Next Year in Havana Read online

  The article has been the last thing on my mind since Ana handed me that box.

  “A mix, really. Tourist spots. Things that are off the beaten path.”

  I can see him turning over the expression in his mind. There’s that look again, as though I’ve amused him. I can’t tell if Luis Rodriguez likes me or is vaguely appalled.

  “We could start with the Malecón,” he says. “It’s better at night if you want the full effect, though. That’s when everyone comes out. By day, it’s not much to see.”

  The Malecón—five miles of seawall and promenade separating Havana from the Caribbean Sea—has been on the top of my must-see list after hearing about it from my grandmother. It was one of her favorite places in Havana.

  I used to stand at the edge of the water and look out at the ocean. You could see all manner of things when you stared into that wide expanse of blue, Marisol. The world felt limitless, as though it was ours for the taking.

  After reading the letters and learning what the Malecón meant to her and her lover, about their first date there, I now understand a bit more why the spot was so dear to her.

  “Do you have a list of places where you’re considering spreading your grandmother’s ashes?” Luis asks. “We could tackle those first if you’d like, then do more tourist sites.”

  “I’m still working on that. I hoped I’d get a feel for the city. I thought something might speak to me.”

  I expect amusement in his gaze, but he simply nods as though he understands, as if family means as much to him as it does to me.

  “Well, why don’t you let me play tour guide, and if there’s anything you want to see along the way, we can take a detour?” Luis suggests.

  He holds his hand out to me, and I know he’s only being polite, but my nerves reappear, the tension in my body returning with a vengeance. I give him my hand, our palms connecting, our fingers threading together, and a new kind of energy—excitement and anticipation—enters my body as he leads me down the cracked steps and onto the sidewalk, into the vintage Buick, and out into Havana.

  chapter ten

  We leave Miramar and drive to Old Havana, the part of the city that’s most frequently seen in tourist photographs and iconic images. Here the buildings have retained much of their original state, the architecture harkening back to a time when Spanish influence played a defining role in the island’s development, when Cuba was the jewel in Spain’s imperial crown. Many of the buildings are in a state of disrepair, but others have been lovingly, painstakingly restored, and it’s clear why tourists name this as one of the top sights to see in Havana.

  “In the eighties, this neighborhood was designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site,” Luis explains. “There’s a movement in place to preserve many of the buildings, but it hasn’t been easy. Most Cubans aren’t necessarily historians by nature.”

  It strikes me as surprising, considering exiled Cubans are intrinsic historians. They collect faded photographs, draw maps of Havana neighborhoods from memory, pass down family recipes and traditions as though they’re sacrosanct. So much of our history is oral, a by-product of Castro’s unwillingness to allow families to take anything but their memories with them when they left Cuba.

  “Why?” I pull out my notebook and pen from my bag, and a soft chuckle escapes his lips.

  “Practicality, I suppose. There’s a luxury in historiography most Cubans lack. They’re too occupied with surviving in the present to spend their time living in the past. Plus, there’s the added difficulty of how much the narrative of the past has been shaped for them and how difficult it is to get honest information out of the regime.

  “It’s a real problem because documents that have been around for centuries—marriage records, birth records—are disappearing. We don’t have the resources, or enough national interest, to properly preserve historical documents. Our history disappears a bit more each day, and I fear people won’t realize how much we’ve lost until it’s too late.”

  “Are there efforts to restore these documents?”

  “There are several programs in place within the academic community, but it’s a massive undertaking. Hell, getting bread in Cuba can be a massive undertaking.”

  We pass by a bright yellow scooter as Luis navigates into a parking spot.

  I turn my attention away from Luis to my notebook, jotting down my impression of Old Havana, of the ease with which tourists can get around, for the article I’ll eventually write. When all is said and done, my weeklong trip to Havana will be condensed into a two-thousand-word article to be read on flights and in airports by bleary-eyed travelers.

  I’m surprised by how busy the streets are, full of tourists and locals alike. The tourists stick out—their shoes new compared to the ones the Cubans wear, cameras in hand, their heads tilted up to take in their surroundings, the beautiful buildings looming around them.

  At the moment, most of them are speaking languages other than English, but no doubt that will change as more Americans take advantage of the available visa exceptions and if those exceptions eventually disappear altogether, allowing free American tourist travel.

  “Have you noticed more tourists now that travel restrictions with the United States have eased?”

  With each question, the tension inside me lessens. I can get through a day with him as long as I focus on the sites before us and not his tanned forearms, the pride in his voice, the sharp intelligence in his words. He’s an impressive man, his competence and confidence undeniably seductive.

  Luis Rodriguez belongs to my grandmother’s time rather than mine, and for someone whose life has been steeped in nostalgia, his manner calls to me. He’s a throwback to an era when men were gentlemen, and that alone is a powerful lure.

  Married. He’s married, Marisol.

  “We used to get a steady stream of tourism from the rest of the world, but now there’s definitely an increase,” he answers. “The demographics are changing, too. There were Americans before, of course, but more of a trickle. And many were Cuban Americans.”

