Into Havana
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“China, not Taiwan?” The customs officer stares at me suspiciously. With a Castro-style mustache, curly dark hair, broken English and a wrinkled seasoned face, he does not look as hostile as other customs officers I have encountered. Still, the question makes me nervous.
“Yes, sir. But I live in California, and I am just visiting Cuba as a tourist." I speak in English as slowly as I can. He looks back at my passport and starts to thump through every single page as if he is in a slow-motion picture. James is standing about ten yards away on the red line that separates the check station from the enthusiastic passengers. He is looking in my direction anxiously, trying to figure out what is going on. The visa check station opens to the new airport terminal but is sealed away from the customs by a wall.
The officer closes my passport and is checking my visa application. Come on. My socialist brother. Just let me through. You do not doubt that I am a spy or something, would you? He suddenly stands up and tells me to wait. Then he disappears behind the door. James is witnessing my frustration and shouts at me: "What's wrong?"
"I don't know!" I shrug. I am used to the humiliation at customs. Every time I visit a foreign country, I am always scrutinized so carefully as if I am the most wanted smuggler. "This happens to me all the time." I walk back to the line and tell James, "My passport is the most useless piece of shit in the world."
It may be only five minutes, but it feels like forever. James and I had planned the trip for months. When we finally got on the plane in Cancun, we still could not believe we were actually heading to Cuba. Visiting Cuba for us was not only an adventure to the exotic, but also to the forbidden. James has a long history of political activism. It dated back to the Berkeley years when he got involved with the left-wing groups. During his senior year, he went to Spain and squatted with a group of anarchists in Barcelona. After graduation he has been working at various non-profit organizations. Compared to James' youthful and romantic vision of socialism, I am holding a much more pragmatic view on the world.
The officer finally returns with another female officer. Her green uniform can not hide her bosomy figure, which reminds me of the Cuban volleyball players who used to compete with Chinese and became household names in China. She tells me in fluent English that I have to show hotel reservation for the visa, all because I am a citizen of China.
"Really?" I start to panic. "I did not know that at all…does that mean I can not get in at all?"
She exchanges a look with the male officer and tells me that I can make reservation at the airport. James has overheard our conversation and is already checking out his Lonely Planet guide. “What about St John’s? Tell them we will stay at the St John’s.” Back home we did a lot of research and collected a few addresses of private houses where we could stay in Havana. We also singled out a few cheap hotels in case the private houses did not work. I vaguely remember that St John’s charged about $25 a night.
The female officer obviously has heard what James has suggested. She shakes her head and says that St John’s is under construction. Then she seems to have lost the interest in me and walk away without one more word. The male officer raises his eyebrow and gives me an expression as if he could do nothing else but sympathize with me. He then stamps the tourist visa and reminds me: “Oficina de turismo, Si?”
“Si! Si!” I nod my head to act in my humblest manner. He is mumbling more but I can not understand him at all. After he hands the passport back to me, I make a signal to James and walk through the door of the check station as quickly as I can. When James comes through I say: “Listen, we already have our visa stamped, right? I think we can just skip the tourist office and sneak out of the airport. We should try to stay in the private houses since they are a lot cheaper.”
“Are you sure they won’t stop us and give us trouble?” James asks. Sometimes I wonder how he can be an anarchist when he is so aware of law and police power. Maybe that is exactly why he has the anarchistic tendency. My own socialistic wisdom has told me that rules are flexible in front of real people, and there is always a way to get around if you know the right person and the right trick. “But, it would be so much more interesting to stay in a real Cuban house.” James says.
We pick up our luggage and go through the custom stations quickly. As soon as we get out, we see the same male custom officer waiting outside. He comes over to us and eagerly leads us to the tourist office. There is nothing else I can do but follow him. I may have been horrified by stories from American media that paints any type of communism as a totalitarian nightmare, or I may just know how to be more resilient due to my experience in another repressive regime. James is obviously a little bit upset about the officer’s sudden appearance. However, he keeps quiet.
