Escape to Havana Page 2

  Selecting a pen from his briefcase, Charlie began to fill in the form. He checked the dates on his entry visa and saw that it expired before the end of his posting. He would have to remember to fix that, he thought, as he filled in the date and set the form down on the tray. He stared at it for a moment, as he wondered what the consequences of an expired visa were in Cuba. But as he looked back at the passport, he drew strength from its title. Jail was for regular people; he was a diplomat, now. Though it was true that most of his job was administrative in nature, not at all what most people would associate with actual diplomacy or the cucumber sandwich set, there was no denying the fact that he would be carrying out his duties as an accredited diplomat. No Cuban customs agent was going to throw Charlie Hillier, the diplomat, into some stinking, rat-infested Caribbean Gulag, at least not without some pause.

  Charlie had been briefed on his Vienna Convention rights, and the dos and don’ts of a posting in Cuba, so he had nothing to worry about, certainly not the fact that he was headed to a job he knew little about, in a place he had never been, and where he knew no one. In fact, considering the events of the past few months, those were all pros. And anyway, Foreign Affairs had sent hundreds of its people to Cuba over the years and, of those, how many had run into a problem? Well, Charlie recalled, there was that one guy who had been thrown off a cliff, but that was years ago, and anyway, he had asked for it by sleeping with some political honcho’s wife. Besides, he was pretty sure the guy had survived, and the government disability benefits were first-rate.

  Tucking the immigration form and passport back into his pocket, Charlie reclined his seat and closed his eyes, intent on focusing on the new life waiting for him below the clouds, rather than the one he was leaving behind. Lulled by the steady hum of the engines as the plane continued its pro­gress south, he was soon dozing.

  Chapter 2

  Charlie stood at the baggage carousel, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and sweating. He stared at the black rubber flaps at the end of the conveyor belt, beyond the same three bags that had been completing their forlorn circuit for the past fifteen minutes, and willed his luggage to appear. Checking his watch, he was alarmed to see that he had been standing there for almost an hour, and it was only the sight of a dozen other passengers seemingly in the same boat — some of whom Charlie recognized from his flight — that kept him from panicking. Besides, he told himself, what were the chances of actually getting any satisfaction at the lost baggage counter in this place, if there was one? The arrivals terminal stank of stale sweat and cigarette smoke and felt like a steam bath. He drummed his fingers on the handle of his empty cart and watched the same three bags disappear through the flaps again, wondering why they hadn’t been claimed. He was imagining their owners being beaten in a nearby interrogation cell, their screams muffled by soundproof walls, when he spotted one of his suitcases. His elation turned to surprise, then horror, as his second bag came into view, its zipper half undone and the contents spewing out of the sides.

  He heaved the intact suitcase onto his cart and then went about hurriedly stuffing his clothes back into the second case as he chased it along the conveyor belt. Setting it down on the cart, he caught sight of a pair of his underwear making its way lazily along the conveyor belt and he muttered excuses as he cut in front of a young couple to retrieve the errant boxers. Putting his suitcase back together and loading it on top of the other one, he noticed it felt distinctly lighter than when he had checked it in Ottawa. He soon understood why, as he opened the top of the bag and looked inside. The majority of his clothes seemed to be there, but the two plastic bags he had stuffed with Aspirin, deodorant, toothpaste, and other toiletries were gone. He had heard of the shortage of these goods for the average Cuban, and had resolved to do his part by bringing in what he could. Now, they were in the hands of some unscrupulous baggage handler on the other side of those flaps, along with the twelve-pack of new briefs he had picked up for himself at Costco the day before.

  As he waited for his third and final bag, Charlie silently fumed over the injustice and considered whether his diplomatic privileges extended to his toiletries, or his underwear. The lawyer in him started framing the argument: These undergarments are subject to the privileges and immunities of the Vienna Convention, and their seizure represents a clear violation of Article …

  But he had never been any good at litigation, and it didn’t take long for his resolve to weaken. Theft was theft, though, and he was still pondering the idea of a formal complaint when his last bag appeared intact and he loaded it onto his cart. He looked around for someone official and saw two policemen, or maybe they were soldiers, standing near the exit. One of them was smoking a cigarette directly under what looked like a NO SMOKING sign, and as he tossed the butt to the floor and crushed it with the heel of his boot, he looked straight at Charlie. It wasn’t a particularly friendly look, and suddenly Ottawa seemed far away, indeed.

  Opting to raise the matter later, preferably from the safety of his new office at the Canadian embassy, Charlie set off for the exit under the now disinterested gaze of the two cops. He manoeuvred his laden cart out of the inferno into the slightly cooler air of the main terminal. He scanned the sparse crowd and was relieved to see a bored-looking man holding a sign bearing a Canadian flag. As he approached, he made out the name under the flag: CHARLES HALLER.

  Close enough.

  “Hi, I’m Charlie,” he said, extending his hand as the man holding the sign perked up.

  “Carlos. Welcome to Cuba.” He shook Charlie’s hand and took control of the cart. “You have a good flight?”