  “It’s going to change things when relations open up even more.”

  “Yes. It will.” He tilts his head, leaning toward me, his voice lowering. The scent of his soap—clean and strong—fills my nostrils. “Once again, Cuba is on the precipice of another change, and we’re all holding our breaths to see what, if anything, will come of it.”

  Luis does a quick, almost reflexive sweep of the street. His voice lowers again, his head bent, close enough to mine that his breath tickles my skin. He doesn’t smell like the expensive cologne I’m used to men wearing. There’s something intimate about the scent of soap and man, layers stripped away between us.

  “We live in curious times here,” he says, speaking as though we share a secret. “Throughout history, we’ve always been dependent on an outside benefactor—Spain, the United States, the Soviet Union, Venezuela. When the Soviet Union fell and we entered the Special Period, a bad situation grew worse. Then Chavez came to ‘save’ us, sending Fidel tens of thousands of barrels of oil each day in an unholy alliance. They were friends, and in that friendship, we found ourselves beholden to yet another foreign power. Once Chavez died, we faced uncertainty again. And now we’re opening up dialogue with the United States after nearly sixty years of hatred on both sides—perceived hatred, at least,” he acknowledges. “Castro—Raúl, that is—began loosening restrictions on private enterprise in Cuba because otherwise who knows what would have become of us. And really that was merely a formality, acknowledging black market businesses as legitimate for the first time.”

  I’m struck by his comments and even more so by the incontrovertible truth behind them. Signs of Cuban pragmatism are everywhere I look, both in their relations on the world stage and in the daily life most Cubans lead here. The legendary cars like the one we’re sitting in now are of course eye-catching with their bright colors and hi
story, but perhaps more impressive is the amount of work that must go into making them run for over fifty years.

  Luis laughs when I tell him so.

  “Yes, we’ve learned to become inventors, repurposing everything we can. This car is a luxury. My grandfather was a well-known photographer before he died. The regime liked him, and life was easier. The car was his. For many Cubans, though, something as simple as owning a car is an exercise in all the ways the government can screw you over. Getting gas used to be nearly impossible. So yes, I work hard to preserve the one thing I have.”

  “That must be exhausting.”

  He shrugs. “It is what it is. In a way, things are better. Having access to the tourists in the paladar has made a huge difference. I have friends who are doctors and lawyers, but also work in the big hotels on their free time because they make a fortune in tips. We all live under the shadow of the almighty Cuban convertible peso.”

  “Why is the Cuban convertible peso so important?” I ask, pen poised for his reply.

  “Cubans are paid in Cuban pesos. Everyone makes a set level of pesos every month. But having a private business or working in the tourism industry gives you access to the Cuban convertible peso, which foreigners use here. The convertible peso is pegged to the dollar. The national currency is worth a fraction of it. It’s a different world when you’re paid in convertible pesos. Cubans make more serving those who come and go, treating the island as a vacation destination, than they do in careers building infrastructure or helping their fellow citizens. And ironically, there is a substantial difference developing in Cuba now between those who have access to the convertible peso and those who do not.”

  I was prepared for the differences between Cuba and the United States, or at least I thought I was, but I truly feel as though I’ve stepped into another world. My sisters and I grew up with every opportunity available to us, never had to struggle financially, never knew the kind of pressures I see here. There’s a different level of poverty in Cuba that suggests that not only is the deck stacked against you, but someone keeps stealing all the cards.

  “And yet you still teach,” I say.

  “I do. The money is important, yes. And believe me, I have fought hard for us to have the restaurant in our family. At the same time, my students are the future of this country. Eventually, things will change. They have to.”

  He says the words with a ferocity that catches me off guard, even as they’re muttered under his breath.

  “And now that Fidel is dead?” I ask.

  “I’d like to believe things will change, I hope they will, but who knows? Perhaps the infrastructure is too much, his brother too stubborn, the country too entrenched to really change after his death. He hadn’t been running the show for a very long time even before his death, but he still casts a long shadow. Older Cubans, the ones who lived through his particular brand of hell, are reluctant to refer to him by name for fear of the ramifications of speaking ill of him, for fear of the perception that they are criticizing the regime. That trend is changing little by little, but words have power here. Deadly consequences.”

  I’m not sure if he delivers the last lines as a warning to me or a reminder to himself.

  “From everything we saw on TV, it looked like people mourned him in Havana,” I comment.

  “Some probably did. Others put on the show they’ve been participating in for decades now, because it’s expected, because it keeps them and their families safe,” he replies.

  Luis gets out of the car and comes around to the side, opening the door for me. Does the chivalry come to him naturally or through his grandmother’s instruction? It’s certainly part of his charm.

  Now that we’re out of the privacy of the car, the whispered conversations have ceased, and he’s all business, history professor and tour guide. We begin walking, Luis pointing out sites as we go, his shoulder occasionally brushing mine.

  There’s the Capitol building that resembles our own Capitol in the United States. He explains that it’s being renovated, scaffolding dominating much of the dome’s exterior.

