[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Luis was waiting for her on the Malecón as usual, and when he saw her, his face brightened as if lit by a morning sunrise. He took her arm and steered her down the street.

  “Where are we going today?” Frankie asked.

  “You will see.” He squeezed her arm. “It is a surprise.”

  Each day they had explored different neighborhoods of Havana. Frankie thought she knew the city, but Luis’s knowledge of Havana’s history and architecture was deep. Understanding the detail on a church gargoyle, or learning about the past through his eyes made her realize how little she knew about her adopted homeland. Except for her Cuban nanny, her parents had kept her sheltered from the “real” Cuba. Now that she was finally discovering it, she was losing it. She almost laughed at the irony.

  When they weren’t talking about Havana, Luis discussed subjects no one had before. He would lay out his views, about reason versus passion, for example, or whether God exists, then ask what she thought. For the first time she felt as if her opinion mattered. She felt adult. As she grew more comfortable with him, she told him things she’d never told anyone, even Nicky. How she felt about her father’s business—she was ashamed, yet at the same time curious; how did it work? Who really made the decisions? How she was reluctant to settle down; how she wanted to do something worthwhile.

  One day while they were sipping coffee at an outdoor café, he pulled out a pad of paper and charcoal.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “The light is perfect. I want to sketch your face.”

  “You are an artist, too?”

  “I enjoy drawing.”

  “Will you give it to me when it’s done?”

  He tilted his head. “No. I will keep it to remember you by.”

  Now they struck out toward the mouth of Havana Bay. Across the water in East Havana were the La Cabaña hills. “I thought I would be able to borrow a car, but it didn’t work out.”

  “That’s all right,” she said. She preferred walking, where every once in a while their shoulders touched, or she caught a trace of his scent. Sitting in a car would keep them too far apart.

  “So, we will take the ferry.” A few minutes later they boarded the slip at the port outside Havana Vieja. As they walked past one of the crew, the man nodded at Luis. Luis nodded back.

  “Who’s that?” Frankie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Luis said. “A friendly soul.”

  They stood side by side as the ferry chugged across the bay. A breeze lifted Luis’s hair and left it disheveled. She wanted to reach out and run her fingers through it.

  Luis had been a perfect gentleman. He hadn’t made any advances, and when they parted for the day, he left her with only the lightest of kisses on both cheeks. In fact, Frankie was worried. Men made passes at her all the time. Was Luis less infatuated now that he knew her better? He was used to university women, women who challenged him intellectually, maybe sexually as well. With her high school education, she was no match for them. And while she was now discovering how much she liked sex, Nicky had been her only lover. She looked out over the water. How strange to feel inadequate, after feeling like a princess most of her life.

  “Francesca…” His voice cut into her thoughts.

  She turned. “I’m sorry.”

  “Where were you?” He gazed at her as if trying to see inside her mind.

  “It was—nothing.”

  He pointed to the stone fortress on top of the hill they were passing. “You see El Morro?”

  She nodded. You couldn’t walk down the Malecón without seeing El Morro. The fortress and the lighthouse towering over it, guarding the mouth of the bay as it had for centuries. Over time it had become a famous landmark; the stuff of picture postcards and photos.

  “It is the second oldest fort in all the Americas. It was designed and built by an Italian, you know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You see? Your ancestors have deep roots in Cuba.” He smiled. “It took eleven years to build.”

  Luis swept his arm up. “About a kilometer away—you can see it from here—is La Cabaña. It was built two hundred years after El Morro. At one time it was the largest colonial military installation in the New World. It’s actually a miniature city.”

  “Are we going there?”

  “No.” His face darkened. “It is being used as a prison by Batista.”

  Frankie turned away. The waves sparkled, as if all the stars from heaven had dropped to earth. A few gulls swooped and wheeled. Luis was from Oriente, he’d told her the other day, a mostly rural province on the eastern end of the island. Fidel Castro was from nearby Biran, also in Oriente. Luis’s father, like Fidel’s, had cut sugar cane. But Fidel’s father had become wealthy. Luis’s had not.

  “Did you know Fidel?” Frankie had asked.

  “Not really,” he replied. “We played baseball together.” Later, though, like Fidel, Luis went to the university in Havana to study law, determined to bring himself and his family a better life. It was at university, he told her, that he began to see how wide was the disparity between rich and poor, the powerful and the powerless, and how it was all fueled by graft.

  Now they disembarked from the ferry and climbed a series of steep stone steps. At the top of the steps they walked to the El Morro fortress. He faced La Cabaña with a grim expression.

  “Why are we here?” she asked. “You must hate this place.”

  “It reminds me of the work we have yet to do.”

  She groped for a respectful way to say it, but the words wouldn’t come. Finally she blurted it out. “Why do you fight? Why can’t you go to another university? Maybe one in the States. Your English is good. I could—”

  He cut her off. “You could what? Use your family’s influence to get me into an American university?” He scoffed. “Then I become part of the problem, not the solution.”

  She felt stung. He led her to a nearby bench and sat down, patting the space beside him. She sat.

  “Listen, Francesca. The more I see, the more I realize that Cuba today is simply a colony to America.”

