Next Year in Havana Page 27

“Can’t? Or won’t?” I ask, a tremor in my voice.

  “Can’t.”

  He speaks with the care of a man who parses each and every word, and for some reason his gentle tone strikes a chord of terror deep within me, the kindness in his voice incongruous with the evening’s events. What is his role in all of this?

  I struggle for calm, reaching for the courage I hope lies somewhere inside me. “Then why am I here? What do you want with me?”

  He doesn’t answer, but instead walks toward an empty chair in the corner, dragging it in front of me. He takes a seat, crossing his ankle over his opposite knee, in a pose that tugs at my memory. He looks down at my hand, his gaze settling on the ring there.

  My fingers curl into a protective ball, my knuckles resting on my thigh.

  “Marisol Ferrera.”

  A chill slides down my spine as my name falls from his lips. So it’s not just Luis on their radar—do they think I’ve been involved with his blogging? That I’m helping him? One of the people posting his blogs overseas? Or is this because I’ve been going around the country asking questions?

  The man’s gaze moves from the ring, to my face, and back to the ring again.

  “Were you hurt? I told them to be gentle with you.”

  Are all Cuban kidnappers this polite? Somehow I doubt it. Still, his words resonate. Told, not asked. Yeah, he’s the one in charge.

  “You grabbed me off the street. What did you think would happen?”

  What looks startlingly like regret flickers in his dark brown eyes. “I know, and for that, I apologize. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Why? What do you want with me?” I ask again as Luis’s earlier words come back to me now. Have I been followed the entire time I’ve been in Cuba?

  “You have caught the government’s attention—they were already watching Mr. Rodriguez thanks to his extracurricular activities, and then you came to Cuba as a journalist. Your family is known here, on the government’s radar, known for supporting efforts against the regime in the United States. Once you arrived in the airport, they were made aware of it.”

  They?

  “And you? Are you not part of the government?”

  He inclines his head in a subtle nod, acknowledging my point. “Not as much as I was in my younger years, but I still have a few connections. Your presence here was brought to my attention as well.”

  Why? How am I going to get out of this? These people don’t play by any rules I’m familiar with, and even for someone with a last name that normally draws attention, this is an entirely different and far more terrifying microscope to be under.

  “You’ve been watching me?”

  He almost looks embarrassed. “I’ve been trying to protect you. When I saw your name, I asked some of my men to look after you, to make sure no harm came to you while you were in Havana. My reach did not—could not—extend to Mr. Rodriguez. His name had already made it up the ranks.”

  How far up? What does the hierarchy even resemble in a country such as this?

  “Why were you interested in me? Did you know my family before they left Cuba?”

  He’s too young to be a contemporary of my great-grandparents, a bit older than my great-aunts, my grandmother . . .

  His hand shakes as he shoves it in his pocket, and something about that motion, his posture in that chair—the casual elegance of it—is so familiar—

  When he speaks again, his voice is strained, the emotion there answering the question in my mind.

  “You look like her.”

  The final puzzle piece slides into place as a lump forms in my throat.

  Of course.

  I see traces of my father in him: the eyes, the mannerisms, the build.

  “Yes, I do.” I take a deep breath. “You’re the man from the letters, aren’t you? My grandmother loved you. You loved her.”

  A look of surprise flashes across his face, and he nods.

  The evening’s events crash over me again and again, and it takes a moment for me to gather my thoughts, to deal with this new twist; this trip to Cuba throws me more and more off-balance with each day that passes. I’ve gone through emotional whiplash—my grandmother loved a revolutionary once, the man I spent my whole life thinking was my grandfather isn’t my biological grandfather after all, my biological grandfather is a revolutionary, one of Fidel’s men, and now he’s alive and sitting across from me.

  Does he know the rest of it? Does he know my grandmother was pregnant? Does he know he’s my grandfather?

  “I didn’t know your name. The letters were unsigned. I thought you were dead. But I—I’ve been looking for you.”

  “My name is Pablo Garcia,” he replies.

  My grandfather’s name is Pablo Garcia. Such a simple thing, but suddenly, it feels like everything.

  “Why me?” I repeat, my tone softer as I study the man I now know is my grandfather.

  “Because I failed Elisa once, and I couldn’t fail her again,” he answers. “I’ve waited and wondered if I would hear something about your family over the years. I’ve kept an eye on Ana Rodriguez and Magda Villarreal because they were important to your grandmother. Like I said before, when you came into the country, your name was flagged. I still have friends in the government, and they brought it to my attention. How could I not watch over Elisa’s granddaughter?

  “I apologize for the circumstances of our meeting. I never intended to disturb your trip here, only to make sure you were safe, but when I saw the police were planning to grab Luis, there was no other option. I didn’t want them to take you. The best I could do was arrange for my men to intervene.”

  “Do you know where Luis is?” I ask again.

  “He’s alive. They’re merely questioning him for now. If something happens to him, I will know.”

  “What can I do for him?”

