Next Year in Havana Page 5

“Hello,” I echo, traversing one thousand guesses surrounding who he is, what he does, why he crossed the room to speak to me, in the time between those hellos.

  His lips curve, those eyes softening a bit. “I’m Pablo.”

  I turn his name over and over in my head, testing out the sound of it to my ears alone before giving him my own.

  “Elisa.”

  An elbow brushes past me, jostling me. I lurch forward, the rum in my glass tipping precariously, entirely too close to Pablo’s black suit. He reaches out, steadying me, his hand connecting with my arm.

  I blink again in an attempt to right myself. My drink isn’t the only thing that’s tilted on its axis.

  “I’ve never seen you at one of Guillermo’s parties before,” he says.

  Guillermo must be our host, the friend of a friend of a friend, or something or other, of Isabel’s boyfriend.

  “I’ve never been to one before.”

  He nods, that same solemn expression on his face, and I revise my guess about his age. He is older, late twenties or early thirties perhaps.

  Another person nudges my back, and Pablo shifts, putting his body between me and the rest of the crowd, his hand exerting the faintest pressure on my elbow to steady me.

  The song changes, the tempo increasing, guests dancing to the spirited beat as we remain pressed up against the wall, his hand on my elbow. His fingers are long and lean; they tell the story of a man who works with his hands, slightly incongruous with the dark, well-worn suit and the party’s solidly Havana crowd.

  Pablo’s hand falls to his side. I look up.

  His mouth is parted slightly, his gaze narrowed as though he doesn’t know what to make of what he sees.

  Another body bumps into us. The rum lists in my glass.

  Pablo leans into me, his voice rising to be heard over the loud music, the laughter. My heartbeat thrums, equal parts nerves and anticipation running through my veins.

  “Do you want to step outside?” he asks. “It’s quieter out there.”

  It seems the most natural thing in the world to give him my hand and follow him out of the party.

  chapter four

  Pablo leads me through the house, his steps guided by purpose and familiarity. We weave through the crowd, and I search for Beatriz and Isabel as we walk, but I can’t find them in the throng. Every so often Pablo turns around and glances at me, his fingers laced with mine. We step out into the night, the backyard nearly empty as we walk toward a palm tree to the side of the house. The backyard abuts another, the lots small and crammed together.

  He’s right—it is quieter outside, the roar of music and partygoers now a low hum.

  I look up at the sky, the stars shining down on us, taking the opportunity to compose myself. When I glance back at him, he’s not looking at me, but up at the stars as well, his gaze hooded.

  I jump at the sound of a boom off in the distance, then another, and another. The explosion is far away, relegated to another part of the city, but these days it could signal anything—gunfire, fireworks, bombs.

  I glance at Pablo, his attention no longer on the sky, but focused on me; his expression is unreadable, as though he has grown immune to the sounds of violence and armed revolt.

  “Those probably aren’t fireworks,” I comment, my heart pounding.

  “Probably not,” he agrees.

  I wait for him to say more, for him to remark on the recent violence, but he’s surprisingly quiet. I’m used to men who fill conversations, offering me little opportunity to speak.

  “How long have you known Guillermo?” I ask, searching for someplace to start. It’s more private out here, but it was easier back in the party, the music and people filling the spaces and silences in our conversation. Now it’s up to us, and I’m at a loss for words. I know how to speak to people from my own world, people who have mastered the art of speaking without saying anything at all, but I can’t imagine having such a conversation with the boy—man—standing before me. He seems like the sort who parses and weighs his words with economy and care.

  Pablo doesn’t answer me right away, those brown eyes piercing, his gaze lingering on my feet, and I immediately regret my decision to wear my mother’s fine Parisian shoes.

  His are black, the leather creased in places from wear.

  “Years,” he replies absentmindedly, his gaze still on my ridiculous shoes. “We’ve known each other for years.”

  I shuffle back and forth, my mother’s voice in my ear again—

  Don’t fidget, Elisa.

  Surely, this time a little fidgeting is warranted.

  “How do you know Guillermo?” I press on, motivated not only by his answer but a desire to remove his attention from my footwear. His manner makes me a bit bolder, the inclination that he’s also off-balance, a tension threading through his silence.

  This time he looks into my eyes, a ghost of a smile on his mouth.

  “We went to law school together years ago.”

