Playboy and Margaux Goto Cuba

As we approached Cuba in a twin-engined plane from Miami, we flew into heavy clouds. I felt we were going through some protective covering, as if Treasure Island lay below. I felt strange vibrations, as if I were going to be rediscovering some lost land, and was thinking it had to be a great place, and most likely still was, because Grandpapa lived there for so long and was so happy there. I was really excited to finally return to Cuba.

We swooped down through the clouds and landed at Havana's José Marti Airport. Just after we passed through customs, I went to the bathroom. In the John, a speaker was blaring, "Climb every mountain, ford every stream...." And I thought, Oh, my God, my first impression of Cuba--climb every mountain!

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We got into the bus that was going to be our home on the road for the next few days. The Cuban tourist official who was accompanying us, giving a big chuckle, said to me, "OK, we got a dressing room in here for you, but we don't have a mirror." I thought to myself, I don't need a mirror. I'm not some skinny model who has to primp in front of a mirror all the time. I was into athletics--a ski racer--and it annoyed me to be stereotyped at first glance. We got along fine after that.

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My first stay in Cuba was in 1956. My parents, sister and I had an apartment at the Edificio Rio Mar in Havana, right down the Malecon Boulevard from the Riviera Hotel, which was where the Playboy editors and models and photographer David Kennerly stayed on this trip. On that first day back, I thought of the things a person remembers from childhood. Some turn out to be real and others turn out to be things we dream up. Sometimes I think that those we dream up are as important. What I remember best about being in Cuba in 1956 is how the huge ocean waves used to smash up against our apartment windows. Later, I figured that was something I had just made up--the waves couldn't have been that strong. But the first thing I did on this trip when we got to our hotel room was to look outside.There were the waves, smashing up against the sea wall, sending water 30 or 40 feet into the air! I watched from the window, mesmerized, as the waves hit cars passing by. No dream.

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Before I left for Cuba, my mother had told me about an incident that happened when we lived at the Rio Mar apartment. This was when there were a lot of Las Vegas people in Havana. Mother used to try to strike up conversations with some of the other ladies, but they weren't too talkative. Today, I kind of have a hunch why. Anyway, the kids liked to fish off the side of the dock in front of the Edificio Rio Mar, using broomsticks to which they tied jack-knives. One of the kids was fishing for tiburónes--sharks--with some kind of ball on the end of the knife, but he didn't get any bites. His little sister, who happened to be my best friend--I was two or three at the time--was standing nearby. This boy suddenly grabbed her and dunked her into the water as shark bait. I ran back to the apartment, screaming, "Mother, Mother, the tiburónes are going to eat up my friend!" As I recall, I don't think he got any bites.

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We shot our first session of fashion photography the first day, and by the time we finished, I was bushed. We took a break at La Bodeguita del Medio, one of Grandpapa's best-known hangouts. La Bodeguita turns out to be a funky, charming tavern whose walls are covered with graffiti. And that's when I had my first real encounter with the family legend: Angel Martinez, the former owner, seemed to recognize me at once, rushed up and gave me a warm bear hug. He has shiny white hair, beautiful skin and hands that somehow made me think back to the Fifties.

"You look just like your grandfather!" he exclaimed.

What a compliment!

He asked me about my father, Jack, whom he had known as Bumby when he was a kid in (continued on page 215) Margaux (continued from page 127) Havana. He showed me around the place and as we chatted, his eyes misted up. "I feel like I'm your godfather," he kept saying. Several rum mojitos (a kind of daiquiri with crushed mint) were thrust into my hand and it occurred to me that I'd just as soon have spent days with Angel, tossing down mojitos. But there was another fashion shooting scheduled for the afternoon. So I told Angel we had to go. The tradition at La Bodeguita is that its regular patrons write something on the wall (a tradition going back to Grandpapa), but Angel insisted I leave something more appropriate: a polaroid of myself. I inscribed it. Angel tacked it up on the wall and we embraced goodbye.

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Later that afternoon, we were doing some fashion shots in old Havana's Central Park. The people strolling through the park knew something was going on, because there were all these people following a tall blonde lady who was wearing big brown baggy pants, a Cuba T-shirt, with her hair in pigtails. I wasn't putting on airs: I looked just like everybody else. It felt great.

Looking around Havana is like being in a time warp. All the cars are like '54 Studebakers, '56 Chevies, a couple of old Cadillacs. Our tourist guide told me, "We've solved the traffic problem." Another feature that makes Havana seem wonderfully caught in time is that the buildings are mostly pastel pinks and sherbet colors.

Kennerly wanted to take some pictures of me walking across the street at an intersection. Because we had a large entourage, and because the shooting attracted spectators, we literally stopped traffic. I was striking a couple of poses in the middle of the street when a man in an old jalopy began to lean on his horn. He was furious at the delay. I gave him a big wink and smiled a big smile; he honked again, only friendly this time, and I smiled back.

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Our next stop was the Partagas cigar factory. We were given a tour and then the factory manager took me up to a podium where announcements are made to the assembled workers. They all applauded me when the foreman announced who I was. They had a wonderful way of doing it, too: They took their cutting tools and pounded them on the table. I was flattered, but then the reality of the situation hit me. I would have been much more comfortable if I had been there in my blue jeans. I got up on the platform and said a few words in Spanish, but I felt terrible. Usually, I feel comfortable in situations like this, but at that moment, I felt like a mannequin. I kept wondering, What am I doing here with five-inch heels and a ton of make-up in front of all these people who are working their butts off?

