Next Year in Havana Read online

  Please save him.

  chapter thirteen

  Marisol

  Ana pours us each another cup of coffee once she’s finished her story; between the espresso and the secrets, I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight. I had hoped Ana would have the answers I sought, but it seems like my grandmother kept her lover a secret even from her closest friend. All I know is that my grandmother loved a revolutionary, that they were separated when Batista threw him in prison. Was he ever released?

  “I’m sorry I don’t know what happened to him,” Ana says. “Elisa told me he was a friend who had gotten into trouble, nothing more. When I asked her about it weeks later, she changed the subject. Your great-aunts may be able to fill in the rest of it.”

  If they do know more about my grandmother’s past, I’m surprised they haven’t shared it by now.

  “There is someone else who might be able to help,” Ana adds.

  “Who?”

  “Your grandmother’s nanny.”

  “Magda?”

  My grandmother and great-aunts spoke of her fondly, but given the age difference between them I never considered the possibility that she would still be alive and in Havana.

  “Yes. She’s ninety-four now, but her memory is still quite good. She lives in Santa Clara with her niece.”

  Excitement fills me. “How far is that?”

  “By car? A few hours or so depending on the conditions. Luis could take you on one of his days off, if you’d like.”

  “Are you able to reach her?” I ask, momentarily sidestepping the issue of spending even more time alone with her grandson. Her married grandson.

  “It’s still early—I can call her tonight. We haven’t spoken lately, but I make a point of checking in with her every so often. I can see if she’ll meet with you before you leave; I’m sure she will. Your grandmother and great-aunts were like daughters to her. Especially Elisa.”

  The impression Beatriz and Maria gave me when I discussed this trip with them was that they’d lost touch over time, but hopefully Magda can fill in some of the blanks of what my grandmother was like as a child.

  “Thank you. I really appreciate all you’ve done to help me.”

  “Of course. Elisa would have done the same for me. Any of your great-aunts would have.”

  The loyalty in her voice is so absolute, so indelible, that I’m taken aback by its intensity, surprised their friendship withstood a separation of nearly sixty years. Does she ever feel as though they left her behind? Does she envy the freedom they found on the other side of the sea?

  Ana Rodriguez operates in both spheres—the before and the after—and while I struggle to understand this new iteration of Cuba, there are similarities between it and the one that developed ninety miles away. The same inherent sense of pride, the determination to be successful, the hard work, the entrepreneurial spirit and ingenuity, the pragmatism.

  “Has it been hard?” I ask. “Seeing the changes in Cuba?”

  I’m eager for this piece of Cuba she gives me. I grew up on the stories of those who left, of exile, of loss, and yet, I never understood it from the other perspective—those who were left behind, who chose to remain, whose lives were shaped by the whims and policies of governments, by ideology.

  “Yes.” She sighs, taking a sip of her cafecito. “The story of Cuba is one of struggles and strife. When we were girls, we were kept from most of it, but the edges seeped through, crawling over the gates. Batista was a harsh president. He loved sugar, loved the money that flowed into the country from overseas, but he didn’t love the Cuban people. He wanted to be king over a people who didn’t want to be ruled.”

  “And yet—”

  She gives me a sad smile. “Ah yes. But we didn’t know then, you see. We had hope. So much hope. Remember, Fidel did not start out as a communist, merely an agent for change, one we desperately needed. He was going to bring freedom to Cuba. Democracy. Elections. He was going to be our future. He promised us a revolution, and he delivered it.”

  “But at what cost?” I ask.

  “Terrible things rarely happen all at once,” she answers. “They’re incremental, so people don’t realize how bad things have gotten until it’s too late. He swore up and down that he wasn’t a communist. That he wanted democracy. Some believed him. Others didn’t.”

  “Did you—”

  “Believe? Support Fidel then?”

  I nod.

  “No. But what did I know or care about politics? I lived in a world of balls and parties, days at the club, lounging by the pool with friends, shopping for hats and dresses. Batista, Fidel, it was all the same to me. Or so I thought.

  “When Batista fled the country, I began to care. Before then, the revolution was contained to whispers between my parents. And then the whispers spread to our dining room table.”

  “Did your parents consider leaving?”

  “They did and dismissed it. They were convinced Cubans would come to their senses and Fidel would fall. ‘It’s only a matter of time,’ my father would say.”

  Ana’s gaze drifts to the room that has clearly fallen on hard times, the lingering trace of its former grandeur a stark reminder of all her family has lost.

  “No one realized how far this would go. We thought Batista was the worst we would experience, but when Fidel nationalized our rum business, things began to change.” She takes another sip of her coffee, her gaze on some memory I cannot see. “They came to our home one day with a letter saying the company was now the property of the Cuban government. Just like that. A hundred years of labor, of dreams, our legacy erased with one piece of paper.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I’m not even sure why I’m apologizing or what I’m apologizing for other than the fact that the Perezes have managed to keep their family legacy mostly intact—or at least create a new one—whereas she has lost hers.

