The Cat King of Havana Read online

But at least he’d noticed. “I didn’t know you kept up with my site.”

  “You kidding?” he asked. “That’s all I do at work, in low-traffic hours.”

  “You actually like the videos?”

  Dad snorted. “Who do you think sent Mom her first cat video? ‘Cat riding a tricycle across the parking lot.’ She loved it.”

  “That’s a classic,” I said.

  I felt strangely happy to realize Dad had been following the website all these months. We’d never even talked about it. But then, we talked about little these days. Ours had been a quiet apartment since Mom had passed away.

  “People might start to notice that you’re not updating,” Dad said.

  “I run a content aggregator.” A cat-tent aggregator, says my site, with an appropriate graphic of a camping feline. “People can upload their videos without my help.”

  He was right, though. If you don’t keep updating—new features, new contests, new flame wars in the forums—you die.

  “It’s about that girl, isn’t it,” Dad said. “About Rachel.”

  At this, I experienced one of those mouth malfunctions that had been affecting me lately. Dad took my silence as agreement. He sank onto my bed. “A girl can really mess with your head.”

  I gathered this was meant to be a buddy moment. I didn’t feel like having a buddy moment. But I couldn’t remember the last time Dad had spoken to me like this, serious, adult to adult.

  “I think my head’s all right,” I said. “Sure, Rachel got me thinking about a few things, but—”

  “When I met your mother,” Dad cut in, “I forgot who I was for a while. I stopped playing soccer. I started reading books. I went to poetry readings with her. Me, going to poetry readings! I thought I needed to do all that if I was going to date a literature teacher.”

  “I really get salsa,” I said. “It’s my thing.”

  “It took us years to figure out how to stay ourselves,” Dad said, still gazing at the ceiling. “That I didn’t have to care about her books, and she about my soccer matches, and it was fine.”

  “You’re right about the website,” I said. “I’ll pick it back up.”

  “Sometimes I miss her so much,” Dad said.

  At that point, I realized this conversation wasn’t really about me.

  “I miss her too,” I said.

  Even now, two years later, I woke up some mornings expecting to hear her puttering about in the kitchen. Even now when I got sucked into some new book I thought, Mom’s gonna love this. And when it hit me . . .

  We had to live on, though. Except Dad, it seemed he could only think of the life we’d had before.

  Before the blood on her lips. Before the doctor’s appointment. Before the endless hacking cough in the night. Before the breakfasts, those horrible breakfasts where we smiled and joked and talked about school and the weather and everything and nothing. Before the silence in the apartment, that flat ticktock silence that came after.

  I blinked hard, shutting down that thought.

  Dad too started as if awakened. He gave me one of his trademark stern gazes that he uses on Metro-North fare dodgers. “So you should be careful with this salsa obsession.”

  His reasoning didn’t seem very convincing to me, but I said, “The style I dance comes from Cuba. Maybe that’s why I’m into it. You know, connecting with my roots and stuff.”

  It seemed a clever deflection as I said it. Dad appeared to chew it over for a few seconds, his brow furrowed. Then a light came on in his eyes. He shot up from my bed with newfound energy.

  “You should absolutely connect with your roots,” he said. “Hold on.”

  “Hold on for what?” I asked, too late.

  Minutes later he reappeared, holding his phone and a little black book, its cover streaked with dust. He flipped through the book with one hand, still clutching the phone in the other. I hadn’t seen him this excited since Germany won the World Cup.

  “Is that . . . Mom’s notebook?”

  “She said to call once you were ready.” He found the page he was looking for, held it open with his thumb, and started dialing.

  “What are you talking about? Who are you calling?”

  “Your aunt Juanita,” Dad said. “In Havana.”

  “Uhh . . .” That escalated quickly. “I’m not sure I have anything to say to—”

  “Hello? Hello?” Dad started into loud American-speak, something he did well despite his German accent. “Can you hear me? CAN-YOU-HEAR-ME? This is Rudolf Hahn from New York. NEW YORK, yes. Can I speak with Juanita? JUANITA?”