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Later that evening, we went to La Floridita--one of the most famous bars in Havana and the one where Grandpapa spent most of his leisure time. There is a bust of him over the seat at the bar where he used to sit. His perch afforded him a view of the whole bar, so that when he found someone interesting to talk to, he would move right in on him, from the bar to the table, point-blank.

When we were there, we had to do some fashion shots, but I went over to the bust in the corner and took a close look at it. One of the regulars came over to flirt with me. I guess he developed a crush on me and he kept saying, "Oh, you're so marbellous, Margaux!" It was hard to live down that phrase. Everybody in our group kept calling me Marbellous margaux.

The only drink Grandpapa used to drink there was daiquiris, so they told me; only he liked his in a bigger glass than the ones they were usually served in. The bartender brought out one of the larger glasses for my benefit and gave me a daiquiri the way Grandpapa liked it.

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On Saturday, we drove out to Grandpapa's house, which is called the Finca Vigía, or Lookout Farm. It's about 25 minutes outside Havana, and as we approached it, I remembered the driveway from my childhood. Other memories filled me as well: the little house where the gardener stayed; the pool; Grandpapa's boat, the Pilar, which is preserved on the grounds of the house.

When I walked into the house, I got goose-pimples. I ran through the rooms and touched and rediscovered everything in sight. The caretakers of the place were taken aback, but I introduced myself to them and they broke into smiles.

One thing that a lot of people don't know about my grandfather is that he really loved cats a lot. He had about 40 cats around the Finca, but he let only ten or so into the house.

There were dozens of books on cats in his library: Funny thing is, I don't remember any cats in his books.

The house was lift just as it was when Grandpapa and Mary lived there. The same magazines on the bed, the same bottles in the rolling bar Grandpapa had in the living room. It's a museum now, of course, but it's very intimate. You get the feeling someone's still living there, or some part of someone is still living there. It really surprises me how much I remembered, since I was so young when I was last there. Memories and feelings are sometimes very strange and beautiful. My father and mother's wedding picture sits next to a wooden monkey and a whole bunch of other wooden toys that my sister and I used to play with.

I remembered the chaise longue by the pool and was surprised to see it again. As I posed in it, knowing that a picture of me and my sister with Grandpapa and the family around the same chair existed, it seemed incredibly tiny now. Jesus, I thought, I'm so big!

Grandpapa also had, for that time, an incredible hi-fi system, with huge speakers. He had a lot of Cole Porter records and a large jazz collection, which is still there. Apparently, he picked up a lot of his interest in jazz when he was in Paris between wars.

One of the funniest things I found was under the glass on top of his desk: a license that permitted him to drink alcohol in Idaho. Is anyone out there in Idaho reading this?

Mary built Grandpapa a lookout atop the house, where he could work and where he could have an unobstructed 360-degree view. There's a portrait of Grandpapa up there that Kennerly claimed my grandfather and I look very much alike and that the similarity was greatest in the portrait. There's that compliment again.

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Saturday night we all went to the Tropicana, which is one of the biggest and certainly the most famous night club in Havana. It was utterly 1956! There's a floorshow where all the girls have these fairly demure, peekaboo costumes, not skin but lots of glitter-glitter. My date slicked his hair back and wrote a double-breasted white-linen suit, and I put on these wonderful big, droopy earrings. The floorshow also had an African number, a kind of Cuban solo routine. They really know how to shake it out down there.

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On our last day, we visited Cojimar, the fishing village where Grandpapa kept the Pilar. There's a Hemingway Square in the middle of the village and I'm told years ago, children went around collecting money from the residents to pay for the bronze bust of Grandpapa that stands there now. The same bust, only smaller, is also at the Floridita bar.

My father had told me before coming back that Grandpapa had taken us on picnics in the surrounding area; I remembered a river that flowed through a sugar-cane valley where we would wade after mullet, crawdad and bass. Since I was brought up on Cuban food, I was right at home every meal we had during the trip: black beans, chicken with rice.

As we strolled past the square, an old man in blue sneakers, wearing fishstained clothing, walked up to me. It was Gregoria may have been one of the people closest to Grandpapa in the entire world, because they spent so much time together; they were true companions.

Gregorio spent a good part of the afternoon reminiscing about Grandpapa. Some of our conversation was about the family. Grandpapa and Mary left Cuba in July 1960, intending to go back, and Gregorio remembers Grandpapa telling him, "When I retire, you retire." Which Gregorio did, that year.

Gregorio said that many people thought of grandpapa as a boozer. "He was no boozer," Gregorio said. "When he wanted a drink, he took a drink. When he wanted a girl, he had her, you know? He was a real man."

Then, as the tropical afternoon drew to a close, Gregorio turned to me and asked, "Wasn't your grandfather working on a book about me toward the end? A book about me and the boat?"

"Yes," I said. "It was his last book. He called it Islands in the Stream and it was made into a movie." Gregorio just nodded. He hadn't heard the news before.

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Our Cuban hosts from the tourist department gave us a sumptuous goodbye lunch on our last day there. I looked forward to seeing them again when I came back to Cuba with my dad to participate in the annual Hemingway fishing tournament later in the year. I was also hoping that Fidel Castro would be there, so that I could meet him. Interestingly enough, Fidel had won the prize for the heaviest marlin cought during the tournament in 1960, so it was likely he'd be there again this year.

"What am I doing here with five-inch heels and a ton of make-up in front of all these people?"