Next Year in Havana

by Chanel Cleeton

  If the walls could talk.

  I leave Luis settling into my house, getting acquainted with all of the changes in his new life, and make the drive to Palm Beach alone.

  Beatriz answers the door in a cloud of Chanel, dressed in a floral shift I own in a different color—she looks better in it. Her face is that of a woman ten years younger. Her dark hair is pulled back in a dramatic bun, fat diamond studs on her earlobes.

  She wore those same studs in the spread Vanity Fair did on her years ago. In certain circles, she is a legend.

  Beatriz greets me with a kiss on each cheek before stepping back. “Come in, come in.”

  Her hands flutter in the breeze as she speaks, a canary diamond on her ring finger, another gift, another lover.

  “Is Diana off today?” I ask.

  Her longtime housekeeper is as much a member of the family as any of us. Now that my great-aunt is nearing eighty, she and Diana have become companions in their older years.

  “She is. She went to visit her sister in Punta Gorda for the weekend.”

  I step over the threshold and follow her lead into the floral sitting room she’s constantly redecorating. This time it’s done in pinks and yellows, a new chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Palm Beach chic.

  We sit on opposite couches, and she offers me a drink. Midway through the sentence she stops, her eyes gleaming.

  “Something’s different about you.” Her smile deepens. “You met a man.”

  I grin. Beatriz is also remarkably perceptive. “I did.”

  She leans forward, the drinks temporarily forgotten. “Tell me everything.”

  “I met someone. He came back with me.”

  Her eyes widen. “Darling, you bring a questionable hat back with you, one you’ll probably never wear but can’t resist because you’re on vacation. Maybe even a bottle of rum. But a man?” Her gaze narrows as she takes in my appearance. “You’re in love.”

  She says the word cautiously, as though there’s a world of danger contained there, as though it’s a word that could topple governments, conquer kingdoms, lay siege to everything in its path. She says it as if she knows a thing or two about bargaining with love and isn’t a satisfied customer.

  “I am.” A little laugh escapes my lips, the cocktail of nerves, excitement, and happiness too great to be contained.

  Her smile widens. She stands, smoothing the shift with her pink-manicured fingers. “Well, that settles it, this calls for something festive. Champagne. You’ll tell me about your man and your trip.” Her expression turns somber. “Did you find the right spot for her?”

  “I think I did.”

  “Where?” she asks.

  “The Malecón.”

  She’s silent for a moment, her eyes closing, opening again with the faintest shimmer of unshed tears.

  “Elisa was happy there. She’ll be happy there again.”

  I blink back tears of my own. “I hope so.”

  She walks over to the bar cart, a bottle of Bollinger chilling in a silver bucket. Most occasions call for champagne in Aunt Beatriz’s world; no doubt she was prepared to toast my return, or the settlement of my grandmother’s ashes, or whatever reason she invented to pop the cork.

  “And your young man? What’s his name?”

  “Luis.”

  Her hand stills on the champagne bottle, a laugh escaping. “Of course it is. So you’re in love with Ana Rodriguez’s grandson?”

  I nod.

  “Your grandmother would have been thrilled. I bet Ana was.”

  “I think so. She treated me like I was part of the family from the beginning.”

  “Well, of course she would. You pretty much are considering how close she and Elisa were. I’m sure having you stay with her was like having a piece of Elisa back.”

  She releases the cork with a pop, pouring the gold liquid into two crystal flutes.

  “What’s he like?”

  I smile. “Smart. Passionate. Dedicated. He was a history professor at the University of Havana.”

  “And what will he do now?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, Cristina’s earlier words in Havana coming back to me now. “I hope he’ll like it here. Hope he’ll be happy. Hope he can stay here. We still have to figure everything out. He’s passionate about Cuba, and there’s a part of me that feels guilty for encouraging his decision to leave. At the same time, he didn’t have much of a choice. The regime was no longer willing to turn a blind eye to his protests.”

  Her mouth tightens into a thin line. “They’re known for that.”

  Beatriz carries the glasses over, handing one to me before raising hers in the air.

  “A toast—to finding love in the unlikeliest of places.” Her voice turns serious. “I know you, Marisol. I’ve seen you go through life, and I’ve watched you navigate all the things that have come your way. You wouldn’t have taken this leap if it wasn’t right, if you weren’t sure. I know you’re scared now, and you have doubts, but you’ll both make it work. You’ll build a life here.”

  Tears prick my eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  I take a sip of the champagne, the familiar flavor coating my tongue.

  “When will I meet him?” she asks.

  “I’m bringing him to Lucia’s birthday party.”

  My sister’s turning thirty-three next week, and we’re all gathering for a big bash at the farm in Wellington.

  “Good. I can’t wait.” A twinkle enters her gaze. “I still have to come up with the right present for her.”

  Knowing Beatriz, it could be anything from a handbag to an exotic animal.

  “Speaking of presents, what would you like for a wedding present?” she asks.