The tourist office turns out to be a little room right near the airport exit. A simple wood desk and two chairs almost take up the entire space. The only clerk, who dresses like a slick investment banker (although the suit looks cheap), greets us with a friendly but not quite sincere smile. I notice his white teeth. “Welcome to Cuba.” he grins again and takes out a rumpled photo album with pages of plush-looking hotels. “We have great hotels in Cuba.” He points to one of most opulent ones, “Hotel Nacional, the most fabulous in Havana. Air condition, swimming pool, Cabaret, Only $250 per night.”
Gosh. We are just running away from the glitzy consumerism, IPO magic and Silicon Valley greed. We are not coming here to splurge and show off our incredible fortune! Can’t he tell we are budget back-packers? I immediately shake my head, although in the picture, the Hotel Nacional looks stunningly beautiful. “Too expensive, sir. We definitely want something cheaper. What is the lowest price you have?”
“Hm...” The guy winks at the custom officer while he seems to be going through the hotel album with considerable efforts. The custom officer has taken off his cap and is sitting next to the desk patiently. “Well, I need to make a few phone calls and find out the availability.” The guy says.
James is now checking the hotel listing in his guidebook and trying to find some bargains. I look out to the lobby and take a limited glimpse of its bustling scene. The airport looks modern enough to put on a good face for tourists, and there are quite a few well-lit bulletin boards advertising beach resorts and guided tours. A large TV screen was flashing decadent Discos and huge hotel complexes in Veradero, which looks just like Cancun or any Caribbean resorts surviving on tourism. With all these gadgets, the atmosphere somehow does not feel exuberant enough, as if something is missing.
The clerk finally comes back and shows us the picture of Hotel Capri, a high rise standing against blue sky and costs $80 dollars per night. Still way out of our budget. We have heard that private house costs $15 in Havana, and a Cuban teacher typically earns $20 per month. What an extravagance it would be to spend one person’s four-month wage for one night in a hotel?
“That’s still too much. Can you get a cheaper one?” I beg.
He shakes his head without hesitation. “This is summer. Everything gets full very quickly. You are lucky to find this one.”
"Really, sir, we did not bring enough cash to stay in a hotel like this." I am giving my last try. James stands behind me. He says that Chinese are always good at bargaining, and he often drives me nuts paying whatever price is asked.
The clerk comes closer to me and whispers: "Don't say you have no money. It does not look good. See our officer there? He would not let you go unless you pay your reservation right here." I look at the custom officer. He still sits there, expressionless, on duty. I realize they may be collaborating to cheat on us. Maybe the officer gets part of commission. Fidel Castro often brags about how uncorrupted his government is. But who knows?
James has already lost his patience. He rushes me: "It is just money and we can easily make it back in US. Let's just pay and get out."
I tell them we are only staying in Havana for a week and will spend the rest of the time in the provinces. After all the negotiation we have settled for payment of six nights. When I hand the stack of $20 dollar bills to the clerk, I notice that the custom officer is staring at the money as his eyes suddenly sparkle. That could be more than three years' salary for him. He puts his cap back on his head and writes down Hotel Capri on our original visa application forms. At the same time the clerk zips the money in a black portfolio and mounts his final smile on his face: "Thank you. Enjoy Havana."
The cab is driving us into Havana. "Hotel Capri," James reads aloud from the front seat. "According to the guide book, still retains the flavor of the 50's even though the gambling casino closed in 1959 and mafia notables from Miami no longer frequent the roof-top swimming pool."
"So what? It is eighty bucks per night!" The airport episode still haunts me. Outside the window is the fleeting view of Havana suburbs: Mango trees, old Chevy cars roaring by, drab, identical-looking apartment buildings, children playing soccer in the field.
"Forget it, ok? We are in Cuba now! This will be a great trip." His face beams with childish excitement and infectious happiness. It has made him rather charming and lovable. After all, the whole drama at the airport is my fault, my country's fault. Even Cuba treats me differently as a second-class citizen. Does James understand my anger?
I pat James's shoulder from the behind and say: "Have you noticed all the black bicycles, noticed how sturdy they are? That is exactly the same kind of bike I used to ride to school everyday in China."
