I didn’t know he was married.
Camino 65 was quiet. Although the sun was setting, many more hours remained before the bar would fill with local Cubans coming to pass the hot evening together. I settled myself into a chair at a small table, requested a mojito when the server appeared to take my order, and opened my book.
It was my first evening in Havana, and I felt a rush of adrenaline. Only a few hours in, I knew already that this city was unlike any place I had ever been. I felt a distinct awareness of my otherness. My travel day had been daunting, and I had found the closest possible establishment to my “casa particular” to avoid the drama that would be getting lost, alone, in the maze of streets making up Old Town.
The mojito I sipped was sweet and crisp and strong, and I played with the granules of sugar on my tongue as I stirred the mint leaves and ice around in the jar, pondering the days that stretched out ahead of me. Time slows at the beginning of a trip, before the hours accelerate with increasing familiarity, new routines, realized plans. I felt discomfited by the uncertainty. What stories would I live here? Who would make my Cuban experience one to remember?
A whistle brought my attention back to the present, and I turned toward the source of the sound: the bartender. He stood behind the bar, his arm extending a large bottle towards me.
“Más?” he asked with a wink and a smile.
I looked around me. Had he been directing the invitation towards someone else? In fact, I was still the only patron imbibing. I laughed lightly, shrugged, and stood to walk toward him for an extra splash of rum.
The bartender introduced himself as Yaniel. We began chatting and, soon, I moved my belongings from the table to the bar. I perched on a stool, closed my book, propped my head in my hands, and suddenly I was learning about Yaniel and his life and his dreams. I was drinking a second mojito—with fresh mango this time—and then a third with watermelon. Yaniel busied himself with his duties as he endeavored to learn more about me. Arturo, a regular, arrived and seamlessly joined in the conversation. When Yaniel would turn away from the bar, reaching for various bottles of alcohol, cleaning glasses, and juicing fruits, Arturo would tell me more about Yaniel, what a kind and generous soul he was. I left the bar late that night, relieved to only be walking a block to get “home.”
The next night, and the ones after that, held more of the same. I spent every night in Havana at that corner bar. These kind people I had found became friends, Spanish tutors, cultural ambassadors, entertainers…all within the confines of Camino 65. Yaniel had grown increasingly playful with me, but I didn’t mind. I let him pass me his hat, posing with it in selfies we took together. I accepted a paper rose he made me and opened it to find a sweet note he had written. I added his number to my WhatsApp contacts. I agreed to go salsa dancing with him later in the week. He asked when I would be returning to Cuba and offered to buy my next ticket to bring me back sooner.
And then, a beautiful young Cuban woman sidled up to the bar and introduced herself to me as Yaniel’s wife. I wondered if she saw the brief surprise and concern that crossed my face. I wondered if I had misread signals, even trying to convince myself of this possibility. Yaniel and I had been flirtatious but never physical. Maybe this was all just Cuban hospitality? But when she left, Arturo told me that Yaniel was indeed married—unhappily so.
I felt a strange sense of guilt that night, as if I had cheated on a partner. I did not know this woman, but still I felt a loyalty to her that surpassed the attraction I had felt towards Yaniel.
On my last night in Havana, Yaniel ended his shift and joined me for a drink. I felt somehow safer knowing that I would be leaving in the morning, as if my flight back to the States was protecting everyone from infidelity. When Yaniel walked me to my house at the end of the night, I hugged him tightly, and then quickly turned to unlock the door.
He said we would see each other again.
I knew we wouldn’t.
Back home in the USA, I let our WhatsApp conversations grow quiet; the flame that was a brief Cuban connection had died. I stopped responding to his persistent messages and, in doing so, sent an unspoken message of my own: You have a wife. You have a life in Cuba, and mine is in California.
A month later, I received a message from an unknown number: “Quien es?” (“Who is this?”)
I felt my stomach flip even before I confirmed the message’s sender. It was his wife. I didn’t respond to this message, either. With regard to me, she had nothing to worry about, after all.