  I laugh. “I didn’t realize I was getting married.”

  “You will someday soon. A painting, perhaps.” She drains her glass, and her expression turns serious. “Now tell me about Cuba. I see worry in your eyes, and not just because of your concern that things won’t work out with your young man. You dredged up family secrets when you were down there, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I think we need more champagne.”

  She refills our glasses far more than is fashionable, a tremor in her fingers as the liquid in the glass pitches and sways.

  “I dream of Cuba,” she confesses. “Of our last days as a family there. Constantly.”

  Of my three great-aunts, Beatriz has always been the least sentimental, less prone to deep emotion. She’s the butterfly of the family, the only one who has ever resisted being pinned down.

  “Would you ever go back?” I ask, a bit surprised by the depth of emotion in her voice, the pain in her eyes.

  Beatriz sighs. “And see it how it is now? No. I’ve already had my heart broken multiple times—no need for Fidel to break it again. I lost everything trying to reclaim Cuba.”

  “When you left?”

  “Then, too. I don’t want to see it like it is now. I prefer the memories I keep in my heart, rather than the harsh reality of what it has become.”

  “Do you—”

  “Want to be buried in Cuba?” she asks, finishing my thought.

  “Yes.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I suppose I haven’t thought of it. I have a date Wednesday with a very special man; I’m too busy to think about death. Besides, I suspect Elisa’s reasons for wanting to return were a bit different from mine.”

  It’s the entry I need.

  “I found some things when I was in Cuba.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “Did you know?” I ask.

  “About the baby? About the man?”

  So she did.

  “I suspected,” she answers. “They told everyone your father came early, that she wasn’t as far along as she
was. Some people probably thought they slept together before they were married. I had a different perspective, though. I saw her with him in Havana one night.”

  “With Pablo?”

  “Yes. She was the happiest I ever saw her. You can’t hide love like that. I tried asking her about him, and she brushed it off, but I didn’t take it personally. Those were different times. No one knew who to trust; we were all trying to do what we could to survive. I don’t doubt that she wanted to protect us. To protect him.”

  “He’s alive. Still lives in Cuba. I met him.”

  I’ve accomplished the impossible and managed to surprise Beatriz.

  “Did he know who you are?”

  “Yes.”

  I tell her about the rest of my trip, meeting Magda, the missing pieces she filled in for me.

  “Are you going to tell your father? Your sisters?” Beatriz asks.

  “Yes. He wants to meet them if they can travel to Cuba. I would want to know about him if I were them.”

  “I agree.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “If you need me, let me know. I’m happy to help you break the news to them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And how are you handling all of the changes?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m glad I got to meet Pablo. Glad I learned the truth. I read their letters, and after talking to him, it seems like they really loved each other. I only wish I knew how she felt. I always thought she loved Grandpa Ferrera. But now I wonder.”

  “You’re still young. And if you’re lucky, your young man will be the only man you’ll ever love in your life. I hope that for you. For some, there is only one true love. But not everyone is lucky enough to have that love work out for them. And for some, the love we cannot have is the most powerful one of all.

  “Elisa was pregnant in a time when being a single mother wasn’t an option. We were starting out in a new country, grieving the loss of our brother, our home, our friends, our way of life. When she met Juan Ferrera, she was young and scared. He was established in the United States, and his family did a lot to help us. He was a decade older than her, and he offered her the stability she craved, especially after the horrors of the revolution.

  “I don’t know that she loved him when they married, but I know she grew to love him, and he loved all of you so much. He was happy with her, with the family they built, and she felt the same way about him. Perhaps it wasn’t the glitzy, sweeping romance, but they cared about each other. That can be enough.”

  “I feel like I didn’t know her. Not the most important parts, at least.”

  “We can’t always know the people we love as well as we think we do, Marisol. Our love is tangled up in our expectations, our perception of reality. And you never know what people really think. They often keep their deepest emotions locked away. She kept her secrets close, but considering what we lived through, who could blame her?”

  Ana Rodriguez’s earlier words come back to me now.

  “When I was with Ana in Cuba and she gave me my grandmother’s belongings, she mentioned that it was a common practice for families to bury items in their backyard to keep them safe for when they returned.”

  Beatriz nods. “The walls of their homes, too. It was our way of preserving hope, I suppose. And perhaps a sign of our arrogance as well. We never imagined the bastard would live as long as he did.”

  “She said that you had the one that was buried in your backyard. The one that contained the Perez family treasures.”

  Beatriz is silent for a beat. “I had it. For a moment. And then I lost it again.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  The doorbell rings.

  “How did you get it back?” I ask. “Did someone smuggle it out of the country for you?”

  She rises from the couch, glancing down at her watch, before staring back at me. “Sorry for the interruption. I have a massage scheduled for this afternoon.”

  Her lips curve into a blinding smile, one that offers more than a hint of insight into the trail of broken hearts behind her. She’s the kind of woman who has likely been stunning her entire life and knows nothing else.

