With a camera slung over her shoulder, Veronica joined the
flock to watch the sunset on the
promenade. In spite of the clouds, the full moon cast a soft light across the water. What a spectacular night.
A young girl motioned her toward the railing. “Do you like
it here?”
“Oh, yes. I love your city. Tonight we have a purplish
orange sunset.” She snapped a few shots.
The girl smiled and caught up with friends. Was it more
than the tourist business that made Cubans friendly and kind?
The surface where she walked was slick with humidity. In
New York, if she were to slip and topple down, there wouldn’t be anyone to pick
her up. Here there was camaraderie among strangers, aloneness without feeling
alone. Birds chirped. Small children’s voices were clear and sharp against old
motors chugging down the street. She walked for a half hour and then turned
around.
She gazed across the main street at Moorish architecture
with Baroque balconies. Her mind played through the architectural richness,
older by five hundred years compared to New York. Portals, columns, and
pilasters loosely followed classical lines. The greatest charm laid in
strolling after a warm day. At sunset couples, children, and fishermen walked
along this outdoor lounge, The Malecón.
Ancient side streets, too narrow for traffic, were shaded
by towering Colonial buildings with faded paint and cracked plaster. Rooftops
had some planters with vines running wild. Wooden benches with sun canopies
above them flapped with the wind picking up.
Coming toward the point where she’d entered, she stood and listened to the rolling tide.
Wave after wave sloshed against the
barricade, wish-wash, wish-wash, the rhythm of a heartbeat. On the horizon, the haze had turned from purple to
gray. In the entire harbor, there must have been hundreds of vessels of all
shapes and sizes crammed in deep-water berths. Multi-million-dollar cruise
ships like hers, luxurious yachts, and smaller boats moored together in rows.
She spotted her ship docked with many others on the pier.
The giant vessel stood out in dark silhouette. Seagulls shrieked from where
they nested on reefs. Like a bird sensing danger, she tensed. Nausea crawled up
her throat, and she pressed a fist to her nervous belly. Her cruise ship bobbed
up and down and plunged her into a troubled state. Throughout the busy week, her thoughts about the goings-on remained
nebulous. Vague fears were swallowed up and forgotten. Until this moment,
facing departure tomorrow night, she hadn’t fully processed what she’d seen
onboard. She’d looked the other way when young women had padded the bras of
their bikinis with white chalky powder in packets and brown powder in toy
balloons. Who would she tell anyway, the Cuban military police? She hoped to
heck no one put anything in her luggage. How would a drug bust work out in a
communist country?
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