nd that is how early next morning I found myself standing at a small building on the outer edge of the runway at Miami International, clutching a passport in the name of David Marcey, and wearing what can only be called a leisure suit, green, with bright yellow matching belt and shoes. And next to me stood my associate director at Baptist Brethren International Ministries, the Reverend Campbell Freeney, in an equally hideous outfit and a big smile that changed the shape of his face and even seemed to hide some of the scars.

I am not truly a clothing-oriented person, but I do have some basic standards of sartorial decency, and the outfits we were wearing crushed them utterly and spat them into the dust. I had protested, of course, but Reverend Kyle had told me there was no choice. “Gotta look the part, buddy,” he said, and he brushed a hand against his red sport coat. “This is Baptist missionary clothing.”

“Couldn’t we be Presbyterians?” I asked hopefully, but he shook his head.

“This is the pipeline I got,” he said, “and this is how we gotta do it. Unless you speak Hungarian?”

“Eva Gabor?” I said, but he shook his head.

“And don’t try to talk about Jesus all the time, they don’t do that,” he said. “Just smile a lot and be kind to everybody, and you’ll be fine.” He handed me another piece of paper, and said, “Here. This is your letter from Treasury to allow you to travel to Cuba for missionary work. Don’t lose it.”

He had been a fountain of a great deal more information in the few short hours between deciding he would take me to Havana and our dawn arrival at the airport, even remembering to tell me not to drink the water, which I thought was close to quaint.

I’d barely had time to tell Rita something almost plausible—that I had an emergency to take care of and not to worry, the uniformed cop would stay at her front door until I got back. And although she was quite smart enough to be puzzled by the idea of emergency forensics, she went along with it, reassured by the sight of the police cruiser parked in front of the house. Chutsky, too, had done his part, patting Rita on the shoulder and saying, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of this for you.” Of course, this confused her even more, since she had not requested any blood spatter work, and if she had, Chutsky would not have been involved. But overall, it seemed to give her the impression that somehow vital things were being done to make her safe and everything would soon be all right, so she gave me a hug with minimal tears, and Chutsky led me away to the car.

And so we stood there together in the small building at the airport waiting for the flight to Havana, and after a short spell we were out the door and onto the runway, clutching our phony papers and our real tickets and taking our fair share of elbows from the rest of the passengers as we all scuttled onto the plane.

The airplane was an old passenger jet. The seats were worn and not quite as clean as they could have been. Chutsky—I mean Reverend Freeney—took the aisle seat, but he was big enough that he still crowded me over against the window. It would be a tight fit all the way to Havana, tight enough that I would have to wait for him to go to the restroom before I could inhale. Still, it seemed a small price to pay for bringing the Word of the Lord to the godless communists. And after only a few minutes of holding my breath, the plane rattled and bumped down the runway and into the air, and we were on our way.

The flight was not long enough for me to suffer too much from oxygen deprivation, especially since Chutsky spent much of the time leaning into the aisle and talking to the flight attendant; in only about half an hour we were banking in over the green countryside of Cuba and thumping onto a runway that apparently used the same paving contractor as Miami International. Still, as far as I could tell, the wheels did not actually fall off, and we rolled along up to a beautiful modern airport terminal—and rolled right past it until we finally came to a halt next to a grim old structure that looked like the bus station for a prison camp.

We trooped down off the plane on a rolling stairway, and crossed the tarmac into the squat gray building, and the inside was not a great deal more welcoming. Some very serious-looking uniformed men with mustaches stood around inside clutching automatic weapons and glaring at everyone. As a bizarre contrast, several television sets hung down from the ceiling, all playing what seemed to be a Cuban sitcom, complete with a hysterical laughter track that made its U.S. counterpart sound bored. Every few minutes one of the actors would shout something I couldn’t decipher, and a blast of music would rise up over the laughter.

We stood in a line that moved slowly toward a booth. I could see nothing at all on the far side of the booth and for all I knew they could be sorting us into cattle cars to take us away to a gulag, but Chutsky didn’t seem terribly worried, so it would have been poor sportsmanship for me to complain.

The line inched ahead and soon, without saying a word to me, Chutsky stepped up to the window, and shoved his passport in through a hole at the bottom. I could not see or hear what was said, but there were no wild shouts and no gunfire and after a moment he collected his papers and vanished on the far side of the booth and it was my turn.

Behind the thick glass sat a man who could have been the twin of the nearest gun-toting soldier. He took my passport without comment and opened it, looked inside, looked up at me, and then pushed it back to me without a word. I had expected some kind of interrogation—I suppose I’d thought he might rise up and smite me for being either a capitalist running dog, or possibly a paper tiger—and I was so startled at his complete lack of response that I stood there for a moment before the man behind the glass jerked his head at me to go, and I did, heading around a corner the way Chutsky had gone and into the baggage-claim area.

