Havana's a nice town, or at least I think it is. The bridges, the 
views of the sea, walks along the harbor wall, the smell of 
coffee and frying beans and sugar and salt... it's not Norman 
Rockwell white-picket-fence-and apple-cheeked-kid, but that's 
just another one of the good points. The American family is a 
wonderful, wholesome institution, and I'm all for it. As long as 
it stays at arm's reach.

   This was last year, by the way. 1945, with Japan ground under 
our heel and the country wondering what the hell it was going 
to do now. We Americans in Cuba celebrated the war's end by 
getting blind drunk. Of course, we celebrated most days by 
getting blind drunk, so that's nothing special. We considered, 
about 11:30 PM, trying to annex the county in the name of the 
States, but someone pointed out that America had promised we 
wouldn't.  So we robbed a bank instead.

   Since Charlie, who was with us at the time, owned the bank... 
it wasn't really much of a robbery.

   "Hands up! All the money in the register!"

   "Yes sir, Mr. Dibbins. May I have the night off?"

   "Hrm? Certainly, certainly..."

   The police caught up with us at 12:30, and made us share the 
scotch with them.

   And so it went.

  I did a lot of different sorts of work. Translator for visiting 
yanks, deckhand on the yachts, assistant bartender, that sort of 
thing. My suitcase held a diploma in Journalism from the 
University of Kansas, but I didn't really have much use for it. 
Sometimes I would wire a story to Miami. Sometimes it would 
be printed, and I would get money. Feh. Nothing important ever 
happens in Cuba, because Cuba is to busy having fun. Or at least, 
my Cuba is.

   The night my story begins, I was sitting in a booth in the 
Couer du Soldat with a young law student of my acquantence. 
The name sounds French, you say. This is very astute of you. It 
sounds French because it is French, and no, I do not know why. 
The owner was English, the waiters were Cuban, and the 
patrons were Loud.

   "The people here are loud," Fidel noted. He was sipping his 
beer slowly, looking at the rest of the cafe with mingled 
distaste, interest, and speculation. An idealist, Fidel was, 
always going on about oppression and the plight of the farmers. 
Idealists are normally no fun, but Fidel was a real treat to 
listen to. Give him a cigar, open a topic of discussion, and he'd 
give you a wonderful argument. I liked him.

   "Loud is good, Fi. I thought you liked loud, anyway, with your 
demonstrations. Only they seem to be loud and angry, where as 
these people," I swept my hand in the general direction of the 
great mass of These People, "are loud and happy."

   "The farmers are neither happy nor loud. They are poor and 
quiet. They are quiet because our pig of a dictator will kill 
them if they speak out."

   I shrugged. "Hey, I'm American, remember? We practically 
invented free speech."

   Fidel laughed, a short and abrupt thing. "Americans are for 
free speech in America and dollar speech in Cuba."

   One of the reasons I liked the man was his directness. He 
wasn't like some Cubans, who would bow and scrape and fawn 
to the Americans, and then go home and talk about the damn 
yanqui pigs. He was anti-oppressor, and very proud of it. No 
amount of money would ever make Fidel Castro grovel.

   "A man's got a right to make a buck."

   Again the laugh. "And we have the right to starve? Face the 
facts; you are using us as slave labor. Slaves rented out by 
Batista."

   "'You'?" I asked. ""You'? I don't own any sugar plantations."

   "The stockholders..."

   "I don't own any stock, either."

   "The elected officials..."

   "I haven't voted since '36."

    He let out an amused chuckle, and threw up his hands. "All 
right. You are not very oppressive."

   I adopted a wounded air. "I should hope not."

   "But you are not a Friend of the People, either." That was how 
he said it. You could hear the captials in the words.

   "I'm a friend of the people," I replied. Turning, I waved to a 
waiter. "Manuel! Am I your friend?"

   He grinned back, showing a pair of wonderfully nicotine-
stained teeth. "Si, si."

   I turned back to Fidel, face smug. "You see? He's People, and 
I'm his Friend."

   "Pfaugh," he snorted. "Manuel is the friend of anyone who 
gives him cigarettes. Cigarettes!" He spoke the word much the 
same way most people would say 'cancer' or 'bubonic plague' or 
Neville Chamberlain'. "Why would any good Cuban wish to smoke 
a puny little weed when we grow and roll such fine cigars? 
Why? Because no good Cuban can afford them!"

