do it,” said Theo.
“We are not going to Cuba.”
“Why not?”
Jack turned the key, and the ignition fired. “ I’m going. Alone.”
Chapter 16
J ack flew to Havana through Nassau and landed at José Martí International Airport on Friday morning. The view across the runway, from his window seat, made him do a double take.
“Are those crop dusters?” Jack asked the passenger next to him.
Jack was pointing at six old open-cockpit biplanes lined up on the other runway. Any one of them looked barely capable of chasing down Cary Grant in North by Northwest .
“Sí. The spill,” the man said, trying his best in English.
Jack had thought that American media reports were overblown, but he was seeing it with his own eyes. An oil disaster that rivaled Deepwater Horizon, and the Cubans were spreading chemical dispersants with crop dusters that dated back to the Second World War.
“God help us,” said Jack.
The same embargo that prevented U.S. companies from drilling in the Cuban Basin and responding to the Scarborough 8 disaster also restricted the rights of American citizens to travel freely to Cuba. Under normal circumstances, it could have taken weeks or even months to plan Jack’s trip—time enough for oil to smother the entire Florida coastline. As it was, Jack landed before the spill had even reached Key West. Two years earlier, as a volunteer defense lawyer for a detainee in Guantánamo, Jack had completed the approval process for a general license from the U.S. Department of the Treasury to travel to Cuba. The license had nothing to do with his legal work. Jack was entitled to it because Abuela’s brother in Bejucal met the Treasury Department’s definition of a “close family relative” in Cuba. To justify the trip, all Jack had to do was visit him.
After he visited Josefina Fuentes.
“A donde va? ” asked the cabdriver. Where to?
The taxi was a midnight-blue 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air, chrome bumpers glistening in the morning sun. In Miami, it would have been an antique seen only in parades. In Cuba, classic Buicks, Fords, and Chevys were everywhere—part of the island’s “frozen in time” charm to some, but a reminder that for over fifty years it was illegal to buy or sell an American car manufactured after the 1959 revolution.
Jack gave him the address. “I think it’s near Chinatown.”
A roll of the driver’s eyes told Jack that he was offering directions to a man who knew the streets of Havana as well as any middle-aged Cuban cabbie who had never left the island of his birth. Of course he knew it was near Chinatown.
“How much?” Jack asked in Spanish. His last trip to Havana had taught him to get the price up front.
“Twenty-five CUC.”
CUC, the Cuban peso convertible, was used mainly by tourists. It was distinct from the peso cubano or moneda nacional , the currency in which the average Cuban was paid a salary of about $150 a month. One CUC was roughly equal to one U.S. dollar. Under U.S. law, Jack could spend a maximum of $179 per day. He did the math and was glad he’d already eaten breakfast.
“Bueno,” said Jack.
The twenty-minute ride into the city took Jack past a national park and the Havana Golf Club before the suburbs vanished and they hit urban traffic. One government building that Jack recognized from the photographs he’d studied was the towering Ministerio de Justicia. Seeing it from the cab served to remind him that even if Josefina wouldn’t talk to him, the trip to Cuba might still be productive. Even for church weddings, the only legally recognized proof of marriage was the civil license, and Jack’s to-do list included a visit to the Ministry of Justice, where he would personally follow up on the license that his experts in Miami had been unable to retrieve. Bianca had also given him the name of a friend who might have wedding photographs.
The buildings got older and the streets got rougher as they continued into the city center. The stop-and-go
“We are not going to Cuba.”
“Why not?”
Jack turned the key, and the ignition fired. “ I’m going. Alone.”
Chapter 16
J ack flew to Havana through Nassau and landed at José Martí International Airport on Friday morning. The view across the runway, from his window seat, made him do a double take.
“Are those crop dusters?” Jack asked the passenger next to him.
Jack was pointing at six old open-cockpit biplanes lined up on the other runway. Any one of them looked barely capable of chasing down Cary Grant in North by Northwest .
“Sí. The spill,” the man said, trying his best in English.
Jack had thought that American media reports were overblown, but he was seeing it with his own eyes. An oil disaster that rivaled Deepwater Horizon, and the Cubans were spreading chemical dispersants with crop dusters that dated back to the Second World War.
“God help us,” said Jack.
The same embargo that prevented U.S. companies from drilling in the Cuban Basin and responding to the Scarborough 8 disaster also restricted the rights of American citizens to travel freely to Cuba. Under normal circumstances, it could have taken weeks or even months to plan Jack’s trip—time enough for oil to smother the entire Florida coastline. As it was, Jack landed before the spill had even reached Key West. Two years earlier, as a volunteer defense lawyer for a detainee in Guantánamo, Jack had completed the approval process for a general license from the U.S. Department of the Treasury to travel to Cuba. The license had nothing to do with his legal work. Jack was entitled to it because Abuela’s brother in Bejucal met the Treasury Department’s definition of a “close family relative” in Cuba. To justify the trip, all Jack had to do was visit him.
After he visited Josefina Fuentes.
“A donde va? ” asked the cabdriver. Where to?
The taxi was a midnight-blue 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air, chrome bumpers glistening in the morning sun. In Miami, it would have been an antique seen only in parades. In Cuba, classic Buicks, Fords, and Chevys were everywhere—part of the island’s “frozen in time” charm to some, but a reminder that for over fifty years it was illegal to buy or sell an American car manufactured after the 1959 revolution.
Jack gave him the address. “I think it’s near Chinatown.”
A roll of the driver’s eyes told Jack that he was offering directions to a man who knew the streets of Havana as well as any middle-aged Cuban cabbie who had never left the island of his birth. Of course he knew it was near Chinatown.
“How much?” Jack asked in Spanish. His last trip to Havana had taught him to get the price up front.
“Twenty-five CUC.”
CUC, the Cuban peso convertible, was used mainly by tourists. It was distinct from the peso cubano or moneda nacional , the currency in which the average Cuban was paid a salary of about $150 a month. One CUC was roughly equal to one U.S. dollar. Under U.S. law, Jack could spend a maximum of $179 per day. He did the math and was glad he’d already eaten breakfast.
“Bueno,” said Jack.
The twenty-minute ride into the city took Jack past a national park and the Havana Golf Club before the suburbs vanished and they hit urban traffic. One government building that Jack recognized from the photographs he’d studied was the towering Ministerio de Justicia. Seeing it from the cab served to remind him that even if Josefina wouldn’t talk to him, the trip to Cuba might still be productive. Even for church weddings, the only legally recognized proof of marriage was the civil license, and Jack’s to-do list included a visit to the Ministry of Justice, where he would personally follow up on the license that his experts in Miami had been unable to retrieve. Bianca had also given him the name of a friend who might have wedding photographs.
The buildings got older and the streets got rougher as they continued into the city center. The stop-and-go
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