sacred. It was a smell without definition, like a fresh rain—a storm—but so much more: exotic and ethereal, yet vaguely familiar.
The maitre’d informed them it would be at least an hour before they could be seated. They nudged their way through the crowd and found a place to stand at the end of the bar.
Marisol sipped her Tropicola and looked casually around the restaurant as if she were trying to recognize someone. “So what do you do in New York?”
It sounded like she was turning on her program. “My brother and I have a restaurant.”
“¿De verdad? What kind, McDonald?”
“No. A real restaurant. Cuban food.” But that was a lie. Justo’s culinary inventions—appetizers of garlic octopus, chorizo and grilled shrimp in sugarcane skewers, entrees of roast quail with a ginger and sherry reduction, lamb steamed in banana leaf with a tart and spicy guava sauce—had nothing to do with Cuba.
“I’d like to go to the McDonald one day and eat a Whopper.”
Frank laughed and took a long sip of his mojito. He loved the simplicity of her wish. But it also made him sad—simple, innocent dreams like those of a child. It was something he saw in himself at times.
Marisol peeked into her glass. “So, in your country, are you very rich?”
His eyes traced the smooth line of her arm. “I wish.”
“I wish,” Marisol said seriously, “that one day I’ll meet someone who will take me away from this place.”
He stirred his drink with the small plastic straw. “Is that what Cuban girls dream of?”
She didn’t look up. She just sipped her drink and made a small gesture with her hand. “That’s the only dream a Cuban girl can have.”
“Does it happen a lot?”
“What?” She threw her head to the side and stared into his eyes. “That they find a foreigner who marries them and takes them away like in a fucking fairy tale? Yes, it happens.” Then she lowered her head and whispered, “To the lucky ones.”
Frank thought she was playing him like a game, but there was something delicate in her manner, like her emotions were made of glass. “Has it happened to someone you know?”
She stared at the ice floating in her Tropicola, the reflections sparkling like tiny stars. “To some friends. And to my sister.” Then, she tossed her head to the side and called the bartender, “Oye, dame un ron con Coca Cola.”
“Where did she go?”
“Who?”
“Your sister.”
“Too far.”
She was dropping this on him like a line. Perhaps that was all it was. Maybe sympathy was her weapon. He reminded himself to be careful. After all, she was a prostitute. Reality was upside down here. This was a place where doctors drove taxis, waiters were rich and a girl’s best chance for a future was to offer herself to a foreigner. Or she could be a government agent. Anything was possible.
“She went to Spain.”
“What part?”
“What part of Spain? Chico, how would I know?” She threw her arms in the air and her lip trembled. “Spain, that’s all I know. She hasn’t written or called since she left almost a year ago. She promised she would arrange for me to come, even if it was just for a visit. But I’ve heard nothing. Nada. ¡Coño!”
“I’m sorry.” She had pulled him in. He wanted to hold her in his arms and have her tell him more, but all he said was, “Do you want to talk about something else? What do you do? I mean when, tú sabes…”
“When I’m not jineteando?” she said with a hint of humor. “I’m waiting to get into the tourism school. I want to get a job in a hotel or a restaurant, somewhere where I can make some real fula. I was studying literature at the University but, chico, you don’t know how useless that career is now. I could just as well study Marxist theory.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine the fools that spent six years studying that mierda? What will they do now? Nada, chico, they’re lost!”
“You don’t have to be so angry.”
She was trembling.
“At least not with me.”
“¿Sabes qué? I don’t have to be here. I don’t have to be with you. I don’t have to have sex with you.”
“Who said anything about sex? You were the one who asked me to take you to dinner, and now you’re arguing with me like I was the cause of all your problems.”
Their eyes met and the corners of her lips turned upwards in the slightest hint of a smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m new at this. And sometimes I’m not in the mood, tú sabes? I get so sick of foreigners. I get sick of their stories and how they love Cuba. They think everything is perfect here because their vacation is perfect. I hate the looks I get from Cuban men when I’m with a foreigner. Like how the bartender looks at you when I order my drink. Like he needs approval from you.”
“Entonces, why do you do it?”
She made a motion with her hand, the tip of her fingers grouped together, back and forth into her mouth. “I have to eat, no?”
“But—”
“Oye, It’s not like I sleep with everyone. We go out, if I don’t like you, I don’t sleep with you. I’m not like Yoselin. She sleeps with so many guys, one day she’s going to be rich.” She laughed and turned away. “Money’s not everything. Sometimes it’s just about going out and doing something. We all need to escape this nightmare.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t—”
“Ay, Frank.” Her eyes moved quickly about the bar. Then she leaned close to him and whispered, “It’s very unfortunate what Fidel has done to Cuba.”
They were shown to a table under the low branches of an almond tree. Frank ordered a plate of the famous chicken. He kept reminding himself of where he was. His mother’s voice whispered to him, “Beware.” He searched the dining room for a waiter who might resemble Justo, but the place was too busy. He spotted a pair of security men, one by the entrance and one by the kitchen.
A waiter arrived with a large platter of chicken. Frank inspected the unimpressive brown morsels and breathed in the scent. He thought of his youth—cinnamon or cloves and a pleasant memory that wasn’t quite clear. It was just there, slightly beyond his grasp, like a cloud caught in a violent wind.
Marisol reached across the table and touched his hand. “Are you okay?”
He broke from his trance and stared at her dark, tender eyes. A warm, pleasant feeling circled his gut.
The chicken smelled earthy, inviting. He examined its texture, his fingers moving about the mild roughness of the skin. It wasn’t breaded, but it had a thin coat of powder, like brown sugar or coarse spices