  “Yes, thanks.” He didn’t feel now was the time to raise the baggage-looting incident, so he followed Carlos out through the main doors instead, ignoring the shouted offers of cigars, taxis, and more cigars. Outside, a warm breeze seemed to welcome him to his new home and put him in a much more positive frame of mind. This was more like it.

  “We here,” Carlos said as he stopped the cart behind a well-travelled GMC van.

  “This one?” Charlie was eyeing the dented bumper as Carlos began loading the bags into the back.

  “I take you to the embassy?” Carlos asked, as they climbed into the front and the engine roared to life.

  “The hotel, actually,” Charlie replied, rummaging through his briefcase for the name. He was to stay in a hotel while they finalized the arrangements for his government-supplied house. He would drop by the embassy later, but first he needed to take a shower and do a quick inventory of his things to make sure nothing vital was missing. “The Meliá Habana,” he said, as he retrieved the email with his reservation information.

  “So, you been to Habana before?” Carlos asked, as he pulled away from the curb.

  “No, this is my first time. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “I go to Ottawa five years ago. Is cold!”

  Charlie laughed. “You were there in winter?”

  “Si, Febrero.”

  “Oh yeah, it can get pretty cold in February in Ottawa. I can’t say I’ll miss it this year,” he added, looking out the window as they turned onto what looked like the main road into Havana. Apart from the odd palm tree, the landscape to either side of the highway was sparse, the grass a dirty brown.

  He continued to take in his surroundings as Carlos chatted on, changing lanes to escape the cloud of black smoke pouring from the back of a farm truck. As they passed it, Charlie noticed its wooden box was filled with workers, and he exchanged a brief look with an elderly farmhand, his sun-weathered face wrinkling into a smile as Carlos sped by. Charlie was no mechanic, but the truck had to be forty years old and its wooden sides seemed to be held in place by a web of rope and wire. It looked like it belonged in a museum, not on the road with a dozen people bouncing around in the back. Suddenly, the embassy vehicle made sense to him, as he imagined how he might be perceived passing this relic in a gleaming Volvo or Bimmer.
He couldn’t help wondering whether this apparent disparity was what anyone had en­­visioned back in the days of la Revolución. Then again, Charlie thought, as the rickety old truck and its black, noxious trail disappeared into the side-view mirror, the old man in the back was the one smiling.

  Charlie sat in the reception area of the Canadian embassy, looking at a painting on the far wall, trying to decide whether the harbour was in Nova Scotia or Newfoundland. He felt refreshed after a quick shower and change of clothes at the hotel, and he was looking forward to seeing where he would be working for the next three years. From the outside, the converted villa on 70th Avenue didn’t look that impressive, and Charlie knew from his review of the property file that even after sacrificing the tennis court for a new annex building, the mission was still pressed for space. He was wondering whether his office would be on the ground or first floor when he heard the door behind him open and a young man appeared. With his tall, athletic frame clad in a polo shirt and khakis, the guy looked as ready for the front nine as a day at the office.

  “You must be the new MCO. I’m Drew Landon. Welcome to Havana.”

  Standing to take the outstretched hand, Charlie saw the same benevolence in the young man’s eyes as in his smile. “Charlie Hillier.”

  “Sorry about the wait. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  As he tried to place Landon’s age within the low twenties — he looked young enough to pass for a student — Charlie couldn’t help wondering whether Winston Gardiner had realized that two rookies were going to be in charge of embassy administration when he had assigned Charlie to Havana.

  “I decided to drop in for a quick look around. I don’t want to put you out, but if you could just show me where my office is …”

  “It’s no trouble.” Landon looked at his watch. “Why don’t I give you the dime tour, then maybe we can grab a late lunch?”

  Charlie nodded and followed Landon as he punched in a code on the terminal next to the forbidding glass-and-metal door separating the reception area from the rest of the building.

  “The head of mission’s in Port au Prince until tonight, but I’ll show you his office anyway,” he said, leading the way through the open door and up the nearby stairs. “Good man, by the way,” he added, as he punched in his code again at the top of the stairs and they entered the zone that housed the ambassador and his assistant.

  “Afternoon, Martine.”

  A formidable grey-haired woman peered at them over her glasses from the other side of her desk.

  “This is Charlie Hillier, the new MCO. Charlie, meet the ambassador’s executive assistant, Martine Monette.”

  Charlie’s lips twitched with an involuntary smile at the sound of his new official title. He had always wanted an acronym of his own. This particular one, short for Management Consular Officer, actually blended two formerly separate positions, before budget cuts had trimmed the ranks of the Foreign Service. The new position was responsible for both consular cases and the myriad administrative matters at the embassy, from human resources, to property and housing, to finance.

  “Welcome to Havana,” she said, with a curt smile.

  “I was just showing Charlie around …” Landon glanced toward the ambassador’s open door.

  “You can have a quick look.” She waved at the door and returned her attention to her computer monitor.

