Havana Best Friends. Jose Latour

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      ‘You’re kidding.’

      ‘I’m not.’

      ‘What do you do?’

      ‘I’m a special needs teacher.’ Elena stole a glance at her watch. ‘I teach disabled children in their homes. Let’s go back to the men before they accuse us of babbling the night away.’

      

      It was dark and crickets were chirping happily in the Parque de la Quinta by the time the two couples got into the rented Nissan. Pablo and Elena sat in the back of the car. At the wheel, Sean followed the directions given by the bald man. They had been heading west along Fifth Avenue for two minutes, the Cubans pointing out the sights, when Marina turned round, wanting to learn more about Elena’s job.

      ‘Well, there are children so seriously incapacitated they can’t attend the special education schools,’ Elena began.

      ‘Oh, my God,’ Pablo moaned in English. ‘Not tonight.’

      ‘Some are disabled from birth, some suffered an accident,’ Elena, ignoring him, went on. ‘They are hooked up to some life-support system that’s difficult to carry around, or are quadriplegic. There’s a team of teachers to teach them at their homes. I’m one of them.’

      ‘Isn’t your job…a little depressing?’ Marina asked, after interpreting for Sean.

      ‘Not to Mother Theresa,’ Pablo butted in. ‘Turn right at the next light, Sean.’

      ‘Okay. But let me hear how your sister makes a living, please?’ Sean said in a dry tone.

      Marina shot a quick glance at Sean. Pablo sulked. Elena had trouble suppressing her smile. She didn’t understand the words, but the tone spoke volumes.

      ‘Contrary to what almost everyone believes, it’s rewarding,’ the teacher went on. ‘These kids are the happiest kids on earth. They act as if nearly everything that happens around them happens for their personal delight. They see you come in, it’s like a fairy godmother came in to wave her magic wand over them. And being in daily contact with them, seeing their parents trying to conceal their suffering, makes you realize how much we healthy people take for granted, how petty most of our problems are.’

      ‘How many children do you teach?’ Marina asked.

      ‘Two. A nine-year-old boy in the mornings, an eleven-year-old girl in the afternoons.’

      ‘All the subjects?’

      ‘All except for physical education.’

      ‘Who pays for it?’ Sean wanted to know.

      ‘The Ministry of Education, of course.’

      Sean was staring at the red light, his foot on the brake pedal. ‘She makes fifteen dollars a month,’ Marina told him.

      ‘What?’

      Elena smiled mirthlessly. ‘Low salaries make many things possible. If Cuban teachers and doctors made half the money their colleagues make in Mexico, Jamaica, or any other Latin American country, the government wouldn’t be able to provide the healthcare and education it does.’

      ‘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.

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