   "You," I slyly pointed out, "are smoking one right now. That 
mean you ain't a good Cuban?"

   He flushed a beautiful color. "Some of us," he slowly 
responded, "are not content to dwell upon the few avenues of 
employment offered by the dictator Batista."

   "Meaning that you've been writing other students' term 
papers for money."

   "Yes. How did you find out?"

   "The advertisment in the paper was my first clue."

   "But," was his puzzled response, "I did not use my real 
name!"

    I fished out a tattered clipping from my trouser pocket. 
"'Term papers, exams, finals, all manner of academic writings 
to your order. Send assignment and address to Post Box 523 
Havana. Long live the Republic and down with tyranny.' Yup, 
that's you."

   Fidel sipped his beer, looking slightly worried. "I hope the 
police do not find it as transparent as you did."

   I shook my head vigorously. "Naw. They don't know you from 
Adam.  You talk a good game, but you've never actually done 
anything."

   "Maybe someday I will."

   Oh boy, here he went again. "What, bomb the police office? 
Rob a bank? Lead a rebellion?"

   "Maybe."

   "Loco. Crazy talk."

   "Maybe."

   I did not like the look in his eyes as he repeated this word. 

   "Anyway," I said, "I'm going to be meeting a client here in a 
few minutes. Yank, rich war hero."

   Suddenly he was the soul of politeness. "Do you want me to 
leave?"

   I laughed. "Hell no. If I told friends to piss off so I told talk 
to a client, I'd be rich in New York. Naw, stick around. Meet one 
of the rich oppressors."

   Fidel mulled this over. "A war hero, you said? Is he a real one, 
or a manufactured one?"

   "Oh, real. I think. Saved a couple men in the Pacific, wrecked 
his health a bit doing it. That's why he's here, to relax a bit, get 
some good Cuban sun and clean Cuban air."

  He nodded desicively. "Yes, I would like to meet this rich 
American. I think I would like to know what war is like."

   "Well," I shrugged, "maybe he's the type who likes telling 
stories."

   "Ah," Fidel said, leaning forward a bit, "that is the type I do 
not want to hear. I want to hear about war from a man who does 
not like to talk about it."

   I thought about this for a second, and then shook my head. 
"Too deep for me."

   "Not deep at all. If you wanted to know what fish off a 
certain town were like, would you talk to the quiet, 
hardworking fisherman or the man with his head in a jug of 
rum, who loves to tell stories about the fish he caught which 
was bigger than a whale, bigger,  no joking!"

   I allowed as how he had a point.

   A movement by the door caught my eye. A man, American, 
fair-haired. Young, but not too young. Well-cut clothing. He 
spoke to a waiter, who nodded and pointed towards the table I 
was sharing with Fidel.

   "Your war hero?"

   "Probably," I replied. He didn't look crippled...

   The blond American walked over. Confident step, like he was 
walking through Mom's Diner in his home town instead of a 
cantina where most of the voices were raised in a language he 
didn't speak. He looked like a war hero, a movie war hero. Not 
the cheap, rather scrawny and nervous speciments I had seen.

   "Mr. Hatfield?"

   I nodded. "Yes."

   "John Kennedy," he said, and offered me his hand to shake. I 
shook it. Good grip he had, too. Solid but friendly. He even shook 
hands like a war hero.

   "Welcome to Havana, Mr. Kennedy. Hope you had a good sail."

   "Flight, actually."

   "Yeah? Boy, seems like you hear about airplanes all the time 
nowadays. Oh, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Castro."

   Kennedy smiled and offered his hand. "A pleasure to make 
your acquaintance, sir."

   Fidel studied the hand with interest for around, oh, either 
three seconds or three days. He had what probably seemed to 
Kennedy to be a look of polite reserve. I knew better, though. Is 
this, he was thinking, a Oppressor Hand? Does this hand perhaps 
hold, now and again, stock reports from United Fruit? Is it a 
compromise of my principles to shake this hand?

   He shook it.

   I smiled. Kennedy smiled. Fidel smiled.

   We beamed at each other like idiots for a bit, and then I 
pulled up a chair for Kennedy to sit in. He took it gratefully, and 
I realized that he had been it a bit of pain, standing. Maybe he 
was an invalid after all.

   "Jimmy Burtner says that you're the best man to have as a 
guide, Mr. Hatfield..."

