack opened his carry-on bag and removed a photograph from inside a zipped pouch. “This is her,” he said as he offered it to Sofia.
“You brought a photograph?”
“I have a few keepsakes that my father and grandmother gave me. Not sure why I brought it. Coming to Cuba for the first time, it just seemed right to have her with me.”
“She’s beautiful. Just a teenager here, I would guess.”
“Yes. Seventeen. It was the last picture
Similar Books