  The University of Havana has been closed for two years now, so he must have graduated a while ago.

  “How do you know Guillermo?” he counters.

  “I don’t. He’s a friend of a friend of a friend of my sister’s boyfriend. Or something like that. I came with my sisters.” The words escape in a whoosh. I take a deep breath. Then another. “Are you from the city?” I ask, attempting to place him in the insular circle of Havana society.

  “Just down the street, actually.”

  It isn’t the nicest neighborhood, but far from the worst.

  There’s a twinkle in his eye when he asks his next question, and before the words leave his mouth, I know these stupid shoes have given me away.

  “Miramar?”

  I nod, slightly embarrassed by the knowing tone of voice, the images my neighborhood’s name conjures up. Havana’s wealthiest citizens live in our own private enclave, and the rest of the city knows it.

  I was raised from birth to be proud of being a Perez; we all were. My sisters and I cannot work, but that doesn’t mean we don’t do our part to carry our family’s mantle, that it hasn’t been instilled in us that we must never tarnish our family’s reputation, our every word, every action reflecting on the Perez name, the legacy of our ancestors resting on our shoulders.

  Still—this is the point in the conversation when I wish I had more to contribute, that I could share career ambitions or something similar. It has not escaped my notice that so many of my countrywomen are far more accomplished than me.

  Thanks to our father’s insistence we had the finest education, are well acquainted with the classics. Thanks to our mother’s influence we have been trained in the art of entertaining—hosting dinners, organizing charity functions; living, breathing decorations that form part of the trappings of our family’s empire. Times are changing in Cuba—how long will we be little more than ornaments?

  Pablo walks forward a bit before turning back to face me, his shoulders listing with the effort, and I’m surprised by how lean he is, the suit hanging from the slope of his shoulders.

  “What’s life like in Miramar?” he asks.

  “Probably what you’d imagine.”

  I feel as though I’ve become a point of curiosity, an exhibit like the island of crocodiles at the Havana Zoo, those mighty animals sunning their backs with contempt for the gawking tourists and locals who point and exclaim over their size. Being a Perez in Havana—one of the sugar queens—is akin to wondering if you should charge admission for the window into your life—the stories they print in Diario de la Marina and the like. Beatriz welcomes the attention, Isabel attempts to cast off the veneer of notoriety, and I’m somewhere in the middle. Maria is too young to care either way; her chief amusements are still playing in the pool and the backyard.

  “Fobbing off marriage proposals and attending parties all day?” Pabl
o teases.

  I fight back an utterly unladylike snort. “Yes to the parties. No to the marriage proposals.”

  “Then the men in Miramar are fools.”

  His tone is light, bantering, but the solemnity in his gaze makes my heart pound.

  Suddenly the nerves are too much, and I turn, looking out to the direction of the sea. I can’t see it, but I can hear the sound of the waves crashing along the Malecón.

  Pablo’s voice comes from somewhere behind me in the dark night. “You missed a button. On your dress.”

  I swallow.

  “May I?” he asks.

  I nod, my mouth dry. My mother would be thoroughly appalled to see her daughter standing outside a party such as this one, a strange man buttoning her dress. My mother would be thoroughly appalled, and yet I turn, lifting my hair, bringing it to the side, baring my nape to him.

  A tremor slides through my body.

  Pablo steps behind me, close enough that his fingers brush against the line of tiny buttons running down my spine. It feels like an eternity before his fingers slip the button through the slim hole, setting it to rights. It could be my imagination, but I swear his fingers twitch against me, or perhaps it’s my own body that shudders. There’s a novelty to this that catches me off guard. He is both old and new at once, and I can’t ignore the voice inside me that’s pushed out my mother’s now—

  Pay attention. This is important. He is important.

  Pablo releases a deep breath, stepping back. I turn to face him.

  There’s surprise on his face, the kind that sneaks up on you and isn’t entirely welcome.

  “You’re very young, aren’t you?”

  The words themselves are tinged with the faintest hint of disapproval, but I can’t shake the feeling that the sentiment is directed more to himself than me.

  I swallow, tilting my head, refusing to be cowed. “Nineteen.”

  Nineteen and a pampered bird in a gilded cage.