  Dad held his cell away from his ear, stared at it reproachfully. He handed it to me. “They’re not making any sense.”

  I accepted the phone as one accepts a specimen of tapeworm offered for your examination. You want nothing to do with the thing, but it would be rude to refuse.

  “Hello?”

  “Sí? Quién e’? Qué quiere?” Yes? Who’s there? What do you want? A woman’s voice, in rapid Spanish. “If you want Yosvany, he’s in the street.”

  I struggled to keep up with the stream of words. My Spanish had been getting rusty since Mom died, and she’d made a point of speaking clear, proper castellano. The words coming across the crackly line blended together and tripped over each other like tourists in Times Square.

  “Uh, I’m Rick,” I said. “From New York. The son of María Gutiérrez Peña?”

  The line went quiet—even the crackling seemed to subside, until I thought the connection had dropped.

  “Rick?” the woman asked then. Her voice trembled. “It’s you, hijo? Really?”

  “Aunt Juanita? How are things?”

  I hoped that question didn’t sound too vague. I knew nothing about this Aunt Juanita.

  “I never thought I’d hear your voice,” Aunt Juanita said. “You sound exactly like María when she was younger.”

  “Oh.” I sounded like a girl. Awesome.

  “Wait until I tell Yosvany. He won’t believe his cousin from New York called.”

  So I had a cousin. “It’s nice talking to you too.”

  “You must come visit, meet your family. We have a room for you. Hot water, bathroom, elevator.” She sounded particularly proud of the last.

  “Great,” I said. I doubted they had broadband.

  “There’s a color TV,” she said.

  Definitely no broadband.

  “Fresh fruit for breakfast, guayaba, plátano, fruta bomba. Oh, and there’s bread with cheese and ham.”

  This was starting to sound pretty dire. You can start a day perfectly fine without eggs, bacon, and blueberry pancakes—but when bread with cheese and ham becomes a selling point, it’s time to run.

  Seriously, though, here’s the thing. In my family, Cuba had been the forbidden land—and so of course I’d always wanted to go. Whenever Mom raged up and down the living room decrying Fidel’s latest atrocity—“We’re never going back as long as that hijo de puta is alive”—I’d secretly thought to myself that I would, as soon as I got a chance. But since Mom’s death I hadn’t considered going even once. It was as if the island had lost its pull, now that there was no longer anyone around to forbid the trip.

  Or perhaps I simply wasn’t ready to face the trip and all the memories of Mom it would bring back.

  In any case, I wasn’t ready to commit. So I did what I always do in such situations.

  “That sounds wonderful, tía,” I said. “I really want to come.”

  “Really?” Aunt Juanita asked. “We would love to see you.”

  “I’ll find a way to make it happen. Now, I’ve got to run. I’ll talk to you soon, all right?”

  “All right, cariño. I’m so happy you called!”

  Most kids, adults ask them to do something annoying, they’ll say no, make a big scene, and in the end get forced to do it anyway. But there’s a smarter way. Just smile and nod, and do nothing.

  I mean, face it, Uncle Otto’s perfectly capable of mowing his own lawn—no
need to make it a lesson on the value of honest work for his nephew (especially if said nephew is a cat video entrepreneur already).

  After I’d hung up, I went to compile the best videos of the month for my site. The Spring Catfestation Extravaganza couldn’t wait any longer.

  chapter three

  DANCE MACHINE

  I spent five weeks in Chévere’s beginners’ class. I’d like to say my conga background, my daily exercises, my single-minded focus let me move up faster than anyone else, but four other guys graduated first. My dedication to salsa only compensated partway for years of a different dedication—to not moving my butt from the couch. Even so, it was a novelty not being last.

  I could do the basic step without losing the beat, alone and with a girl. I could do an enchufla turn and an exhibela and a setenta—a pair move that initially seemed like a maze of arms, but soon became second nature, me and my partner circling each other in something approaching coordination.

  It was time to go social dancing.

  Gregoire harangued us on the subject every time. “You have to get out there and dance! You can’t learn salsa from a class.”

