your doctor aware?”
“Yes. In fact, he sent me here to fill a prescription. Although perhaps you have limited supplies.”
He might have smiled, though I might have imagined it. He made another superfluous wipe across the bar, dropped a menu in front of me, then left through a door behind the bar. I drank the Hatuey and pretended to read the menu. Fifteen minutes later he stuck his head through the door.
“I might have the medicine you ordered, if you don’t mind following me,” he said, opening the door a bit more. I got up off my barstool, came around and followed him through the door into a dimly lit room barely the size of a walk-in closet. The door closed behind me and once again I was the helpless object of muscular hands.
It was easy to imagine they were the same people who manhandled us in the Caribbean. They had the same irresistible strength and professional finesse. But this time a brief frisking was followed by an all-out strip search.
“Whoa,” I said. “How ’bout it?”
No one answered while they peeled off my shirt, patting around my exposed torso, then shucked my sandals one at a time, followed by my pants. In no time I was naked as a baby and feeling no less helpless.
They were thorough if nothing else. I joked that few people had examined me that closely without asking for a copayment, but no one laughed. Or spoke, in any language, until I was given my clothes and had a chance to get dressed again.
“You travel light, Señor Rana,” said the bartender, handing back my license and roll of bills.
“Less to lose.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell us who suggested you visit our humble establishment.”
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said, taking my arm and guiding me through another door out to a courtyard restaurant decorated in a style several socioeconomic strata above the storefront canteen that fronted the place. Palm trees and giant flowering shrubs were up lit from a hundred small lamps, as was a fountain in the center of the patio that would have made a good birdbath for condors. The tables were draped in woven fabric, topped with glass and surrounded by oversized wicker chairs heaped with pillows. We walked across the rough-tiled floor to a distant table where a large young man in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up over thick forearms sat with a blonde woman, also in white, wearing tiny sunglasses and smoking a pencil-shaped cigar.
They stood as the bartender brought me up to the table.
“ Si é ntate, Norberto. No formalidades necesarias ,” the bartender told him. Sit down. No need to be formal.
“Si, general. Lo que usted quieras,” said the young man, pulling the woman down with him.
That marked the first time a general had served me a beer. He also pulled out a chair for me. Before sitting, I shook hands with the sturdy Norberto and his date, Fernanda. No last names.
A waiter appeared seconds later and a round of Cuba Libres was ordered for the table. A whiff of panic hit me as I pondered the effects of a rum cocktail on my feeble capacity. I asked the water to bring me a hunk of bread with the drink.
“Haven’t eaten all day,” I said to the table.
“I thought you only ate guns and bullets,” said the general.
“Mostly. Con mercenarios .”
“Ah,” said the general.
Norberto looked sideways at the older man. Fernanda took a long pull on her sleek cigarro and sighed out the smoke. Gloria Esteban started singing something from speakers hidden in the foliage. No one said much until the Cuba Libres showed up along with a long loaf of hot bread wrapped in a cotton napkin.
“Such strange appetites, eh Norberto?” said the general, toasting the table.
“We hear strange things every day, general. Can’t take them all seriously.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Being professional is a serious business.”
The general reached over and took my right hand in both of his. He turned it over and ran his fingers across my
“Yes. In fact, he sent me here to fill a prescription. Although perhaps you have limited supplies.”
He might have smiled, though I might have imagined it. He made another superfluous wipe across the bar, dropped a menu in front of me, then left through a door behind the bar. I drank the Hatuey and pretended to read the menu. Fifteen minutes later he stuck his head through the door.
“I might have the medicine you ordered, if you don’t mind following me,” he said, opening the door a bit more. I got up off my barstool, came around and followed him through the door into a dimly lit room barely the size of a walk-in closet. The door closed behind me and once again I was the helpless object of muscular hands.
It was easy to imagine they were the same people who manhandled us in the Caribbean. They had the same irresistible strength and professional finesse. But this time a brief frisking was followed by an all-out strip search.
“Whoa,” I said. “How ’bout it?”
No one answered while they peeled off my shirt, patting around my exposed torso, then shucked my sandals one at a time, followed by my pants. In no time I was naked as a baby and feeling no less helpless.
They were thorough if nothing else. I joked that few people had examined me that closely without asking for a copayment, but no one laughed. Or spoke, in any language, until I was given my clothes and had a chance to get dressed again.
“You travel light, Señor Rana,” said the bartender, handing back my license and roll of bills.
“Less to lose.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell us who suggested you visit our humble establishment.”
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said, taking my arm and guiding me through another door out to a courtyard restaurant decorated in a style several socioeconomic strata above the storefront canteen that fronted the place. Palm trees and giant flowering shrubs were up lit from a hundred small lamps, as was a fountain in the center of the patio that would have made a good birdbath for condors. The tables were draped in woven fabric, topped with glass and surrounded by oversized wicker chairs heaped with pillows. We walked across the rough-tiled floor to a distant table where a large young man in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up over thick forearms sat with a blonde woman, also in white, wearing tiny sunglasses and smoking a pencil-shaped cigar.
They stood as the bartender brought me up to the table.
“ Si é ntate, Norberto. No formalidades necesarias ,” the bartender told him. Sit down. No need to be formal.
“Si, general. Lo que usted quieras,” said the young man, pulling the woman down with him.
That marked the first time a general had served me a beer. He also pulled out a chair for me. Before sitting, I shook hands with the sturdy Norberto and his date, Fernanda. No last names.
A waiter appeared seconds later and a round of Cuba Libres was ordered for the table. A whiff of panic hit me as I pondered the effects of a rum cocktail on my feeble capacity. I asked the water to bring me a hunk of bread with the drink.
“Haven’t eaten all day,” I said to the table.
“I thought you only ate guns and bullets,” said the general.
“Mostly. Con mercenarios .”
“Ah,” said the general.
Norberto looked sideways at the older man. Fernanda took a long pull on her sleek cigarro and sighed out the smoke. Gloria Esteban started singing something from speakers hidden in the foliage. No one said much until the Cuba Libres showed up along with a long loaf of hot bread wrapped in a cotton napkin.
“Such strange appetites, eh Norberto?” said the general, toasting the table.
“We hear strange things every day, general. Can’t take them all seriously.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Being professional is a serious business.”
The general reached over and took my right hand in both of his. He turned it over and ran his fingers across my
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