The Errant Husband , livre ebook

Expertly entwining present and past, ordinary and extraordinary, comedy and seriousness, this sparkling novel about a likably cranky Calgary parks manager in Cuba resounds with depth. A multi-faceted, satisfying read.
anne fleming author of The Goat
Part mystery, part history, part travelogue, Elizabeth Haynes introduces us to Thelma, a woman who, after being stood up by her husband at a Cuban airport asks the question, why are women always waiting for men? A curious note left by Wally has Thelma reframing and examining her marriage. Told in a quippy and fun manner, the book tips flawlessly between past and present when Thelma refuses to put her vacation on hold and instead goes on a quest for answers that lead to a personal journey of remembrance and intrigue. What and why we hold onto false ideals is at the heart of this book as we collectively discover that often being lost is key to allowing life to begin. This is a lovely and unforgettable novel.
katherin edwards author of A Thin Band
A funny, gripping mystery of the heart told with drop-dead timing and heart-stopping love. Nerdy missing husband, chatty stranger, flirtatiously artistic taxi driver, poetic potential husband thief—Haynes writes them all with full-fledged humanity and respect.
roberta rees author of Long After Fathers
During a trip to Havana, Thelma Dangerfield gazes at a 16th century statue of Isabel de Bobadilla, governor of Cuba and wife of Hernando de Soto. The conquistador left his wife to govern the island while he attempted to conquer Florida. He never returned. As she waits for Wally, her errant husband, Thelma wonders about Isabel, a historic example of the waiting woman. Her husband has disappeared and she is determined to follow the clues to find him. Thus begins Elizabeth Haynes’s compelling story of a woman who carries self- doubt, grief, and a heck of a lot more inside her. By turns funny, erudite, tense and quite moving, The Errant Husband introduces us to an intriguing new voice in Canadian writing.
david carpenter author of The Gold
A travelogue with a literary twist, a mojito with an extra shot of lime, The Errant Husband is a wry, winsome adventure tale, ultimately revealing those secrets we dare not tell ourselves.
margaret macpherson author of Body Trade





Copyright @ 2021 Elizabeth Haynes
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher or by licensed agreement with Access: The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (contact accesscopyright.ca).
Editor: Susan Musgrave
Cover art: Brandi Hofer
Book and cover design: Tania Wolk, Third Wolf Studio
Printed and bound in Canada at Friesens, Altona, MB
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of Creative Saskatchewan, the Canada Council for the Arts and SK Arts.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The errant husband / Elizabeth Haynes.
Names: Haynes, Elizabeth, 1959- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210284072 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210284102 |
ISBN 9781989274583
(softcover) | ISBN 9781989274590 (PDF)
Classification: LCC PS8565.A934 E77 2021 | DDC C813/.54—dc23
Box 33128 Cathedral PO
Regina, SK S4T 7X2
info@radiantpress.ca
www.radiantpress.ca


For my father, Sterling Haynes, and my dear friends Karin Herrero, Sophia Lang and Sue Christensen-Wright. You left too soon. You are with me always.


Prologue
In the city of Havana, where Avenida del Puerto meets Desemparado, stands El Castillo de la Real Fuerza, the first and oldest of four forts guarding Havana harbour. Built in 1558, it is surrounded by limestone walls six meters thick. Tourists can saunter inside the cannon studded courtyard, cross the moat by drawbridge, admire the suits of armour then climb to the top of a round tower for views of old Havana and the sea. On top of that tower is La Giraldilla, a bronze weathervane of a woman in a diaphanous gown holding a scepter, her crowned head held high, scanning the ocean. She is Isabel de Bobadilla, wife of conquistador Hernando De Soto. He sailed away to conquer Florida in 1539, leaving her to govern the island.
He did not return.

