[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “No one does that unless they have a reason,” her mother had said, smiling, as she fanned herself that afternoon.

  “You’re saying that because you know his family,” Frankie said.

  “What’s wrong with that? They’re good stock. Smart. Not showy.” She peered at Frankie. “And you’re not getting any younger, Francesca.”

  “Mama, I’m only eighteen.”

  “Like I said…” Her mother looked down her nose at her. “I don’t know why you don’t want to settle down. Nicky is crazy about you.” When Frankie didn’t reply, her mother added, “The world don’t owe you any favors, you know.”

  Frankie sighed. How many times had she heard her parents say that? That and the “What grocery store does his father own?” refrain her father lobbed every time she dated someone he didn’t know.

  With Nick, though, her parents didn’t have to make annoying comments. The Antonettis and the Pacellis had known each other forever, maybe as far back as the Old Country. Nick was two years older than Frankie; they used to play in the sandbox together when they were babies. Now he was going into his senior year at Penn, the first Antonetti to go to an Ivy League school, his father crowed. He was handsome, with thick blond hair—some Northern Italian in his lineage—green eyes fringed with thick lashes, and a tight, athletic build honed by three years of crew. After college Nick would be going to business school. She was a lucky girl, her mother never failed to remind her, to have hooked such a prize.

  Now he draped an arm around her back. “You going to let me in on the joke?” he asked.

  She swiveled and flashed him a smile. “It wasn’t important.”

  He kissed her cheek. “As long as you’re happy.”

  Frankie scanned the room. La Perla occupied a full block off the Malecón in Vedado, the up and coming neighborhood of Havana. The resort dripped luxury: a three-story lobby, mirrored walls and ceiling, plush upholstery, and elaborate chandeliers, which were never turned on full, but if they were, would scorch every shadow within a square mile. The casino was large and hired more dealers in Havana than any other place. In fact, La Perla was more lavish than the Riviera or the newly opened Hilton. Plus, it was fully air-conditioned, which helped profits during the off-season. Everyone knew gamblers spent more when they were cool.

  “Look at this crowd,” Frankie said. “It’s the middle of August. Low tourist season. At least it’s supposed to be. But the place is packed. Of course, it’s not the same crowd you see in the winter—you know, the women who throw on their mink stoles at night after tanning by the pool all day.”

  Nick cocked his head, as if he was trying to figure out what she meant.

  “These tourists are on the budget plan. They couldn’t afford to be here otherwise. Still, here they are, in their fancy clothes, dropping all their hard-earned cash at the casino, convincing themselves they’re having the time of their lives.”

  “No one forced them to come,” Nick said.

  “That’s true.” She waved her hand. “But then you go outside and see the boys diving off the cliffs over in Miramar—sometimes the Malecón to scrounge a few pennies or nickels. Or the girls in the streets selling themselves for a bowl of rice and beans. It doesn’t seem fair that some have so much, and others so little.”

  Nick pulled her close. “That’s what I love about you, Francesca. You have a big heart.”

  “Mine isn’t so big. It’s that others’ are too small.”

  A waiter in a tuxedo approached with another round of drinks.

  “Gracias, Ramon, but I think we’re fine.” She peered at Nick. “Unless you want another?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “May I bring you something else?” Ramon asked. “A sweet? Some helado?”

  “No, gracias.”

  Ramon nodded and gave them his back. Frankie watched him retreat.

  “Take Ramon, for instance. I overheard him talking to the maitre d’ the other day. His mother is sick, and he had to take her to the hospital. He asked for extra shifts, so he can pay for her medicine. It’s being flown in from New York, he says.”

  “That’s a shame.” Nick paused. “Look, I don’t want to be insensitive, but there will always be the ‘haves’ and ‘have nots.’ Class structure depends on it.”

  “Is that what they teach you in Philadelphia? I doubt the rebels in the Sierra Maestra would agree.”

