Next Year in Havana

by Chanel Cleeton

  I set my glass on the table, rising—

  “Cristina never understood why I couldn’t be happy here. Why it wasn’t enough. It was what ended our marriage.”

  I sit back down. “You’re separated?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Recently?”

  “It depends on your definition of ‘recent,’ I suppose. It’s been two years.”

  “But she said she was your wife,” I sputter.

  A short laugh escapes his beautiful mouth. “That sounds like Cristina.” There’s affection contained in those words, too. He takes another puff of his cigar. “She doesn’t like you.”

  “Why?”

  He doesn’t speak, but then again he doesn’t have to. His eyes say it all—that and the memory of his finger brushing mine earlier on the Malecón.

  You know why.

  “You thought I was the sort of man who would—”

  He doesn’t finish the thought, but then again he doesn’t need to. We exist in a state of half-finished sentences, the pauses in our conversation filling the inadequacies of words.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Now you do. I’m not.”

  The sort of man who would hit on women when he’s married.

  “I should go up to my room,” I say.

  I don’t move.

  Neither does he.

  “I want to show you something. Will you come with me?” he asks. “I teach a morning class at the university tomorrow; you could attend if you’d like and see the Cuban educational experience in person. And after, I can give you a tour of the island.”

  “Yes.”

  chapter fourteen

  Elisa

  A day passes, then two, without any news from my father. It takes every ounce of strength to keep from asking him about Pablo, to wipe the fear from my face, to maintain the facade that all is well. I pass the days writing Pablo letters, letters I might never have the opportunity to send, letters in which I finally admit the feelings that have been building for so long.

  Surely I would know if something has happened to him, if he has passed on?

  I think I loved you from the first moment you told me about your passion for Cuba, your dreams for her future. I loved your conviction, your strength, the confidence with which you approached the problem, as though it was your right as a Cuban citizen to demand more, to fight for it.

  I wish I had your courage, your convictions. I wish there was more of a fight inside me. I’ve been raised from birth to continue on, to survive in this dangerous political climate. My grandfather was killed by Machado’s men—did I ever tell you that? I think it changed something in my father, in all of us.

  And then there’s the rest of it. As much as I am loath to admit that my gender limits me somewhat, it does. I’ve been thinking about what you said to me that night we met at Guillermo’s party—about the changes we should demand in Cuba. Perhaps my gender shouldn’t limit me.

  I read the books you told me about, the ones that inspired you, immersed myself in the words of great men, and I want to believe there is more we can do, more we can expect for our future, but I am also scared. Afraid for you, afraid my family—my siblings—will be targeted by the regime because of my actions.

  I wish I weren’t so afraid.

  Four days after I asked my father for help, he summons me to his study.

  “I called in a favor. He’ll be released.”

  My heart pounds.

  “You won’t see him again.”

  It is not a question.

  I nod.

  * * *

  • • •

  Another day passes before Pablo is released from jail, before I can see him, my promise to my father buried somewhere beneath layers of guilt. I borrow Beatriz’s gleaming Mercedes and drive to Guillermo’s house, to the place where we first met, and wait for Pablo, looking over my shoulder the entire time. It was my brother who told me they would be here. I’m not entirely surprised Alejandro knows Guillermo, especially considering Beatriz’s interest in attending the party at his house that fateful night. When I received the sealed note from Alejandro telling me Pablo would be released this morning, there was never a question of whether or not I would come. For better or worse, I have taken a stand, not with the rebels, but with my heart. I pray it doesn’t fail me now.

  I wait as the car pulls into the driveway of Guillermo’s house. He’s in the driver’s seat of the Buick, Pablo beside him, sunglasses covering his eyes, his shoulders hunched over, his face partially obscured.

  My heart pounds.

  Pablo steps out of the car and stops in his tracks, his hand lingering on the door. He walks toward me, a limp in his gait, a mixture of surprise and what looks to be relief in his eyes. I step into his embrace, holding him gingerly, trying to avoid the bruises, the cuts.

  Dried blood mars his shirt.

  What did they do to him?

  A sob rises in my throat, but I push it down, wanting more than anything to be strong for Pablo.

  He breathes into the curve of my neck, his lips caressing my skin, his body sagging against me. In this moment, our roles have reversed, and I am the one to provide comfort, strength. My name falls from his lips like a prayer.

  I want to speak, but no words come.

  Our bodies shift, our mouths finding each other. I don’t even realize I’m crying until tears wet my lips.

  “It’s okay,” Pablo whispers as he strokes my hair. I’m not sure if he says the words for me or for himself. His heart beats against mine, his body shuddering with each breath he takes. “You shouldn’t have come,” he says, even though he doesn’t sound the least bit sorry I did.

  “How could I not?”

  Pablo’s hold on me tightens for a moment before he releases me, as we walk inside the house, Guillermo trailing behind us. Guillermo doesn’t speak, but I can feel the disapproval coming off him in waves. Once, it would have bothered me. Now I can’t summon the enthusiasm to care. Guillermo gives me a cursory nod before leaving to get food for Pablo, and I follow Pablo into an empty bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him.