  Which seemed a peculiar admission for a teacher to make, but Ana backed it up. “Class teaches you moves, but the girls know what’s coming so they’ll do the moves even if you screw up. At a club, the girls have no idea what you’re thinking. Don’t lead a move right? Olvídalo ya. It ain’t gonna happen.”

  This sounded about as pleasant as sticking my arm down a garbage disposal. But when she texted me that everyone was going to the White Hamster a few days later, I wasn’t about to stay home.

  The Hamster was a smallish bar on Houston. Exposed brick walls, cheap furniture, cheaper beer. The guy at the door let me in after a raised eyebrow at my fake ID, something that suggested I shouldn’t try my luck at the bar. Timba, a modern Cuban form of salsa, blasted loud over the speakers. The air was hot and humid. The packed crowd was half Chévere students practicing their school-learned steps and half Latinos, who danced steps that I didn’t recognize.

  “Only a few are Cuban,” Ana explained, after waving me over to her table. “You’ve got Puerto Rican, Venezuelan, Colombian, Dominican salsa here.”

  Before we could swap more than a few sentences, a heavyset black guy with a bright red sweatband strolled up to the table and offered Ana his arm. She smiled and went with him. “Vamos, muchacho!” she yelled over her shoulder.

  I watched them dance for a minute. The guy was smooth and quick on his feet, despite his considerable size. At last I gathered all my courage, took a deep breath, and went in search of a partner.

  As it turned out, my fears of how the night would go were inaccurate. The girls didn’t scowl at me. They stared glassily instead and nodded thanks and beat a quick retreat as soon as we’d finished the song.

  If not for Ana, I would have given up after a dance or two. But she hardly ever rested—every guy in the bar seemed to want to dance with her. My pride wouldn’t let me sit in a corner, alone and quiet.

  I didn’t get up the courage to invite Ana herself until late in the night, when the floor was starting to empty. My feet ached. I’d changed my shirt already, and the new one was getting damp. I saw Ana sitting still for a moment, and asked her.

  “To this song?” she asked. “I guess it fits.”

  I listened for a moment. Adalberto Álvarez was playing “Máquina Para Bailar,” one of Mom’s favorites. A playful piece about a dance machine, someone so hard and stiff no one could possibly dance with them. Blood rushed to my face.

  “Just kidding, man.” Ana grinned, gesturing me toward the floor. “Loosen up.”

  It occurred to me Ana’s pedagogical technique left something to be desired. But she didn’t need to know that.

  We started into the basic step. Ana winked at me. The warmth of her body under my hands, the rose scent of her perfume, the way she moved, it made me forget—

  “How do you do that?” she asked, a curious tilt to her head.

  “Do what?”

  “This . . . thing?” She shook her shoulders in ragged, choppy motions, like C-3PO electrocuted. “Amazing.”

  “Your pedagogical technique leaves something to be desired,” I said, deciding maybe she did need to know.

  Ana snorted. “Starting out is hard, I know. Pero vale la pena.”

  It’s worth it.

  That became the refrain I repeated to myself over the weeks that followed. I went to at least one party a week, more often two, and forced myself to ask all the experienced girls for a dance. I pretended not to notice the hesitations and little sighs—or rather took them as signals that I needed to adjust my technique.

  “Thank you for the dance,” I said to rolled eyes.

  “I enjoyed that,” I said to retreating backs.

  “Very nice,” I said to forced smiles.

  And occasionally, when some girl actually thanked me for the dance and smiled encouragingly, I told myself I was imagining the pity in her eyes.

  “I’m getting used to embarrassment,” I explained to Lettuce one Sunday, while we played the latest Gears of War on his living room couch. “Soon I won’t care what people think anymore.”

  At the time he only nodded, as if impressed. I felt satisfied with myself (I wonder when I’ll finally learn to recognize life’s little warning signs).

  The next day at school, Lettuce invited me to sit with his band at lunch. “We need a website,” he explained to me. “I could do it, but I figured maybe you’d want to build it for us. Get to meet everyone, you know.”