  Landon seemed surprised by the invitation and went straight for the door. Standing in the doorway of the office, Charlie was impressed with its size and decor, furnished as it was with mostly modern pieces, accented by a few antiques and some wonderful artwork.

  “Very nice.”

  “You should see the residence,” Landon said, before pointing out some framed photographs of the ambassador with various senior departmental officials, as well as the prime minister. Next, Landon led them back out into the main part of the embassy and introduced him around to the few people they met as they made their way from section to section. The numerous empty offices, Landon explained, were due to a conference being held in Old Havana. After a brief tour of the ground floor, Charlie was surprised to find himself back at the main reception area.

  “So, where’s my office?”

  “Oh, we’re next door.”

  Charlie assumed he meant the modern-looking annex building, so he was puzzled when, back outside, Landon led them in the opposite direction, past the lane where the embassy van still sat, and then up a flight of exterior stairs over what looked like the garage.

  “The admin section’s back here,” Landon said, as they reached another locked door and he entered his access code. The door opened onto a long and narrow hallway with offices on either side. Landon stopped in front of the second door.

  “This is you.”

  Charlie hesitated at the door and, as he poked his head inside, his heart sank. The office was small, its walls of the same shiny material as the ones in the corridor — like the inside of his grade four portable, except white instead of faux wood. The sole window was shuttered from the outside and the glass was crisscrossed with what looked like masking tape.

  “Hurricane mitigation,” Landon said, following Charlie’s gaze to the taped windows.

  “Hurricane mitigation,” Charlie parroted, as he took in the rest of the office and its battered furniture. The desk and cabinets looked like they had been pulled out of the basement at headquarters and shipped here in an open boat, possibly through a hurricane. He thought of the spacious digs he had left behind in Ottawa and felt like turning around and going back to the airport. A couple of shrivelled plants sat on the desktop, and he noticed that the back of the rolling chair was listing sharply to the right. Whereas the main building had been pleasantly cool, Charlie could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead after just a few seconds in the close air of the office.

  “Like I said, I wasn’t really expecting you until tomorrow.” Landon paused, noticing Charlie’s crestfallen look. “But don’t worry. We’ll get you settled away, maybe with some new furniture.”

  Can you please take me back to that nice building next door?

  “Oh, this will be fine, I’m sure,” Charlie said, waving away any concern.

  “Have you seen your SQ yet?” Landon asked, using the departmental lingo for staff quarters.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Why don’t we grab some lunch and then I’ll take you out to have a look. You’re going to like it, I promise.”

  Charlie was still staring at the rickety chair and feeling the first hint of sacroiliac pain. “I’m sure I will,” he said, his deflated tone suggesting the opposite.

  “There’s the OR,” Landon said, as Carlos slowed the van so his two passengers could get a good look. Set apart from the other houses in the leafy neighbourhood to the west of Miramar, the sprawling white stucco villa that served as the Canadian ambassador’s official residence was well back from the road, nestled on a lush green lawn. In fact, the only other structure in sight was a dilapidated brick tower across the road.

  “Jaimanitas,” Carlos said as he swung the van around, stopped at the edge of the curving driveway, and pointed toward the large house beyond.

  “I heard there was some connection to Hemingway,” Charlie said, as he surveyed the sprawling house.

  “Everything in Habana has a connection to Papa,” Carlos said, giving Charlie a broad grin.

  “Grant Mason, of Pan Am, had it built in the thirties for him and his wife, Jane,” Landon continued. “Hemingway had quite a thing for her, apparently. Anyway, we’ll get you in to see it soon. It’s beautiful on the inside.”

  “I’ll bet,” Charlie said, as the van moved back in the direction they had come.

  “You’re just around the corner.”

  “From here?” Having seen his office, Charlie had imagined his new house as a corrugated metal shack, but that would be decidedly out of
place in this part of town, so there was still hope. A couple of minutes later, they stopped on a tree-lined street in front of a very attractive villa. It was much smaller than the official residence, but it was bigger than the house he had left behind in Ottawa.

  “I told you you’d like it,” Landon said, seeing Charlie’s expression. “The head of political wanted it, but his wife wouldn’t uproot the kids from their existing house.”

  As they walked up the gravel path that dissected the front lawn, Charlie couldn’t believe his eyes. This had to be a four-bedroom house, at least. Surely this didn’t fit within the government guidelines for housing single employees?

  “Isn’t it a bit … big?”

  “It’s the foreign service, Charlie, not the foreign legion,” Landon cracked, as he searched for the key to the front door. “But seriously, we did sort of luck out with this one. It just came available a couple of weeks ago, and the Cubans offered it to us first, for a song. We’ve been looking for a single-family for a while — the last MCO had three kids and they were in an apartment that really wasn’t suitable.”

  “And there aren’t any families that … need it?”

  “Right now, most members of our Canada-based staff are single or couples; the ones with families are content where they are. But you might be in trouble if we have another family posted next summer.”

  Charlie waited by the front door as Landon fumbled with a ring of keys before finding the right one and fitting it into the lock. The door came open with a satisfying click.