“Hey buddy,” Chutsky said as I approached the spot he had staked out by the unmoving belt that would soon, I hoped, bring our bags out. “You weren’t scared, were you?”

“I guess I thought it would be a little more difficult than that,” I said. I mean, aren’t they kind of mad at us or something?”

Chutsky laughed. “I think you’re gonna find out that they like you,” he said. “It’s just your government they can’t stand.”

I shook my head. “Can they really separate them like that?”

“Sure,” he said. “It’s simple Cuban logic.”

And as nonsensical as that seemed, I had grown up in Miami and knew perfectly well what that was; Cuban Logic was a running joke in the Cuban community, placed right before being Cubanaso in the emotional spectrum. The best explanation I’d ever had was from a professor in college. I’d taken a poetry course in the vain hope of learning to see into the human soul, since I don’t have one. And the professor had been reading aloud from Walt Whitman—I still remembered the line, since it is so utterly human. “Do I contradict myself? Well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.” And the professor had looked up from the book and said, “Perfect Cuban Logic,” waited for the laughter to die down, and then gone back to reading the poem.

So if the Cuban people disliked America and liked Americans, it involved no more mental gymnastics than I had seen and heard nearly every day of my life. In any case, there was a clatter, a buzzer blasted a loud note, and our baggage began to come out on the belt. We didn’t have a lot, just one small bag each—just a change of socks and a dozen Bibles—and we wrestled the bags out past a female customs agent who seemed more interested in talking to the guard beside her than in catching us smuggling in weapons or stock portfolios. She merely glanced at the bags and waved us through, without losing a syllable of her rapid-fire monologue. And then we were free, walking improbably out the door and into the sunshine outside. Chutsky whistled up a taxi, a gray Mercedes, and a man stepped out in gray livery and matching cap and grabbed our bags. Chutsky said, “Hotel Nacional” to the driver, who threw our bags in the trunk, and we all climbed in.

The highway into Havana was badly pockmarked, but it was very close to deserted. We saw only a few other cabs, a couple of motorcycles, and some army trucks moving slowly along, and that was it—all the way into the city. Then the streets suddenly exploded into life, with ancient cars, bicycles, crowds of people flowing over the sidewalks, and some very strange-looking buses that were pulled by diesel trucks. They were twice as long as an American bus, and shaped something like the letter M with the two ends going up like wings and then sloping down to a flat-roofed low spot in the middle. They were all packed so full of people that it seemed impossible for anyone else to get on, but as I watched one of them stopped, and sure enough, another clump of people crowded in.

“Camels,” Chutsky said, and I stared at him curiously.

“Excuse me?” I said.

He jerked his head at one of the strange buses. “They’re called camels,” he said. “They’ll tell you it’s because of the shape, but my guess is it has to do with the smell inside at rush hour.” He shook his head. “You get four hundred people inside there, coming home from work, no air-conditioning and the windows don’t open. Unbelievable.”

It was a fascinating tidbit of information, or at least Chutsky apparently thought so, because he had nothing more profound to offer, even though we were moving through a city I had never seen before. But his impulse to be a tour guide was apparently dead, and we slid through traffic and onto a wide boulevard that ran along the water. High up on a cliff on the other side of the harbor I could see an old lighthouse and some battlements, and beyond that a black smudge of smoke climbing into the sky. Between us and the water there was a broad sidewalk and a seawall. Waves broke on the wall, sending spray up into the air, but nobody seemed to mind getting a little wet. There were throngs of people of all ages sitting, standing, walking, fishing, lying, and kissing on the seawall. We passed some strange contorted sculpture, thumped over a rough patch of pavement, and turned left up a short hill. And then there it was, the Hotel Nacional, complete with its facade that would soon feature the smirking face of Dexter, unless we could find Weiss first.

The driver stopped his car in front of a grand marble staircase, a doorman dressed like an Italian admiral stepped up and clapped his hands, and a uniformed bellboy came running out to grab our bags.

“Here we are,” said Chutsky, somewhat unnecessarily. The admiral opened the door and Chutsky climbed out. I was allowed to open my own door, since I was on the side away from the marble stairs. I did so, and climbed out into a forest of helpful smiles. Chutsky paid the driver, and we followed the bellboy up the stairs and into the hotel.

The lobby looked like it had been carved out of the same block of marble as the stairs. It was somewhat narrow, but it stretched away past the front desk and vanished in the misty distance. The bellboy led us right up to the desk, past a cluster of plush chairs and a velvet rope, and the clerk at the desk seemed very glad to see us.

“Señor Freeney,” he said, bowing his head happily. “So very good to see you again.” He raised an eyebrow. “Surely, you are not here for the Art Festival?” His accent was less than many I had heard in Miami, and Chutsky seemed very pleased to see him, too.