"Neat!" James is taking a closer look at the passing bicycles. "I heard only the model worker gets a Chinese bike as a reward. After the Soviets pulled the plug, these bikes saved Havana."
"They are heavy but very practical." I say. "I used to carry my friends on the back all the time."
"Yummy. Two Chinese boys on a Chinese bike." James jokes. I make a face and decide to ignore him. I am not sure whether I am mad at his third-world fetish or his naivete or both. James and I met a year ago in a party. He was wearing a plain-colored sweater and white sneakers, with his dark brown curls tending toward unruliness. I thought he could be some kind of permanent graduate student. I remember we talked about traveling and poetry, but my real intention was to woo him. He turned out to be quite an avid reader and had a passion for every subject. His upbringing in a professor's family easily explained his earthly and intellectual outlook. After a few dates we decided to be boyfriends.
"Look, look." James turns back again. "See those kids on the street? See the red ties around their necks? That is really cute."
"They are called young pioneers." I say. "Looks like all the socialistic countries have the same thing. The red represents the blood of the revolutionaries. I joined the young pioneers when I was seven. In the ceremony we have to salute and swear in front of a red flag."
"Wow. That's cool. Kind of like our boy scouts. What did you swear?"
"Like carrying out the course of our martyrs and being selfless."
"I wish I knew you then."
I look at James and think, why do we always want to live a life we have not lived? I never told James that when I first came to the States I wished I could have been a real American, could have watched all the cartoons they had watched, could have listened all the music they had listened, and could have possessed all the toys they had possessed. But even if I told him all about my life, my childhood, could he really know me? Could he imagine what it was like growing up in China?
"I was such a serious kid." I decide to make the story a bit more fantastic. "I worked so hard in order to be admitted into young pioneers. On the night before the ceremony I was so excited that I could not go to sleep."
"Now you are all jaded." James jokes again. He has that goofy sense of humor that takes awhile to get used to.
"Yeah. I have grown up, while you, my boy, you are still in a dream."
"What's wrong with that?" James defends, then he suddenly screams again. "Look. Che!" I look outside and see Che's gigantic portrait hanging against a building in front of the Plaza de la Revolucion. It is the same portrait that has become an icon all over the world and inspired millions. I forget what I have been rambling and try to catch a full glimpse of Che.
The carpet at the Hotel Capri seems to never have changed since the capitalists were kicked out. All the metal parts in our room are in the rusting process. Drawers do not close, chairs squeak, and the shower water gets hot and cold sporadically. "I guess we are really in socialism now." I joke to James. How come I turn out to be the whining one? Shouldn't the American be the one that complains?
James does not seem to care much about the hotel condition and starts to study the map. He has made a lot of notes on the travel book and brought all the maps he could find about Cuba. Our room is at the top of the building, with a sweeping view of Hotel National and part of Vedado. Havana Bay can be seen at our left side, with blue water glimmering under the scotching sun. On the right the city stretches out without visible boundary. Havana looks amazingly peaceful in the bright afternoon light.
We walk out of the hotel and head to the Malecon. When we turn into the famous boulevard, those beautiful crumbling colonial buildings on the waterfront come to our sight right away. Blocks after blocks, I feel I am walking in a long stroll of architecture wonders. Most of the buildings are in bad shape and falling apart, but it only adds to the glorious city a decayed beauty, a melancholy that is so deeply moving.
Silence falls between us. The ocean breeze blows over from the bay. It makes the heat a lot more bearable. There are many Cubans hanging around the sidewalk. Young lovers are making out against the stone embankment without any inhibition. The scant-clad girls are showing off their tanned skin and flaunting their sexiness. Children are swimming in the water or diving from the rocks. One of them climbs over to the street side and sees me. He shouts: "Chino! Chino!" I wave my hand and say "Hola" to him.
"They look happy. Don't they?" James says.
"One good thing about socialism. Nobody works hard and you get so much free time."
"It looks like Cuba survives well in such a difficult time." James comments.
"It is tropical here. All these beach and sun. You better be happy."
