Havana Best Friends

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.

‘What’s your trade, Pablo?’

Marina sighed, interpreted, then shared with Elena a boys-will-be-boys glance.

‘I’m the office manager of a Cuban-Italian joint venture,’ the short man began, pleased by the Canadian’s curiosity. ‘We import clothing, shoes, perfumes, cosmetics, kitchenware, a zillion things.’

‘Really? How many outlets do you have?’

Pablo shook his head and grinned. ‘No outlets, we only have warehouses.’

‘And where do shoppers buy these articles?’

‘Well, you see, retail trade is a state monopoly. We sell wholesale to several state-owned chains that sell retail to the public.’

Sean nodded. ‘I see. And excuse me for asking, but I’m still amazed by what Elena makes as a teacher. How much do you get paid?’

‘Three hundred and forty pesos a month.’

‘How much is that in dollars?’

‘The present rate is twenty-one pesos to the dollar. So, it’s around sixteen dollars.’

‘That’s all? No overtime, no bonus?’

‘No.’

All of a sudden, Elena roared with laughter. She covered her mouth with her right hand, but her laughter was so childlike and irrepressible that Marina and Sean exchanged an amused glance. Pablo, visibly angry, glared at his sister. The teacher made an effort to control herself, failed, but after a moment succeeded. Apparently, she was getting a glow from the mojitos.

‘Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself so much,’ said Marina, still smiling.

‘Oh, yes. It’s the drinks, you know? They loosen me up.’

‘And what do you people do for a living?’ Pablo enquired.

Marina said she was a computer programmer and Sean a mortgage broker. Neither Pablo nor Elena knew what a mortgage was, let alone a broker, and Marina spent a few minutes interpreting for Sean. When she was through, Señora Roselia announced that dinner was ready.

‘Just a second,’ Marina said as she fumbled for something in her purse. ‘Let me take a snapshot of you guys, so friends back home can see you.’

With a small but powerful Olympia she took five: one showed the siblings sitting side by side on the sofa, two had Elena standing by a wall, the fourth and fifth caught a beaming Pablo alongside a curtain. Then they all moved to the dining room.

An exquisitely crocheted white tablecloth covered the glass top of a six-seat cedar dining table where four tall candles burned in a gold-plated candelabra. The china was gold-rimmed, the cutlery in heavy silver, the goblets of fine crystal. Elena choked on a sip of water when she realized the waitresses were now topless, but Marina and Sean behaved so naturally that she tried to act blasé.

The food was good, the wine heady. Conversation threw an interesting light on what had happened to Sean that morning, the professions of all four diners, Cuban food and drinks, places of interest in Havana, and other subjects.

For the pièce de résistance the waitresses served a strong espresso wearing only dental-floss bikini bottoms and sandals. Elena was aghast, Sean remained unimpressed, making Pablo feel let down. Were Canadians as cold as their country or was this guy gay? He suspected that Marina was a victim of sexual starvation. Then, as if to confirm this impression, Roselia came out from the swinging door to the kitchen and Marina, tongue in cheek, asked her whether she and Elena wouldn’t get to see the chef in his briefs. The teacher giggled and Sean asked for a translation, following which he chuckled throatily; Pablo’s grin seemed forced. The proprietress countered by saying she felt sure the ladies wouldn’t find a five-foot-six, forty-nine-year-old, 265-pound pansy in boxer shorts attractive. More silly laughter ensued.

‘Would you like something else?’ Sean asked of nobody in particular when only smiles remained.

Heads were shaken. ‘Then could you bring me the bill, please?’ the Canadian asked of Roselia.

The bill read eighty-five dollars. Sean gave a ten-dollar tip to each waitress and they all returned to the living room, where a liqueur was served. Elena, to all appearances a little woozy, declined.

‘Well, where would you like to go next?’ Pablo asked. ‘We can catch the show at Tropicana or at the Havana Café, go to a nightclub, maybe visit a santero, have him throw the shells for you.’