  A bright red tour bus passes us, kicking up water lying near the curb. Without breaking stride, Luis puts his arm around my waist, guiding me away, his body between mine and the street. It lingers there for a beat before he lets me go.

  The Hotel Nacional de Cuba is ahead, the design and entryway lined in palm trees, reminding me of the Breakers back home. We walk past a row of vintage cars and head inside.

  Luis walks behind me, silent, as I explore. He seems uncomfortable here, his hands shoved into his pockets, his head bent, his eyes downcast and hiding whatever emotions linger in his gaze. The contrast between the bisected home he shares with his wife, mother, and grandmother, and the tourists’ domain is stark. Thirty minutes pass—we explore the lush gardens, the public rooms, the infamous café bar—and then we leave the hotel behind us, in search of the next landmark.

  We walk by the Museum of the Revolution, the old Bacardi building. I’m more interested in my grandmother’s Havana, the sites that formed her love of the city, but I mark my impressions of the other places for the article, my grandmother’s ashes in my bag weighing heavily on my mind.

  Havana is a beautiful city shrouded in sadness, yet the remarkable thing is that it’s almost as if the people didn’t get the memo. They laugh, and there’s a jubilant quality to the air. The frenetic pace I’m used to is replaced by an ebullient atmosphere that gives the impression that life is a big party. The Cubans probably have the least to laugh about compared to everyone around them, but they laugh the loudest.

  We continue walking, Luis pointing out more sites and answering my questions with thoughtful precision. It’s impossible to walk these streets and not feel a measure of pride as a Cuban for the beauty that is our capital city. The Great Theatre of Havana is stunning architecturally; the Cathedral of Havana is equally so.

  I hesitate at the church’s entrance, watching the tourists file in.

  “Do you want to see inside?” Luis asks.

  “Do you mind?”

  He smiles indulgently, glancing over his shoulder and gently guiding me out of the path of a group of tourists. “Not at all.”

  I grab a scarf from my bag, covering my shoulders as we enter the church.

  Beautiful chandeliers punctuate the interior, the landscape peppered with elegant statues sculpted and carved to exquisite detail. My grandmother and her siblings were baptized here, my great-grandparents married at this very altar. I imagine my grandmother here as a young girl, sitting in the pews beside her sisters, Beatriz whispering and gossiping to Isabel as the priest says Mass.

  The sensation of standing in the spot where she once stood, sitting in the wooden pews where she once sat, brings a tear to my eye. And another. This is a piece of my family’s history I didn’t expect to have returned to me.

  I don’t realize I’m crying until Luis silently hands me an ivory square handkerchief, his expression somber. My breath hitches, and I stare down at the fabric in my hands, anything to distract myself from his searching gaze.

  His initials are embroidered on one corner of the handkerchief, the fabric slightly yellowed with age. I rub my fingers over the letters there, a smile playing at my lips. It seems somehow fitting that a historian would carry a handkerchief, and I have no doubt his grandmother painstakingly embroidered his initials.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Despite the Catholic Church’s difficult relationship with Castro—his attempts to wholly eradicate religion from the country—there are a few Cubans sitting in the pews praying, their heads bent, rosaries in hand. Tourists mill around us—I recognize two men who were at the Hotel Nacional earlier. Clearly these are the popular spots to see in Havana. I make a few notes about the church on my pad.

  I turn away from Luis, lingering over the artwork, exploring the side chapels, attempting to
soak in every inch of the beautiful building. I’ve never been particularly religious, but the ambiance adds an air of solemnity to our surroundings.

  Luis trails behind me, leaving a few paces between us, and the few times I glance back at him, his gaze is fixed on me and not our surroundings.

  “What’s it like to be Catholic in Cuba?” I whisper to Luis once he’s caught up to me, his earlier warning about curbing my words fresh in my mind.

  His gaze sweeps across the church before returning back to me. “Nearly as difficult as it is to be Cuban in Cuba,” he replies, his tone dry.

  We walk around for a few more minutes, and I pay the extra fee for us to climb the bell tower, the city spread before us. I look out past the terra-cotta-tiled roofs that appear as though they would simply crack off with a strong gust of wind.

  “Are hurricanes bad here?” I ask. Growing up in South Florida, I am intimately familiar with the havoc storms can wreak.

  “It can be hell,” he answers. “Often the buildings are in such a state of disrepair that even relatively mild weather can prove a problem.”

  He keeps his voice low again, closing the distance between us. Even here, surrounded by tourists, it’s clear he’s afraid to speak his mind.

  Across the water, there’s La Cabaña, the infamous prison Che Guevara ran after the revolution. The sight of it sends a chill down my spine when I think about the blood shed there, the lives lost. There’s a violence to our history that gets lost somewhere in the telling, buried beneath the beautiful scenery, the deceptively blue sea and sky, the palm trees swaying placidly in the breeze. It’s the sound of firing squads that echo in the wind.

  “They’ve built shops there now, a restaurant,” Luis murmurs, his body tucked away from the tourists, his mouth hidden in the curve of my neck. “You can gawk at the world’s largest cigar in the site where we bled.”

  There’s something so ironically vicious about that.