I came here to write an article about tourist locales, and now my mind is full of policy and injustice; I came here single and carefree, and now I risk leaving my heart behind. It’s as though Cuba has awoken something in me, and I can’t—don’t want to—shut it off.
“I know.” Luis steps back with a sigh. “Things are complicated.”
“Yes.”
I turn, looking into his dark eyes, searching—
“You’re good at that,” I murmur.
“Good at what?”
“Hiding what you’re feeling, thinking. About some things, you’re an open book, but with others . . .” My voice trails off. “You’re difficult to read.”
“Is it really a mystery, Marisol?”
I close my eyes at the sound of my name falling from his lips, as my pulse accelerates, at the flutter in my stomach.
When I open my eyes, he’s still there, his gaze boring into me, his expression as inscrutable as ever.
Luis steps forward, closing the distance between us, his lips caressing my forehead, his fingers running through my hair.
He takes a step back and gestures toward the stove. “Dinner is almost finished. Can you be ready in an hour?”
I open my mouth to answer him—
Luis’s mom, Caridad, walks into the kitchen, setting a stack of plates down on the tiny counter space with a thud.
Luis’s hand drops to his side. My cheeks flame as I take a deep breath, the air whooshing through my lungs.
“Do you want to leave in an hour or so?” he asks again, his voice low.
I nod.
Caridad’s gaze follows me from the room.
chapter twenty-three
Elisa
He died in Santa Clara. He fought valiantly. There’s little else I have to remember him by besides the memories I cling to now, the letters, and the few tangible signs I have that he was real and that he loved me.
And then there’s the baby.
I spend two days in bed. My sisters cover for me; they don’t ask any questions, but their worry is a palpable thing. Only Magda knows the truth; only Magda knows the full extent of my fears, and my heartache. She sits beside my bed, stroking my hair, attempting to convince me to eat and drink.
“For the baby,” she whispers.
I exist in shadows, the sunlight flitting and disappearing, the noise of the household around me, the sounds of the street I’ve come to loathe.
Several days after my world is ripped apart, I’m forced out of bed. We have a new crisis to contend with—revolutions don’t care much for broken hearts and shattered dreams.
They’ve finally reached my father’s name on the list.
My mother is sobbing on the couch when I come downstairs, Isabel and Beatriz sitting beside her. Maria is in her room with Magda. It’s becoming more and more difficult to shield her from all of this.
“What happened?” I ask. I always feared it would be Alejandro who drew their notice, Alejandro who wasn’t afraid to denounce Fidel, who danced far too close to the flames. But our father—
Beatriz answers me. “Che went by his offices.”
Oh, how I hate the Argentinian. It’s bad enough to see Fidel behaving as though the country is his for the taking, but Che isn’t even Cuban, adding insult to injury.
“He took him to La Cabaña,” Isabel says, her expression grim.
Batista’s prison has been converted to Fidel’s prison. Some revolution.
“When?”
“This morning,” Beatriz answers, her face pale. “That’s all we know.”
Under the new freedom and democracy Fidel is bringing to Cuba, they can hold him for however long they like, do whatever they’d like to him.
Progress.
I fear the anger inside me will simply erupt one day, no longer contained by silk gowns and gloves.
“They will kill him,” my mother whispers.
“They won’t,” Isabel says, her words lacking conviction.
They might kill him.
A tear trickles down my cheek, then another, piercing the haze that surrounds me. My grief over Pablo’s death is suddenly a luxury I cannot afford.
“What will we do?” my mother asks.
Leave Cuba.
The thought surprises me, but there’s logic behind it, the image of the crowd knocking over the parking meters, looting, filling my mind once more. This is no longer a safe place for us, and if they are after our father, how long before they come after all of us? How safe will my child—all that I have left of Pablo—be in this version of Havana?
Where is Alejandro?
“We wait,” Beatriz says instead, her voice grim.
* * *
• • •
Time moves differently now that Batista is no longer in power. I used to complain that my days were filled with parties and monotony; now they’re filled with terror, and I long for the days when my biggest worry was which hat suited me best. Our father remains in La Cabaña, and each day brings more executions and no word from Alejandro. More and more of my parents’ friends are leaving the country, heading to the United States, to Europe. More and more people leave, yet we wait, waiting to hear what will come of our father, waiting for a message from our brother, waiting, waiting, always waiting.
Our mother’s uncle visits our father, passing on the news that he is still alive, confined to a dank, dark prison cell. Isabel and Beatriz sit next to our mother, holding her hand while our great-uncle delivers an update on our father’s condition with a grim expression on his face.
Days pass, a week, until waiting at home becomes as distasteful as the alternative and we find ourselves in the belly of the beast.
The prison was built as a fortress in the eighteenth century to guard against English pirates and later converted to a military barracks. It is being run by the Argentinian—Che Guevara—the very man Pablo once spoke of to me. His friend, his brother in arms.