1

chapter 1
Cuba, 2005
All of the tourists from Thelma’s flight push their luggage carts through the glass doors of the International Airport into the brilliant Havana afternoon. Customs officials gather around a couple of expatriate Cubans, leaving a scowling young woman in a tight blue uniform to look after the rest of them. She stares at Thelma’s new espadrilles for a few moments, then nods her past.
Outside, warm air caresses her. Men in starched white guayaberas and black pants wave signs: Mr. and Mrs. Marko, Familia Santa Cruz, Havanatour, Amistur, Hotel Melia Cohiba. Thelma pulls her suitcase over to a stone bench and searches for Wally. The waiting crowd surges forward with every whoosh of the glass doors, but Wally is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’s waiting further down the sidewalk where there are fewer people. She pulls her suitcase away from the entrance, stopping to smell some flowers. Jasmine? Heavenly.
A man appears at her side. “Taxi, Señora?” he whispers.
“No thanks.”
Another man flanks her.
“Where are you going?” the second man asks.
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere. That is just outside of Havana. I can drive you there very cheap,” he says, flashing a grin and stroking his moustache.
“I’m waiting for my husband.”
“Your husband is Cuban?” asks the first man, who is thin and clean-shaven.
“Canadian,” Thelma replies, looking past him to a guy in Bermuda shorts and wrinkled t-shirt who could be, but isn’t Wally.
“He is working here?” asks the thin man.
“No, yes, he’s doing some research. He’s writing.”
“What is he writing?”
“A novel based on Hernando De Soto.”
“The first governor of Cuba.”
“According to my husband, his wife, Isabel, did most of the governing.”
“Es verdad,” says the guy with the moustache. “Do you know that Isabel de Bobadilla is the weathervane La Giraldilla on top of el Castillo de la Real Fuerza? It is because she went to the tower every afternoon to see if Hernando was returning yet from La Florida. She is also the symbol on the Havana Club rum bottle.”
“Yes, I do.” Well, she didn’t know about the rum.
“Ah, you are helping your husband in his researches?”
“No, I’m meeting him for a vacation.” A marriage renewal holiday, actually, but he didn’t need to know that. “And I don’t need a taxi,” says Thelma. With a dismissive smile, she returns to crowd scanning.
Wally probably went to the Museum of the Revolution and lost track of time in the Che room or at the Granma memorial, though how much time could one spend staring at a boat, even one as apparently illustrious as the one that transported Fidel and his fellow travelers to Cuba to start the revolution. Thelma slouches out of her sweater and takes a deep breath of the perfumed air. She can feel her winter-hard skin softening already.
“Long flight?” asks the thin man. He’s still there?
“Yes.”
“You are here for how long?”
“Two weeks.”
“I hope you enjoy your stay. Many Canadians come here to escape your cold winter. I, myself, have seen snow when I studied in Leningrado,” says the mustachioed man.
“Only thing that kept him warm was Russian girls.”
“I bet.” She smiles and turns back to the main entrance. Maybe she missed seeing Wally inside.
“I don’t need a taxi,” she repeats. “My husband is coming.”
“I am Jorge,” says the thin man, “and he is Tom á s. If we can be of assistance, we… .”
“Great. I’ll keep you in mind.”
The sun has disappeared behind the palms. The doors open only sporadically now, disgorging hassled looking Cubans and Cuban-foreigner pairs. She’s been waiting for forty-eight minutes. The taxis and minibuses that were lined up against the curb have all filled up with happy vacationers and chugged off into the sunset. Where the hell is Wally?
The men appear beside her. Tomás leans against a pillar and lights a cigarette.
“Your husband is not here?”
“No. Listen, do you have a cell?”
“Sell?” he looks around, lowers his voice. “You would like to sell dollars? Buy pesos?”
“A cell for my husband.”
Tomás wrinkles his forehead. “You have some tissues of your husband, for testing at one of our hospitals, Señora?”
“I need a cell phone.”
“Cell. Phone,” he says, as if trying to discover how the two words might go together.
“A cell phone. A mobile phone.” She gestures opening one. “Para, uh, llevar…? (no, that’s take-out), ?para llamar a mi esposa. Esposo.”
“You need to call your husband?”
“Yes. He’s a bit absentminded. He probably got the flight time wrong.” The two men talk, then Tomás fires a burst of Spanish at her.
“Más despacio, please