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Found in Translation
Encuentro en la traducción
Susan DiPlacido
I meet him on the beach outside the Melia Habana. It’s magic hour, that luscious time of day between sunset and dusk. That twilight time that lingers, where a divine light glows with soft edges and misty rapture. Hazy clouds frame the background as he strides out of the forbidden azure ocean, water skimming off his muscled skin, dripping from the ringlets of his shaggy dark hair.
I know he’s trouble right away.
He drops to his knees in front of me. With a perfect accent, he says, “Señorita bonita, mi nombre es Javier Santiago y seré infeliz por siempre si usted no cena conmigo.”
This guy, Javier, that’s what he says to me.
I sigh.
In English, that roughly translates to: “Pretty lady, my name is Javier Santiago, and I’ll be unhappy forever unless you have dinner with me.”
And in my American, thirty-year-old, single-girl jaded dialect, it translates to: “Nice tits. Wanna fuck?”
I didn’t come to Cuba to get laid. I don’t need to travel to a foreign country when I’ve got a perfectly good Hitachi Magic Wand in my bedroom at home that does the job more efficiently (and reliably) than any man can. I don’t know why I came here. I guess maybe it was to experience something so ancient, once so idyllic. After all, it’s in vogue these days to consider Cuba to be the final fragment of Atlantis, the once-majestic city built by the god of the sea to protect his mortal beloved.
Havana is a place that makes you realize that humans don’t fuck up everything. The landscape alone is breathtaking, with the city rising beyond the deep sea, an enchanting marriage of civilization and natural beauty. Silky sand leading to the luxury of resort life. It was more than I expected.
And then, just as I thought I’d seen heaven on earth, out of the ocean comes this godlike-looking creature. This, this—Javier. He could be an angel.
But as he looks up at me, he reaches out, wet fingers circling my wrist, skimming and tickling the underside of my palm, sending an unmistakable spark up my spine. And the glint in his eyes tells me he’s closer to a devil.
What the hell, I’ll go to dinner with him. I’ll do more than that with him.
It startles me when he meets me in the lobby and immediately puts his hand on the small of my back. Such a bold and familiar move for someone I’ve just met. I step away and put space between us. But he takes my hand as we walk and though it stiffens me, again that sinful spark keeps me from pulling back.
At the restaurant, instead of sitting across from me, he takes a seat next to mine, presumably so he can enjoy the view of the placid sea at night. Leaning back, he rests his arm on the back of my chair and twists his fingers through the locks of hair that hang down my back, across my shoulder. It’s appalling at first, but as I sip on a mojito that warms my belly while the evening brisa kicks up, cooling the air, I reluctantly relax into it.
It’s presumptuous of him, almost cocky, as though he’s taking it as a given that I’m his for the evening. But I like the confidence, and besides, even though I didn’t come here to get laid, his good looks and sultry demeanor are making me look forward to it.
Later, sitting on the terrace framed by palm trees, I stick a forkful of escabeche in my mouth, my toes curling with the tartness. Javier says, “Your face, it bewitches me.” He’s been pouring this impromptu poetry to me since we’ve been here, lacing it with compliments, presumably to weaken my defenses.
This guy, Javier, is he serious with all this?
Of course not. I decide to cut to the chase.
“Javier,” I mumble with my full mouth. Chewing, swallowing down a gulp of wine, I say, “Por favor. Stop it already.”
“You are angelic,” he says.
“Okay.” I wipe my mouth with the napkin and lean back from the plate of food. “Listen,” I tell him. “You’re very nice. But this isn’t necessary, you don’t have to sweet-talk me. With a few shots of rum, I’ll sleep with you anyhow. I’d prefer it if we kept it honest like that.”
He frowns and says, “Americana. I say these things not to have sex with you. I say them for they are true.” But he motions with his hand and calls over the waiter. He orders rum for us.
“I knew it,” I say, smirking.
He leans forward and looks me in the eyes, saying, “Por supuesto que te deseo.” Of course I want you.
“Then stop trying to make it more,” I tell him. “It’s not nice.”
He looks shocked. Stricken. “Mami chula,” he says. “This was not my intent, to anger you by telling you how beautiful you are.”
“I’m not angry,” I say, feeling guilty for offending him. “It’s just, it’s leading when it’s not true.”