  “Ah, the rebels.” His expression turned serious. “It always comes back to them.” He dropped his arm. “You know what I think, Frankie? Fidel and Che can spend a century trying to change society, but in the final analysis, they will fail.”

  “How do you know?”

  He smiled, but there was a slightly patronizing air to it. As if he was teaching a slow child. “The rebels want to topple the Batista regime, correct?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s say they succeed.”

  She crossed herself.

  “Yes, I know. But imagine for a moment they do. What do you think will happen?”

  She furrowed her brow. “They will create a new democratic state.”

  “Exactly. But who exactly will run that new state? Fidel, Che, Cienfuegos, Fidel’s brother, and the others who’ve been hiding in the mountains. They will become the new ruling class. The privileged ones. And a new class of underlings will take their place. Probably those who profited under Batista but whose fortunes will have been confiscated by the rebels. And doled out to the new ruling class. So you see? It’s simply a re-ordering of class structure. Not a new model.”

  Frankie thought about it. “I hope I’m not here when it happens.”

  “If it does. But I hope you’re not, too. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Or your family.” Nicky leaned over and kissed her.

  His lips were soft and accommodating. Frankie let her own linger on his. Then she pulled back. The walls felt like they were closing in. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Nick pulled back. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Your parents told me not to take you out alone. The streets… they are—”

  Frankie waved a dismissive hand. “Just along the Malecón. Nothing will happen to us.”

  “I don’t know, Frankie.” Nick’s voice was uncertain.

  “With you protecting me,” she said with a smile, “No mala gente will come within twenty yards of us. Please.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment. Then he nodded, as she knew he would, got up from his chair, and guided her out.

  • • •

  They linked arms as they strolled east on Havana’s boardwalk. A rocky seawall fortified by concrete separated the street from the bay, but in stormy weather, waves often crashed over the top, flooding the street. Tonight, though, the waves were puny. The trade winds, which usually cradled Havana with a gentle breeze, were dead calm, and the heavy air held a salty tang.

  The Malecón was mostly a fishing spot by day but a gathering place at night. Frankie and Nick passed a couple locked in a passionate embrace; a young beggar who stared at them blankly; another with shifty eyes that indicated he had a plan. Still others congregated in small groups, singing and strumming guitars.

  Beyond the seawall, the bay was inky black. They’d missed the sunset with its pink and orange streaks that dipped so low they seemed to touch the turquoise water. Cuba was the most beautiful place on earth, Cubans would tell you. “Christopher Columbus said there was no prettier place seen by human eyes,” Frankie explained to Nick. “That’s why they call it the ‘Pearl of the Antilles.’”

  “Which is why there was no other name for the resort,” Nick replied.

  She smiled. “Exactly.”

  They walked on. Frankie loved Cuba. She hadn’t really known any other home. Now, though, her parents were pressuring her to go back to the States. If she was going to college, she wouldn’t have minded. But she’d been entertaining thoughts of getting a job. Starting her own restaurant, perhaps. Unfortunately, her parents would never permit that. Not that they
’d say no, but they’d make something else sound so much more attractive she couldn’t afford to turn it down. Like marrying Nick. Becoming a wife and mother.

  “You wanna own a restaurant?” she imagined her father saying in his flat Midwest accent with the Italian twist. “Fine, I’ll buy you one. But I don’t want you working long shifts where you come into contact with all dat—dat…”

  “Cooking?” she imagined herself replying. “Kitchen work? Employees?”

  Her father would shake his head. “Nah. You got it wrong. You wanna be a success, you gotta be the boss from the get go. You set up a company, get investors, become one of those—whadda they call ‘em—entrepreneurs. You get other people to do the hiring, cooking, and all. But you get the profits.”

  “Once your children are in school,” her mother would add coyly.

  Frankie’s thoughts were cut short by Nick. “Frankie…” He slowed as they rounded a curve on the Malecón. “Frankie…” his voice was soft and husky. “I think you know why I came down here.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant. She hoped he didn’t see.

  “I love you. I have from the first time I met you.”