Chutsky reached across the counter and shook his hand. “How are you, Rogelio?” he said. “Nice to see you, too. I’m here to break in a new guy.” He put his hand on my shoulder and nudged me forward, as if I was a sullen boy being forced to kiss Granny on the cheek. “This is David Marcey, one of our rising stars,” he said. “Does a hell of a sermon.”

Rogelio shook my hand. “I am very pleased to meet you, Señor Marcey.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You have a very nice place here.”

He gave a half bow again and began to tap on a computer keyboard. “I hope you will enjoy your stay,” he said. “If Señor Freeney does not object, I will put you on the executive floor? That way you are closer to the breakfast.”

“That sounds very nice,” I said.

“One room or two?” he said.

“I think just one this time, Rogelio,” Chutsky said. “Gotta watch the old expense account this trip.”

“Of course,” Rogelio said. He tapped out a few more quick keystrokes and then, with a grand flourish, slid two keys across the desk. “Here you go,” he said.

Chutsky put his hand on the keys and leaned in a little closer. “One more thing, Rogelio,” he said, lowering his voice. “We have a friend coming in from Canada,” he said. “Name of Brandon Weiss.” He pulled the keys toward himself over the counter, and a twenty-dollar bill lay on the counter where they had been. “We’d like to surprise him,” he said. “It’s his birthday.”

Rogelio flicked out a hand and the twenty-dollar bill disappeared like a fly grabbed by a lizard. “Of course,” he said. “I will let you know immediately.”

“Thanks, Rogelio,” Chutsky said, and he turned away, motioning me to follow. I trailed along behind him and the bellboy with our bags, to the far end of the lobby, where a bank of elevators stood ready to whisk us up to the executive floor. A crowd of people dressed in very nice resort wear stood waiting, and it may have been only my feverish imagination, but I thought they glared in horror at our missionary clothing. Still, there was nothing for it but to follow the script, and I smiled at them and managed to avoid blurting out something religious, possibly from Revelation.

The door slid open and the crowd surged into the elevator. The bellboy smiled and said, “Go ahead, sir, I follow in two minute,” and the Right Reverend Freeney and I climbed in.

The doors closed. I caught a few more anxious glances at my shoes, but no one had anything to say, and neither did I. But I did wonder why we had to share a room. I hadn’t had a roommate since college, and that hadn’t really worked out very well. And I knew full well that Chutsky snored.

The doors slid open and we stepped out. I followed Chutsky to the left, to another reception area, where a waiter stood beside a glass cart. He bowed and handed us each a tall glass.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Cuban Gatorade,” Chutsky said. “Cheers.” He drained his glass and put the empty down on the cart, so I allowed myself to be shamed into doing the same. The drink tasted mild, sweet, slightly minty, and I found that it did, indeed, seem to be kind of refreshing in the way that Gatorade is on a hot day. I put the empty down next to Chutsky’s. He picked up another one, so I did, too. “Salud,” he said. We clinked glasses and I drank. It really did taste good, and since I’d had almost nothing to eat or drink in the scramble of getting to the airport, I let myself enjoy it.

Behind us, the elevator door slid open and our bellboy dashed out clutching our bags. “Hey, there you are,” Chutsky said. “Let’s see the room.” He drained his glass, and I did too, and we followed the bellboy down the hall.

About halfway down the hall I began to feel a little bit odd, as if my legs had suddenly been turned into balsawood. “What was in that Gatorade?” I asked Chutsky.

“Mostly rum,” he said. “What, you never had a mojito before?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

He gave a short grunt that might have been intended as a laugh. “Get used to it,” he said. “You’re in Havana now.”

I followed him down the hall, which had suddenly grown longer and a little brighter. I was feeling very refreshed now. But somehow I made it all the way to the room and through the door. The bellboy heaved our suitcases up onto a stand and flung open the curtains to reveal a very nice room, tastefully furnished in the classical style. There were two beds, separated by a nightstand, and a bathroom to the left of the room’s door.

“Very nice,” said Chutsky, and the bellboy smiled and gave him a half bow. “Thanks,” Chutsky said, and held out his hand with a ten-dollar bill in it. “Thanks very much.”

The bellboy took the money with a smile and a nod and promised that we only had to call and he would move heaven and earth to help fulfill our slightest whim, and then he disappeared out the door as I flopped face down onto the bed nearest the window. I chose that bed because it was closest, but it was also much too bright with the sun rocketing in through the window so aggressively, and I closed my eyes. The room did not spin, and I did not suddenly slip into unconsciousness, but it seemed like a very good idea to lie there for a while with my eyes closed.

“Ten bucks,” Chutsky said. “That’s what most of the people here make in a month. And boom-bah—he gets it for five minutes’ work. He’s probably got a PhD in astrophysics.” There was a short and welcome pause, and then Chutsky said, in a voice that seemed much farther away, “Hey, you all right buddy?”

“Never better,” I said, and my voice was kind of far away, too. “But I think I’ll just take a nap for a minute.”