   "Call me Ed, please." I don't exactly dislike my last name, but 
it's not the sort of thing I want to be called for long periods of 
time. And my pay scale tends to go up if I'm the customer's 
"buddy".

  "Ed. Anyway, what did you have in mind?"

   I settled into my spiel. "Well, the beaches here are lovely this 
time of year. They're lovely every time of year, actually, but 
especially now.If you're the sort of man who likes a good party, 
there's always one on somewhere in Havana. Sometimes ten."

   "Edward," Fidel dryly interjected, "is very knowlegable about 
beaches and parties."

  "Somebody's got to be," I replied cheerfully.

   Kennedy smiled at this. "And are you, Mr. Castro?"

   Fidel spread his hands in a dismissing gesture. "No, no. I am a 
student at the university, and have no time for such things."

   An amazed look from Kennedy. "A college student with no 
time to go to parties. I do believe I've seen everything, now. 
Cuba must be a country of industry."

   Fidel nodded vigorously. "It is! Cubans are very hard working, 
very industrious. We would be the richest people in the world, 
if it were not for the leech Batista."

   "I've heard good things about him from several captains of 
industry..."

   "Well of course you have," said Fidel, "he is their creature. He 
lets them rob the farmers blind. The tyrant barely leaves them 
enough to feed their children."

   "So you're against the American businesses investing in 
Cuba?"

   I was ready to change the subject if Kennedy got beligerent or 
offended, but he seemed... eager. Like he was enjoying the 
prospect of an argument. Might as well let Fidel have his head.

   "Investment? Feh. Investment implies that they give 
something to Cuba in exchange for what they take."

   Kennedy motioned to a waiter. "But they have. They brought 
equipment, knowledge, management." The waiter hurried up. "A 
beer."

   "Management we could provide ourselves. We were the ones 
who taught sugar growing; it is, after all, supposed to be our 
island. Equipment I grant you, but the Cuban people get nothing 
out of your fine, modern American machinery."

   "They certainly do! Those factories and plantations employ 
hundreds of Cubans."

   "Who are paid slave's wages! All the money is taken back to 
Miami and New York, instead of staying in Cuba as it should. The 
wealth that does stay does to the dogs of Batista. Those fine, 
modern factories, they could be run by Cubans, you know. The 
Cuban is not a dog or monkey, who needs an American master 
holding his leash."

   "I never said they were," Kennedy mildly responded.

   Fidel gave a grudging nod. "You did not, and maybe you did not 
think it. But many of your countrymen not only say it and think 
it, but write entire books about it."

   Kennedy shrugged. "I think they are wrong and misguided, but 
I'm not responsible for what my countrymen choose to do."

   My Cuban friend stared at him for a few seconds. Kennedy met 
his eyes with flinching. And then Fidel laughed.

   "I like you. Yes, very true. What your countrymen do is no 
more your fault than what our pig of a dictator does is mine. I 
quite admire many things about your America, actually."

   Kennedy seemed intrigued "Like what?"

   "Your doctors. I am very envious of your doctors and 
hospitals. So many people die in Cuba who would have lived in 
America. Such a silly waste, but our government prefers gold-
plated bathtubs to a civilized medical program for the common 
man."

   "Batista has a gold-plated bathtub?"

   Fidel snorted. "I don't know, he never invited me to take a 
bath with him, eh? But it's the type of thing he would have."

   "What else do you like about America?"

   "Your schools. Batista is not only cruel and brutal, he is 
stupid. Such a propaganda organ going to waste! If my village 
had had a proper, state-run school, I would probably be a 
Batistite."

   "We don't use them for that," Kennedy said.

   "Yes you do. But they also give you an education, which is 
something people should have." Fidel sighed. "I admire almost 
everything about your nation, Mr. Kennedy. I admire everything 
except the way you pander to Batista in exchange for profits. 
Surely such as rich nation does not need to do this?" 

   The waiter brought Kennedy his beer; cold, amber, frosted. My 
client took a long draught, a almost blissful air in the action. It 
was a shock, I realised, to see Mr. War Hero relax into Jack 
Kennedy. Made me wonder exactly how much effort went into 
War Hero, and exactly how badly beat up his health really was. 
When he walked into the Coeur Du Soldat, I would have bet he 
could cheerfully juggle skyscrapers while lifting the U.S.S. 
Maine with his teeth. Now, just by watching him relax, I 
wondered if the doctors had told him he only had so much time 
left.