"So you think our system is better? The rich just get filthy rich and the poor simply gets poorer. What are so many Americans working so hard for? Bigger house, nicer car, and we consume fifty percent of the energy as five percent of the population. And all these greedy big corporations are taking over the world. Capitalism sucks."
"But capitalism works, or at least, market works. That is what has turned China around economically."
"From what I heard, in China the new capitalism has widened the gap between the rich and the poor. The old evils, such as prostitution and corruption, have run rampant."
"Then what do you want? Poverty and shortages and inefficiency? Face it. The biggest experiment of this century is socialism. It failed miserably."
"I don't know what could be the ideal model. But certainly the US one is not."
"I don't care." I say. "As far as I am happy, I don't care what system it is."
"That sounds selfish, doesn't it?" James wants to argue more. But I am so tired of it. How can I explain what is like to be poor when he has never really suffered poverty? How can he understand the shame of being poor, being a citizen from a poor country?
We turn onto a side street and want to venture further. After a block the street suddenly narrows and we are in the heart of the central city. The relaxing atmosphere at the Malecon disappears. Around us are people of all ages, using the street as their living room. The middle of the streets are usually taken by the kids, who are playing games and chasing each other. When they see us they come over to check us out and ask for candy or gum. The elderly usually sit at the door, looking onto the street without any expression. The buildings have deteriorated even more, turning into real slums, although their old magnificent details are still traceable. Some parts of the streets stink so bad, with piles of garbage stacked on the street corners. Sometimes they even smell like sewage.
James squatted at abandoned houses before. His Barcelona adventure is still a mystery for me since he never talks much about it. The story has it that he went to Spain to study Spanish and he ended up making friends with a few anarchists. Their free-spirited life style attracted him. Barcelona has the perfect weather and romantic setting for him to experiment with rebellion, get drunk and to be artistic. But James is still shocked at seeing the slums around him. His face is turning serious and he occasionally frowns whenever he takes a peek into the interiors of the houses. Most of the windows don't even have glass panes. They use wood shutters to block the street view.
What is purely sad is the food store at each street corner. There is barely anything on the shelf, and the clerks behind the counters often sit there with nothing to sell. It reminds me of those winter mornings when my father had to get up at six and stood in the line of the food store just to be able to buy some meat. I almost want to tell James my sentimental flashback. But when I see how disturbed he is, I decide not to say it.
"Oh, well, at least they have dollar stores. I hope they can get more stuff there." I try to lighten him up.
James sighs: "Cuba is an island. It relies on imports for many things. It is quite an evil thing for US to cut it all off. Look what has it done? It only made the Cubans suffer."
I can't agree more, but I find it amusing to hear him accuse his own country. My own patriotism has made me become rather defensive of Chinese government, as if any criticism of the government is a criticism on myself. Am I suffering inferior complex? Or is he just as self-righteous and complacent as any other Americans who think whatever they think are the best?
Very soon a late-thirties Cuban man starts to walk next to us and tries to start a conversation with James. He has amazing blue eyes and pale skin. He asks us whether we are Australians, and we tell him we are from California.
"Oh. California! Beautiful." The man is showing so much of his admiration. He asks: "Do you Like Cuba? Have you been to the old town yet? You have to go. It is the best part. I can take you there and show you around." The man's over-friendly proposal makes me a little uncomfortable.
"Really?" James seems quite excited by the invitation. "That will be great!"
"Yes, Yes. No problem. It is my birthday today. I am very happy. I want to do something good." The man smiles and says, "Let's make a deal. You give me four dollars and I can buy a cake for myself. I will take you to the old town."
Yes, right. I know something is fishy. He must have the birthday everyday. James is a bit surprised and asks me for my opinion. I say firmly: "We don't need him to show us around. We have all the maps!"
"But isn't it more fun to have a local to tell us everything?" James hesitates.
"I just don't feel good by giving him money. It is like hiring him as a tour guide. It is against our principle. Also, it feels a bit intrusive to have him around us all the time." I say.
James falters for a second and turns back to the man and tries to excuse us. But the man does not want to give up easily. He tags along and tries to bargain more. It is not until I give him a dirty look that he finally walks away.
