Next Year in Havana Read online

  “Lifestyle pieces,” I answer. “Travel, fashion, food, that sort of thing. I’m working on an article on Cuban tourism now that relations are opening up.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  It’s funny, because I think he’s the first person to lead with that question. Typically people want to know where I’ve been published, if I’ve written for a “big” entity, if I’m successful by whatever metric they’ve decided matters—money, fame, notoriety. I like him better for getting to the heart of it—the reason behind why I write.

  “Most of the time. It’s fun. I like traveling and seeing new places, enjoy meeting new people. It’s usually a puzzle—I know where I’ll end up, the words I’ll use to get there, but the magic comes when I sit at my computer and string sentences together to reach the heart of what I’m trying to say. There’s always a new challenge, a new surprise waiting for me when I begin researching.”

  And I like the freedom it brings, but I don’t say that. I grow restless if I’m in one place too long, and while I always return to Miami, the familiar itch springs up after a month or so. An itch that has infected other areas of my life since my grandmother died, her loss and the memories she left behind making me examine my own legacy—thirty-one, unmarried, childless, driven by a career I like, but don’t love.

  “So it’s the quest you enjoy?”

  I never really thought about it that way, but—

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  We pass by a wall decorated in a mural of Cuban flags, and I sneak a sidelong glance at Luis. His arm rests on the seat next to mine, inches between us.

  Has he ever left Cuba? Do the Cubans who remained resent those who left? Are they worried we will attempt to retake the things we lost when the revolution came? Would he leave if he could? Does he wonder about the world beyond Cuba’s shores? It’s strange to be in a place that is so cut off from the rest of the world, to realize we likely view life through such different lenses.

  “You can just ask me.” A smile plays on his lips as his gaze flicks to the rearview mirror. “I can practically feel all the questions in your mind pushing to get out.”

  I open my mouth to object, but he shakes his head, his gaze back on the road.

  “Journalists.”

  There’s a sort of indulgent affection in that word.

  “What do you do?” I ask instead of responding to his statement.

  “I’m a history professor at the University of Havana. I teach courses on Cuban history. If you have questions about the city for your article, I’m happy to answer them.”

  “That would be great, thanks. I have a list of places I want to see—the Malecón, the Hotel Nacional, the Tropicana—but I’d love to visit sites locals frequent as well.”

  “I’m happy to show you around, then.”

  I didn’t expect a built-in tour guide when I accepted Ana’s invitation to stay with her, but I’m grateful for his help. Besides, it’s not exactly a hardship to be shown around Cuba by a handsome, intelligent man.

  “How much do you know about Cuba?” he asks.

  “I was raised on it,” I answer proudly. “My grandmother’s favorite pastime was to tell me stories about Cuba, the house where she grew up, trips to Varadero, attending dances in the squares. Cuba was part of my everyday life. In the food we ate, the music we listened to. It still is, but now that my grandmother is gone it feels more removed.”

  “Was your father born here?”

  “No. He was born after my grandmother left in ’59.”

  “And he didn’t want to visit with you?”

  I shrug. “He works a lot. He runs the family company, and that keeps him busy.”

  My father is a man of business and action, not prone to sentimentality or self-discovery. When relations between the United States and Cuba normalize—if they normalize—I fully expect him to pave a way in the new market. But this? Chasing down his family’s legacy? No.

  “Sugar, isn’t it?”

  I nod, wondering what else his grandmother told him about us.

  “My grandmother wanted her ashes spread here. She told me I’d know where to scatter them, but after talking to her sisters, I haven’t decided where would be ideal. They gave me some ideas, but I’d like to visit the places and get a feel for them myself. She trusted me with this; I don’t want to let her down.”

  My grandfather was buried in a cemetery in Miami, but my grandmother’s letter made it clear that she didn’t want to be buried on American soil.

  I always said I would go back, and now it’s up to you to fulfill that wish for me, to reunite me with those I left behind.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. You were close?”

  “She was like a mother to me.”

  He nods as though he understands that my words are not said lightly. “My grandmother spoke of her often and fondly. She hoped they would see each other again.”

  “My grandmother thought she would return,” I reply, the grief creeping up on me the more I speak of her. Talking about her is always a double-edged sword—it keeps her close to me, but it also makes me feel her absence more acutely.

  Luis turns onto another road, and I experience my first glimpse of Havana.

  I’ve seen pictures, of course, but there’s nothing like viewing it in person, the buildings towering before us. Many of the exteriors are adorned in vibrant colors—coral, canary yellow, and turquoise—the sun bathing them in an amber glow. The walls match the flashy cars surrounding us, the paint on the structures peeling in places. Clotheslines hang from intricate wrought iron and stone balconies, clothes flapping in the breeze; power lines zigzag across buildings. People are stacked upon one another here, crammed into any available space, spilling from the buildings.

  The architecture is breathtaking, though. Ornate black iron lamps are posted as sentries along sidewalks. The detail on the buildings is truly remarkable, intricate carvings and scrollwork adorning apartments. But pieces of plaster have crumbled off, leaving gaps on the walls, and there’s a faint sheen of gray that adorns the landscape as though the entire city needs a good scrubbing.

