They just walked too quickly for her, never stopping long enough to appreciate the sublime decrepitude of Havanas architecture.
Besides, she of pretty girl for picture thought, that morose young man in the cheap khaki suite I keep seeing is probably with the secret police.
I can get in too much trouble.
The warm and humid Cuban dusk turned into night, and she wandered lethargically through the busy streets, away from the usual tourist areas.
Wasn it her duty to the travel agency back in Toronto to explore the hidden areas, to get the real of pretty girl for picture flavour of a place, and not just the official Tourist Board line?
Theres more to Havana than just Varadero Beach and the Malecon.
Entering the Cayo Hueso barrio, Kathleen heard the distant strains of a single trumpet blaring out the melody of an ethereal bolero above the general din.
What is that song?
I know it.
Mesmerized by the plaintive wail, she stepped off the curb without looking, intent on following the sound to its source.
"BOO-YA!! BOO-YA!!" the horn of a 56 DeSoto exploded in her ears as she fell into the street.
A crowd gathered immediately.
Did she swoon?
She didn think the car hit her, but she was dazed.
Was it the oppressive heat, the crowding people yammering a language she hardly understood, the cursing of the driver, the glare of the headlights right at eye level?
She wasstill confused when the crowd parted and a hand reached down to her.
"Seņorita, por favor," was all he said.
It was the man in khaki.
