need to pay more attention to Señora Jorgen in Español III.
“Welcome to the Floridita. What can I get for you, señorita?” asks a nice-looking, red-coated bartender.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. My brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the fact that A) I’m out of immediate danger, and B) I’m in a bar, for Pete’s sake, and apparently, no one’s going to card me.
“Mix the girl a daiquiri, Chucho, and put it on my bill,” says a big, white-haired, white-bearded guy from the end of the bar. He gives me a flirtatious wink, then turns back to the man sitting next to him. I know it’s rude to stare, even if they are Meeple, but I can’t help it. Both men look so familiar.
“Is that—?” I say, hoisting myself onto a bar stool.
Chucho starts pouring rum, lime juice, ice, and something else into a shaker. “Señor Hemingway, sí. Ernesto’s a regular here and he often brings his American guests, like Señor Tracy there.”
I nod, remembering now. We had to read some of Ernest Hemingway’s short stories last year in English class. They were some of my favorites. Nice and lean, not a lot of extra words. After the dark hell that was Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter, Hemingway’s stories seemed pleasingly crisp and clean.
“He can buy me a drink and wink at me any time. He’s earned it,” I say to Chucho, whose Meeple script doesn’t know how to respond to this last utterance of mine.
Chucho just smiles at me and shakes my drink in a metal canister. I like the sound it makes.
“And Señor Tracy?” I ask, not recognizing the name. “Who is he?”
“That is Spencer Tracy, señorita, the big movie star from America!”
“Oh, right,” I say, taking another glance down at the end of the bar. No wonder I had a hard time placing him. I’ve only seen Spencer Tracy in black-and-white movies, when it’s Chang’s turn to choose the lineup for our weekly Friday-night TV binge.
Chucho slides me a martini glass filled with an icy lime green concoction. Even though you can’t taste things in the MEEP, it feels impolite not to take a sip.
I do, and nearly choke. “I can taste this!” I exclaim, making the men chuckle at the end of the bar.
“Chucho makes very good daiquiri, no?” says Chucho himself, his eyebrows raised in question.
“It’s delicioso,” I assure him, then take another sip of the cold liquid, sweet and tart at the same time. How is this possible?
“Chucho, where are we? Is this Miami?” I ask, looking around at the smartly dressed Meeple, especially the women with their beehive hairdos and penciled eyebrows. “And when are we, for that matter?”
“Señorita, we are in the one and only Havana, Cuba. The year is 1958. Another drink?”
“No, no thank you,” I say, finishing off the last few drops of my daiquiri and hopping off the stool. Thankfully, I don’t feel tipsy at all from the virtual alcohol; I’ve wasted enough time. I need to figure out what the hell is going on, and fast. If this is the custom world that Wyn has created, he’ll be here somewhere. I spin a quick 360 to take a good look at the rest of the bar. There are two doors in the back, including the one I came through, and another big door in front.
“So that’s Havana out there?” I ask, pointing my chin toward the front door.
“Sí, señorita.”
I smile at Chucho. He is starting to look familiar too, somehow. “Anything I need to worry about out there? Anything . . . dangerous?” I ask, trying to remember the date of the Cuban Revolution. Maybe Wyn’s fantasy is to be some Che Guevara revolutionary type.
“No, no, a few tough guys here and there, but they shouldn’t bother you,” Chucho says. “You go to the Tropicana, watch a show, maybe dance a little. Tell the doorman Chucho sent you and he’ll take care of you, no worries.”
I look at Chucho’s smooth coffee-with-cream complexion, his warm brown eyes, his long lashes. Maybe I’ve seen him in an old movie too? I look a little longer and then it hits me. He’s the spitting image of Mama Beti. Younger, and male, of course, but the similarities are definitely there. This has to be Wyn’s custom world.
“You don’t happen to know a guy named Wyn Salvador, do you?” I ask the smiling bartender.
“Claro que sí, señorita, Wyn is a regular around here. Nice fellow.”
Bingo. “Do you know where