Marina looked at Sean, who pulled down the corners of his mouth and lifted his eyebrows to reveal his hesitancy. Then she turned to Elena. ‘What do you suggest, Elena?’

‘I…wouldn’t know. I seldom go out. Pablo is the expert. But whatever you decide, I ask you to excuse me. I’m feeling a little queasy.’

‘What’s the matter?’ Marina asked, a touch of concern in her tone.

‘I’m afraid I had too much to drink. You can drop me off at home, then go wherever you feel like. I’m sorry, Marina.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ Marina said before translating for Sean.

An uncomfortable silence followed. ‘You know what?’ Sean said. ‘We have an early flight. So what about calling it a night?’

Pablo filed away the grin he’d been flashing. He was hoping for one of the best nightclubs, Chivas Regal, an exquisite Cohiba Lancero, ten statuesque mulatas in dental-floss bikinis wiggling their asses to salsa music.

‘Oh, no. Don’t let me spoil your evening,’ Elena objected, her words sounding a little slurred. She was clearly embarrassed.

‘You’re right, darling.’ Marina addressed Sean, disinclined to endure the company of Pablo without the neutralizing influence of his sister. ‘Would you mind if we take a rain check on the rest of the evening, Pablo?’

‘Suit yourself. My only regret is that my sister is to blame for it,’ grunted the short man, glad of the opportunity to express his reproach.

‘I’m not feeling well, okay?’ Elena retorted.

‘It’s not her fault, Pablo. Can we leave now?’

‘If you can find your way back to my place, I think I’ll stay here for a little while,’ Pablo said, eyeing the black waitress, who stood by the swinging door to the kitchen, between Roselia and the blonde woman. She beamed and winked at him.

‘Cool,’ Marina said before rising. ‘Do you need help, Elena?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Elena replied, getting to her feet.

Roselia and Pablo escorted them to the car. The tourists formally thanked Elena’s brother for all his trouble, promised they would touch base the minute they came back to Havana, and assured Roselia they had had a wonderful time at her paladar. From the garage door, smiling and waving, the restaurateur and Pablo watched the car speed away. The same old man closed the gate and marched tiredly into the garage.

Nearly half an hour later, as she drove along Fifth Avenue heading east, Marina stole a glance at her escort in the passenger seat. Not a word had been said since they left Elena at her apartment, making sure she was all right. Sean appeared to be deep in thought, nibbling at his lower lip, indifferent to the vehicles ahead, the deserted sidewalks, the moonlight and tail lights playing across the artful horticulture on the wide central walkway. She returned her eyes to the road, then took a deep breath before entering a tunnel under a river.

At Malecón and the base of Línea Avenue she took O Street and two blocks along turned into the entrance of the Hotel Nacional. They left the rental in the parking lot and ambled over to the lobby. Sean approached the swinging doors giving access to a roofed porch and a courtyard, pulling one open for his companion to go through. A pleasant breeze caressed Marina delicately. She would have loved to be lulled into sleep by it, lounging around in one of the cast-iron cushioned armchairs in the wide U-shaped porch, but she was well aware that Sean was eager to discuss the day’s events.

Holding her hand, Sean steered her around a tiled Moorish fountain. A long-haired guitarist gently strummed his instrument for a group sitting on limestone benches in the courtyard. They traversed an expanse of lawn and shade trees under the gaze of people chatting, drinking, and having a good time beneath the wide portals. Some thought them middle-aged honeymooners; her second probably, his third maybe. They came to a halt by the edge of a small cliff. Despite empty wooden benches to their right, they remained standing.

Two mammoth coast artillery pieces, remnants of what had been a Spanish gun emplacement until 1898, still aimed at where their last target – the USS Montgomery – had sailed 102 years earlier. Marina took in the serene vastness of the Florida Straits, the tiny lights from fishermen’s small boats on the water, the star-sprinkled sky. She realized that all man-made objects – Morro Castle and its lighthouse, the streetlamps extending along the coastline like a string of giant pearls as far as the eye could see, the sea wall, the buildings and cars – seemed insignificant when compared to the works of Nature.