  Is that so bad? she thought.

  Reading her mind, he said, “Which might not be so bad—theoretically. There are American companies that treat Cubans well. The problem is that Batista treats U.S. corporations like mobsters. Yes. Like your father. No taxes, sweetheart deals all around, everything oiled by payoffs. Your country occupies ours, economically speaking.”

  “So let Fidel and Che take care of him. No one likes Batista, including my father. Why do you have to be involved?”

  “Unless all of us work together, nothing will change. The system is broken. Cuba needs a new one.”

  “But why must violence be a part of it? I was there when the bomb exploded at the bank last week. People died. It was terrifying.”

  “No one will react otherwise. And…” he paused… “you can’t deny there is violence in your life as well.”

  “How would you know?”

  He gave her a smile. “If there is not, your life is too protected.”

  “I’m spending time with you.”

  “And for that I am thankful.” He smiled for an instant. Then it faded. “The Cuba you know—or think you know—will disappear. The decadence, the corruption, is so pervasive it is like the last days of the Roman Empire. And it’s not only the regime. The poison has spread through the culture. The tourists pour in, spend their money in a frenzy, determined to flout every norm of social behavior. For them Cuba is a playground where they can do what they want, no matter how obscene, and go home without accountability. That is not the homeland in which I want to live.”

  Frankie flashed back to the piggy man who wanted to see the sex show. She thought about the shows at La Perla. The girls were wearing less and gyrating more. But that’s what customers wanted. And you had to give the customers what they wanted, her father said. “But how will you stop it? The people I know—”

  “The people you know have
a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.” He paused. “You’re right about one thing, though. Most Cubans despise Batista. It is sad, really. If he had shared with the people, improved conditions for the poorest of the poor, there would be no need for Fidel or Che. Or me.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “If you succeed, you will destroy my family.”

  He turned to her. “Francesca, I know the risks you are taking to be with me. I live in fear that any moment, you will wake up and realize how impossible it is for us to be together. But you will be leaving Cuba soon. And so it will end.”

  She blinked. “Then why continue to see me? Why delay what you know is coming?”

  He hesitated, then tapped his chest. “I cannot stay away.”

  “Oh Luis.” Frankie reached for his hand and squeezed. She felt like she might cry. But if she started, she didn’t think she would stop.

  • • •

  “No more!” Frankie’s mother thumped her hand on the dinner table that night. “You will not leave La Perla without my permission. Or your father’s. And certainly not without Enrico.”

  Frankie, who had been picking at her veal and pasta—she had no appetite since meeting Luis—cringed. She’d only seen her mother this angry once before, the day Frankie beat up a boy at school after he called her a wop. Her mother’s cheeks were flushed, her neck muscles taut. The only consolation was that her father was downstairs in the casino. If his fury had been part of the mix, there would have been an explosion.

  “You were gone all day,” her mother said. “No one knew where you were. I was terrified. If I had told your father, he would have called the police.”

  Relief washed over Frankie. “You didn’t… tell him?”

  Her mother arched her eyebrows. “Not yet.”

  “Please don’t.” It came out fast.

  Her mother eyed her, her suspicion obvious. “Why? Where have you been?”

  Frankie blinked. Whatever her mother knew, or thought she knew, had to be managed. She couldn’t tell her about Luis.

  “I—I went shopping at El Encanto. And then I went to La Cabaña.” That, at least, was the truth.

  “La Cabaña? What in the Nome di Dio were you doing there?”

  “Mama, I’m leaving the only home I’ve ever really known.” Frankie was surprised how easily the lie came. “And—well, I don’t think I’ll be back.”

  Her mother crossed herself. “Don’t say that.”

  Frankie went on. “I want to revisit all the places I’ve come to love—you know, one last time.”

  Her mother’s spine could have been a steel rod. “Places…” she spat out. “Or people? Someone saw you with a man. In Old Havana.”

  Think fast, Frankie thought. “It couldn’t have been me. I wasn’t there.”

  “You went to El Encanto.” Her voice was sharp. “Where are the things you bought? Where are the packages?”

  Frankie realized she was teetering on the edge of a trap. Better cut it off. “I didn’t see anything I wanted. Who said they saw me?”

  “That does not matter.”

  “Well, whoever it was is mistaken. I was alone.” Did it sound as patently false to her mother as to her? Apparently.

  “Francesca, are you carrying on with a local?”

  Frankie drew herself up. “Of course not.”

  Her mother murmured something. Frankie couldn’t quite catch it. It was probably a prayer, meant to ward off a hex. “When did you last talk to Nicky?”

  Frankie was taken aback. She hadn’t thought about Nicky in days. Luis filled her up. “It was—the other day.”

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Francesca, I don’t know what you’re doing, and I don’t want to. But it must stop. Immediately. It is not seemly. Do you know what will happen if your father finds out?”

  He’d keep her a prisoner until she boarded the plane for Chicago, Frankie thought. Her mother knew it too. She obviously knew more as well. Or suspected it. Frankie had underestimated her.

  Now she sagged in her chair. “You’re right, Mama,” she said meekly.