We spend the rest of the daytime hanging around old town with all the tourists. Much of the old town has been restored meticulously and looks like an urban tourist theme park with strong Spanish flavor. Surrounding the old town are blocks of slums like what we saw earlier. There are a lot more street hustlers, using various reasons to ask us for small dollars. In the end, both of us have learned enough not to answer any greetings initiated by the random strangers. We also find out that Hotel St. John is only two blocks away from us. As it turns out, it is not under construction.
After dinner we decide to look for Havana's gay scene. Our tour book mentions that gays usually hang out around Cinema Yara. We have no trouble finding it since it is very close by and right at the busiest traffic intersection surrounded by all the big hotels. This surprises both of us since we thought it might be somewhere hidden.
It is quite a scene. We stand at the balcony of the cinema and look down on the sidewalk. Hundreds of boys in skimpy shirts and tight pants sit on the one side of the street as if it is some kind of street fair. A few drag queens are decorating the crowd with their ostentatious colors and fearless manners. Oddly enough, many taxies are parked on the street, creating quite a traffic. On the other side of the street stands Hotel Habana Libre, the tall building which Castro occupied as his headquarter after he fist took over the city. A half block away is the ice cream parlor where people wait for hours just to get a small cone.
"Gay boys look the same all over the world." I comment.
"Castro was never a gay-hating dictator. He is much better than many of our republicans." James cites his knowledge again. "I found an article on Web about an interview conducted with Castro a few years ago. He said it was really the Latin Machismo that makes it hard for Cuban gays to come out."
"What about the police harassment we heard about? Do you think it is true?" I ask.
"I don't know. Maybe we can find out." James says. I see a few policemen on the street corner. But they are just checking the scene. What are they doing there?
We walk down the balcony and march through the sidewalk. As an odd Asian-White couple, we immediately become the center of attention. We notice two boys are following us. Whenever we turn back, they smile at us. James finally stops and says: "They are kind of cute. Let’s talk to them."
Their names are Jorge and Ignacio. They claim they meet in the university. Jorge does most of the talk and moves around like some hip-hop inner city boy. The baseball cap and all-over jeans without any undershirt highlights his dark brown skin. Ignacio speaks very little English and has an evasive smile. From time to time he asks Jorge or James to translate the conversation into Spanish.
They tell us there is no gay bar in Havana except for a few private parties on the weekend nights. The parties change the locations so often that you have to come to this corner to find out where they are. "You know, the government does not allow these parties. " Jorge says. "They are usually very far from here, and you have to take taxis."
He asks us whether we want to go to one of the parties with them. I am already intrigued and eagerly accept his invitation. He runs up to the street for a few minutes and comes back with a rough-looking man. "He is my friend. He will take us to the party for six dollars. It is cheap."
So we all get into the car and let Jorge sit in the front. It is an old Russian Lada with gray interior. "This is not an official cab. My friend is just making some extra money by taking people to parties. " Jorge warns us. "Whenever you see the police on the corner, lower your head under the seat." The cab driver mumbles something when he sees there are four of us. Jorge then turns to me and says: "He says there are too many of us in the car. He wants eight dollars."
I want to bargain a bit but James has already taken out his wallet. He says to me: "Be generous. It cost us ten bucks just to get into a San Francisco club."
"But things are so much cheaper here. This is half a month of salary here. You should pay what everyone else pays."
"Let's not think about money and have fun, ok?" James insists.
The house that hosts the private party looks so much nicer compared to the slums we have seen earlier. I am wondering whether it belongs to some high-ranking government official or someone who has rich overseas relatives. There are a big array of cars and cabs outside, and the crowd at the door makes it look like a hip happening in San Francisco. They charge an entry fee too: one dollar for the locals, two dollars for foreigners, still a bargain by San Francisco standards.
We have to pay for both Jorge and Ignacio. They do not even thank us as if it is already expected. I suddenly realize that they can't afford to party like this if they do not find any foreign patrons. No wonder they are so friendly. With these thoughts, I am becoming suspicious at every thing they say or do for us. I want to tell James about my discovery, but he is already absorbed into the party scene.