She freed her hand from Sean’s to scratch her nose. ‘The original soap dishes are still there. And the toilet-paper holder,’ she said.

‘Tell me something I don’t know. You wouldn’t have looked so elated when you came out of the bathroom, would you?’

‘I guess not.’

Silence presided for a few moments.

‘She said the building was completed in 1957.’

Sean stared at her, apparently satisfied. ‘You know, you’re a much better actress than I assumed. You were pretty slick this evening.’

‘Thanks.’

Another, shorter pause.

‘Sean?’

‘Yes.’

‘The job’s done. It’s been done right, far as I can tell. We’ve found out all we needed to know. I’ve given it my best shot; as have you. So maybe I can ask you a question, okay?’

Sean locked gazes with Marina. She didn’t like his suppressed smile, the twinkle in his eyes. ‘Okay.’

‘You said, “Don’t take anything for granted, don’t talk about our business in the rental and the hotel room; there may be hidden cameras and bugging devices.” Well, I very much doubt these people want to, or can, get on tape every couple that comes here to spend a week, but since you were calling the shots I followed instructions. What really pisses me off is this driving around like frigging tourists, buying souvenirs, playing out this ludicrous honeymoon act, pawing each other in public. Why? Who’s going to suspect us? Why the fuck should anyone suspect us? We’ve been here for a week and haven’t even driven through a red light, for Christ’s sake! In this bankrupt banana republic the tourist is king.’

His gaze lost in the dark sea, Sean nodded. ‘So, you think I’ve been overcautious?’

‘Well, to be honest, yes, I do.’

‘Okay, you’re entitled to your opinion. I won’t argue with you. The important thing is you did as you were told. Let’s move on. Tell me what you think of these guys.’

Marina clenched her jaw, annoyed that her concerns had been dismissed so lightly, but her tone remained controlled. ‘The freak’s a complete bastard. Never loses an opportunity to embarrass and belittle his own sister. It’s appalling how he looks down on her!’

Sean nodded, paused, then added, his gaze abstractedly scanning the blue-black horizon, ‘But she’s used to it.’

Marina glanced at the monument to the victims of the battleship Maine. To its left, right in front of the US Interests Section, stood the recently completed square where the rallies for the return of Elián González took place. ‘Elena seems pretty decent, don’t you think? A reasonable person, not difficult at all,’ she said.

‘I agree,’ Sean said, and let a few seconds slip by. Then, as an afterthought: ‘But he believes himself to be the smartest, smoothest, most manipulative con-artist on earth. That’s probably why Elena hates his guts. And why we should expect trouble from him.’

‘Such intense hostility,’ Marina observed. ‘There’s a lot of bad blood between those two.’

‘And he’s on coke.’

Marina turned to stare at Sean. ‘How can you tell?’

‘I can tell.’

She faced the sea again. ‘What did you make of Elena sniggering when her brother said he made sixteen dollars a month?’

‘That he’s making a lot more than that.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I figured too.’

‘But for some reason he didn’t want us to know. And she’s so ethical she didn’t squeal on a sonofabitch who humiliates her on a daily basis for the fun of it.’

They fell silent. Marina looked across the wide avenue at the metre-high sea wall extending miles into the distance. On it, keeping respectful distances from each other, fishermen held lines. The lighthouse beam swept across the sea with the same boring exactitude of all beacons.

‘He certainly doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would take his cut quietly and count his blessings,’ she said, more to herself than to her companion.

Sean released the promise of a smile, shifted his gaze from a speeding car. ‘Lady, the word insidious was coined for guys like him.’ And pointing with his chin towards the ocean, he added, ‘He would drown his own mother right there to grab it all.’

‘What about her? Would she agree to split it?’

‘I don’t know. That woman is…’ he paused, searching for the right word.

‘Unpredictable?’ she prompted.

‘No. Not at all. But I can’t predict how she would react to our proposition. We don’t know her views on a million things. She’s…weird, difficult to pigeonhole. Special needs teacher. What kind of a fucking profession is that? Makes me suspect she’s one of those principled, nose-in-the-air spinsters. Know what I mean? Living with her brother, no husband, no kids.’

