New Whims
Pablo's experience confirms Henken's claim. When we meet in May for a drink on Obispo Street, changes surround us. A nightclub around the corner, El Bohemio, has been closed. Police stand outside in larger numbers. Even the bar's usual hipster jazz band is gone. In their place stand five older Cubans who, according to the bartender, "played in the cemetery before coming here." It turns out we were lucky to have music at all: I later learn that most of the young, talented bands can no longer play in the bars, for reasons unknown.
I ask Pablo about a new hustling law I've heard about from other jineteros. Is it true that people caught talking to tourists five times have to spend a year in jail or pay up to 600 pesos, more than a month's salary? "Si," he says. "But it's not a new law. It's a new whim."
"What's it mean for you?" I ask. "Are you still painting?"
"Not like before," Pablo says. He goes on to explain how his brother kicked him out of the studio they were sharing because he couldn't pay his share of the necessary taxes.
"I paint at home a little bit now, and it's better because it's just for me," he says.
We get up and start walking toward an outdoor concert that's taking place near the Hotel Nacional, where Al Capone used to stay. I'm nervous that we're going to get stopped by the police, but Pablo says they'll recognize that we're friends. Near a store selling Ray-Ban sunglasses, he runs into another jinetero, a light-skinned man who, like Pablo, has a shaved head. They chat for a while about a pair of Americans they met the day before, and again we're off. Pablo tells me his friend was actually a partner.
In response to the new jinetero rule, which first appeared in January, he and five other men banded together to create a more efficient form of hustling. They held a series of meetings where each person laid out his technique, along with key details such as how to tell when tourists have just arrived or what clothes correspond to which country. These would allow them to form quicker bonds with tourists and thus (they hoped) avoid the police and claims of harassment.
They also agreed to share resources. "I have an advantage because I speak English," Pablo explains. "Someone else, they have a way to get cigars. It's, ah, how do you say it, an organized crime."
As I digest all of this, wondering if it really is an organized crime, we continue our walk down the tree-lined Prado. It's Saturday, and artists are out with their kiosks, selling semi-Cubist water-colored portraits and oils of buxom Cuban women. I ask Pablo how he's making money these days, and his response surprises me: "Tobacco, drugs -- whatever people want." When I ask him how he feels about this, given his previous sanctimony, he tells me he was wrong to be so critical. "I didn't realize it would ever be this hard," he says. "You have to do it to survive. Some days I sell 12 boxes of cigars, and things are great. Other times, I don't sell anything for weeks and I'm lucky to sell some marijuana."
Pablo stresses that he's also trying to learn German so he can talk to yet another group of potential customers. He still insists that he tries very hard to "make money without hurting anyone." But it's not easy.
I agree, but isn't there another way to earn dollars? What about teaching English? And then, tired of my badgering questions, he suddenly stops walking. He pulls out his wallet.
"OK, you want the truth?" he says. "My real business is women."
Now I'm really shocked. What about all the regrets from the experience with his sister Susanna? Who are these women you're selling?
"No," he says, laughing, tugging at a picture under the billfold. "Women! Look. I have a German girlfriend."
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