Jorge and Ignacio have disappeared as soon as we get in. There are hundreds of people packed up in the house and its backyard. A giant Hi-Fi system is blaring Cher's "Believe", while some of the boys are dancing wildly. They are all very carefully dressed, well-built, with bodies I would dream to have. Quite a few foreigners are mixed with the crowd, mostly a lot older. The place has the same hedonistic atmosphere as any American circuit parties.
James has spotted an Asian-looking guy. I look in the direction he points and notice that the guy is looking at me too. He comes over and introduces himself: "How are you? My name is Angel."
It turns out he is half-Japanese. "My mother came here in fifties as a crazy communist." He says. "She gave up her Japanese citizenship and married my dad, who is another loyal communist too."
James likes this story. He asks: "Have you ever visited Japan then?"
Angel says: "No. It is very hard to get visa to visit any foreign country. " He then tells us that he was sent to East Berlin to study engineering. But after the wall fell, he had to come back. "I even messed around with a German girl and had a son even though I knew I was gay. Three years ago she stopped writing to me and I never heard anything from them." He takes out his wallet and shows us a baby picture. "Here he is. Isn't he cute?"
James and I pass his wallet and look at the picture whose color has already faded by being touched too much. "How sad!" James put his hand on Angel's shoulder and asks him in his softest tone: "Do you miss him?"
"Of course." Angel appears calm, as if the drama has been so thoroughly swallowed that no sensation is left. "Someday when I make it out to the west, I will look for him."
Just like those Russian movies about lovers and families separated by wars and ideologies, although Angel's is such a contemporary one. I feel sorry for Angel, but I am not as moved as James. Angel probably has told his story to every foreigner he met. It has such a soap opera quality to win everyone's heart. I can't help but start to judge him. Am I really getting too jaded? Or I have seen enough suffering to shrug off these human dramas?
As soon as Angel finds out I am from China, he screams: "I just had some trouble with Chinese today." Then, he tells us the story. He works for a foreign travel agency and also does some extra work for private tours. Someone from Miami asked him to pick up two Chinese from the airport and take them to the hotels. He waited for two hours and they never came out. So he went to the custom office and found out both the Chinese already arrived but were detained by the police.
"Guess why?" He asks as if it is such a mystery.
James is puzzled. I have my own theory considering my own mishaps at the airport.
"It is a smuggler ring!" Angel is dramatizing the incident. "These Chinese try to get to US through Cuba! I was investigated for two hours. The smugglers thought Cuba was easy to fool. No way! Our police are so good. They know everything."
I sense some obvious irony in his words. I am not sure how I should react.
"Were you ok?" James asks.
"I was fine. I know people at customs." Angel says.
"That also explains why they have such a strict policy to China." James says.
I gulp down the rest of the beer in my hand, trying to hide my embarrassment. James does not notice my silence and goes on to tell Angel our airport story. I only wish I could shut him up.
We notice many people stop and greet with Angel. James jokes about his popularity, but he shrugs: "You know why they are so friendly to me now? Because I am with you guys, two foreigners. Usually they don't bother to acknowledge me. Ninety percent, well, I have to say, ninety-five percent of them will jump in bed with anyone for twenty dollars. Twenty dollars! How cheap we have become! Twenty dollars for all these old ugly foreigners to fuck our people! It is such a shame!"
James and I are quiet.
By denouncing his fellow countrymen, Angel somehow has made himself a hero of morals and decency. There is some sort of acting in Angel although he is almost authentic enough not to be called "acting". Maybe selected narrative. Why does he tell us all these? If I were he, I would never tell a foreigner about my own country's scandals. But when I see how James looks up to Angel, I realize how convincing Angel's performance is.
Jorge suddenly appears in front of us. He claims he is thirsty and asks us bluntly to buy him a drink. James takes out his wallet and realizes that he has no cash left. He eyes me but I give him an obvious no.
"Don't embarrass me. It is just a dollar." He pulls me aside and whispers, fearing Jorge or Angel can hear us.
