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Authors: Tom Winton
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eyes.
Chapter 9
Minutes after Joe left the bar, Humberto Salazar came back over and offered us a ride to the Finca Vigia . Being it was five o’clock and the end of his shift, Humberto said he’d be honored to drive us to the hilltop estate Ernest had called home for twenty years. Glad not to have to take a cab, we filed out of the restaurant and hoofed it three blocks to where the car was parked. The narrow streets were lined by tenements and filled with playing children. Little girls jumped rope, and barefoot boys screamed and yelled as they cooled off in the rushing water of an open fire hydrant. As we made our way down a sidewalk, the smell of hot Cuban food wafted from open windows along with the lyrics of Creolized Caribbean music.
“Look, Senor Ernest,” Humberto said, pointing to a two-toned orange and beige car parked up ahead. “It is a surprise.”
“Get out of here!” Ernest came back. “It can’t be!”
“Oh, but it is.”
Wedged between two other cars alongside the curb was a 1955 Chrysler New Yorker Deluxe convertible.
“Well I’ll be! My old car! I used to shuttle my son Gigi’s entire baseball team in this.”
With the top down, the upholstery looked every bit as new as the body Ernest was by now caressing.
“Son of a gun,” he said. “It’s been restored.”
“Yes,” Humberto said before taking one last drag from his filtered cigarette and flicking it into the gutter. “I would let you drive it home, but I fear we might be stopped by the police.”
“Can you imagine that,” Ernest said, “a driverless car in the streets of Havana. That would put the Headless Horseman to shame.” Then he looked at me.
“Couldn’t you just see the look on our taxi driver’s face if he saw that one, Jack?”
We had a good chuckle while Humberto side-stepped between two close bumpers to get to the driver’s side. “Come,” he said, “we should get going. It ees a thirty-minute drive.”
I opened the passenger door to get into the back seat, but Ernest stopped me.
“I’ll sit back there,” he said, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder. “That might look somewhat odd too . . . you in the back and Humberto up front.”
Light as the Havana traffic was, before we knew it we were out of the city. It was still warm, but when we picked up speed in the countryside, the breeze rushing into the open car refreshed us all. Nobody said much, but I turned back toward Ernest twice and saw he was taking everything in. Seeing he was in a pensive mood, I left him alone to reminisce.
As we closed in on Ernest’s old estate surrounded now by lush, tropical greenery, I looked for a tall hill. I knew that Finca Vigia was Spanish for Lookout Farm and that it sat atop a hill. But before I could see the house, Humberto slowed the Chrysler to a stop on the country road. He shifted the transmission into park then turned to look at Ernest in back.
“As you know, Senor Hemingway, the entrance is but another mile from here. Come . . . why don’t you drive your car the rest of the way? It is very quiet here. I do not think anyone will see you.”
“Sure. What the hell.”
I got out and opened the door for Ernest, and he pulled his stiff body out of the car. Then Humberto climbed out, and Ernest slid behind the wheel. Our Cuban friend closed the door and said, “I will be leaving you gentlemen now.” Then he shook our hands.
“It’s a long walk back, Humberto ,” I said, winking at him as if I were now an insider.
“Oh, I will make it.”
He gave the door a gentle pat then started walking back toward Havana. We turned and watched him for a moment. He was something else. All spruced up in his red jacket and fine black trousers, he strolled down that long country road as if he didn’t have a care in the world. When Ernest pulled away, I looked back at him one more time. Humberto Salazar was nowhere
Chapter 9
Minutes after Joe left the bar, Humberto Salazar came back over and offered us a ride to the Finca Vigia . Being it was five o’clock and the end of his shift, Humberto said he’d be honored to drive us to the hilltop estate Ernest had called home for twenty years. Glad not to have to take a cab, we filed out of the restaurant and hoofed it three blocks to where the car was parked. The narrow streets were lined by tenements and filled with playing children. Little girls jumped rope, and barefoot boys screamed and yelled as they cooled off in the rushing water of an open fire hydrant. As we made our way down a sidewalk, the smell of hot Cuban food wafted from open windows along with the lyrics of Creolized Caribbean music.
“Look, Senor Ernest,” Humberto said, pointing to a two-toned orange and beige car parked up ahead. “It is a surprise.”
“Get out of here!” Ernest came back. “It can’t be!”
“Oh, but it is.”
Wedged between two other cars alongside the curb was a 1955 Chrysler New Yorker Deluxe convertible.
“Well I’ll be! My old car! I used to shuttle my son Gigi’s entire baseball team in this.”
With the top down, the upholstery looked every bit as new as the body Ernest was by now caressing.
“Son of a gun,” he said. “It’s been restored.”
“Yes,” Humberto said before taking one last drag from his filtered cigarette and flicking it into the gutter. “I would let you drive it home, but I fear we might be stopped by the police.”
“Can you imagine that,” Ernest said, “a driverless car in the streets of Havana. That would put the Headless Horseman to shame.” Then he looked at me.
“Couldn’t you just see the look on our taxi driver’s face if he saw that one, Jack?”
We had a good chuckle while Humberto side-stepped between two close bumpers to get to the driver’s side. “Come,” he said, “we should get going. It ees a thirty-minute drive.”
I opened the passenger door to get into the back seat, but Ernest stopped me.
“I’ll sit back there,” he said, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder. “That might look somewhat odd too . . . you in the back and Humberto up front.”
Light as the Havana traffic was, before we knew it we were out of the city. It was still warm, but when we picked up speed in the countryside, the breeze rushing into the open car refreshed us all. Nobody said much, but I turned back toward Ernest twice and saw he was taking everything in. Seeing he was in a pensive mood, I left him alone to reminisce.
As we closed in on Ernest’s old estate surrounded now by lush, tropical greenery, I looked for a tall hill. I knew that Finca Vigia was Spanish for Lookout Farm and that it sat atop a hill. But before I could see the house, Humberto slowed the Chrysler to a stop on the country road. He shifted the transmission into park then turned to look at Ernest in back.
“As you know, Senor Hemingway, the entrance is but another mile from here. Come . . . why don’t you drive your car the rest of the way? It is very quiet here. I do not think anyone will see you.”
“Sure. What the hell.”
I got out and opened the door for Ernest, and he pulled his stiff body out of the car. Then Humberto climbed out, and Ernest slid behind the wheel. Our Cuban friend closed the door and said, “I will be leaving you gentlemen now.” Then he shook our hands.
“It’s a long walk back, Humberto ,” I said, winking at him as if I were now an insider.
“Oh, I will make it.”
He gave the door a gentle pat then started walking back toward Havana. We turned and watched him for a moment. He was something else. All spruced up in his red jacket and fine black trousers, he strolled down that long country road as if he didn’t have a care in the world. When Ernest pulled away, I looked back at him one more time. Humberto Salazar was nowhere
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