   "Cuba was much worse off under Spanish rule," Kennedy 
finally said. "We went to war to make you an independant 
nation. We could have annexed you then; hell, any other country 
would have annexed you. But we gave you your freedom."

   Fidel nodded gravely. "Many of the old people are grateful to 
America for this. It was a very, very good thing your country did 
for Cuba. But this amendment you put in our constition - the 
only part of the constitution that Batista does not use as toilet 
paper - it makes us subject to your whims. And the way your 
corporations deal with..."

   "Ed! Hey, Hat!"

   I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "Oh boy."

   Fidel and Jack turned that the caller, a stout, bronzed man in 
khaki at the other end of the cafe. He was picking up this drink, 
and getting ready to move towards us.

   "Who is that?" asked Fidel.

   "He looks familiar..."

   "That," I responded, "is Ernest Hemingway."

   Fidel looked blank. Kennedy sat up a bit straighter. "The war 
correspondent?"

   "Yeah, that too. I did work on his boat before he left for 
Europe. It's over now, so he's back in Cuba, waiting for the next 
ne to break out. He'll be drunk."

   Fidel eyed the figure making its rather loud and forceful way 
towards us. "How can you tell?"

   "Easy. He's Ernest, and he's in a place serving alcohol. He's 
drunk. Anywhere else, I could only tell you that he was probably 
drunk."

   Hemingway washed over me like a wave, pumping my hand 
with vigor. "Goddamn, Ed! How ya been? Been good? I'm back 
from the war!"

   "Yeah," I replied, trying to massage some feeling back into 
my hand. "I noticed. Have fun?"

   "Hell yes!" He swept the table with his eyes. "Who're your 
friends?"

   "Fidel Castro, a law student..."

   "Hate lawyers. Pissants. Get a real man's job, boy. Gut fish or 
something."

   I had the pleasure of seeing Fidel at a complete loss for 
words. "And Jack Kennedy."

   Hemingway beamed. "Hey, yeah? Joe Kennedy's boy?"

   Jack nodded. "Yes sir."

   "You did your father and your country proud, son. So did your 
brother. I'm very sorry about that."

   Kennedy nodded, and I noticed Mr. War Hero coming strongly to 
the front. "Thank you."

   "He was a good man."

   "Yes, he was."

   "Manuel, Bourbon." Hemingway turned back to me. "I'm 
married, Ed. Can you believe it?"

   "You were married before you left, Ernest."

   He winked at me. "I married again. After divorcing the last 
one, of course. Brought her home from Europe, spoils of war. 
Hah!"

   I nodded politely. "She must be very happy."

   Fidel muttered something under his breath. Kennedy heard it, 
and nodded.

   "Course she's happy," Hemingway thundered. "She's got a real 
man now. Not like that sissy she had before. Wonderful woman, 
Mary. Didn't even raise a fuss when I shot her husband."

   "You shot who?" Kennedy blurted.

   Fidel looked puzzled. "I thought you were her husband?"

   I just waited.

   "No, no," Hemingway said, soothingly. "I didn't shoot the 
actual husband. Just his portrait."

   Fidel brightened. "Batista posters! A new use!"

   "Trouble was, see, I hung it over the toilet tank. Shot the 
resevoir, flooded the whole damn hotel floor. Made me pay for 
it, and ruined the bed. What a pisser, eh?"

   Ernest, I reflected, hadn't changed a bit.

   "Are you working on a new book, Mr. Hemingway?" This from 
Jack, who was trying to square things.

   "Yup. Got part of it right here. Wrote it on the napkin. I'll read 
it."

   I made warning gestures to Kennedy. Jack ignored it. "That 
would be swell, Mr. Hem..."

   "Ernest, damnit!"

   "Ernest."

   Hemingway harumphed, and drew a beer-stained napkin from a 
shirt pocket. "Right. 'The sun rose over the Spainish hills. It 
was morning. I went downstairs. It was below my room. I 
ordered coffee. It was a coffee morning. I hated it. The waitress 
brought me my coffee. It was black, black and bitter and 
wonderfully black and bitter like a good woman done wrong and 
painted with black paint. I had the omelet. Then the shelling 
started. The waitress caught some shrapnel and fell over my 
table. Blood ran into my coffee. I hate that.'"

   We made polite noises at him.


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