The stone fortress looms in front of us, Beatriz’s hand clutched in mine.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper, my hand drifting to my stomach. I catch myself mid-motion, allowing my arm to dangle at my side. The nausea is back in full force, this morning’s breakfast already reappearing.
The sun beats down on us, unrelenting.
“Would you rather have stayed in the house?” she asks.
No, but it isn’t only me anymore. I should have refused when Beatriz asked me to accompany her.
She squares her shoulders, her gaze on the looming stone fortress, a familiar expression on her face—Beatriz on a mission is a dangerous thing.
“Wait for me here.”
“Are you crazy?” I hiss. “You can’t go in there on your own.”
“What would you suggest I do?”
“They’re killing people, Beatriz. With frightening regularity.”
Anger blazes in her eyes; Beatriz’s rage just might be a dangerous thing, too.
“There’s someone who might help me,” she says.
If Beatriz has connections in La Cabaña . . .
I grab her arm, pulling her toward me. “Are you involved with the 26th of July?”
“Of course not.” The words drip with contempt. “But I know someone who is.”
“A friend?” My voice lowers. “A lover?”
“Not even close.” Her gaze returns to the stone fortress, as though she’s steeling herself for an unpleasant task.
A shiver slides down my spine at the ferocity in her expression. There will be no dissuading her.
“It’s been days, nearly a week. Who knows where Alejandro is?” Her voice breaks. “Who knows if he’s even alive? And our father—what else are we to do? I have to try.”
“Beatriz—”
“Please.”
I let her go because
there is no other option—if I don’t let her go in today, she’ll just come back and try again tomorrow. Reason has fled all of us, and yet I no longer have the luxury of making reckless decisions myself. My baby has already lost one parent to this revolution. It’s up to me alone to keep our child safe.
I stand in the shadow of La Cabaña, watching as my brave, beautiful, headstrong sister walks into the fortress. I almost envy Beatriz her independence, her courage, her audacity. For the first time the full impact of my pregnancy hits me. I was so focused on Fidel, and then Pablo’s death, and now my father’s imprisonment, that the baby has been an abstract concept.
But I am to be a mother now. To raise this child on my own.
It is both a terrifying responsibility and a tremendous joy.
Soldiers pass by me, their green fatigues ragged, their gazes first on me, then drifting to Beatriz’s retreating figure. Their laughter echoes in the air.
The nausea makes another untimely appearance.
I pray, words from childhood, words I’ve used more in the past several months than in the totality of my life combined. I pray for Beatriz, for my father, for my brother, for my unborn child, for all of us now.
Minutes pass, an hour. The stark reality that I may have lost Beatriz, too, that our father might never be returned to us, hits me with an intensity that grows with each ticking moment. How are we to provide for our family without him? Will my great-uncle take us in? Another distant family member? How will we survive this?
And just when my panic reaches an unbearable level Beatriz walks out. It’s impossible to tell if she was successful or not; Beatriz walks the same in victory and defeat.
She stops a foot away from me, her expression grim.
“I wasn’t able to get him out. I was able to see him, though. He’s injured but fine. Furious with me for coming.” She swallows. “They shoved him in a cell with ten other men. Like animals.”
“What are they going to do with him?”
“I don’t know.” Her silence tells a different tale.
“Beatriz.”
“They’re shooting people. Three times a day. Like clockwork.” Her expression turns murderous. “Che likes his schedules.”
This time I do throw up, the contents of my breakfast landing on the ground beneath me.
Beatriz is there in an instant, silent, stroking my back, pulling my hair away from my face.
“What’s going on with you?” she asks, her gaze sharp once I’ve righted myself.
I shake my head, wiping at my lips with the handkerchief I pull out of my bag, an acrid taste in my mouth. “It isn’t the time.”
Soon it will be, though. How much longer can I hide this secret? How much weight can we bear on our shoulders before we collapse?
Beatriz seems to accept my answer for the moment, but her gaze is searching.
The corner of her mouth is smudged, bright red lipstick marring her face.
I shudder. “What happened in there?”
She shakes her head, her gaze shuttered. “I’m fine. It isn’t the time,” she says.
I wrap my arms around her, needing this moment of comfort. “What do we do now?” I ask her.
“We go home. And we wait.”
We lock arms, turning away from the fortress. My legs shake.
Behind us, the sound of gunshots fills the air—
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
I count them as tears rain down my cheeks.
For the first time in my life, I know what it is to truly hate, the emotion filling me entirely, annihilating everything else in its path. And then the hate is gone, as swiftly as it came, leaving me with new emotions I’m not equipped to deal with.