  “Everyone” in this case turned out to be three skinny white guys in ragged jeans and black T-shirts—short little Mitch the singer, blond Luke the drummer, and Joe the bass guy.

  “Rick’s a wizard with websites,” Lettuce introduced me. “He’ll get us set up.”

  “The cat guy,” Mitch said.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Man’s got a gift for pussies,” Luke said, drumming chicken thighs on his lunch plate.

  I forced a smile, wondering if this was a compliment.

  “Rick’s a chick magnet all right,” Lettuce said. “He’s a salsa dancer.”

  I gave him a look. It was a look to give you radiation poisoning. But he only nodded encouragingly, as if he’d handed me the opportunity of a lifetime.

  His friends were all watching me. So, naturally, my mouth opened and words came out.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I dance with hot girls every day, up close and personal.”

  “Yeah, right,” Mitch said.

  “It’s true,” Lettuce said. “He’s known as the King of Salsa.”

  “Uhh,” I said.

  “Well, he is Mexican,” Luke said.

  “Cuban. And I’m no Salsa King.”

  “Thought so,” Mitch said.

  “I’m pretty good, though,” I said. “They do call me the dance machine.”

  Not like they were going to show up at the White Hamster to check.

  “Hey, here’s an idea.” Joe put down his burger and leaned forward intently. “Use him to fill the gap.”

  “That’s right.” A gleam came into Mitch’s eyes. “That’s brilliant.”

  “Umm,” I said.

  “We’re programming the spring concert,” Joe explained. “There’s a five-minute gap while we change equipment between bands. Perfect for a dance show.”

  “Awesome,” Lettuce said. “When else are you going to get a chance to show off to the entire school?”

  Ah, yes. Me, dancing in front of the entire school.

  “So we’re set,” Luke said.

  At this point, the smart thing to do was obvious. Backtrack like hell and hope these guys let me live it down.

  I looked at Lettuce for help, with my best plaintive expression.

  “Rick doesn’t even get stage fright,” Lettuce said. “That’s what he told me. He doesn’t care what people think anymore.”

  “You should hire Lett
uce to be your agent,” Mitch said. “He’s got me starting to believe.”

  “The show’s in five weeks.” Luke clapped me on the back. “Looking forward to it.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I could have said no. I really could have. But even now—sitting at that lunch table and shivering with a cold no one else seemed to feel—I saw a vision in my mind’s eye.

  Of shining lights. Of a roaring crowd. Of Ana and me, turning, turning, turning in dance.

  chapter four

  ANA SAYS

  Five weeks wasn’t a lot of time to prepare. That’s why I delayed for days before asking Ana if she’d do the show with me.

  Bowel-emptying fear may also have had something to do with it.

  Then she texted me over the weekend. I’ve worked out the concept for my website. Come over to my place?

  As if I might actually say no.

  Ana lived with her mother and stepfather in a two-bedroom railroad apartment in Williamsburg, just off the L train. It was a place of waxed wooden floors and stylishly uncomfortable vintage furniture. The air smelled of paint; Ana’s mother was an artist.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “I suppose.” Ana had a distracted look to her. In black jeans and a gray sweater, she hugged herself though it wasn’t cold. “At our old apartment, I slept in the walk-in closet.”

  “Seriously?”

  “My parents hadn’t divorced yet, so it was the closet or sharing the room with the two of them.” Ana stared off into the distance. “And, well, that would have been a disaster.”

  “That bad, huh,” I said.

  “You know how sometimes kids won’t accept their stepfather?” Ana asked.

  I nodded uncertainly.

  “All my mother had to do was tell me she’d found someone who didn’t drink,” Ana said.

  “Oh.” After a moment, I added, “I’m sorry.”

  Ana shrugged. “My drunk of a dad is out of our lives now, and my mom has someone who loves her. That’s all I care about.”

  Even to my ears, she didn’t sound quite convincing. But I made no further comment.

  Ana’s eyes focused on me again. “We can work on my mom’s machine.”