  Havana is like a woman who was grand once and has fallen on hard times, and yet hints of her former brilliance remain, traces of an era since passed, a photograph faded by time and circumstance, its edges crumbling to dust.

  If I close my eyes I can see Havana as she was, enshrined in my grandmother’s memory. But when they open again, the reality of nearly sixty years of isolation stares back at me, and I’m grateful my grandmother isn’t here to witness the decay of the city she loved so faithfully.

  “It was beautiful once,” Luis says, surprising me. Our gazes catch.

  “Yes. You can see that it was.”

  “Each year it ages a bit more.” He sighs, turning his attention back to the road. “We paint, plaster, attempt to keep it together, but a project of this magnitude?”

  The rest lingers between us. Without money, there’s very little they can do.

  “Old Havana is better than most of the neighborhoods. They preserve it for the tourists, so if you want a glimpse of what the city was like before, you’ll see it there.”

  The Spanish founded the old part of the city in the sixteenth century. From what I’ve read and the stories I’ve heard, Havana is divided into different neighborhoods, each distinct for its own reasons. Part of the attraction of staying with Ana rather than in a hotel is that her family still lives in the house next to my grandmother’s—the house where generations of Perezes were born and raised.

  “What can you tell me about Miramar?” I ask, referring to my grandmother’s old neighborhood.

  “Which do you prefer—the history professor’s perspective or that of the man who’s lived there his entire life?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “The story of the Cuban people—the modern histor
y, at least—is a story of adapting. Making the most of the limited resources the grand revolution affords us—” There’s a hint of disapproval in the way he says “grand revolution,” as though he’s committed blasphemy.

  “Miramar has survived better than most parts of the city because the embassies are there. Some of the houses are run-down, but it could be worse. Many of the regime’s generals and high-ranking officials now live in the homes that were once occupied by Batista’s cohorts, by Cuba’s wealthiest families.” This time the disapproval rings clear. “That’s progress, you see. We rid ourselves of the worms and look who moved in to replace them.”

  The candor in his words and the manner in which his voice fairly drips with scorn surprises me.

  “We opened a paladar in our home,” Luis continues. “It’s filled with European tourists, because most Cubans could never afford to eat at our restaurant if it wasn’t subsidized by the high prices tourists pay—well, high for us anyway.”

  I’ve heard about the informal restaurants Cubans have begun running out of their homes with permission from the government. I have a list of the top-rated ones in Havana to add to my article, and the paladar run by the Rodriguez family is on it.

  “Does your grandmother do the cooking?”

  “For the most part. Everyone who comes into the restaurant is welcomed like family. It’s harder each year as she gets older, but she enjoys hosting our guests. I help out when I can.”

  “And your parents? Do they live in Miramar, too?”

  He doesn’t answer me for a moment, his fingers tapping against the leather steering wheel. He turns down a side street, the ocean making a sudden appearance. It’s a perfect Tiffany blue; the waves crash in foamy white caps.

  “My father died when I was a boy. Fighting in Angola.”

  “I’m sorry.” I hesitate. “He was in the military?”

  “He was. An officer in the army. He fought in Angola in ’88. The battle of Cuito Cuanavale. Died a hero. My mother works in the paladar with my grandmother.”

  He offers this last piece of information with deceptive candor; I recognize it for what it is—offering more information than I asked for so I won’t ask for more.

  Silence falls between us, and I’m content to spend the rest of the drive staring at the scenery, imagining my grandmother walking down these streets, standing under the lamppost, dipping her feet in the water lapping along the shore. I see her sisters here, too—Beatriz causing mischief wherever she goes; Isabel, who passed away almost two years ago and who spent her life with a perpetual shroud of sadness for the love she lost; and Maria, the youngest of my great-aunts who was little more than a child when she left.

  The neighborhood reminds me of the Spanish streets in Coral Gables, and I see why my grandmother gravitated toward that part of Miami when she first came to the United States, how she found her own enclave where she attempted to recreate the country she loved and lost.

  Enormous palm trees dominate the landscape, their intricate, spindly trunks a testament to the island’s resilience against Mother Nature and the hurricane-force winds that often batter its shores. The homes themselves exist in varying states of decay, ghosts of a society carried away by revolution. And yet beside the rubble are tall, modern hotels designed to attract European tourists, a smattering of shops and bars that clearly cater to similar clientele. An empty fountain sits off to the side, broken, its mermaids forlorn and aimless, as though it’s been frozen in time by a sorcerer’s spell.

  We continue on, and the city stirs, people walking down the street, waiting at a bus stop.

  We drive down the Quinta Avenida, past embassies lined up in a row. And then there are more houses—overgrown lawns, empty swimming pools in the backyard visible from the road. There’s more space here, the estates a bit larger, and from the condition of the houses, it appears Miramar has fared better than most of Havana, even as my surroundings are still so different from what I’m used to and a far cry from the opulent splendor my grandmother described to me.

