Naked in Havana by Colin Falconer Read Free Book Online Page B

Gardner. You could watch Ginger Rogers at the Nacional or Nat King Cole at the Sans Souci.
    And the music! On the other side of the Florida Strait they might be listening to “At The Hop” and jive and Elvis Presley, but in Havana it was still the forties, still Basie and Ellington and Chico O'Farrill. We danced to the mambo and the rumba.
    The headline act at the Tropicana was Beni Moré - whom I had last seen at Angel’s engagement party - perhaps the greatest Cuban entertainer of all time. You could sit under the stars with John Wayne and Rocky Marciano and Ernest Hemingway and watch him dance onto the stage in a straw guajiro's hat and cane and mug his way through “Como Fue.”
    If you didn’t lose all your money in Salvatore’s casino, afterwards you could grab a cab when the clubs closed and head to La Rampa to watch the sun rise and listen to Bebo Valdés and Negro Vivar along with Errol Flynn and Cesar Romero and Marlon Brando.
    The smaller clubs like Papi’s were clustered around the Prado and La Rampa. We were small and intimate so we couldn’t present the ambitious floor shows of the Mob’s places in Marianao and La Playa. Instead, there was dark mood lighting and cosy velour banquettes, clubs designed for lovers. Once we even had Eartha Kitt play.
    That night he was drinking Santiago rum; I had Coca Cola. I was only eighteen years old, I was lucky to be there at my father’s table and under his watchful eye.
    There was a small conjunto band, a smaller version of the huge orchestras that played the Tropicana and Sans Souci, and instead of a troupe of dancers we had two or three girls who performed out front. Papi said that the Left Bank was where real Cuban music lived and breathed.
    Most nights you could listen to boleristas like Olga Guillot, Ñico Membiela or Inocencia Velasquez, my piano teacher. Inocencia was the crowd favourite. You could sit right up close, so close you could see the beads of sweat glistening between her breasts and the monogrammed initials on the man’s handkerchief she clutched in her fist as she sang. She was sensual and she was beautiful and she was raw. A real handmade woman, as we say in Cuba.
    There were no Bach études tonight. Behind her, the pianist played the piano like he had a personal grudge, violent chords backed by a double bass, as raw a sound as I had ever heard. And over the top, Inocencia's voice, husky, harsh and angry.
     
    When I look in your eyes
    I see how I used to be
    When I look in the mirror
    I see what’s become of me
    I can’t stay here with you
    I know you’ll break my heart
    It’s love that brings us together
    It’s love that tears me apart
     
    The handkerchief twisted round and round in her fist. Her eyes were screwed tight, and she seemed as if she was in physical pain. I almost wanted to rush up onto the stage and rescue her.
    I turned to see if Papi was as moved by the music as I was, but he wasn’t even watching Inocencia. His eyes were turned off to the side. He was tapping his finger on the glass, pretending to listen, but there was something else bothering him. I followed his gaze; a man in a white suit with a gardenia in his buttonhole had just walked in. He was dressed impeccably, he wore a bow tie, even in the heat. I recognized his bodyguard first, the man leaning on the black Cadillac the day I got home from San Lorenzo.
    This must be Meyer Lansky. He didn’t look like a gangster with that nose and big ears. He was no George Raft.
    “Excuse me, cariña,” Papi said and got up and went over to the bar to greet him. I watched them shake hands, and then Papi led him to his office at the back of the club.
    Inocencia finished her set to tumultuous applause. She looked exhausted.
    “Hey baby,” a voice said in my ear. I looked around, it was Angel. My heart jumped but I tried to look disinterested.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I’m with my father and some of his friends.”
    I turned around and saw Macheda and his