One Night in Havana
“When we got to prison my boss told me that my new job was to keep him alive, so I slept on the floor beside my boss with a 9 millimetre pistol under my pillow”.
Todd Mayert has a charm that contradicts his long blond scraggly hair, his bright Hawaiian shirt and plaid shorts. He clearly doesn’t belong at the entrance to Havana’s upscale Telegrapho Hotel, and yet he seemed strangely comfortable. He engaged my companion in insightful banter about the workings of Old Havana. He was from Calgary. He was living in Havana. He shared tips on how the currency works, how Havana works, and bought us peanuts in a paper tube (actually a fistful of tubes for about 25 cents) which we completely enjoyed while listening to his genial patter.
After about 20 minutes we were whisked off to our illegal Havana version of a B&B, itself a relic of the 1960s with ancient marble, colourful tiles, and walls full of cheap prints and homages to a Catholic way of life.
I didn’t see Todd again until the second day.
At the head of Obispo Street, and in the shadow of the Capitol building and Havana Theatre is the Floridita, where Ernest Hemingway used to drink. In a less than subtle homage, the Floridita has a life-sized brass Hemingway holding up the end of the bar and the predominant drinks served are versions of daiquiris, just like the Old Man would have drunk.
The other end of Obispo Street spills out into a comfortable town square full of old used books next to the harbour and the Castillo de la Real Fuenza, a small fort that has a fascinating collection of nautical displays and amazing model ships. There is a docent in every room that won’t shut up and reluctantly I ran from them before I could fully enjoy the relics and grand history from the Spanish Armada.
Between the Floridita and the town square is Obispo street; the centre of shopping for tourists in Havana. It is unique in the world. There are no chain restaurants. There is a mix of sparsely shelved appliance stores, internet shops, high end looking restaurants and pubs, and an understated series of tourist stores, all struggling to make this street the tourist commercial centre of Old Havana.
I walked by the fresh squeezed orange juice stand. On Obispo street this means a half a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and another half of vodka for about a buck, unless you tell him otherwise. Perhaps vodka is cheaper than orange juice.
That’s where I ran into Mayert again on the street. While trading rounds of screwdrivers he began to tell me his story. His story started in Panama with his boss, Robert Streuder; “I think he had CIA connections”. It would take the entire evening to get his story out of him, and it came in spurts and not always in a logical order. But then the evening’s story also came in spurts and often did not make sense either.
He had just gotten out of a Panamanian jail, accused of murder of a real estate investor. He was standing on the corner of a Panamanian grocery store using a pay phone and he saw the victim coming out of the store. They waved, and Ed Moynan drove off into oblivion. He was never seen alive again.
A very attractive local girl sat down beside us on the giant flowerpot that served as seating for the orange juice stand and started talking with Michael. He introduced us. She was, she said, Lucy, a singer and pointed at a man sitting on the other side of the flowerpot. “He’s my manager.” “Let’s go to a little pub I know just around the corner”
It wasn’t around the corner, but the blocks we walked allowed Michael to continue his story.
“I was the last to see Moynan alive so they all thought that I killed him. I freely admitted that I saw him at the supermarket before they told me he was missing, but they had to get a suspect and I was the best one.” They also arrested my boss because of a connection with real estate. Moynan’s body was found in a suitcase near Coronado, Panama about a year later.
The foreigner’s jail was not comfortable, but no foreigner would have survived the jail for nationals. They don’t feed the prisoners. They rely on their families to bring food daily meals or they can buy from some of the carts they allow in. “You can get anything you want in the prison; drugs, guns, women, food. Anything except out.”
“My boss told me my new job was to keep him alive, so I slept on the floor beside his bed with a loaded 9 millimetre pistol under the pillow.
“You can kill someone in a Panamanian jail and they don’t mind too much. Whatever the cause, it is over. But if you wound them there’s all kinds of trouble, and never ever hurt a guard. You wouldn’t survive that.”
We arrived at the new pub, a relatively nice looking place with white tablecloths. We ordered rum and cokes for ourselves and our new hosts, and the conversation moved from talking with them to uncovering Michael’s fascinating story.
Another round. Then, as we go to leave the bill came. It was 48 pesos, about 54 US dollars at the time and also about what a doctor in Cuba might make in a month. Michael said, “That’s not right.” It’s too much. They are scamming us. The right price should be about 11 pesos. He started a conversation with the waiter. It started quietly and the voices became louder and angrier. I looked at our hosts for guidance but they had disappeared. The argument continued. The high prices the manager said was for live music. Michael pointed out that there was no music. Their answer: “there will be”.
I called the waiter’s attention. I said “No”. “No what?” “The right price for this is about 11 pesos. I’ll pay you 12 pesos” He argued and I restated that the price should be around 11 pesos. The waiter became lively and spirited and said some things in Spanish. I heard the word for police several times. Michael was arguing with another two waiters and at some point I was happy that he was on my side and splitting the argument. I said, “Ok, call the cops”, and one waiter left. Now I had time to recall some of Michael’s stories about the Panamanian prison, and remember thinking that I was being one dumb country buffoon. We were both standing up and went to sit down. On the chair between us was a young girl. Neither of us had seen her arrive and sit down between us. The waiters backed, leaving us to deal with this cute new threat. The prostitute was pleasant and friendly and seemed unassociated with the argument. While we talked I learned about a prostitute’s lifestyle in Havana, how things worked and other things not found in a tourist book. It was a journalist’s conversation that included some of Michael’s story and some of the girl’s story.
“After we had been in jail for four weeks the prosecutor came to visit me. They didn’t have real evidence and he apologized but it would still take two more weeks for me to get out.”
The waiter brought the bill over. I reached for it but he pulled it away. It was still for 48 pesos. “I ill call the police” he said in Spanish. I knew what he meant. “I thought you were calling the police”. I looked around and there was Michael but the prostitute had vanished.
“Christ Michael, I want another drink. Let’s get out of here.” And then to the waiter, “Where are the police?”
Two minutes later the officer walked in and the four waiters gave a lively and spirited account. The cop shook his head. It seemed bad for us. He took a few steps towards us and then headed for the door and left. I said to the waiter, “If he doesn’t care, then nor do I. Here’s 11 pesos.”
Michael and I walked out and headed back to the safety of Obispo Street.