‘Maybe she married and divorced.’

‘Why didn’t you ask her?’

‘Didn’t want to give the impression I was prying.’

‘Maybe you did right.’

Marina lowered her eyes to the grass and studied the straps of her sandals. ‘He said they’ve lived there all their lives. How old would you say she is?’

‘Late thirties?’ Sean surmised.

‘Yeah, something like that, certainly not older than forty. And the freak?’

‘I’d say thirty-five, thirty-six. He was fascinated by your thighs this morning.’

‘I noticed. Horny little rat can’t keep his hands off women. You saw how he eyed the black waitress? She probably pukes after having sex with him.’

‘You never know. Maybe he’s seven feet tall in bed.’

The only indication of her surprise was a raised eyebrow. The kind of comment you don’t expect from a man. So true, though: You never know. She remembered a shy, unassuming, scrawny and slightly cross-eyed guy who had led her to the heights of pleasure. Only one of the few hunks she had bedded had taken her there, and he was blind. She wondered whether behind the amazing remark lurked a phenomenal lover or a bit of a philosopher.

‘Doesn’t look it to me,’ she said. ‘What will we do with him?’

‘Do with him?’

‘You said we should expect trouble from him.’

‘Sure. But is there something we can do?’

Marina considered it. ‘Forget it.’

‘Fine.’

Sean seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. Then he raised his eyes to the hotel’s top floors. ‘I’ll rest my arm on your shoulders now, you circle my waist. Let’s go and have a nightcap.’

They sauntered back to the portals and plopped down on a sofa. A waiter learned that Sean felt like Black Label on the rocks; Marina remained faithful to the local taste by ordering a mojito. Forty or fifty people relaxed on couches and armchairs, laughed at jokes, seemed to be enjoying themselves. Once their drinks arrived and they had taken a sip, a tall overweight man sitting alone to their left pulled himself up and marched to the restroom.

‘Excuse me, honey, I’ve got to take a leak,’ Sean said and rose.

Marina wanted to say ‘Me too’ but decided to wait until her escort returned.

Sean unzipped his fly facing the urinal next to the one in which the tall overweight man was relieving himself. He was sure the attendant standing by the door was out of earshot. ‘The short, bald guy lives there. He speaks a little English and is a money-grabbing bastard on coke,’ he said.

Without so much as a nod, the tall overweight man shook his penis, buttoned up, and washed his hands in a sink. The attendant handed him paper towels. Before leaving the restroom the man dropped a quarter into the inescapable dish for tips by the doorway. In a slightly expansive mood, Sean left a dollar.

The following morning, at a quarter to nine, just as Marina and Sean hopped on a DC-10 bound for Toronto from Havana Airport’s Terminal 3, the tall overweight man left the church of Santa Rita de Casia through the side entrance that faces 26th. He crossed the street and, holding his hands behind his back, head tilted backwards, stared at the ficus trees in the Parque de la Quinta. He appeared to be in his forties and had the powerful forearms and wrists of a dock worker. His brown eyes were lively, his thick moustache coffee-coloured, his lips full. After a few minutes circling the trees in awestruck contemplation, the hulking man slid behind the wheel of a black Hyundai and sped away.

The gardener and the sweeper who tended the park became intrigued when the fat man repeated the same routine two days in a row. Their curiosity, however, was not stirred by his arriving before eight and going into the church the minute it opened its doors. Several Cuban Catholics did the same and, occasionally, curious visitors explored the interior of the small modern church. Some diplomats and executives of foreign companies – accompanied by their wives and children – also attended Mass on Sundays. What was strange about the tall overweight man was his fixation with the ficus. The park attendants were accustomed to seeing tourists stop by, but few returned, and those that did usually came back to show the mammoth trees to some other traveller. They wondered whether this guy was a botanist or an ecology freak.

