Havana. Cuba. An odd building stands on the Malecón boulevard. A fourteen-story tower in the heart of the old colonial district. Strange tales are told about it. Gloomy gossips. A few legends too. The building faces the sea, like a great motionless body, washed by the salty winds and the waves of stormy days. Inside, on all floors, the sounds of Cuban life echo in the stairwell. Elevators carry people up and down. A world above. A world below. The old cleaning lady is talking to herself again. Pipes are leaking. The phone line is dead. On the 9th floor, Elsa is reeling, somewhere between recklessness and solitude. On the ground floor, in the small parking lot, Rene is patching up an old American car. Hours go by. Night falls. The 51 Malecón has a life of its own. It thrives on humans.