  She giggled. “In the sandbox?”

  “Well, you know…”

  She tried to keep it light. “And when you tried to put a frog down my dress?”

  He cracked a smile. “Puppy love.”

  She giggled again. “And now, I can expect what? Maybe since we’re in the tropics, a lizard or scorpion?”

  He placed both hands on her shoulders. “You can expect my love, trust and loyalty. Forever. Francesca, will you marry me?”

  An uneasy feeling fluttered her stomach. “Oh, Nicky.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  She gently ran her fingers down his cheeks to his jaw. Nick had a pointy chin. It jutted out too far, giving him an aggressive look, but it had a deep cleft in the center, which she loved. He covered her hands with his own.

  “Well?”

  “If I wanted to marry anyone, it would be you.”

  He let go of her hands. “But?”

  She swallowed. “I’m not ready. There’s so much I want to do. You know. Before.”

  “Like what?”

  She looked around the Malecón as if it might hold the answer. “I’m not sure. But I—I’ve lived here since I was a little girl. It’s paradise. But it’s not real. I need a taste of the real world before I—I get married. I want to do something. Be someone.”

  “You are already. To me.”

  “Oh Nicky, you always say the right thing. You know what I mean. I want to be something besides Tony Pacelli’s daughter. I want to travel. Contribute. Participate.”

  He didn’t reply for a moment. Then, “Okay. Let’s do it together. I don’t have to go to business school.”

  “Of course you do. Your father—he’s so proud of you.”

  “What about you, Frankie? Are you? Proud of me?”

  She smiled up at him. “Oh, yes.”

  “And you love me?”

  She took his cheeks in her hands again and nodded.

  “But you don’t want to marry me.”

  “That’s not true. I do. But not yet.”

  He bit his lip, as if he wasn’t sure what to say. Then he brightened. “I have an idea. They have this new—arrangement—in the States. They call it being pinned. I give you my fraternity pin. You wear it. It’s like—a commitment. More than going steady, but not quite engaged.”

  “Engaged to be engaged,” she said.

  He nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I read about it in a magazine. Didn’t Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds do that?”

  “I have no idea,” Nick said. “But I want us to.”

  Frankie hesitated. Then she rose on her toes and kissed him. “Oh, amore… I think—”

  The syncopated thumps of drums cut her off. Frankie pulled back. The drumbeats were coming from a spot nearby that Cubans called the Balcony of the Malecón because of the view. Across from the Hotel Nacional, the Balcony was filled with people. She turned toward the drums. By their sound, they could have been bongos, a congas or a batá—Cubans played a profusion of percussion instruments. The beats were overlaid with a sweet but mournful guitar. She gazed at the rocks. A muted glow threw irregular, flickering shadows their way. Candles. Someone was dancing in front of them. She took Nick’s hand and urged him forward, but he resisted. She moved closer anyway, as if pushed by an unseen force.

  A group of young, dark-skinned Cubans sat in a circle. Two men had the drums, another a shaker, yet another a guitar. All of them dipped their heads to the beat, watching a young woman in the middle of the circle. She was tall, with red lips, cinnamon skin, and dark hair. She wore a sleeveless top and a pair of shorts that showed off her legs. She swayed to the beat, arms over her head, sweeping them from side to side. At the same time she fluttered her hands at right angles to her wrists, as if pantomiming a story.

  Her eyes were narrowed to slits, and she looked like she was in a trance. But her dreamy expression told Frankie it was a trance of joy, of sexuality, of knowing the men wanted her, but that she wanted the gods of Orisha, the most important god of the Santería religion. Santería, a mix of West African, Catholic, and Native American rites, was full of magic, trances, drums, and dance, and was practiced by many Cubans.

  “Look, Nicky,” she whispered. “Isn’t she amazing?”

  His expression was uncertain.

