“I worked every day. I saved. And I made plans. Fidel traveled to New York in September 1960 to address the United Nations, and I was part of the delegation that accompanied him. I went with the hopes that once I was in the United States I could find Elisa. I knew she was in Florida. I didn’t know where she lived, but I found the headquarters of your great-grandfather’s sugar company in Palm Beach.
“It took most of my savings to get there, and when I did, he met with me in his office. From the beginning, some part of me knew Elisa didn’t belong with me anymore. She’d never cared about the money, but in having money I now saw a security I couldn’t provide for her. Cuba was in such a state of unrest that it would have been a challenge to protect her, to give her the kind of life she deserved. And I worried. Worried about her being a Perez in a country where it was no longer prudent to stand out for having more than everyone else. Your family was known in Cuba. Elisa and her sisters were known in Cuba. Those were dangerous times to be one of the elite. Fidel had nationalized Cuban industry—the sugar fields. Privately, he was talking about the government seizing the property of those who left.
“And then your great-grandfather told me the news—that she’d married. He wasn’t cruel about it; quite the opposite, really. He showed me a picture of your grandmother in a wedding dress, standing next to her husband.”
Pain fills his eyes.
“She looked happy. Safe. He said they’d fallen in love quickly, had married quickly. They had a child already.
“What was I supposed to do? She was happy. She had the life she had always wanted—to be a wife and mother. Meanwhile I fought for a country that was falling down around me. I wasn’t the kind of man who would disrupt her life when I had nothing to offer her. There was no honor in such action.
“So I came back. I worked with Calderío to reform the legal system. Later on I worked with the law school to shape the new curriculum.” He smiles. “I met my Julia, and we married. Had children of our own. Six grandchildren now. It’s not the life I imagined for myself, the one Elisa and I dreamed of, but the older you get, the more you learn to appreciate the moments life gives you. Getting them certainly isn’t a given, and I feel blessed to have carved out a life here where I could be happy even if it wasn’t quite the happiness I envisioned, if the things I dreamed of never quite came to pass.”
I have a feeling he’s not just talking about my grandmother anymore.
He gestures toward my hand. “May I?”
I nod, sliding the ring off my finger and placing it in his hands.
Emotions swim in his eyes.
“It was my grandmother’s.” He smiles again. “I didn’t have much money back then, but I wanted to make Elisa a promise, one she could believe in, so I gave her my grandmother’s ring. Elisa couldn’t wear it on her hand, of course, so when we weren’t together, she wore it on a chain around her neck, near her heart.”
“Would you like it back? If it’s a family heirloom—”
He shakes his head, placing the ring back in my palm. “It was meant for you.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You don’t just have the look of Elisa, you know. I see my mother in you, too.”
I still, my heart thudding.
“When did you realize?” I ask.
“When I saw the ring. Then I recognized my mother in your face.” A tear trickles down his cheek. “Do I have a son or a daughter?”
“A son.”
“Tell me about him. Please.”
So I do. I tell him about my family, half of my heart here, half of it with Luis, praying for his safety, waiting for Pablo’s man to come tell us what’s to become of him.
“Will you tell them about me?” Pablo asks once I’ve finished, and I sense the hesitation behind the question, recognize his fear that he won’t be accepted because of his political allegiances.
The revolution has divided so many families; it’s wrecked ours enough.
“Yes.”
“Do you think they’ll want to know me?” he asks, the uncertainty in his voice tugging at my heart.
“I do.”
A knock sounds at the door, and Pablo excuses himself. He opens the door and exchanges murmured words with the man from earlier. When they’re finished, he returns to me.
“It’s safe for you to go back to Ana’s tonight. They’re still questioning Luis, but I’m working on getting him out. I need to meet with a friend who might be able to help us.”
The word “us” is incredibly reassuring.
“Do you think you can secure his release?”
“I hope I can. I promise you, Marisol, I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen.”
chapter twenty-seven
I take a cab back to Ana’s in a daze, relaying the events to her, Caridad, and Cristina. They receive the news of Luis’s arrest with resignation and a sense of calm that would have shocked me if I hadn’t grown used to this Cuban pragmatism. I tell Ana privately about Pablo, that he’s my grandfather, my hope that he will be able to help Luis.
“What do we do?” I ask once I’ve finished the tale.
“We wait,” Ana answers, her expression grim.
The next morning, Luis is still not back with us, and I walk to my grandfather’s house in Miramar, to the address he gave me the previous night, worry in my heart as I approach his home. What if he’s not here? What if he can’t help me or he changed his mind once he realized the precariousness of Luis’s position? I’m staking a lot on the letters, on the fact that my grandmother loved him, the time I spent in his presence, on the hope that he’ll be able to do something to get Luis out of this mess.
A mere block marks the difference between Pablo’s house and the one my grandmother grew up in. He must drive past the old Perez estate every single day; does he think of her often?