"You can't just give them whatever they want. The hotel is already way over our budget. We have to start to cut corners in our spending."
"Come on. I am just treating our new friends."
"How do you know they are your friends? They are just using us, getting free rides and free drinks and free entries. It is such a good deal for them."
"So what? It is just a few dollars!"
"Every dollar counts. With this spending speed, we will be short of money soon!"
"Why are you so calculating? Sometimes you are so stingy, just like all those Chinese."
I take out a twenty-dollar bill and slap it down on his right hand: "Ok. Have your imperial mercy on them. I am just stingy Chinese who does not need any mercy from you. I am tired of this party. I am leaving."
James is shocked at my strong reaction and can't believe how furious I have turned into. Obviously he is oblivious to what he has just said. "What's wrong with you? Relax. OK? The night is still young. Let's stay." He raises his hands on my shoulder and tries to pull me closer. I push his hands away: "You stay and have fun. I will see you back in hotel." Then I dash out the door without even looking back.
In the Taxi I slowly calm down. I secretly hope that James may have followed me. I keep looking back through the rear window but I can not see a single car behind. What is James doing now? Is he in another taxi chasing me? Is he still staying in the party and hanging around Angel or other cute Cuban boys? Am I jealous? There are occasional skirmishes in our relationship. There are times I wonder whether we are right for each other. But I feel secure about him, about his feelings. Then, there is still that invisible wall between us. Havana has made me see that strange wall again. Is the wall my pure invention? Can James see it too?
The taxi driver suddenly breaks the silence and says: “Chinatown.”
I look outside and see a white marble-stoned Chinese gate on the side of the street. Some red Chinese calligraphy is barely visible under the dim moonlight. My curiosity has taken me over and I ask the taxi driver to stop the car. I read somewhere that Havana used to have huge Chinese population in the turn of the century. As I walk around, I see no other Chinese signs. The streets still smell quintessentially Havana, mixed with fried banana and salty ocean air, not the Chinese food I am familiar with. The occasional passengers are either dark-skinned locals or Angola tourists. Where are the Chinese?
I finally find a line of Chinese restaurants in a narrow alley where most of the clients are young European-looking tourists. When I peek inside and look at the waiters and waitresses, I still can’t find anyone even remotely resembling Chinese. There is a bar with lots of noise, indicating its happenings. The red neon sign says Three Little Chinese in Spanish. I step in right away.
It turns out to be a karaoke bar. The hostess, a boisterous mulatto girl with bleached hair and large almond eyes, sits me down and smiles the whole time. When she asks me whether I need a female company to drink with, I shake my head as quickly as I can. I look around and find myself surrounded by couples, either a Cuban man with a white girl or a white man with a Cuban girl.
I notice a teenager boy helping out with the DJ. But most of the time he is sitting on a stool and singing along with whomever on the stage. His short spiky hair and squinted eyes give away a clear Asian blood. When he sees me looking at him, he comes over boldly and sits right next to me.
“Are you Chinese?” He surprises me with his good English.
He tells me his last name is Leong, and he is one quarter Chinese. “My grandparents own the building and the bar.” He says. I don’t know there is such a private ownership in Cuba. Could that be Castro’s special policy towards ethnic Chinese? The Cuban boy tells me there is a heavy tax, but they are making money. I suddenly think about James. I imagine him making comments on how mercantile Chinese are, no matter where they are. The boy lives with his parents in Cifuengus but spends the summers in Havana when school is over. By hanging around the foreigners, he picks up quite a bit of English.
He signals to one of the waitresses and orders a plate of fortune-cookie-looking snacks. “This is my grandfather’s invention. It is very well-known in Havana.” He proudly claims. The snack is merely oil-fried flour chips, the same snack my own grandma used to make for Chinese New Year.
I ask him where the Chinese are. “Most of them left after the revolution. But there are a few left.” The boy seems to know a lot about China town. “Maybe three or four real Chinese families are still here. Most of us are already mixed, like me. There is a big Chinese cemetery, do you know?”
