anymore. It’s been sold to overseas investors. These people pay $300 a month for Roberto’s services. But they don’t pay Roberto. They pay the Cuban government. The Cuban government then pays Roberto 150 a month, in pesos. Figuring out what the Cuban peso is worth is a complex economic calculation. To put it in layman’s terms, a pretty close approximation is nothing. Pesos are of use almost exclusively for buying rationed goods. The Cuban rationing system is simple: They’re out of everything. Although you can get a really vile pack of cigarettes for ten pesos. Think of Roberto’s salary as a carton and a half of smokes. Roberto was able, however, to earn dollars through tips. Cadging these being, of course, the subtext to his economic discourse. He used to be a teacher but couldn’t live on the pay. His wife is a chemical engineer, but her chemical plant shut down three years ago. While we were walking around the old town, Roberto met another engineer, now working as a carpenter for dollars—building the table under which he’d get paid. “Just to feed ourselves,” said Roberto, “we have to go to four markets. The ration store for, maybe, rice. Then the government dollar store—this is very expensive. Then the dollar market where farmers can sell what they grow if they grow more than the government quota. And then the black market.” We drove down Avenida Bolivar, through what had been Havana’s shopping district. Hundreds of stores stood closed and empty, the way they’ve been since 1968, when the last small businesses were nationalized. “That is where the Sears store was,” said Roberto, pointing to the largest empty building. “But now we have nothing to sell.” Every so often Roberto would snap out of it and resume the official patter: “Over there is a memorial to Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. Perhaps you have a monument to them in North America?” I said I didn’t think so. But mostly, Roberto wanted to talk about free enterprise. He and his wife were sleeping on the mattress his mother bought when she got married: “It has been repaired over and over. We get the TV sometimes from Miami—oh, the ‘Beatty Rest’ mattresses! And what good prices!” Roberto was optimistic. He kept showing me new family owned restaurants. “Look, there’s one!” He pointed to a pizza parlor. “There’s more!” He pointed to several pizza parlors. In Cuba, capitalism’s thin edge of the wedge comes plain or with pepperoni. Roberto thought small private retail shops would be opening soon. He
Made with FlippingBook - professional solution for displaying marketing and sales documents online