The artist who painted the whole street in amazing, complex colours is called Salvador. I met him in the Bar de Las Estrellas while I was interviewing Barbara, the only trannie there with real fake boobs. We arranged an interview for yesterday, which he unceremoniously bumped to today .. but only after I'd made the trek over to see him.
I arrive right on time, and then wait an hour for him to appear. Eventually he comes and does a fairly self-congratulatory interview, in which I have trouble pinning him on anything concrete about his faith.
I then interview Tonito, who has to wear all white clothing for a year as part of his faith. He then insists that we have to meet again, he didn't come all this way for an interview if he wasn't going to get another date. Anyone who gives an interview thinks I owe them something, usually in the vein of sex/marriage/love or money.Speaking of which, Salvador summons me back to 'show me something'. We weave through his house and come to a room full of his pictures. I gush at a suitable level about his work, and he agrees that it's all wonderful.
"I want to exhibit this in Australia," he says, pointing at a painting somewhere up near the ceiling. "I need you to take a photo and send it to the relevant people there."
"But I'm not in the art world," I want to say, "I'm a journalist. In radio." Journalists are forgiven for knowing a small amount about everything, because that's their job, but I can't use the word journalist here, so everyone thinks I'm a specialist in their area.
He promises to get a better light, and call me when the picture is ready. "I'll pass by your house and get you," he says, "Here, write your address."
I hate the idea of anyone having all my details, but what can I do? I feel trapped. Trapped by the guy in white who's like a terrier with a very firm hold on my ankle, and trapped by the man here, who's holding out pen a paper and nodding.
I set off to my next interview. Two journalists, one of whom was jailed in the 2003 blitz. I arrive an hour early, and not having eaten yet today, decide to get food.
The only place around is a state-run pizza joint. Pizza is the staple here and comes with one topping and lashings of oil.
I join the line, and a half-hour wait ensues, during which time I eavesdrop on the woman behind me, who is trying to push in.
"Capitalists may make more money," she says, "But they have to work like dogs. What kind of a life is that?"
It's a life where they don't have to spend most of the day waiting in line for absolutely everything, only to find out that it's not in stock, that's what.
Finally we enter the pizzeria. There is a long, tiled bar with chairs lined up along it. Kind of like a military kitchen. Every place has a plastic placemat with pictures of pizzas bearing toppings that we all know will not be on our own. There is army cutlery and a glass at each place. No music, no decorations.
A waitress with a short blue skirt and fat legs goes along the line pouring water into the glasses. Two people take softdrink. We pass two foodcoated plastic menus along the line, each person decides and then hands it on.
The choices are:
- spaghetti: tuna, chorizo, ham
- pizza: tuna chorizo, ham or salami
- juice: mango, orange, pear or pineapple
- softdrink: cola, orange, lemon
I order pineapple juice. "We don't have any," the waitress says. "Ok, orange thanks."
"We don't have any."
"Ok, whatever you've got," I says. "Right, it's pear."
"And a salami pizza."
"We don't have any salami."
"Ok, chorizo." She moves on.
My popper of pear juice comes out and we spend another half hour waiting for the food. Plates of spaghetti are going past, it's over-cooked, florescent white with a blob of tomato paste on the side and three strips of ham next to a lump of grated cheese.
I'm trying to get a glimpse past the mission brown doors right in front of me, from which emerge wait-staff every now and then. Every time the door swing open, I see antiquated cooking equipment, like scales with weights and measures. There are a lot of people in the kitchen standing and doing absolutely nothing, which would tend to explain why we're all sitting out here doing absolutely nothing eg. eating.
Finally the waitress comes and says there's a problem with the pizzas. The anti-capitalist woman is actually very nice, and explains the problem to me in equally indecipherable terms. I am now 15 minutes lates so I pay for my juice and leave, very very hungry.
I walk into a loungeroom to find two middle-aged people sitting in rocking chairs, rocking. The room seems to be brimming over with books, they's piled to the ceiling all along the wall. They both look perfectly harmless, it's hard to imagine this guy spending two years in prison. He explains that he's out on provisional leave and any day the police could come and take him away. Prison sounds like it was pretty nasty, he was in with all the hardened criminals.
Now, their phones are tapped, email is read and someone is always watching the house.
"So, the government knows you are here." they add, casually.
Oh, great. Does the government know how hungry I am too?
"We just try to live as though everything we say is not being watched and listened to. We try to live a normal life, otherwise we'd just be taking pills all day for the stress."