He suggests that he can take me for a tour. I follow him to the second floor, which has been converted to a different bar. Along the wall hang enlarged black and white old photos, in which Chinese men are wearing long cloaks and staring at the camera with tired solemnity, as if they knew that someday they would be adored as ancestors. “My grand-grand-father founded the Chinese association.” The boy points out a dreary-looking old man in one of the photos.
We walk out of the bar and come to the street. He says he can show me some Chinese houses. A block away we come across an old Chinese man sitting beside the door of his house with his eyes half-closed. The light from inside the house illuminates his wrinkled face. He has no hair left, and his body has almost shrunk to a skeleton. As we get close, he opens his eyes and stares at me with such a curiosity. “He is my great-great-uncle. He is born in China.” The boy says. “But he can not speak or hear any more.” The boy makes some hand gesture to the old man and then turns back to me. “Maybe you can speak Chinese to him. He may be able to hear you.”
I have tried a few sentences in Cantonese. The old man’s face brightens up and he makes a few unrecognizable sounds while he struggles with his jaw and throat. I peek inside the house and see a Guanyin portrait hanging in the main wall and a Buddha shrine burning with incenses. The old man probably has never returned to his homeland since he comes over. Seventy years passed he still looks so Chinese and maintains all the tradition. Has the revolution meant anything to him? As I stand there and contemplate on fate and history’s irony, the boy bumps into his cousins and they are chatting and laughing in Spanish and ignoring me.
After bidding good-bye to the friendly and talkative boy, I realize that China town is not too far from Vedado. I decide to walk back to the hotel. It is way past midnight and the streets have become deadly quiet. I imagine myself walking around old Havana as a Chinese man who came to seek fortunes a century ago. What would he see and feel? Would he get terribly homesick? Would he view the white Spanish Cubans as white devils and the black Cubans as the uncivilized? I know I have to take a tour of the Chinese cemetery on my own when the day comes.
As soon as I open the hotel door, I see the lights all switched on and hear the sound of tap water from the bathroom. James ducks out the bathroom, with his toothbrush in his hand and toothpaste foams all over his mouth. "Thank God you are back. Why did you get back here so much later than I did? I was afraid you were so mad at me that you went somewhere else."
I tell him that I took a walk along the Malecon.
It turned out he got out the party right after I left. After showers we lie in the bed together. I notice his eyes are wide open. I put my hand on his chest. He strokes it gently. I see tears rolling down his cheek. He turns his head away from me so that I won't see them.
"I am sorry. I should not have left you in the party." I try to apologize.
He sounds like sobbing. "I know I am not good with money. It is just that things are so bad here, much worse than I thought. All these ridiculous US bully and embargo stuff make me feel I owe these Cubans."
"But it is not your fault." I want to tell him that it is not exactly the money that made me mad. I want to use some word more profound, a word invoking colonialism. But how can I explain it?
"I wish I could do something." James murmurs. "It is so hard to trust anyone. They all seem to want something. But at least Angel is nice."
"He is ok." I say. "But you need to be careful. Don't let yourself get used."
"How do people all turn into this way? Can people be poor and have dignity at the same time? Didn't Mao say proletarians are the most selfless revolutionaries?"
"James, put yourself in their situation. The ones having dollars live a totally different life. Just look at all the tourists."
"What's so good about having all these money?" James says.
I don't know how to answer the question. I can't tell him that I came to America and decided to stay on my own because I wanted a better life for myself. I can't tell him that when I was in China I tried so hard to come over to US. I keep part of my past inside me because my dignity has taken the form of shame.
James falls into sleep quickly. Our bed is soaked in a ghostly blue light. I look out the window and see the ocean of lights flickering under the Havana sky. I wonder whether the hustlers and hookers are still strolling in Vedado. I wonder whether there are some tiny rafts drifting out of Havana bay and into the dark sea, towards Miami under the same moonlight. I wonder far away in the Pacific, in the treacherous sea, whether some shiploads of Chinese are dreaming their American dreams. I look back at James’ soft face. I try to hold him in my arms as if I know I have lost him for good.