  “It’s been a long time now,” Ana replies. “There was nothing we could do. My parents left Cuba six months later. I never saw them again. We kept in touch over the years as best we could, but it wasn’t the same.”

  Even though it was a common occurrence following the revolution, it’s difficult to imagine a family being ripped apart in such a manner. There are no Perezes remaining in Cuba; we all made the crossing to the United States, claiming Miami and Palm Beach as our own as we embraced polo and dresses with colorful prints.

  “If you don’t mind me asking—”

  “Why did I stay?”

  I nod.

  “Life, I suppose. In the beginning, the plan was for us to reunite in the United States. But my husband didn’t want to leave. He was a photographer, and he took many pictures of Fidel and others. It was an opportunity for him to see the revolution up close, to glimpse the men who loomed so large above all of us in their natural habitat. As an artist, it was a powerful lure.”

  She takes another sip of her coffee.

  “I was young. I didn’t understand the urgency, the consequences of my decision to stay. I didn’t want to leave him. I became pregnant with Luis’s father, and we had a baby and started building a life here, putting down roots in a fragile earth.

  “The thing with loss is that at first, you don’t notice. You lose your favorite pair of shoes, but there is still another, and the baby needs to be fed, and your husband had a long day at work, so why worry? And when you lose the next pair of shoes, well, you’ve already lost one pair so the novelty has worn off. You’re upset for a moment because now you’ve lost two pairs, but dinner needs to be made, and when you took your ration card to get food, they were out of milk and chicken again, and who has time to worry about shoes? And this goes on for a time until you realize you’re down to your last pair and they have holes in them, the dirt from the streets covering your skin, the soles falling apart, your toes pinched, and when you’re finally able to replace them, th
ere’s an overwhelming sense of relief, and you forget you once had twenty pairs, that once you lived like kings, and now you serve on bended knee, fighting for every inch.

  “It’s poetic justice, of course. We had everything when much of Cuba had nothing. Fidel took everything away so now we all have nothing. We are all equal, you see.”

  “Except for Fidel, who lived like a king,” Luis interjects, sliding into the empty seat next to me without acknowledging my presence. “And so many of his top officials who continue to do so.”

  How long has he been standing there?

  Luis lights a cigar, the flame a bright torch that crackles the paper. A familiar scent fills the air; my father’s abhorrence of Castro never extended to the expensive cigars he smuggled into the United States.

  “All are equal, but some are more equal than others,” I muse.

  Luis inclines his head toward me. “Was that an Animal Farm reference?”

  A hint of what might be admiration lingers in his gaze, coupled with that same indulgent amusement I’ve come to associate with his reactions to me.

  I force a smile, attempting to keep my voice light, to not draw notice to how rattled I am by his presence, how my body shifts once he’s around, my attention gravitating toward him. It seems supremely unfair that these pings of energy, these sparks flying around me, have found a target they cannot—and should not—have.

  “If the hoof fits, I guess,” I joke.

  A voice calls out from the kitchen for Ana. She excuses herself, leaving us alone, silence filling the room, its presence fairly screaming with discomfort.

  “So you read Orwell?” Luis asks after a pregnant pause.

  I shrug. “I have. I’m surprised you’ve read Orwell.”

  “Why? Because I live in a communist paradise?” A smile plays on his lips.

  Playful Luis is perhaps the most lethal version of all. I take a deep breath. “Partly. Everything we hear in the United States is centered on the scarcity of resources in Cuba, the banning of ones the government disagrees with on principle. Things are painted as austere.”

  “I’m sure that helps with the political rhetoric on both sides,” he acknowledges. “The evils of communism and all that. And when it comes to the scarcity of resources, well, it helps the regime sell the idea that we’re all equal, that your neighbor has exactly what you have even when your neighbor is a high-ranking government official driving a luxury import.”

  His voice builds with each word, growing from a murmur to something louder, stronger.

  The confidence in his tone, the conviction, is as seductive as it is surprising.

  My heart pounds. “You’re angry.”

  There were hints of his discontent earlier, but now something has changed between us, and it feels as though the mask has fallen and he’s sharing a part of himself he normally keeps hidden away.

  “‘Angry’ is the easiest emotion,” Luis replies. “You’d be surprised what people do when they’re desperate, when the dream of a society that provides for its citizens isn’t the reality.”

  “People thrive regardless of their circumstances?”

  “Something like that. The irony of the revolution is that it sought to eradicate capitalism, entrepreneurship, but the revolution’s greatest legacy has been the rise of a new breed of Cuban entrepreneurs. The black market thrives.”

  “So where does Orwell in Cuba fit in?” I ask, returning to our original point.

  He smiles faintly, his previous rancor erased. “You forget, I am a history professor.”

  “A Cuban history professor. I thought Castro discouraged such activity—examining the why behind things.”

  “How can we study history if we only examine the events in a vacuum? Orwell’s stocked in the National Library and others. Knowledge is not discouraged in Cuba, only acting upon that knowledge.”

  “And reading?”

