Silverio insists that he lives to work, that he doesn’t drink or smoke or even fool around with anybody other than his wife, who gave birth a few months ago to their first child, Michael. When I tell him I don’t believe a word of this, he laughs, slapping his hands on his knees before sinking more deeply into the passenger seat.

Somehow, we make it to Spanish Harlem, although my cautious driving has apparently annoyed the driver in a convertible behind us. After the light changed, the man peeled out in front of us, sticking out his arm and making a lewd gesture. “I think this is for us,” I say.

At Flor de Mayo, a Chinese-Cuban fast-food place near Silverio’s apartment, I buy him a Coke and treat myself to really strong coffee. As we enjoy our break, Silverio and I brag about Latino culture. We talk about our people’s sensuality, sense of humor, and friendliness, savoring the moment. But Silverio believes that not all Latinos are created equal. Puerto Ricans, he says, are to be trusted more and Dominicans less. Cubans are out, I suspect because of Castro.

The day of the test, I drive Silverio all the way to Long Island to the school’s test site. He opens up about what happened when he was 23 and through a random tryst in Mexico got a woman pregnant. He has never met his son. For what it’s worth, I share a slice of my own family history.

In 1981 my uncle fled the island for America, leaving his daughters behind. Twenty-four years later, before he died in New York, I went to his apartment on Fordham Road in the Bronx and interviewed him about his life. Later, I took the tapes to his children in Cuba. I filmed one of my Cuban cousins, crying and laughing, listening to the father she hardly knew, his deep voice conveying an intimacy they had never shared yet had always been there.

Silverio and I are both moved by this story. We reflect silently on love and separation, on the plight of immigrants and refugees. We feel close enough to remain quiet the rest of the way to Long Island.

My instructor is a chubby Dominican with bright green eyes and curly chestnut hair. Chewing gum, she asks me where I am from.

“France,” I say, starting the engine after making a big show of putting on my seat belt, looking into the rear mirror and adjusting everything I can possibly adjust. “But my mother is Cuban.”

As we drive, my instructor tells me her age without fear — 50 — and says she is looking for a place to go on her honeymoon.

“Congratulations,” I say. “Your first marriage?”

“I got married three times, honey,’’ she replies. “One for love, two for the show, three for the money.”

“Italy,” I suggest. “Toscana. Romantic, plus the shopping is awesome.”

My three-point turn is impeccable. As we drive back to our starting point, I see Silverio in the distance standing alone on the sidewalk waiting for me. I triumphantly wave my temporary license at him as I climb out of the car.

On our way back to Manhattan, the radio plays cheesy Mexican love songs. For a while, Silverio and I become strangers again, having finished the business that brought us together. Silverio is lost in his thoughts.

“Castro?” I ask.

No, the son lost to him.

I am driving, my left arm out of the window, pretending the wind I feel comes from big open spaces. Maybe between the two of us fits a good old definition of the American dream.