I Like Them Cold
Javier Correoso
Santiago reached inside his left pocket for the tenth time that afternoon. As he had done each time, he felt a slight relief when his fingertips confirmed that Enrique’s note was still inside the pocket, next to his keys. It was unbearably hot inside the bank, and sweat seeped from his cheap white long-sleeve shirt onto his worn black suit. Tiny drops of sweat collected on his forehead. He fixed his posture, cleared his throat, then steadied his gaze and tried as best he could to act naturally around the clients. He occasionally reorganized his desk without apparent reason and stared at his watch to confirm the time. The watch read 3:50 PM. In an hour and ten minutes, he could finish and leave.
It had been an agonizing Wednesday morning. After waking up, he wondered when Enrique would stop by. When his alarm clock rang at 6:30 AM, the first thing on his mind was the impending visit. He brushed his teeth, ate breakfast, and worked the rest of the morning at the bank. He finally saw Enrique after eating lunch, around 1 PM. Enrique was waiting for him in the bank’s lobby. Santiago almost waved at him, but after seeing Enrique’s composure, he feigned ignorance and reserve. He walked toward Enrique and stood next to him for a moment. Enrique passed him a note.
“Read it somewhere quiet,” he said.
“Alright,” Santiago replied.
After a short pause, Enrique got up and left the bank, and Santiago returned to work. The next four hours inside the bank were hot and agonizing, but he tried to focus. At 5 PM, he finally left.
Once outside, Santiago roamed the oppressively hot streets of Havana. The hot air and tropical Sun labored his breathing. As he walked past the dilapidated buildings, he noticed the crowded streets; it was the busiest hour of the day. People waited in long lines for food. Street merchants sold produce. Students left school. Old men played dominoes. Stray dogs barked. Musicians played son and salsa on street corners. He walked for almost thirty minutes until he found a small bar. It was quiet and empty, and the prices were acceptable. He went inside, sat down, and asked the waiter for a beer. It was fifty pesos.
“Me gustan frías. Give me the coldest one you have,” he said.
The waiter nodded and walked away.
Santiago took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and read Enrique’s note:
S.,
I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long. I said I would have an answer by Monday, but J. was out of town that day. Yesterday, I couldn’t visit you. I was working, and I finally spoke to J. later that day. I’ll keep this message short:
Yesterday J. finally said you’re in. We will leave a week from Friday. If the weather is bad or the date changes, I will write to you again, but J. says that that is the best date, and everyone else is on board. We will leave early that day.
Listen, he told me to tell you not to fuck things up. Those are his words. He said them to everyone in the group. A couple of years ago, the first time he tried, someone saw his boat as it was leaving and warned the coastguard. The second time, only three years ago, some other cabrón in that group went off mouthing to everyone he knew, and the police got involved before the boat even left. J. ‘s paranoid because he went to prison because of that second try. Not for too long, but long enough to scare him. They treated him very badly there. That’s why it took me so long to convince him. This time, he wants a small group. Besides him, you and I, only five others are coming with us. That number is final. Tell your friend A. I’m sorry. I tried.
It should go without saying that this is not something other people can know. Your friends and even your family cannot know. J. was very serious about this. He said that this time, the chances are good. You will see the new boat he has. It’s not big, but it can go fast. One of his cousins in Miami sent him some money for it. I know we can make it on that boat.
Start packing soon, and by the end of the week, maybe I’ll write again. Or maybe J. will reach out. Be discreet, all of us are counting on this trip. Remember, you are luckier than most.
Un abrazo,
E.
Santiago finished reading the note, and the waiter returned a minute later with his beer. The beer was warm, but he was thirsty and drank it quickly. He reread the note three more times and then further reread some parts. He folded it into a small square and placed it back in his pocket. It was hot inside the bar; the air conditioner did not work. Presumably, neither did the fridge. He ordered another beer and drank it as precipitately as he had the first. Ten minutes later, he ordered a third but drank it slower.
After he finished, he wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand and wiped his sweaty forehead with his shirt sleeve. The beer calmed his nerves. He leaned back on his chair and let his head spin. All he allowed himself to do for the following two hours was to watch the baseball game on the small CRT TV in the corner of the bar. To finish the evening, he ordered a shot of Havana Club rum. By the end, he felt dizzy.
The walk home was about thirty-five minutes, but he chose to walk slowly. He avoided familiar shortcuts and stuck to the main streets and the avenues. He watched the people as they walked past him. Next to them, on the street, he watched the old, repainted-a-thousand-times 1950s Chevy’s as they strolled by. His steps were heavy and uncoordinated. The night had cooled down considerably, and he liked the weather. He walked past a giant billboard that read “Viva la Revolucion!” He heard the sounds of the waves and decided to stop by the malecon. The waterfront was mainly deserted; there was only one fisherman in the distance, and his fish bucket was empty. Santiago sat by the rocks and stared at the ocean and the horizon. There were clouds in the distant sky.
He began to think, first absentmindedly, then full-heartedly. His drunken composure shattered, and he wept hot tears. This inebriated daze convinced him that his stifled sobs and the slow waves crashing against the waterfront were the only sounds heard across Cuba that night. The moon and the still Caribbean night sky seemed indifferent to his shame and melancholy.