  “At the moment? Nothing. I am doing everything I can, but these things take time. You getting involved will only complicate things for Luis—if they suspect him of espionage, of colluding with an American.” Pablo clears his throat. “Perhaps while we wait, we can get to know each other a bit. If you would permit me, I would like to know more about you. About your grandmother.”

  A moment passes while I study him, searching for some sign, a flash of intuition that tells me he is a good man.

  “You’re asking me to trust you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t even know you,” I protest. “All I know is that my grandmother loved you decades ago.”

  And the letters. Is that enough to go on?

  “I know. Please give me a chance.”

  Isn’t this what I wanted all along?

  He looks up to the ceiling for a moment, and when he glances back to me, his eyes swim with emotion. “How is she? Your grandmother? Elisa.”

  I say the words quickly, like ripping off a bandage, for his benefit and perhaps, a bit, for my own. “She passed away. Six months ago.”

  His eyes close for a moment. When they open, there’s a wet sheen there. “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened? Was she sick?”

  He asks the question with the resigned tone of someone who has already watched loved ones succumb to a variety of illnesses and with an earnestness that tugs at my heart.

  “No. It was sudden. They say she didn’t feel anything, that she went quickly and painlessly. A heart attack in the night.”

  Her longtime housekeeper found her in bed the next morning.

  “At least she was spared pain,” he says. He coughs, his hand on his chest, his fingers curled into a fist over his heart. “Why did you come to Cuba?”

  “When my grandmother died, she left a note behind asking to be cremated and to have her ashes spread in Cuba. She always wanted to come back here after Castro—”

  I’m afraid to finish the sentence, not
sure if I’m speaking to the man my grandmother loved or Fidel’s loyal follower.

  “That is a sentiment shared by many in Miami, I’m sure,” Pablo comments, his tone dry.

  Did he know my grandmother lived in Miami, or was that merely an accurate guess? He’s had eyes on me since I landed in Havana. What else does he know about me? How did he know her married name?

  “And you decided to stay with Ana?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Elisa spoke of her often,” Pablo continues. “We never met, but I felt like I knew her through Elisa’s stories. She loved Ana very much. The combination of your last name with Ana’s name and address was enough for me to know you were Elisa’s. But how did you know who I am?”

  “Ana mentioned my grandmother had buried a box in the backyard of her parents’ house. I found your letters. The ring.”

  His gaze darts to my hand, lingering there.

  “Ana gave me pieces of the story. Then she told me about my grandmother’s nanny, and Magda filled in more. But I don’t understand—Magda told me you died in the Battle of Santa Clara on New Year’s Eve.

  “My grandmother never spoke of any of this to me,” I add. “We were close; she raised me. I would like to know this part of her. I’m trying to fill in the rest of it. Trying to understand what happened. Magda said your friend Guillermo told my grandmother you’d died.”

  “I almost did die. Santa Clara was chaotic. I went with Che and his forces to the city at the end of December.”

  “Were you and Che friends?”

  “I wouldn’t say we were friends. Compatriots by circumstance rather than birth. He came here from Argentina looking for a fight. He wanted to revolutionize the world one country at a time.”

  “He was beloved by many, though, wasn’t he?”

  “He was. He had charisma, and his fighters looked up to him.” Pablo shrugs. “I cared more for Cuba than I did about revolution. I dreamed of freedom in those days. Freedom from Batista’s tyrannical ways, from our position as America’s playground. I wanted the island to be democratic and independent; I wanted the Cuban people to determine their own future. Sometimes I wondered if Che merely liked the fight.”

  “Yet you fought beside him.”

  “I did. We were brothers of sorts. You don’t always like your brothers, don’t always agree with them, but you take up arms and fight beside them. In those days, it was the right thing to do.”

  “So you went to Santa Clara.”

  “I did. Elisa didn’t want me to go. She was afraid something would happen to me, to Cuba, to us. And I didn’t want to leave her. But after I got out of prison, after Elisa—and your great-grandfather—helped get me out, my days were numbered. Batista was determined to make an example of the rebels, and it was only a matter of time before I ended up in front of a firing squad.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “Terrified. In my younger years, I would have told you I was ready to die for my country, that I was brave, but it’s the prerogative of old men to tell the truth. I was afraid I would die. Afraid I would be wounded. Afraid I’d never see Elisa again. Afraid we’d lose and all we’d done would be for naught.

  “But on the way, that fear changed. On the way to Santa Clara people came out of their homes, from the fields where they worked and cheered us along. Their shoes were worn, their clothes dirty, but there was hope in their eyes. They saw us as their future. Cuba’s future. And it was impossible to not feel proud on that march, to not feel like we served something greater than us, to not feel some sense of purpose that if we faced death, it would not be in vain. Young men dream of nothing more than becoming heroes, and we knew that whatever happened in Santa Clara, we would be remembered as heroes or martyrs.”

  “Why did you decide to fight?”

  “I met Fidel when I was studying law at the University of Havana. We had a class together, and we went out for drinks one night after a lecture. He was so passionate back in those days; it was easy to get swept up in his words, in his enthusiasm for change. We were consumed by the idea of dethroning Batista, so caught up in the spirit of the fight that we didn’t think as much about the future as we should have. We agreed Cuba should be free, but we didn’t realize at the time that we had different views of what that freedom would look like, that the reality would be different from the one we spoke of when we were just kids playing at revolution.”