  “Do you need anything?” I ask.

  “No.” His gaze meets mine, and when he speaks his voice is hoarse, as though he’s worn it out from screaming. “I met your father.”

  A moment of silence passes between us before I can reply. “I know.”

  “You asked him to have me released?”

  “I did.”

  I am unable to ignore the tiny thread of shame that connects my father to the men who did this; my father’s clout is a double-edged sword—both the source of Pablo’s freedom and a sign that my family is not innocent in the darker side of life in Havana, the brutalities of Batista’s regime.

  “How did you even know I was arrested?”

  “My brother heard about it. He told me.”

  “And your father? What did you tell him? That you were in love with a revolutionary?”

  It’s the first time the word “love” has fallen from either of our lips, and hearing it spoken aloud gives it a measure of power I’m unprepared for even as the truth of it resides in my bones.

  “I told him you were a friend.”

  “And he accepted that?”

  “My father doesn’t concern himself overmuch with the affairs of his daughters.” I hesitate. “I promised I would never see you again.”

  “So this is good-bye, then?”

  “No.”

  I’m in too deep at this point for good-byes, although at the moment, I can’t imagine we’re destined for anything else. He can’t stay in Havana. Not after this. Should I go with him? Take my chances in the mountains? There are other women fighting there, taking up arms against Batista. I wanted more out of my life, chafed at the bonds of family and society, and still—<
br />
  I’m not ready to join my brother in the ranks of the ostracized and disowned, am not prepared to pledge my allegiance to these causes vying for power around me when they leave a foul taste in my mouth.

  Pablo sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “You should go. You don’t belong here.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You can’t stay. Not with me. This is only going to become more dangerous. They would have killed me, Elisa. They will kill me if they capture me again. I can’t stay.”

  “You’re going to the mountains, aren’t you?”

  “Where else would I go? I don’t belong here in Havana.”

  I don’t belong here with you.

  “I saw how your father looked at me in that cell,” Pablo continues. “We will forever be on opposite sides of this. We are at war; I cannot pretend it does not divide us. Your family will never accept me, and I fear I will never see your father and his friends as anything other than monsters.”

  “He secured your release.”

  “He did. And there were eight other men in that cell with me. Men who will face the firing squad tomorrow. Not all of them have wealthy girlfriends whose fathers can protect them.”

  “We don’t have a chance, do we?” I ask, tears building.

  “I don’t know,” he answers.

  Pablo takes my hand, brushing his lips against my knuckles. I wrap my arm around his waist, careful to keep from hitting his bruises, my head resting against his shoulder, his heart beating beneath me. I hold on to him even as I feel him slipping away.

  He was right when we first met; everything is political.

  Where does that leave us?

  chapter fifteen

  Marisol

  The morning after I learn Luis isn’t married, I’m up early, dressing to meet him at the University of Havana. I barely slept the night before, the sensation that everything has shifted inescapable. The attraction I’ve felt for him and attempted to shove in the background of our interactions has reared its head, no longer satisfied being confined to the margins, and what was a crush entirely contained in the safety of my imagination is now a crackling tension between us filled with possibility.

  I change my outfit twice before settling on a long black skirt and matching top. I grab a pair of leather sandals and my trusty cross-body bag, my grandmother’s ashes a constant presence on my journey through Cuba to the point that it no longer feels unusual to carry her with me. I throw a bathing suit and a change of clothes into a larger tote bag; I don’t know where Luis is taking me after his class, but he said it involves swimming.

  A knock sounds at the door.

  “Come in.”

  The door opens and Ana greets me with a smile, her eyes twinkling as she takes in my appearance.

  “Luis mentioned he wouldn’t be working at the restaurant tonight. I take it he’s showing you more of Cuba?”

  My cheeks flush and I nod. “He mentioned swimming.”

  Her smile deepens. “It’ll be Varadero, then. He’s always loved it ever since he was a child.” A hint of sadness dims her smile. “He and his father used to go fishing there.”

  She reaches out, handing me a piece of paper. I glance at the words scrawled there—an address.

  “I spoke with Magda last night,” Ana says. “She can’t wait to meet you.”

  I look up at Ana, my heart pounding. “I can’t believe it. Thank you so much.”

  “It was nothing. My pleasure. Varadero is not that far from Santa Clara. You could go there after your trip to the beach.”

  “I feel bad asking Luis to go out of his way.” I could probably rent a car or something. Some of the guidebooks I read prior to coming to Cuba mentioned tour buses as well.

  Ana practically winks at me. “I don’t think he’ll mind. Besides, Luis doesn’t have classes tomorrow. We can handle his shift at the restaurant.”

  “I guess I could ask him,” I hedge, torn between my desire to meet with Magda and my guilt over asking Luis to play tour guide for another day.

  “It’s settled, then. Please give Magda my best. It’s been far too long since we last saw each other.”

  I bite back a grin at the decisive way Ana handles things, as she herds me from the room. She reminds me so much of my grandmother.

