The Last Honest Man in Havana

Chapter One

Havana, Cuba, 1988

When man is in danger, he shouldn't be confident.

Criollo saying

Havana was trapped under a heavy, grey sky. But as the mailman walked down 38th Street, his letterbag bouncing against his hip, La Sierra's manicured gardens and stately Spanish colonial homes charmed him. Although many properties were crumbling in disrepair, the neighbourhood was a reminder that Havana had been a fine place and could be again someday.

Wondering when the rain would start, the mailman looked up and tripped over a ceiba root bursting through the concrete sidewalk. He stumbled and fell, cursing the tree when he tore his pants and grazed his knee. Pushing himself up to examine the bloody scrape, he noticed a dog lying in the shade a few feet away. The scrawny one-eared beast panted, ribs pressing through its skin. The mailman forgot about his knee and reached into his shirt pocket where he kept a few bread crusts wrapped in a handkerchief. The dog lifted its smooth, brown head and sniffed. As soon as the mailman set the bread down, the dog devoured it and beat its tail weakly on the ground.

The mailman hated to see animals like this. His wife allowed him to rescue a few, the worst cases he saw, the ones with open flesh wounds or severe scabies. Nursing them to health was rewarding. Those dogs made the most loyal pets. But they already had thirteen mutts on the patio of their Regla bungalow and she would not permit one more. He dusted himself off and limped down the street, trying to satisfy himself with the fact that he'd at least shown the animal some decency. Maybe that dog would live long enough to find a home.

Delivering mail in Havana, pounding the city's streets through sweltering heat and rainy seasons, meant the mailman saw a lot of disappointment. Bills and government correspondence were the main cause of defeated expressions. Bad news from loved ones could bring tears and compel him to console the recipients. Of course, he had no control whether the news he brought was good or bad. The mail could elicit a wide range of reactions. A fat letter from Spain or the United States brought the most excitement. Women sometimes hugged and kissed him for bringing letters like that. International postcards were met with relief by those who'd been anxiously awaiting word of a safe arrival or with annoyance by those who had hoped for more. Letters from the provinces could go either way and he had to see the look on the recipient's face to know what they meant.

He guessed the postcard he held now, addressed to Rafael Áviles, would be upsetting. As usual, he took a minute to read the thing before he shouted his name outside the three-storey apartment building in front of him.

Lieutenant Rafael Áviles. Your presence is required at 08:00 December 15, 1988, at the Military Recruitment Office at 24th and 5th Streets.

The mailman had delivered cards like these all over the city in the last few weeks.

"Rafael Áviles! A letter for Rafael Áviles!"

He swallowed, his throat dry from shouting all morning. The mailman double-checked the address: 126 38th Street. Then he saw the poor bastard, peering over the wrought-iron railing of his third-floor balcony. He was a tall, bald fellow who was probably younger than he looked.

"I'll be right down!"

Rafael trotted downstairs to meet him on the sidewalk, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Most people, especially the young, were eager to collect their mail until they realized who had sent it.

"Rafael Áviles?"

Rafael flashed his identification card. "That's me."

This man was as helpless as the starving dog. "Sorry, asere. Good luck over there." The mailman handed Rafael the postcard and quickly walked on. Rafael watched him for a moment until the skies opened up and rain began to pour.