The labourers would have been even more puzzled had they seen the tall overweight man in the church. He invariably sat in the same pew, one from where he could keep an eye on 26th, paid no attention to the act of worship, didn’t kneel or pretend to pray. His behaviour had drawn the attention of an overly anti-communist layman who reported to the parish priest that a State Security official was using his church to stake someone out.

On the morning of Tuesday, 30 May, as he rounded the trunk of the ficus nearest to the bust of General Prado, the tall overweight man spotted a bald short guy in a white guayabera leaving the light-grey apartment building that faced on to the park and darting down Third A toward 26th. Strolling leisurely, his eyes on the tree, the stalker returned to the sidewalk, and waited until his prey was within a couple of yards.

‘You speak English?’ he asked with a pleasant smile.

‘Sure,’ Pablo responded, trying to look intelligent and knowledgeable. He had always envied huge men and this bull-necked guy was at least six foot five, weighing over 250 pounds.

‘Thank heaven. You know the name of these trees?’ the man asked, with a sweep of the hand that included all the ficus in the park.

‘Ficus.’

‘What?’

‘Ficus.’

‘Can you spell it out for me?’

Pablo said ‘F’ and paused. One of his frequent, inexplicable confusions in English was to pronounce the ‘i’ as an ‘e’ and vice versa. He produced a small notebook and a ballpoint from a pocket of his guayabera, wrote down the name, then tore out the page.

‘Well, thanks,’ the tall overweight man said as he took it. Then, staring at the five letters, he added: ‘Most amazing trees I’ve seen in this country.’

‘Is that so?’ Pablo was taking in the stranger, his mental wheels turning fast. The big bastard wore a navy-blue polo shirt, khaki shorts, white cotton socks, and sneakers.

‘I hadn’t been able to learn their name. Not many people here speak English.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And what’s the name of this park?’

‘Parque de la Quinta.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Well…’ Pablo scratched his bald head, looked around, then shrugged his shoulders as if picking his brain for the right translation. ‘Quinta in Spanish is…like a country house, know what I’m saying? Like a villa.’

‘So, it’s the Park of the Country House.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, thanks for the information,’ the big man said. ‘Wait a minute,’ he added, fishing for his wallet and producing a twenty-dollar bill. ‘Here you are. Thanks.’

Pablo pounced on the bill thinking it was a fiver. When he saw the Jackson portrait he was dumbfounded. Twenty bucks for the name of a tree and a park? What would this huge asshole fork out for being taken around town?

‘Well, sir, this is very…’ Pablo groped for ‘generous’ unsuccessfully as he thrust the bill into a pants pocket ‘…very good of you. If I can help…in any other way…?’

His eyes on Pablo, head cocked, a budding grin on his lips, the tourist seemed to ponder the offer.

‘Maybe you could. This is my first trip here, I don’t know my way around, and I was hoping for a good time, catch my drift?’

Pablo grinned. ‘You mean fun, girls?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

‘I think…no, I thought so. But now, it’s morning. In the mornings, beautiful girls sleep. In the evenings they have fun. We meet in the evening, I take you to the most beautiful girls in Havana.’

A bunch of lies, the big guy figured. ‘Tell you what. You take me to the most beautiful girls in Havana, I’ll pay you a hundred bucks. You take me to the most beautiful girl in Havana, I’ll pay you two hundred. How’s that?’

‘That’s excellent, Mr…?’

‘Splittoesser.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Just call me John.’

‘Okay, John. So, where do we meet?’

‘Let’s see…’ John pretended to reflect. ‘There’s this bar-restaurant where I had dinner last night, La Zaragua…something.’

‘Spanish food? In Old Havana?’

‘That’s it.’

‘La Zaragozana.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘John, I’ve been to all the right places in Havana.’

The tall overweight man considered this for a moment. ‘Swell. At eight then?’ he said.

‘Eight’s fine with me.’

‘Can I drop you somewhere?’ John asked.

‘No, thanks. My office is right across the street.’