  “Reading is encouraged.” His lips twist, that tinge of disdain back again. “Few can afford to buy books, however, so we borrow them. My students attend the university for free, which is a great thing, but they still must pay for books, supplies, transportation, food, on limited incomes. How can we afford those things when we’re barely surviving as it is? When our ability to support ourselves is limited by the government? The legacy of modern Cuba is that we can enjoy things for a moment, but we cannot truly possess them. The country is not ours; it is merely on loan from Fidel.”

  If I thought him attractive before, this conversation, the passion that animates him now, is my undoing.

  “Do all Cubans think like this, speak like this?” It surprises me to hear the same thoughts fall from his lips echoed by the exiles hanging around Versailles in Miami, sipping espresso and eating pastelitos while calling for change in Cuba.

  “Some do. Not enough.” His voice lowers. “Those of us who want more speak in whispers.”

  Luis takes a deep breath, leaning forward. His scent fills my nostrils, and once again, we’re sharing confidences. A line of goose bumps rises over my skin. I glance away from his dark flashing eyes, his full mouth, simultaneously craving his words and wishing I could build an impenetrable wall between us.

  “Existing in a constant state of uncertainty is hell,” Luis says. “This restaurant is the difference between putting meals on the table and the days when we went hungry. But how long will it last? The government controls everything.”

  A curse falls from his beautiful mouth.

  “This country. It has so much potential. So much possibility. But it breaks your heart every single time you dare hope for more. Fidel’s great revolution was supposed to bring us equality. Yet so many of the problems that existed before him still do.”

  “What would you wish it to be?” I ask, meeting his gaze, unable to look away. Have I ever met a man like him?

  No.

  “Free. Democratic.” He lifts the cigar to his mouth, inhaling in one deep breath. He exhales a cloud of smoke. “I would like to shout. The freedom to protest when I do not agree with what my government is doing without fear of retribution. The freedom to listen to music without the fear that the regime will accuse me of being too ‘Western’ and throw me in jail. I don’t want to spend my days looking over my shoulder, wondering if my neighbor is really a member of the secret police, that one of the students in my classroom isn’t there solely for the purpose of spying on me for the government, that I won’t accidentally say something that could result in me being thrown in jail or worse.”

  A chill slides down my spine. This is the Cuba my great-aunts warned me about.

  “I want to own something of my own,” Luis continues. “Something the government can’t take from me, something that is mine. If we left, the government would come into our house and inventory every single possession to make sure we didn’t take any of it with us. We don’t own the furniture, the pieces that have been in our family for generations. The framed photographs on the wall taken by my grandfather. None of it is ours.”

  The urge to take his hand, to offer comfort, is so strong I reach out before I catch myself. I snatch my hand back, my fingers curling into a fist in my lap. This connection between us—I can’t be imagining it—he must feel it, too.

  Married. He’s married, Marisol.

  “I want to be my own person.” His words wrap around my heart. “Not another number in the eyes of the government. Another food ration, another worker, another Cuban who isn’t free in his own country.”

  My heart breaks for him even as I reach for hope in a place where that particular emotion seems perversely futile.

  “We survive by not calling attention to ourselves, by being good little soldiers. I am tired of putting on the uniform, pretending I’m someone I’m not, unable to think for myself, burying these thoughts so they don’t get me or my family killed. I’m thirty-six years old, and each day the fight filt
ers from my body, the effort to exert myself, to get through a day and meet my basic needs, to care for my grandmother, for my family, to put food on the table, robbing me of much else. They ensure we’re so preoccupied with the daily struggle that there’s little left over for the most important one, for taking control of our future.”

  “Do you think things will improve now that diplomatic relations have increased?”

  “I hope so. But what change? Will we go from this to serving even more tourists and courting cruise ships? That was the Cuba of Batista’s time, when the American mob ran Havana with their hotels and casinos. When Hollywood used this as their playground. Is there no chance for Cuba to be something more? Something greater?”

  The light casts a shadow across his face, the bruise there. Luis rubs his jaw, his gaze downcast.

  “There are restaurants in Havana my grandmother frequented with her family when she was a little girl. Now only tourists can afford to eat there. We’re guests in our own country. Second-rate citizens because we had the misfortune to be born Cuban.”

  He raises his head to meet my gaze, his eyes defiant. We do not wear humility well.

  “Would increased tourism be better, though? Than this?”

  “I don’t know,” he answers, his voice weary. “It’s a cruel twist of fate that we’ve suffered through all we have to merely end up where we started, and in my family’s case with far less.

  “It’s hard to hope,” he continues. “We’ve known worse times, of course. It was hell when we lost the support of the Soviet Union.”

  The not-so-Special Period.

  “Would you ever leave?”

  “This is my home; it’s all I’ve ever known. And at the same time, it’s hard. There comes a point when you have to decide if it’s worth it, if the abuses are enough to make you want to leave, if they outweigh those few moments when you know true pleasure.”

  It’s the word “pleasure” that does it—

  It’s late and I should go to bed. I shouldn’t have hushed conversations with a married man in the near-darkness.