It was almost 11 PM. He clumsily took out his keys from his left pocket and dropped Enrique’s note.
“Coño,” he cursed, under his breath, as he picked it back up.
After reaching his house, Santiago opened the door slowly to avoid waking up his family. He crept past the dark living room, his parents’ room, and towards his room. He opened the door slowly and walked in. His younger brother Luis was asleep on the twin-sized bed on the left-hand side. Their shared room was big enough for two mattresses, shoe racks, and a closet. There were no posters or decorations. Their table fan was on; it oscillated left and right. Santiago untied his shoelaces, took off his shoes, then his socks, then his pants, and finally his shirt. He tossed each one onto different corners of the floor. He lay on his bed.
“Santi?” Luis asked, half awake.
“Yeah,” he replied.
“What kept you out so long?”
“I stopped by a bar and then by the malecon.”
“By the malecon? What were you doing at the waterfront at this hour?”
“Crying.”
“What?”
“Crying.”
“Why?”
“Nothing, I’m drunk. Go to sleep, chico. You have class tomorrow.”
“Nevermind that. What did Enrique tell you? You kept telling me about it this morning. Did he visit you at the bank?”
“Yeah, he gave me a note and left.”
“So?”
“Juan said yes. Enrique told me to start packing; we leave next Friday.”
“Damn, hermano. That’s good news!” Luis said. He sat upright on his bed and looked at his brother.
“Yeah,” Santiago replied.
“You don’t sound too happy.”
“You think so?”
“I thought you’d be shaking me out of bed, screaming, ‘I’m out of here!’”
“I thought so, too.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Listen, Luis,” Santiago said, “don’t tell Mamá and Papá.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Enrique told me that Juan doesn’t want anyone finding out until after we get there. Then we’ll be able to call everyone. The last two times he tried, it failed because of other group members. He has a good boat now and wants us to stay quiet. You’re the only person I’ve told.”
Luis stared at him, then said, “I know how Papá gets when you say you want to leave. But why not tell Mamá? It will be hard for her. It will be hard for them both, but especially hard for her.”
“We already talked about this, hermanito. Just promise not to tell her.”
Luis was silent.
“You have to promise,” Santiago said.
“I promise,” Luis said after a moment.
The brothers each laid back down on their beds. After a moment, Luis broke the long silence.
“Why were you crying?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Santiago answered.
“Do you not want to go after all?”
“I don’t know.”
“Santiago, you’ve been planning this for ten months. It took you a long time to save up the money.”
“I know.”
“But now you don’t want to go?”
“I have to go.”
“Well, I know I want to go. I’m sick of this country.”
“Let’s not start this again,” Santiago said.
“Alright, I’m just saying that if I were you, I’d be happy. You’re luckier than most. I’m happy for you.”
“I know. I am happy.”
“Alright.”
Santiago placed his head on his pillow.
“What will you do when you get there?” Luis asked.
“I’m not sure. Tití lives in New Jersey, and I’ll be with the group somewhere in Florida for a while. Maybe for a couple of weeks. Then I’ll try to see how I can go north.”
“Have you been practicing English?”
“Yes,” Santiago answered in English.
His pronunciation of the “y” sounded like a “j,” and he dragged the “s” slightly longer than a native English speaker would. His accent was uncompromising; there was as much Cuban in his English as in his Spanish.
“Good,” Luis said.
Santiago almost drifted off to sleep.
“Why don’t you want to leave, Santi?” Luis asked. “There’s nothing in this country.”
“I never said I don’t want to leave, either,” Santiago replied. “I just said I have to leave. Forget I said I cried. I’m not sad about leaving.”
“You look sad, and you never answer that question directly.”
Santiago was silent.
“Maybe I am sad, I don’t know. This is the only country I know. Or maybe that just means I’m scared,” he said.
“Are you scared of the police?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
After a long pause, Santiago added, “The only thing is– What I do know– is that this isn’t the kind of country where I want to live.”
“Anywhere that isn’t here is good for me. I’ll even go to Japan and learn Japanese if I have to, man,” Luis said.
“I just want to live in a country where the waiters don’t serve you a warm beer every time you’re at the bar,” Santiago said.
“A warm beer?”
“Yes, a warm beer. Today, at the bar, they served me one. Nothing ruins a day more than a warm beer.”
“Most people don’t look as sad as you do now inside bars, though.”
“That’s because when most people drink a lot of warm beers, they’ll feel as if they drank at least one cold one.”
“What’s the difference, then?”
“I want to drink a lot of cold ones, chico,” he replied.
Javier Correoso, class of 2025, is pursuing a double major in English and political science. He writes, “I was born in Cuba and have lived in the United States since 2013. My greatest passions include learning and studying languages and world history. I play the drums and love playing all kinds of music with friends. I like to read in my free time and watch movies, but I also like going out. I also enjoy working out. “I Like Them Cold” is the first short story I’ve written. It was a fun and rewarding experience, and I plan to write more in the future.”
Javier wrote this story during the 2022 Fall semester in Intro To Creative Writing with Professor Franco. Franco selected the piece for publication in WHR.