"Why are you still talking to journalists if it's so dangerous?" I ask.
"Because I owe it to the men who are still in prison, and to my country."
I am about to be running late for my next interview when they start showing me pictures of X's arrest, lots and lots of pictures. Eventually, when I have lost all chance of reaching my the poet on time, I mention my next destination. They freeze. "Pablo Armando Fernandez?" they say, "he's incredibly important. You can't keep him waiting."
Out on the street, waiting for a cab that doesn't seem to exist, I curse the Cuban licencing system. Why are there so few taxis in this country?
Eventually I spot one across the 5-way intersection and go running in front of lanes of cars to tell the cabbie I'm desparate. Bad move. He doubles the price, takes the existing passenger to her place, and then proceeds to get lost...all the while telling me how important Pablo Armando Fernandez is.
I sprint from the car to the gate, ring the bell. Nothing. Ring again. Nothing. Oh no, he's got so pissed off he's not going to answer the door.
I ask a little delivery fellow in brown clothing and a che guevara hat what I'm doing wrong and he emphatically rings the bell, and the front door opens.
An old man walks unhurriedly towards the gate, and I start apologising profusely.
"A thousand sorries," I say, "I am so sorry to keep you waiting."
"I'll just go and get Pablo," he says.
Woops.
I enter a cool oasis of opulence, with lots of art on the wall. Pablo is quite charming, and mildly evasive on the question of his relationship with his country. I want him to talk in concrete terms, but he keeps mentioning history and ... well, history.
I leave and walk 40 minutes before finding a cab to take me home. Home, thank Christ. Home where I feel safe and happy and love the people with whom I share my house.
I realise there is something wrong the moment I enter the house. Mainly because Georgina grabs my arm and says 'sit down', before I've had a chance to even go to the toilet.
"You have to tell me the truth," she says in an urgent tone. "What are you doing with that microphone? Are you doing anything political?"
I look shocked, largely because I am.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"The police came here this afternoon. They know your name and where you were staying. We hadn't registered you, so how did they get your name? Honestly, have you been talking to political people?"
I've always told them I'm recording music and art, because that's true. Lying by ommission was fine, but lying to their faces is something I cannot do.
"A little tiny bit...?" I venture. My stomach has dropped out. It was fine when I was only affecting myself, but these are good people and I am now affecting them. The thing is, they are not registered to have two guests and I am their second guest so they are now facing a huge fine, apart from anything else.
"You have to leave running." Georgina says, "I'm sorry, but we have to get you in a legal room. We've found a place, but don't tell them anything. Don't mention your recorder, or any interviews you do. Don't tell them anything. And wipe any interviews you have."
Are they putting me in a house of the state? Is that why I have to be so secretive?
Raul and I make the trek to the other side of the apartment block. My new room looks like a hospital ward, it's all white with harsh florescent lighting, and beds with white sheets and no covers. The house is full of smoke and my new house mum has a massive stomach that looks like there might be a baby inside, but I'm pretty sure there's not. There's an old man with a flap of material over his throat and no voice.
He tells me to sit down starts filling out my registration. In the background, staterun TV is puming out a very long and unchallenging interview with Eva Morales. Half an hour later, he is still filling out the two very small forms and I'm trying to work out what is taking so long. He takes my visa and tells me he has to keep it for the night. No way.
"Noone else had to take my visa," I say.
The only thing more difficult than understanding your second language with background noise, is understanding your second language with background noise and no voicebox. Whatever his reply is, I am still completely in the dark.
He hands me the first form to sign and I notice the 't' and 'h' are around the wrong way, so I correct it. He looks startled, then upset, and then runs a red pen through the whole thing and writes 'anulado'. Anulled. We're starting again.
Eventually we reach the second form, and he notices the mistake has been repeated. Just as he is cheerfully running a red line through it, I realise I can't take another minute of this, and tell him abruptly that I have to go and eat. It's been 24 hours since my last meal.
I don't dare leave my discs in this new place, so I take them all with me. On the way out, the old woman on the door whose job is to watch everyone who comes and goes, tells me to be careful. Going out at night is dangerous, your bag will get stolen, she says.
The electricity is out, so I walk the dark streets to Hotel Presidente, and order a club sandwich.
"There's no chicken," the charming waiter says, "How about tuna?"
Sure, anything but ham.
"What's wrong?" he asks, "You look worried."
"Just a long day," I say, and melt for a moment in his beautiful brown eyes and sincere concern. "Just a very long day."
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