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These little stories have so far all started or ended with a location. Not this one. In a moment, you'll understand why not and why it is also out of sequence.

One day we came across a man having trouble with his bike. Not a lot of trouble but enough to annoy him. He had the bike upside down and he was pedalling backwards, turning the freewheel. Or trying to turn the freewheel. His problem was that the chain snatched and bunched up and that the gears didn't work.

We helped, because that's what cyclists do, and it turned out that nine-tenths of his problems could be solved by the liberal application of oil to the chain and into the old-style, screw-on freewheel. We poured it in until it began to dribble down the spokes, wiped off the excess, turned the pedals backwards and the chain behaved pretty much as it should. We instantly achieved the status of Miracle Workers.

In return, he insisted, we should be treated to cold drinks and coffee.

We went into his house, shook hands with his wife and listened as he explained what marvels we had just produced with no more than an oil can. The drinks were prepared and, as we waited, I remarked on still more drinks on a shelf at the back of the main room. There was a collection of spirits: one of Courvoisier, several of J.B. and Grant's whisky, one of Martel.

"You don't drink them all yourself?" I asked with a smile.

He flashed back a far more knowing grin.

"No," he said. "They're for sale."

People in private houses can't afford a dozen bottles of foreign drink. Rum, yes. "El ron" is the everyday drink of Cuba, by itself from bottles carried through the streets or in bars in cocktails such as mojito. Foreign drinks somewhat less so. I suspected that the bottles on show were just part of a bigger stock, elsewhere in the house or somewhere he could get hold of them quickly. Clearly we had been invited to look behind the formal face of the Cuban economy, into the Cuba of the black market and quite possibly faked.

The phone rang twice in succession. Ramero answered in Spanish far too fast for me to understand, which doesn't have to be very fast but which I'm sure was deliberate. No names, no friendly greetings. Just a message given, received and acknowledged.

Ramero came back, pointed to the phone he had just returned to its cradle, then smiled. Understood.

"This one's 10 pesos," he said, picking up a bottle of Old Premier. He tapped the top of a bottle of Clan Campbell whisky and added: "This one, too. But the others are more." A 75cl bottle of JB was 15 pesos. A full litre was 20. Courvoisier was 25.

"Then there's this," he said, like a conjuror pulling a rabbit from a hat. His hand produced a bottle of Martel cognac from behind the rest.

"What would you pay for that in France?"

I told him, truthfully, that I had no idea. Steph neither.

"It's 50 a bottle from me," he said.

I was wise enough not to ask where the stuff came from. Even wiser to avoid asking whether it was strictly what was described on the label. Instead, I asked where it went. He looked vague and waved his arm in a tour d'horizon.

"Oh, all around, you know," he answered.

The phone went again. Still no names, no greetings. Just another mental note. Ramero was obviously having a good morning. First his bike and then the drink.