The house is ahead of me, the well-manicured lawn, immense palm trees swaying gently in the breeze, and elegant exterior a surprise. My grandfather’s stature in life seems to have changed quite a bit from that of the staunchly middle-class lawyer described in his letters, and his home is in far better condition than its compatriots.
Some are more equal than others.
I press on the gate, the iron creaking as it swings open. The sound of the ocean mixes with the noise of children laughing and yelling somewhere on the property’s immense grounds; there’s an entire family out there I never knew.
I continue forward, my sandals slipping against the rock driveway, my legs wet noodles. I reach the front steps and hesitate. I close my eyes, offering a silent prayer to the heavens and the one person I know absolutely has my back up there as I knock on the heavy wood door and wait until it opens, revealing an elderly Cuban woman in a flowered dress.
“May I help you?” she asks.
Is this his wife?
I swallow. “I’m Marisol Ferrera. I’m here to see Mr. Garcia.”
She’s silent for a moment, her gaze assessing.
“He’s sitting out on the back porch. I’ll show you the way.”
I follow her through the house, my gaze on the paintings on the wall, the furnishings. Nothing is in luxurious condition by American standards, and yet, the pieces have clearly fared far better than at the Rodriguez home. Does my grandfather have someone else’s family legacy hanging on his walls?
The woman leads me to a covered outdoor area with a breathtaking view of the sea and sky, a storm out over the water. She asks me if I would like a drink, and I decline.
My grandfather sits in an oversize chair under the covered space smoking a cigar, a glass of amber liquid in front of him. He wears a sharp panama hat, another guayabera, the hem of his shirt blowing in the breeze, and black pants.
Pablo sets his glass down.
He rises from his chair, his hand gripping the arm, his eyes on me as he exchanges affectionate words with his wife before she’s
gone, closing the doors and leaving us alone on the patio overlooking the sea.
The rain slaps the tile patio beyond the covering.
“What’s happening with Luis?” I ask.
“They’re attempting to charge him under social dangerousness,” my grandfather replies.
“What does that mean?”
“The people who have been tried under the charge have been imprisoned for several years. Occasionally, the government will go for something a bit lighter, like house arrest, but in this instance that’s best case. The law allows the government to detain someone if they think they may commit a crime in the future. They have applied it against dissidents in the past, and that’s what they’re aiming for in this case.
“Because he works at the university, their concern is his influence over his students, his opportunity to organize them, to create a movement against the government.” My grandfather sighs. “At the moment he’s being held in a cell alone, but when he’s in prison, things can happen. He’s not safe there. I had hoped he would be released by now, but I fear things are worse than I imagined.”
“What can happen to him?”
“People get into fights, people are killed. Even before he’s in prison, things will be dangerous.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “People disappear. Have the misfortune to be involved in a car accident on their way home. This is not America. Once you are in the regime’s sights, you are not safe. If they think he’s dangerous enough, they will do whatever they have to in order to silence him.”
“What do I do? Get him a lawyer? Get the Americans involved? Human rights groups? Who can help him?”
Will they even care, or is he just one Cuban in a long line of human rights abuses?
“I’m waiting to hear back from a few friends well-placed in the judicial system. I’m trying to get him out, but it’s complicated, and we must be very careful in how we handle this. I know you’re scared, but, Marisol, you also need to be careful. If they think you’re involved, if they can create a connection that makes it appear as though you’re involved, they can try you as a spy; you can get caught up in this, too. These are dangerous times, and your nationality will only afford you so much protection.”
My great-aunts’ earlier warnings return to me now.
“I know you want to help, but you have to understand that there are limits here,” Pablo adds. “You must be smart about this. Wait at Ana’s house, and when I know something, I’ll come to you. There’s nothing you can do to get him out until then and your intervention will only make things worse. Promise me you’ll wait.”
It’s a hard pill to swallow, but the logical, rational part of me knows he’s right. And if Ana, Caridad, and Cristina can be stoic about this, I must be as well.
“I promise.”
“This man—he’s important to you, yes?”
“He is.” I swallow. “Will he be okay?”
My grandfather’s expression is grim.
“I hope so.”
* * *
• • •
The next few hours creep by with agonizing slowness. Life doesn’t stop because Luis is in jail; the Rodriguez women still prepare meals, taking in guests, the kitchen quiet as a tomb save for the occasional piece of silverware scraping against a plate, a pot banging against the stovetop, the hiss and boil of water.
The urge to cry is a battering ram weakening my defenses, and yet, there is an unspoken agreement here. Luis’s grandmother, his mother, Cristina—none of them break. There’s a tremor in their hands, the occasional hitch in their throat, but they don’t cry.
No one objects when I join them in the kitchen, helping to make the picadillo for the evening meal. The paladar is full tonight, the tables packed with tourists—Canadians, two Australian couples, and a French family. Cristina and Caridad serve the guests with somber expressions and trays laden with food.
I worry most about Ana.
When the other two women are out serving guests, she allows the facade to slip a bit, murmuring prayers and rubbing the bracelet on her wrist as though it’s a rosary.
