Their Man in Havana

'The real deal, sir? Where can I buy that?'

Javier looked at the Yanqui on the other side of the market stall. Bermuda shorts, socks, sandals and sunburn all in evidence. There was something, though. In the eyes perhaps. Javier had seen a Python at the Parque Zoologico in Havana. Its eyes were the same, somehow. What the hell was a Yanqui tourist doing in Manicaragua?

'The real deal, señor? I don't understand.'

The Yanqui picked up a ceramic pot, 'Arawak? I don't think so.'

'No, señor, it is not.'

The man gestured with the pot at Javier's hand-lettered sign,

'Cera-mee-kous fou-klo-reekos, that's native ceramics, ain't it?'

'Si, señor. They are made in the hills by... well, they are cousins, I think you say.'

'I need the stuff, savvy?'

'There is nothing that is not in el Museo.... or en Los Estados Unidos.'

'They told me you could get 'em. The real deal.'

“Get them” the man had said. Javier pulled up his Levi's. They didn't fit, but Jorge had brought them back from Madrid. No exit visa necessary, not now. But you still needed the 'lubricante'. Just because Fidel had gone didn't mean the uniforms no longer held their hand out. Javier felt a sour pain in his gut.

'You want my brother, Jorge.'

The Yanqui's mouth was as thin as a paper cut, 'Y'all can get him, cain't yuh?'

'He is in the mountains, the cell signal...' Javier shrugged.

'So, when is he back?'

'Today, tomorrow maybe.'

'Mañana, huh?'

'If you like, señor,' Javier took the pot, wiping the Yanqui's fingerprints off the glaze.

'Ah'll take the numbah, son,' the Yanqui spat into the dust.

Javier gave him a scrap of paper with his own disposable cell's number. It would be in the dumpster as soon as Jorge phoned after coming down from the Escambray mountains. Jorge said never to give out a number for him, so he didn't and never would. The Yanqui limped down the street towards Nuestra Señora del Carmen. Doubtless he would try to use his camera in the church. Javier hoped Father Gomez would tell him where to get off.

The few North Americans who came to Javier's home town, came for the beans. Coffee beans that were more valuable outside Cuba, thanks to the government's fixed price for growers. No-one came for cultural artefacts. Jorge dealt in the beans. The American wanted the beans, but Jorge didn't know this man. The men Javier saw with Jorge wore suits. And sunglasses.

'Well done, Brother Mine,' Jorge clapped Javier's shoulder after he told him about the man.

His brother handed him a cheap cell-phone.

'Otro cellular, it is a waste, Jorge.'

'No, Javier, it is an investment in security.'

The brothers were standing in front of the deal bar in the Cantina Rosalita. Conversation was loud, and would continue to be, until the generator ran out of gas.

'So, tell me again.' Jorge said.

'There is nothing. Except the clothes. He looked like a tourist from a movie – a bad one.'

'A name, was there a name?'

'No, Jorge.'

'Did you give him mine?'

Javier looked at the floor.

'¡Hijo de puta!'

Javier flinched.

'I did not know. No suit, no sunglasses. Only bi-focales on a string.'