  We part at the bottom of the stairs, Ana heading for the kitchen and the lunch service. Luis’s mom is waiting for me in the entryway, a disapproving glint in her eyes.

  “Are you ready?” she asks.

  I nod.

  Apparently, Luis shares his car with his mom, so he asked if I minded if she drove me to the university on her way to work and left his car waiting near the campus while he took the bus this morning. What could I say? It couldn’t be more obvious that his mother doesn’t like me if she came out and said it herself, and unfortunately, the ride into Vedado will likely give her plenty of time to do so.

  “Thank you for giving me a ride.”

  She might not like me, but I can’t suppress the urge to change her opinion of me, to demonstrate that I’m more than the shallow foreigner she fears will sink her claws into her son.

  She shrugs me off. “Luis asked me to.”

  My cheeks heat as her gaze drifts to the larger bag in my hands, at the implication contained there. I open my mouth to explain that it’s not what she thinks—we’re going swimming—but she doesn’t give me a chance. She turns, leaving me no choice but to follow her outside where Luis’s convertible sits at the curb waiting for us.

  With traffic, it takes us nearly thirty minutes to get from Miramar to the University of Havana, and I content myself with staring out the window, watching people pass us by. I attempt a few meager forays into conversation with Luis’s mother; my efforts yield the information that her name is Caridad, the general impression that she views me as an outsider, and not much else. I can’t blame her; I’d probably dislike me, too, given the disparities between our lives and the fact that my family benefitted from leaving whereas hers suffered for staying.

  The question runs through my mind again—what would have happened if we’d never left? If I’d grown up here, alongside Luis? If the revolution had never come? Who would I be if you stripped away the other parts of me and just left me with the identity of being Cuban?

  There’s a freedom to life here—no need to check status updates, or obsess over someone’s posted photos, or spend time crafting a cleverly worded line to share with hundreds of followers and friends. And at the same time, that freedom is an incredible indulgence, the abstention of a life available to me, the choice of it, whereas for the Cubans who live without the barrage of statuses about how much someone loves their spouse or that picture of a friend from grade school climbing Machu Picchu, arms flung out against the backdrop of a fortuitously setting sun, there is no choice. No freedom. Their exile from these things isn’t self-imposed; it was thrust upon them by a government that has been in power their entire lives. And so, the beauty of life here—the simplicity of it—is also the tragedy of it.

  Caridad drops me off outside the university, handing me the keys to the car to give to Luis as she walks to her job.

  My first impression of the University of Havana is of an imposing building, beautiful in its own way. The architecture—like that of so many of the other buildings in Havana—is impressive, the landscape marred by the presence of air-conditioning units hanging outside the windows, marks on the building’s exterior.

  I climb the steps, staring at the looming Alma Mater statue. I walk through the campus, past students sitting on benches, their conversations carrying throughout the outdoor space, the atmosphere reminiscent of my own college experience, following the map Luis gave me until I find his classroom.

  Here the differences are more visible—the walls are khaki colored, calling to mind military fatigues, the green chalk
board at the front of the room a far cry from the modern equipment I knew in my university days. Luis leans over a wooden desk in front of the chalkboard, the sleeves of his blue dress shirt rolled up, his long legs encased in darker blue trousers. He’s obviously consumed by whatever he’s reading, his head bent, his forearms braced against the wood, and I take the opportunity to sneak in the back, sliding into an empty desk chair.

  One at a time students filter into the classroom, discussing their evening plans, the lesson they read. Two girls sit in the row in front of me—one of the girls is convinced her boyfriend is cheating on her, and by the details she provides, I’m inclined to agree.

  Luis looks up from his desk, his gaze scanning the room—

  It settles on me.

  He smiles.

  That spark is there again, the inevitability of it flaming before my eyes.

  Luis glances away, the smile still on his lips and in his eyes as he calls the class to order. Today’s lesson deals with a French blockade of Cuba in the sixteenth century, and through the passion in Luis’s voice, the French corsair and the struggle of the Cuban people come to life.

  The time flies as he lectures, the passion he’s expressed discussing Cuba in its modern form evident in his appreciation for its earlier history as well. It’s even more interesting for me considering I don’t know much about Cuban history before and after the narrow window of the revolution.

  There’s sadness in the picture he paints of Cuba’s origins—the abuse the Taíno suffered at the hands of the Europeans who took their lands, the Spaniards’ cruelties. He speaks of Cuba’s economy, how sugar has been both savior and damnation—bringing slaves into the country to work the plantations until Cuba followed suit with the United States and abolished slavery in the late nineteenth century.

  Luis doesn’t use aids when he lectures; rather, he fires questions at his students with an energy that seemingly comes more from excitement than a desire to intimidate. He isn’t still when he teaches, his hands in constant motion, his body darting back and forth in front of the green chalkboard. No one watching him teach could doubt how much he loves it, or fail to appreciate his sincerity and passion for the subject. His students are rapt before him, an impressive feat if I remember my college days correctly.