  “So, you will take care of—this situation?”

  She understood what her mother was saying. She nodded.

  Her mother’s tone softened. “You must be careful, Cara Mia. There are only a few days left.”

  Frankie knew. She’d been counting the hours and minutes, willing time to stop. It didn’t of course, and now there were only four days until she left Cuba. She hadn’t told Luis.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They’d planned to meet the next day at the usual spot on the Malecón, but after the conversation with her mother, Frankie knew she had to cancel—or at least postpone—their date. She told her mother she was going down to the nightclub to help the girls put on their costumes. She’d done that when she was younger—thinking in an adolescent way that being around them, touching their outfits, would confer their glamour and sophistication on her.

  Downstairs she searched for Ramon. He was a small, wiry man, with sandy hair, hooded eyes, and a weak chin. He wasn’t bad looking, but his lack of height gave him a chip on his shoulder, Frankie thought. She’d rarely seen him smile. She found him in the nightclub with two other waiters, all in white jackets and black pants.

  She went up to him, smiling prettily. “Ramon, I’m sorry to interrupt, but could I see you for a moment?”

  “Of course, Señorita Pacelli.” Ramon was always polite. She was the boss’s daughter. Still, she felt the layer of contempt beneath the surface.

  “Has your mother recovered?”

  Ramon winced just a bit. “We thought she was better for a while, but she has fallen ill again.”

  “Has she seen a doctor?”

  “We cannot afford it.”

  “Why don’t I make an appointment for her with my doctor?” She realized she didn’t know Ramon’s surname. “What is your last name?”

  “Señorita Pacelli, it’s very kind of you, but I do not think so.”

  Frankie felt puzzled. “Why not? What’s wrong with her?”

  Ramon looked at the clock on the far wall. “I’m sorry. I must get back to the tables.” He started to leave, but before he could Frankie grabbed his arm. He stared at her hand as if it was a repellent object.

  “Ramon,” she said softly. “Could you deliver a message to Luis? Tell him I can’t meet him tomorrow. I—my mother and father—will not let me go out alone.”

  “Your parents are right. The streets are dangerous.”

  What did that mean? “Ramon, could you—could you tell him to come to the hotel tomorrow afternoon? I will meet him there. Three o’clock in the coffee shop. Could you give him that message for me?”

  Her voice must have sounded desperate, because a shrewd look came over him. As if he realized he had the upper hand.

  She dropped her hand as if touching his arm had singed her. “Please.”

  A small smile came over him, and he gave her a curt nod.

  “Thank you.” She was embarrassed at how grateful she felt.

  • • •

  Frankie spent the next morning packing, figuring out which things to wash, and making a list of everything she needed to do back in the States. By noon, she doubted she could wait three more hours, and by one o’clock she knew she couldn’t. At two, she went downstairs to look for Ramon to make sure he’d given Luis the message. When she couldn’t find him in the restaurant or the nightclub, panic flooded her stomach. He was her only link to Luis. He had to be there. She finally found him delivering lunch to guests at the pool. She hurried over. He was carrying a tray loaded with sandwiches and drinks.

  She tapped him on the shoulder. “Well?”

  He turned around. When he saw her, she saw a catch in his eyes. “Momento, Señorita.”

  She’d been rude. She took a step back and waited until he’d finished giving the food to a pudgy woman in a bikini she had no business wearing. Finally he headed back, deliberately slowing his pace. Frankie wanted to scream.r />
  Once inside, Frankie struggled to keep her composure. “Ramon, did you talk to him?”

  Ramon scowled. “I cannot do this, Señorita. It is not right.”

  Now what? She was frantic. Should she offer him money? No. He’d consider it an insult. But offering to help his mother hadn’t worked. She hated being dependent on this man, a mere waiter. “I understand. I won’t ask you again. Just this once. Please. I’m begging you.”

  Ramon gazed at her. “He cannot come today. He will meet you tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.”

  • • •

  Frankie spent another sleepless night. Why didn’t Luis meet her this afternoon? Had he decided she wasn’t worth the risk of a secret tryst? She thrashed between the sheets, then rose at the first blush of dawn, torn and confused. On the one hand, she would see Luis in a few hours. On the other, there were now only two days until she left Cuba. She dressed, applied her make-up, and at seven forty-five left a note for her mother saying she’d gone to the coffee shop for breakfast.

  Done up in blue and tropical greens, the coffee shop was empty, except for two disheveled, bleary-eyed men at the counter who’d clearly been at the tables all night. She looked past them to the row of booths. Luis’s back was to her, but she knew his hair and the set of his shoulders. She slid into the booth across from him.

  “Buenos dias, Francesca.” He smiled.

  “Where were you yesterday?” she asked.

  His smile faded. “Yesterday?”

  “You were supposed to meet me at three.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Ramon didn’t tell you?”

  He shook his head.

  “But I asked him—” She cut herself off. “Oh well, you’re here now. Luis, my mother suspects. She won’t let me go out alone. She said Enrico, my bodyguard and chauffeur, must be with me. That’s why I couldn’t meet you yesterday morning. I am so sorry.”

  He looked slightly annoyed.