‘See you then,’ John said and extended his right hand. Pablo’s hand got lost in the man’s paw. The Cuban marched along, occasionally craning his neck, watching the tourist unlock his car. John waved him good-bye; Pablo did the same before crossing Fifth Avenue. Is this a lucky break or is this a lucky break? he was thinking.

John Splittoesser spent the afternoon completing the reconnaissance he had initiated three evenings earlier, driving around Santa Maria del Mar and Guanabo, two adjoining beach resorts fifteen miles to the east of Havana.

After dinner at La Zaragozana, Pablo suggested a leisurely stroll into Old Havana. Leaving the rental in the custody of the restaurant’s parking valet, they took Obispo, a street turned pedestrian mall. Passers-by stared at the strange pair: some recalled Twins, the movie starring Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

The temperature had dropped considerably as a consequence of a late-afternoon heavy shower. Lighting from the shop windows of well-stocked, dollars-only stores reflected on the wet asphalt. Insubstantial dialogue from a Brazilian soap opera and various pop songs blared out from radios, CD players, and television sets, producing an ear-splitting cacophony.

There were policemen on every corner, most of them alert young men fresh from the countryside, still in awe of city slickers: the pickpockets, whores, pimps, drag queens, sodomites, shoplifters, drug pushers, and black marketeers that trained eyes can detect along the Havana tourist trail.

A handful of veteran cops in their thirties could also be spotted. With bored expressions and cynical grins they whispered advice to the rookies. Guys who have stayed in the force and the neighbourhood long enough to know who they can let get away with petty crime because he or she won’t mug a tourist, deal coke, or hold up a truck delivering products from the warehouse. Cops who survive by recognizing the limit of permissible corruption: yes to a three-dollar sandwich, no to a one-dollar bill; yes to a hooker’s free ride, no to a pair of jeans presented by her pimp; yes to a packet of cigarettes, no to a box of fake Cohibas.

Pablo and John turned left on to Havana Street and after three blocks took a right on to the seedier Emped-rado Street. Watching them walk side by side, two candidates for the priesthood returning to the San Carlos and San Ambrosio Seminary were reminded of the David and Goliath story. A dark-skinned black youngster and a white teenager, both insufficiently versed in the Old Testament, approached the strange pair.

‘Mister, mister, cigars, guitars, girls…’ they accosted John in English.

‘I’m with him,’ Pablo said in Spanish, glaring at them.

They weren’t impressed by the news and ignored the short man with the stumpy ponytail. ‘Girls, beautiful. Cohibas, forty dollars. Fine guitars, eighty dollars.’

‘No,’ said John.

‘Coke? Marijuana?’

‘No.’

‘I’m taking him to Angelito’s,’ said Pablo, again in Spanish, trying to act nonchalant.

That stopped the hustlers cold. Apparently miffed, they turned their backs and disappeared into a doorway. John stared at the narrowest sidewalk he had seen in his life; not more than twenty inches wide.

‘Now, look up, at the…balcón? You say balcón in English?’

John frowned in incomprehension.

‘The balcón of the house on the next corner,’ Pablo said, extending his arm and pointing.

Four young women leaned on the wooden railing of a wrought-iron balcony projecting from the top floor of a two-storey house built in the 1850s. Light from a nearby streetlamp made it possible to see that two of the whores sported shorts, a third had a miniskirt on, the fourth a French-cut bikini bottom. All wore halter-neck tops and from their necks hung chains and medals. Gazing down at the street below, they were sharing a laugh prompted by an amusing comment made by the one in the miniskirt.

‘Interested?’ Pablo asked.

‘Let’s take a closer look.’

They climbed a marble stairway with handrails in the same material. On the way up Pablo said this place was La Casa de Angelito, Angelito’s house, according to his translation. Greeted warmly on the landing by a white, effeminate bodybuilder in green Lycra shorts and a pink tank top, they were showed into a dim living room with four loveseats, a CD player, a minibar, and side tables for drinks and ashtrays. Three French windows opened on to the balcony where the women remained, unaware that potential clients had arrived. The body-sculpting fanatic clapped his hands and ordered, ‘Girls, saloon.’