“Would you like to lie down?” I ask.
My cooking skills aren’t on par with Ana’s, but picadillo is a staple in the Cuban diet. I’ve helped my grandmother make it hundreds of times, and it’s one of my few culinary achievements.
“Thank you, but no. It helps me to stay busy—to keep my mind from wandering.”
“Me, too.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “He’ll be okay,” she proclaims, her hand drifting to her chest, a beat above her heart. “I feel it here.”
We cook in silence, working in tandem to create the picadillo. When I press Ana to eat some herself, she waves me off and says I should eat instead. My stomach is too full of nerves and worry for me to bother with food, and we continue on in the tiny space.
Cristina and Caridad drift in and out of the kitchen, returning to serve the guests.
Someone pounds at the front door.
We both still. Ana’s gaze darts toward the kitchen entrance and back to me.
Her hands drift to the bracelet again, her fingers flying over the beads. “Will you come with me?”
I nod, the words stuck in my throat.
I take her hand, and we walk toward the door together. When we reach the front door, I pause. “Do you think we should—”
Wait? Get help? A litany of objections runs through my mind before I remember this is Cuba, and the rules here work differently. There is no media to highlight these abuses, no government to complain to, no friend or neighbor to call upon to aid us. We are really and truly alone with only ourselves to rely on.
Ana straightens, pushing her shoulders back, her fingers fumbling with the lock on the door. She swings it open.
Luis and my grandfather stand on the other side.
The sight of Luis is a shock, even more so because of the condition he’s in. His lip is swollen, a fresh bruise on his cheekbone, a cut near his jaw, his beard matted with blood. His arm hangs at his side, his torso hunched over as though damage has been done there, too.
They cross the threshold and Ana closes the door behind them.
I step forward, wrapping my arms around Luis, careful to keep my touch gentle, to avoid doing further injury to him. I pull back, searching his expression, my gaze running over his face for more injuries I might have missed.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “What happened?”
“I’m okay,” he answers, his voice weak.
I step back while Ana hugs him, her voice full of worry and love.
“Did you get him out?” I ask my grandfather. When I went to him for help, I didn’t expect such quick results.
“For now. Is there somewhere we can talk? Somewhere private?”
Ana nods and takes us to the small sitting room off the entryway.
When the door shuts, my grandfather fills us in on the rest of it.
“Officially, it’ll look like he was accidentally released. It happens—clerical errors, overcrowded jails and prisons, people get lost in the shuffle. It’s not going to buy much time, though.”
He turns his attention to Luis. “You have a passport, yes?”
Luis gives a clipped nod in return. “I thought it was a prudent move when they removed the ban on foreign travel.”
I don’t miss the way he says “they” or the look he gives my grandfather when he says it. At the same time, there’s a wary trust in Luis’s eyes and I’ve no doubt my grandfather told Luis about his relationship to me.
“Good,” Pablo answers. “Then you can go from Havana to Antigua. Buy a return ticket—Marisol can help you. The fare will be high, but they won’t require you to have a visa to get into the country. There’s no time to get you a visa to fly to a country that will require one. Hopefully, at the airport they will think you are g
oing on vacation.”
“Won’t they flag his passport at the airport, though?” I interject.
“At the moment, there’s nothing to flag. You’ve disappeared from their records. It won’t last long, though.
“Once you’re in Antigua, you’ll want to get a plane to the United States,” Pablo continues. “That will be difficult, but with enough money, not impossible.”
He turns to me. “Marisol will need to help you with the rest of it. You’ll need to charter a plane to take you from Antigua to Miami and to sort out his entry into the United States. Can you do that?”
Honestly? I have no clue. But at the moment, we seem to have few options available to us.
“I think so. My father’s company has a plane he uses for business. My family will help.”
Once, it was enough that if we could get Luis to the United States, he would be offered refuge. Under the decades-old wet foot, dry foot policy, Cubans who were captured in the water were sent back to Cuba by the Coast Guard; Cubans who reached American soil could stay.
Now, thanks to recent politics, things are more complicated.
My grandfather’s expression turns grim. “You need to understand something, Marisol. They can arrest you on suspicion of even helping Luis leave the country. They know you’re here as a journalist. That you’re staying with the Rodriguez family. You could be in just as much trouble as Luis. And if you aren’t successful and they catch you, they can throw you in prison for a very long time. There are few offenses the government takes more seriously than helping a Cuban leave the country illegally.”
I don’t take lightly my grandfather’s warning or the risk he’s taking himself by helping us, but at the same time, how can I not help get Luis out of Cuba?
“We’re not doing this. She’s not doing it,” Luis interjects. “She’s risking her freedom and her life. No.”
“You don’t get to make that decision for me,” I protest.
“If we’re caught—”
“Then we won’t get caught.” My heart pounds. “There’s no way I’m leaving you here to die. Part of why you’re in this trouble is because I helped bring your work to their attention.”
Next Year in Havana Page 28
