HAVANA -- The boss sat behind the desk. Brown water and small fish filled a large tank behind him. He leaned on the desk with his elbows, military uniform on. “Ministry of Interior” was inscribed over his breast pocket. He had a thick black mustache. He was overweight.
The tall fisherman stood in front of the desk. He had on a baseball cap. He was smiling sheepishly. He spoke to the bossman in Spanish.
“This is my cousin,” the tall fisherman said, nodding towards me, the skinny American filmmaker. “He wants to film me doing my job here,” he said.
I stood in the doorway, unsure whether to enter and shake the bossman’s hand or keep my mouth shut. I kept my mouth shut. I had already taken an hour and a half of the tall fisherman’s time. But that was just an interview. Now I wanted to shoot him on the docks and in his boat. That seemed to cross a line. He needed to check with the bossman. Everyone have to.
The bossman leaned back in his chair. He wore a green cap with two black stars on it. The tall fisherman and I stood in silence.
“He’s come from the United States,” the tall fisherman said. The bossman stroked his chin. It looked like he forgot to shave this morning. He looked at me. The fisherman spoke again in Spanish. I didn’t understand them this time. They spoke quickly