  “His name is Gunnar, and he is a sight to behold.”

  My beautiful, glamorous, mysterious great-aunt.

  “Why did you go back to Cuba?” I ask again.

  Beatriz turns back and smiles at me, halfway to the entry. Her voice holds the same tone of insouciance I’ve heard her employ throughout my life.

  “I went to assassinate Fidel Castro, of course.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I leave Beatriz’s house and make the trek back to the house in Coral Gables, where Luis is waiting for me. I’m greeted by the sound of music playing—an Icelandic band I discovered on a trip to Reykjavik ages ago—and the scent of paella coming from the kitchen.

  I set my purse down on the entryway table, flipping through the mail resting there—a few bills, a postcard from my sister Daniela, who’s in Marbella with our mother, a fashion magazine.

  Little by little I’ve put my stamp on the house, adding in my own oversize comfort pieces with my grandmother’s predilection for the ornate and opulent, replacing Baroque antiques with framed photographs from my travels.

  There’s a photo of the Malecón at sunset hanging over my grandmother’s favorite chair in the sitting room where she used to tell me tales of Cuba. I imagine the spirit of her there now, in the wind, in the waves crashing against the rocks, in the notes of the trumpet playing across the promenade, in the smiles of the couples in love, their fingers linked as they sneak off together, in the look in Pablo’s eyes as we scattered her ashes over the sea.

  When I first arrived in Cuba I felt like I’d come home, as though the part of me that had been traveling for so long had finally found a place to rest.

  But now I know.

  There is no home for us in a world where we can’t speak our minds for fear of being thrown in prison, where daring to dream is a criminal act, where you aren’t limited by your own ability and ambition, but instead by the whims of those who keep a tight rein on power.

  I’ve known two versions of Cuba in my lifetime: the romanticized version of my grandmother’s that was frozen in time, and the version I’m learning from Luis, one of harsh reality and relentless struggle. That’s the Cuba that speaks to me now, the mantle I pick up, the cause to fight for.

  We started working on a new article last night—a series of them, really—a chance to shine a light on life in modern Cuba; a call for change and an attempt to rally the international community.

  Luis comes behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, pressing his lips to my nape.

  “How was your aunt?” he asks.

  “Good.”

  I don’t tell him about Beatriz’s parting comment about Castro or the new questions running through my mind. That’s a tale for another day, and besides, we Perez women must be allowed our secrets.

  “I love you,” he whispers.

  “I love you, too.”

  We have dinner scheduled with my father next week. I plan on sharing the news about Pablo with him then. I’ll tell my sisters after that.

  I imagine they’ll want to go to Cuba to meet our grandfather, will want to know this side of our family that we’ve lost for so long. Who knows what the future will hold? It’s not safe for Luis to return now. But one day—

  One day the regime will fall. It has to.

  Until then, we’ll do everything we can, for Ana, for Magda, Luis’s mother, for Cristina, my grandfather, for everyone who deserves a chance to know freedom, imperfect though it may be. For everyone who deserves a chance to hope for a free and democratic Cuba. The Cuba my great-uncle died for, the Cuba Pablo fought for, the Cuba we were promised so long ago.

  Luis pours us both a glass
of wine as I tell him about my visit with Beatriz, as he fills me in on the details of his upcoming meeting with the immigration attorney we’ve hired. When he’s finished, he raises his glass to me in a silent toast, and the words, the fidelity of them, filter out of me as naturally as breathing.

  “Next year in Havana.”

  Elisa

  1970

  The days drift into weeks, and flow into months, and sail away into years, a decade, and still we remain.

  Marriages are celebrated, babies born, lives lost and mourned, and still we remain.

  Juan drives us down to Key West for the day. Otis Redding blares on the car radio speakers, and we all sing along, our voices slightly off-key.

  The top is down on the cherry red convertible he bought me for my thirtieth birthday, the wind blowing my hair despite the colorful scarf that attempts to force it into submission. Our son, Miguel, loves going over the bridge, looking down at the water.

  The ocean is a pretty shade of blue, the kind that will likely dazzle tourists from up north. If you haven’t traveled farther south, you might believe it to be the most beautiful ocean in the world.

  But if you have—

  We stuff ourselves on Key Lime pie and stone crabs, washing down peeled shrimp with fruity drinks tempered by the sharp bite of alcohol. Miguel plays on the beach, his pants rolled up around his calves, the water lapping at his feet. He spots a group of children playing in the sand, their brightly colored pails swinging from their little hands. He walks over to them and joins in, his sturdy body ambling along, peals of laughter mixing with the sound of the waves.

  Juan takes my hand, his fingers linking with mine.

  “I love you,” he says, his gaze on our son.

  “I love you, too,” I answer, the habit of the words comforting.

  And I do love him.

  It’s not blazing fire or mighty flame; it’s steady, true, strong. There’s peace in his love, and I’ve had enough war to last a lifetime. He’s a fine man, a good husband, an excellent father, a bulwark against the madness of the world.