  Frankie turned back. The persistent beat, the flicker of the candles, and the sheen of sweat on the woman’s face were hypnotic. As the dancer whirled and turned, a primal urge surfaced in Frankie. She felt as if the trance was claiming her too, forcing her hips to move, pushing her forward. Then the dancer’s eyes opened, and she looked straight at Frankie. Frankie felt a spark pass between them. The dancer stretched out her arms and beckoned. Frankie stole a glance at Nick. He was frozen.

  Frankie crept to the edge of the circle. The men on the ground parted to make room for her. The candles threw shafts of orange and yellow across the group. The dancer continued to beckon and twist and sway. Frankie felt an overpowering urge to give herself up to the music, the glow of the candles, the beat. To fly with the Santería dancer. Pay homage to the god Orisha. All it would take was one step. One tiny step.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Next Afternoon

  “What were you thinking going out by yourself? You know you’re supposed to take Enrico!” Frankie’s father bellowed the day after the explosion. Shouting was unusual for Tony Pacelli. He was a bull of a man who made any room he entered seem small. Sturdy and round-faced, with an olive complexion and thick dark hair, he was handsome in a rugged, old-fashioned way, before men took to perfumed after-shave and manicured nails. He’d started out as a bodyguard for a Chicago Outfit boss but was promoted to manager of the Family’s restaurant supply business. He did a good job, and didn’t skim much off the top, so when Meyer Lansky offered him an opportunity to run a small venture in Havana, Tony jumped. A few years later, he was running La Perla and starting his own Family.

  Tony was successful because he gave his employees and capos the impression he didn’t care about power. Which, of course, was why it had been given to him. Another reason for his success was his calm demeanor. Pacelli was a soft-spoken man who rarely lost his temper. Over the years he earned the nickname “Silver-tongued Tony.”

  The only exception was his family. His wife and daughter could send him into fits of passion and anger more violent than a cockfight. And he was angry now. He picked up the morning paper and swatted it against his knee. “Where is your buon senso, Francesca?”

  “I was there,” Frankie replied evenly. “And if you’d seen the rubble, and the flames, and heard the screams, you would have stayed, too. People were trapped. They were dying. They needed help.”

  Her father snorted and peered at the paper. The bomb blast was front page news, and since the papers were controlled by Batista, the
story was covered in lurid detail. Nine people had been killed, mostly bank employees. The police had rounded up several rebels and were “interrogating” them. Which, Frankie knew, was code for torture.

  “It’s a good thing Enrico showed up when he did,” her father said, eyes flashing. “Did you ever stop to think that you could have been kidnapped, wounded, perhaps killed by those animals? Francesca, you must remember who you are.”

  He threw the paper down and stomped over to the balcony of their penthouse. Now that her father managed La Perla, they’d moved from the suburb of Miramar into the resort. The other penthouse was rented out to VIP celebrities who visited the island, and Frankie had spotted a showgirl or two sneaking out in the morning, hair mussed and make-up smeared.

  Frankie knew what she was supposed to do. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re right.” Her father gazed down at the bay and the ocean beyond. “It won’t.” He turned around.

  Frankie cocked her head.

  “It’s time for you to leave Cuba.”

  “No.” It slipped out. “I can’t. I mean, not yet.”

  Her father came back to the table where she, her mother, and Nick were seated. “You can, and you will.” He turned to Frankie’s mother. “Marlena, you help her pack. Nick can take her back when he goes.”

  “But I don’t want to go.” Frankie turned to her mother. “Mama, you don’t want me to leave. I know you don’t.”

  Marlena Pacelli, a small woman with soft features and a quiet manner, always deferred to her husband. But when he wasn’t around, she had a wicked sense of humor and the heartiest laugh Frankie had ever heard.

  “Mama,” Frankie begged. “Please.”

  Pain shot across her mother’s face. Frankie knew what she was thinking. She’d showered all her hopes and dreams on her daughter. She’d borne a son a few years before Frankie, but he died from scarlet fever when he was four. His portrait, painted from a family photo, hung on the wall of their living room. Separation from her only living child would be unbearable.