  I’m surprised by the candor in his voice, by the thread of regret beneath it all.

  “What would you have done differently?”

  “Everything. Nothing. Who knows how much would have changed?”

  “What happened that day in Santa Clara?”

  “I was shot at Santa Clara. There were a few hundred of us. Some went with Che; others, like me, armed with grenades, were sent to capture the hill. El Vaquerito led us.”

  “El Vaquerito?”

  “Roberto Rodríguez Fernández. He died at Santa Clara. He was only twenty-three.”

  He delivers the words in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, as though he is too familiar with men dying in war.

  “Batista’s army had nearly four thousand soldiers, tanks, planes. We were outmatched and outgunned.”

  “But you won. I saw the memorial, the train.”

  He seems pleased by this.

  “We did. Batista’s forces were tired of fighting. When we captured the train Batista sent with reinforcements, it was all over. Batista fled during the early hours of New Year’s Day, and everyone marched toward the city. I lost a lot of blood, and my wound became infected. I nearly died; the doctors didn’t think it was wise to move me. So I stayed and recovered in a house nearby. In the confusion, Guillermo thought I’d died.

  “By the time I was well enough to contact Elisa, Batista was already gone and Fidel had taken power. There were strikes throughout the country, and everything descended into a state of chaos. I had to be careful; her family never would have approved, and at that time, I had nothing to offer her.

  “I went to Havana to see her. Before I had a chance, I learned her father was in prison. They were after anyone who supported Batista in those days, and already the regime was discussing taking the plantations away from the elite. The Perez family was an attractive target.”

  I’m struck by the way in which he describes the regime as separate from him, as though Castro’s revolution was almost, but not quite, his.

  “He was in La Cabaña,” Pablo continues.

  A chill slides down my spine as I remember the sight of the prison in Havana looming on the horizon.

  “Che had him. I had a few cards to play, and I knew how much Elisa loved her father, that it would have broken her heart to have lost him, that the family depended on him. In the end, it wasn’t enough—”

  This is the part of the story I didn’t get from the letters, Magda, or Ana, the missing piece to the puzzle.

  “I met with Elisa’s father, your great-grandfather, before he was released, and he promised he would tell her I was safe, that I loved her, that I would come for her when I could, when I had something to offer her. I gave him a letter to give to her. He seemed grateful to me for getting him out, but at the same time, I saw the way he looked at me. I was just another criminal in green fatigues in his eyes. And still—I had hope. That the dream of Elisa, of a future of us together, the one that had sustained me through prison, my time in the mountains, would eventually come true.

  “And then they killed Alejandro,” he says, sadness in his gaze. “After everything, I couldn’t save him.”

  “What happened?”

  I grew up knowing that once, my grandmother had a brother, but the mention of him was always too painful for her and her sisters to discuss.

  “I didn’t know him personally, only what I heard through the rebel circles and my relationship with Elisa. He was well-liked, charismatic, well-
placed to influence Cuba’s future. He was a threat, and someone took that threat seriously enough to kill him.”

  “He wasn’t with the 26th of July?”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  Those words seem particularly ominous.

  “As soon as I learned Alejandro had been killed—I wanted to see Elisa, to comfort her. And at the same time, I worried my presence would be a slap in the face for all they’d lost. So I stayed away for a while, thinking it was the honorable thing to do. Eventually, I realized your great-grandfather never told her I was alive, never gave her my letter. I learned Guillermo told Elisa I was dead, that she thought I was gone. I don’t blame your great-grandfather, not after all he’d lost. My own family disowned me for joining Fidel. The last words my father said to me were that he was ashamed I was his son, that I had betrayed my country, my people. I didn’t want Elisa to feel the same way, couldn’t bear the thought that I’d destroyed what she loved, too.

  “I went to her house to see her once I learned Guillermo had told her I died, once it became clear your great-grandfather didn’t tell her I was alive, once some time had passed. I asked one of the gardeners about the family, and he said they had gone, fled to the United States. He didn’t know when they would return. That was in March. I told myself she was safer there. You can’t imagine the fear we lived with during those days, even those of us close to Fidel. Perhaps those of us close to Fidel more than anyone. It took nothing to sentence a man to death. You learned to survive by following his orders, by agreeing with everything he said. Men who didn’t, good men, well—” His voice cracks, and I see the man my grandmother loved, the earnestness there and the immense sorrow at all that goodness and hope being twisted into something else entirely. “The firing squads, the blood—”

  His eyes close.

  “It wasn’t what I believed in. Wasn’t the future I had fought for. But I couldn’t give up. We’d come too far for the country to fail. The problem was no one really understood what it would take to make the necessary changes in Cuba. And there were so many problems to be addressed. So I stayed behind and I worked. I wanted to help with legal reform. One of the goals of the revolution was to restore Cuba to the 1940 Constitution. Of course, instead we had the Fundamental Law.