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“It is. We’re in town. I wanted to touch base and see what your schedule looked like tomorrow,” Sam said.
“I shall arrange my affairs around your requirements, of course. I have some flexibility in that regard. I’ll let the hospital know I won’t be in.”
“Thank you. I hope it isn’t too much of an imposition.”
“Of course not. Any friend of Selma’s is a friend of mine. I hold her in the highest regard.”
They arranged for Lagarde to meet them at the hotel at nine the following morning.
“So where are we eating?” Remi asked from her position by the window, where she was watching the activity in the square across the street.
“I found a promising name online. My idea is we wander around
a little, get a feel for the town, then eat a late dinner. Maybe around nine.”
“Works for me.”
After making a dinner reservation, they stepped out onto the street—a busy avenue that ringed the square and stretched from the famous malecón that ran along the ocean’s edge all the way to the far edges of the city. They followed the Paseo del Prado down to the sea wall and found themselves across the harbor channel from their objective—the Castillo de los Tres Reyes Magos del Morro, or Morro Castle.
“It’s certainly imposing,” Remi said, gazing up at the fort’s towering stone walls. “How do we get to it?”
“There’s a tunnel that runs under the harbor for automobile traffic.”
“So we’re not going to have to swim the channel?”
“Not tonight.”
“You want to go over there right now?”
“We can tour it tomorrow. Tonight we’re sightseeing. Taking in the city’s sights and sounds.”
A group of young women passed them on the malecón, their perfume lingering on the light wind. Remi and Sam followed them, having no special destination in mind. They walked east along the waterfront and then turned up a small street into the historic section of old Havana, a lively area where locals and tourists wandered along the sidewalks. Bricks poked through battered building façades like skeletal bones, the mortar long ago eroded away, lending them an aura of seedy disrepair.
They rounded a corner and nearly collided with a wizened man sporting a panama hat, his skin as dark as a well-worn saddle, puffing on a cigar almost as big as his arm. He smiled, a flash of pink gums, his teeth long ago sacrificed to age and circumstance, and muttered a sandpaper “Perdón” before continuing on his way, trailing a cloud of pungent smoke behind him.
“Are you sure about this, Sam?” Remi asked in a whisper.
“Absolutely. All the guidebooks say this section of town is as safe as the womb.”
As if to underscore the point, two soldiers with machine guns approached, their eyes watchful, studying the surroundings with the vigilance of a patrol in a war zone.
“There, does that make you feel any better?” Sam asked.
“It might if they were over sixteen.”
“Everyone’s a critic.”
They stepped around a pool of stagnant water gathered in a low spot among the ancient cobblestones.
Remi pointed to a small yellow sign fifty yards to their left. “Look. There’s one of Hemingway’s haunts. La Bodeguita del Medio.”
“I regard that as an omen. It’s the universe commanding us to stop.”
“According to Papa, this is the best mojito in Havana.”
“That’s good enough for me. Lead the way,” Sam said.
The bar was crowded and smaller than expected. Its walls were covered with autographs of the notorious, the famous, and the forgotten. Obligatory photographs of Che Guevara and Fidel Castro glared at them from dingy frames. A stool freed up and Sam elbowed through the tourists and held it for Remi, who took the seat gratefully and caught the bartender’s eye.
