Free Havana Nights by Jessica Brooks

The Hotel and Sweet Victoria
    The cigarette boat cut cleanly through the calm Gulf of Mexico under the full moon. I thought about the days before. The trial was consumptive and nearing an end. Office demands were showing up on my email and partners were offering opinions and taking charge. Then, an email, with a different heading and tone came over:
    To: Christopher.
    From: VE
    Re: meeting Friday
    Can you make a meeting Friday HNH 2200 advise return?
    There was only one person in the world who called me Christopher. I replied "yes," and the reply was "confirmed." Hurried flight arrangements followed. The n … waiting. Friday morning only one email message mattered. It came at 8:00 am.
    "Confirmed." That was all. The rest of my day had escaped my mind entirely. Only the flight time from LGA to key west was on my calendar. A wave hit the boat from starboard. A glancing blow but enough to bring me back. Sexual energy communicated in email .
    In the night sky,navigation was clear. The stars almost marked the heading to be navigated like the proverbial dotted line to x marks the spot. Standing in the cockpit, going 80 mph on the moon-lit water was scary enough. The risk of being intercepted by the coast guard was foremost in my mind. But, Victoria snuck into my thoughts as I wandered even in the critical concentration that it took to guide this boat missile on the water.
    Speed was not the point; adrenaline was. The hour it took to cover the distance between the lights of the keys and the beacon at Havana harbor seemed to pass in an instant. The salt taste in my mouth was palpable. I turned slightly south and east toward Veradero and thought about the 30 or so minutes it would take to cover the rest of the distance. I longed for a quiet dinner at La Bodeguita Del Medio tucked in one of the many corners of this exotic bar. At this hour, the natives would be in bed. Hard cor e “ tourist s ” and working girls would be out. Max and Javier would certainly be there and I thought of the countless hours we played dominos and reminisced during my past visits. 
    It was not me during the visits. Boarding the plane in New York cleansed me of my other self. Christopher had no allegiances or responsibilities beyond the physicality of just being. There was no legend, no anticipation, and no connection to anything or anyone except Victoria.  There was no obligation except the immediate commitment for that time and in that place and for the defined tasks. I had no history or future beyond Friday night in Havana, until sometime Monda y … just there and there.
    I called ahead to Esteban when I landed in Florida. He answered after several rings. It had been five months since we had seen each other, but the conversation was easy, as if we had had dinner yesterday. He would meet me at the pier in Havana harbor. I would see touchdown Jesus on the south shore hill as I rounded the point, throttled back a bit to limit the wake, and headed for the dock where Esteban would be waving a torch. The green sludge that was the liquid in this sanguine bay that once received Hemingway and his drinking buddies engulfed the bow of my boat. I hoped nothing important fell into the sludge.
    Esteban waved the torch, oblivious to the army personnel loitering near the dock, and I moved toward the light. I was coming in slowly but with no intention to stop at the dock.  The plan was to swing in cut the engines, jump onto the dock, hand a line to him, have him jump on to "Oh By The Way," and take her out to a safe mooring. I was not supposed to be here and wanted to leave the smallest amount of evidence of my passing as possible.
    I hailed a cab after walking the short distance from the dock to the street. I also called Victori a ’ s cell phone and left a brief message. The National was the first stop. I needed a shower and some money.
    The almost familiar concierge gave me a key and a money clip. As I walked through the garden bar, I could not resist the first of