HABÁNAME (Havana [Verb Transitive] Me) by Ana Ortiz Copyright © February 11, 2002 Ana Ortiz All Rights Reserved

Disclaimers: Not written for profit. The lead characters often look and sound like THEM. This is an ALT story, and several languages are used profanely. Thanks to Prof of Xena Warrior Lesbian, and to Jessica Michallet for coming on board as beta-readers for this story. My cat was getting too old to catch things! I apologize that the first installments went out without extra eyes at work to nip errors and excesses. Note to readers: In previous scenes set in the United States, I used the convention of italicizing dialogue when ? in bilingual contexts ? characters were choosing to communicate in Spanish. Beginning in this chapter I will be inverting that practice: when characters opt for the use of English in dialogue, it will be italicized. Tiras tres monedas al aire Y le preguntas al I Ching Cómo será el fin?   Sabes que no puedo salverte Pero vienes hasta aquí, a mi   Tal vez, tal vez un milagro baje Hasta aquí. Tienes miedo de encerrarte Y de no poder salir Sabes que no puedo escaparme Aunque sospechas de mi Tal vez, tal vez un milagro baje Hasta aquí. Tiro tres monedas al aire Y le pregunto al I Ching Cómo será el fin? Y aunque ya no peudo salvarte Ven y agarrate de mi, de mi. Tal vez, tal vez un milagro baje Hasta aquí.                Carlos Varela, ?Monedas al Aire? (used without permission) Chapter 3: A Flash of Pattern Later that same day, a Sunday  La Habana Central Up on the eighth floor of the Hotel Habana Libre, the steady drumming of leather upon rubber could be heard coming from behind the big gringa?s door by the bellboy as he cleared away the tray left outside. Incredible, he thought, as he looked at the barely touched, half-melted cup of ice cream. She is still at it with the punching bag. And she wastes food. Well, I am going to eat that, he concluded and - quickly checking to make sure no one else saw - he ducked into the stairwell with his prize. Perhaps it would be worth his while to try and break into her room later to see if she was using all of her allotted toilet paper. Inside of the room, Barbara?s pounding fists, encased in a weathered pair of Everlast gloves she had inherited from her father, barely kept pace with her thoughts, which manifested with the speed of meteorites and - like those flying bodies upon encountering earth?s atmosphere - broke up into fragments and went off into all directions. She had awoken from a full afternoon?s sleep feeling anxious and inpatient (or ?twitchy?, as she herself called the state), and a half hour of skipping rope followed up now by an hour of working out on her portable speed bag had not brought her relief.  Flattest vanilla I?ve ever tasted. Man, Hercules woulda loved this place. This is the climate his ancestors came from and he would have just been a big green posing machine unfurling his manly frontal crests and putting all the other iguanas to shame. Heh.  So, that?s as bad as not having any ice cream. Dang. And there?s not enough toilet paper in the friggin? bathroom. They?ve got it all measured into little piles of four squares. It?s as bad as when Ma used to lecture me about three squares being enough for number one, and was I eating toilet paper for the ruffage cuz I made it go so fast. Twenty-one thousand blind people?blind comrades, as Irene would say. Geez. And what would she think of this cushy room. Does this still count as the Hilton? It used to be the Havana Hilton. Ok. I have got to get out of here for a while. I don?t want to relax. I want to see some Cuba! She stripped down, throwing her sweat-soaked clothes over a chair, and treated herself to a long bath. Back in her Boston apartment, the hot water would always run out after fifteen minutes or so, leaving her wanting for more. If the accuracy of the health statistics and the quality of the ice cream were found wanting, then Cuba had at least met the challenge of providing a muscle-sore woman with a luxurious warm soak. She would have to tell Eladio about this. Emerging from the bathroom she rummaged through her suitcase until she found one of her new T-shirts, then chose a pair of plain black jeans and flat sandals to complete her outfit. Riding down on the elevator, she realized that she had no idea where she was headed. She knew that she needed to eat, and ? if the ice cream room service had brought was any indication - that she would be better off finding food away from the hotel. She could feel herself starting to calm as she strode out the door of the hotel. She could smell the sea ? due north ? in the air, and decided to go in that direction, easing into a comfortable gait that would afford her legs the opportunity to fully stretch out, and would still allow her to absorb the sights and sounds of the Vedado neighborhood that the Havana Libre was located in. It was already twilight and the streetlights were starting to come on, their glow outlining the well-trimmed trees that lined the roads. She walked a short block west, to access a ramp street that would lead her towards the ocean, but upon reaching the crossroads she stopped. She had not been surprised to find the night full of people. Indeed, as soon as she had exited the hotel, she had garnered unwanted attention from countless taxi drivers and tour operators eager for her business, as well as many offers from young men who implied that they would ? for a price - serve as her escort at the hotel disco. But Barbara was transfixed by the sight before her: slightly to her left was a brightly-lit park, from which emerged a steady stream of contented pedestrians. The majority of them appeared to be eating ice cream, contentedly lapping at their cones or scooping the substance from paper cups as they walked.