There are dozens of ways you can betray your country—broken promises, failed policies, the sound of a firing squad pumping bullets into flesh. And then there’s the silent betrayal—the most insidious one of all. We thought we were being smart by merely enduring Batista. We thought we were playing the long game, cozying up to power so we could keep our grand homes, and our yacht club memberships, and our champagne-filled parties. We thought the indignities of his regime wouldn’t touch us.
I told myself being a Perez meant more than being Cuban, that my responsibility to my family, to do what was expected, to be the woman my parents wanted me to be meant more than fighting for what I believed in, for speaking out against Batista’s tyranny.
And the whole time we were pretending our way of life was fine, the “paradise” we’d created was really a fragile deal with a mercurial devil, and the ground beneath us shifted and cracked, destroying the world as we knew it.
Fidel has shown us the cost of our silence. The danger of waiting too long to speak, of another’s voice being louder than ours because we were too busy living in the bubbles we’d created to realize the rest of Cuba had changed and left us behind.
I feel guilt and shame.
chapter twenty-four
Marisol
That night I dress for dinner with Luis, counting down the few days—three—we have left together in my mind, wanting this evening to be special, to make the most of our time together. Luis knocks on my door just as I’m finished changing into my red dress, the scent of the perfume I’ve spritzed lingering in the air.
I open the door and am greeted by the sight of Luis standing outside my room, smiling at me, his gaze running over my appearance, a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand.
We walk from the Rodriguez house to the Malecón, our hands joined, fingers linked. When we reach the water’s edge, he buys two bottles of Presidente from a cart vendor. We take a seat on the stone ledge, our feet dangling over the water as it crashes against the rock, the sea spray hitting my bare calves.
The sunset rolls in, transforming the landscape as the locals come out of the crumbling buildings lining the promenade, carrying music and laughter with them. Luis hooks an arm around my shoulders, bringing me closer to his body, my head burrowed in the crook of his neck. My lips slide over the skin there, tasting the salt from the water. My hair whips around me in the wind.
“I’m going to miss this,” I say, turning away from him and staring out at the sea. It feels like I just got here, and now there’s not much time left. I’ve been thrust into this unexpected world, its impression lingering. I no longer wish to write about Cuban restaurants and foods; I long to write about revolutions, exile, loss. I ache to write about Cuba’s future. I yearn to return.
How can I return to Miami and resume the life I lived before now that everything has changed?
Luis’s grip on me tightens, a sharp exhale escaping his mouth. He doesn’t answer me; what is there to say? I hope I can return soon, hope relations will continue to improve, pray the barriers between our countries will lessen with time. Who knows? We are just a small country in a world full of tragedies.
I want a chance to learn about my grandfather, to see Ana again, to explore the parts of the island I’ve yet to see. And of course, there’s Luis.
He tips my head toward him, capturing my mouth in a fierce kiss. My hand rests over his heart, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.
I’ve been with enough men, am old enough to recognize that this thing between us is different than any time before, that my heart is engaged in a way it never has been. I’ve never felt this instant connection with someone, this sense of recognition, the audible click of two pieces fitting together.
Behind us someone laughs and cheers, the sound filtering to background noise, my world narrowed to this.
I love you.
The words seem unfair, a burden to place on him, a tether with far too many commitments attached. Our lives couldn’t be more different, and I struggle to imagine him inhabiting my world as much as it’s impossible to envision myself living here. The part of me that yearns to feel a connection to this pla
ce wishes I could ignore the realization that this is not my home. It’s the land of my grandmother, the legacy that shapes me, but the modern iteration is something else entirely, something I can’t quite identify with no matter how badly I wish it were so. My family’s fortunes have changed, and while this is our past—and hopefully, our future—it cannot be our present.
And yet this is where my grandmother wished to rest, the country that held such a fierce hold over her heart—was it the country or the man? Or did the memory of both become so inextricably linked, tangled up in each other, that it became impossible for her to tell where one ended and the other began? She fell in love with him here, on the Malecón, the words they whispered carried on the air, their eyes cast toward the sea.
“What are you thinking about?” Luis asks.
“My grandmother. Her life here.”
“You don’t have much time left to decide where to spread her ashes.”
“I know.”
I look out at the water, the sun making its final descent.
“I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if he never died, if they’d had a chance at a life together. Would the revolution have kept them apart or would they have loved each other enough to make it work?”
Luis brings our joined hands to his lips.
“I don’t know.”
Neither do I.
* * *
• • •
We walk into Vedado, down darkened streets, the tourists ensconced in their hotels, the locals out in full swing. Without the kitschy-themed bars and the state-run restaurants in the more touristy parts of the city, Cubans make their own fun, impromptu dance parties breaking out on the sidewalk, kids gathered in circles, playing games, their laughter ringing in the night.
Luis grins at me, my hand in his. “Now you’re getting the authentic Cuban experience.”
“Where are we going?”
He’s vacillated between playful and serious all evening, and these moments when he’s happy and teasing are my absolute favorite.
Next Year in Havana Page 25