  The houses were fashioned after grand European estates, materials brought in from France and Spain on great big ships. Their gardens were impeccably manicured, flowers blooming, the smell of oranges in the air, the immense palm trees casting shade upon us all.

  Luis points out the Russian embassy as we pass by. It’s impossible to miss—the building is austere and towering, shooting into the sky like a missile.

  Luis makes another turn in the big car, as though he’s navigating a boat into a slip, and we’re on the street where my family lived.

  * * *

  • • •

  Luis stops in front of a house, and despite the rambling appearance, the faded paint, I recognize the structure behind the iron gates immediately.

  It was painted pink, the palest color, like the inside of a seashell. Beatriz used to stand on the upstairs balcony like a queen holding court.

  And where were you, Abuela?

  Swimming in the pool in the back with Maria, probably. Or reading in the library. We would make our way into the kitchen, and the cook would sneak us food before dinner. My mother hated it, of course, which was largely the appeal.

  I remove my sunglasses, wiping at my face as I open the door and get out of the car, walking toward the house, staring at the palm trees, the steps leading up to the front door. From Beatriz, I learned the house was built in the Baroque style by Perezes generations past. The image in front of me doesn’t compare to the photographs I’ve seen, smuggled out by family friends and former employees over the years, but the shadow of its former glory remains.

  “Who lives there now?” I ask as Luis comes to stand next to me, silent, his hands shoved into the pockets of his khakis. The sleeve of his guayabera brushes my bare shoulder, a hint of the weight of his body beside mine.

  “A Russian diplomat moved in decades ago.” His breath catches as our arms graze. “When I was a teenager.”

  My grandmother’s bedroom was in the back of the house, a view of the ocean from her window, and I yearn to sneak back there and explore.

  “Are they in residence?”

  Perhaps I can convince them to let me look around? Of all the places I’ve considered spreading my grandmother’s ashes, her childhood home seems like the best option.

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  The sun shines down on the building, encasing it in the same glow that bathes everything here. The sky is an explosion of color, every shade of blue you can imagine; white cotton clouds spread throughout.

  I’ve never seen a more beautiful place in all my life.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I whisper more to myself than him, taking a step forward, my hands curving around the wrought iron gate in front of the property.

  Everything fades into the background, and it’s just the house and me.

  A minute passes by. Two.

  I pull back reluctantly, loath to leave. When I turn to face Luis, he isn’t looking at the house, but at me.

  “Are you ready to drop your bags off and settle into your room?” he asks, his gaze speculative.

  I nod, words momentarily eluding me.

  Luis holds out his hand, indicating for me to proceed. I offer to carry the bags again, but he refuses, following me as I walk along the sidewalk to the house next door to my grandmother’s.

  The Rodriguez house is three stories tall and painted a pale yellow. Compared to the other residences, the mansion is relatively well-kept, wearing its age with dignity and grace. A restaurant awning hangs over one side of the building, indicating the house’s changed stature in life, people milling outside on one of the patios where tables have been set out for diners. Large, nearly floor-to-ceiling glass-paneled doors open to the outside, exposing an indoor dining area.

  We walk up a gravel driveway, Luis leading me toward the front doors. He opens them with a creak, and we step ov
er the threshold. The entryway is cavernous, the marble floor cracked and scuffed, but still impressive. Judging by the empty spaces on the walls and in the room, much of the furniture is long gone, the remaining pieces in surprisingly good condition despite their age.

  My grandmother told me Ana’s family was in the rum business before Castro nationalized it, and even fifty years of communism haven’t fully erased the vestiges of their wealth.

  The walls are a pastel green color. A heavy gold mirror with a delicate fleur-de-lis covers one wall, the gilt tarnished in places. Another wall is covered in a hodgepodge of artwork and aged photographs. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, a double staircase leading up to the house’s second floor.

  “Your home is beautiful.”

  Luis removes his sunglasses and smiles. “Thank you.”

  “Marisol?”

  I turn.

  She walks toward me from a doorway off the entryway. Even with the addition of over fifty years, I recognize her instantly from my grandmother’s old photos.

  Ana Rodriguez is a petite woman—an inch or two shorter than me—with a compact build. Her dark hair curls beneath her ears, her cheeks are pink, a broad smile on her face.

  In three steps she crosses the entryway, holding out her hands and clasping mine.

  “Marisol.”

  My name is said with a rush of affection, and any lingering nerves I possessed about staying with a stranger disappear completely. She treats me as one would a granddaughter she hasn’t seen in weeks rather than a guest, engulfing me in a hug. Tears prick my eyes. There’s something in her manner, in the way she carries herself that reminds me of my grandmother. She smells as though she’s come from the kitchen, an apron tied around her waist, mouthwatering scents I recognize instantly—mojo and black beans—greeting me.

  I’m not normally a crier, but between my grief and the nostalgia of the moment, it’s difficult to keep my emotions in check. These are the stories of my childhood come to life, the spirit of my grandmother, my family, our legacy, everywhere I turn.