  He gives a soft little laugh, his hand running through his hair. It’s a bit long around the edges, unkempt, as though it’s been some time since he visited a barber. It’s a stark contrast to his clean-shaven face, his tanned skin at odds with an attorney’s days spent indoors behind a desk. My father knows a host of attorneys, men who bow and scrape before him. Does he know this one?

  “Nineteen is very young.”

  He says the words more for himself than me, an aside in an internal conversation he seems to be having.

  I have older siblings; my interactions with men I’m interested in may be limited, but I’m well versed in the art of standing up for myself when I need to.

  “And you?”

  I toss the question out like a challenge.

  “Thirty.”

  The number isn’t shocking, nor is the age difference. My mother stopped celebrating birthdays ages ago, but the chasm between my own parents is impossible to miss.

  “Not that old,” I say, even though I doubt he’s merely speaking of physical age. I feel new and shiny next to him; in contrast, he’s interesting—a sanded-down veneer covered in telltale signs of experience.

  “Perhaps.” He’s silent for a moment, that word a door shutting on me, the conversation, whatever this is.

  “I should go,” I say, taking a step forward, away from him.

  Pablo’s head bows slightly. “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t move.

  “I shouldn’t—” His voice breaks off and he shakes his head. “I’m in a foul mood tonight. I didn’t come here looking for a party, only to speak to Guillermo, and I certainly didn’t come here expecting to meet you. That’s no excuse for being rude.” He takes a deep breath. “A friend died recently. I came to talk to Guillermo about it. I’m—” He pauses again, as though he’s searching for the right words. “I’m at a loss,” he finally says.

  “I’m sorry about your friend.” My feet, those shoes that seem filled with ideas and ambition, take a step toward him, then another.

  I rest my hand on his arm, the hem of my dress brushing against his trousers, a hint of tobacco and spice filling my nostrils. The body beneath my palm is all tightly coiled strength. His eyes are wide.

  This—touching a man I barely know—is wholly inappropriate. Everything about this evening has firmly teetered away from respectability, and he’s right, he was a bit rude earlier. I should go inside, find my sisters, and return home. This man isn’t one of the tame boys my parents have trotted out in front of me as suitable escorts. He possesses an edge even I can’t miss.

  There’s that flame, licking at my skirts again.

  “Was he a good friend?”

  “He was a good man,” Pablo answers after a beat. He takes a step back, putting distance between us, doing the appropriate thing when logic and reason seem to have picked their skirts up in one hand and fled.

  It’s funny how that little step can change everything, but it does. It’s as though he cedes territory, and in his retreat, a burst of courage fills me. Whatever this is, he’s equally unsettled, and some entirely feminine urge I didn’t realize I possessed has me straightening my shoulders, tilting my head, meeting his gaze, my lashes fluttering closed, happy to play the coquette if only for the span of this evening.

  A rueful grin covers his mouth, a glint of admiration in his eyes. His hand drifts to his heart, a hint of mockery in his demeanor. “You must forgive me. I fear I’m at a loss for words. No one ever warned me about the dangers of debutantes.”

  “And how many debutantes have you known?” I ask, measuring my tone against his in an effort to keep things light between us, even though there’s sincerity in the question.

  You learn fairly early on that there are men who will attempt to court you because of your last name, because your father is power and they want to grasp it in their greedy hands, because they dream of wealth, and slipping a ring on your finger is the easiest way to obtain it. I don’t sense that he’s such a man, but the impulse to be wary is there just the same.

  “None.”

  A flutter kicks up in my stomach.

  I really should go inside.

  “Am I dangerous?” I test the word out and decide I like the taste and sound of it.

  His expression turns somber. “I have a feeling you just might be.”

  The flutter takes flight.

  “I should go inside,” he says, echoing my earlier words.

  He doesn’t move.

  We both stare at each other, unblinking, the ocean roaring in the background, my heart thundering in my chest. Now I understand a bit better what drives Beatriz and Isabel, how they can throw caution to the wind for one night of freedom. I’m curious in a way I haven’t been before, curious and perhaps just a little bit reckless.

  Pablo looks pained as the question falls from his lips. “Will you meet me tomorrow? By the Malecón?”

  “Yes.”

  chapter five

  Marisol

  I sleep longer than intended, the sheets worn and soft, the mattress surprisingly comfortable. The afternoon sunlight has dimmed by the time I wake. I reach for my cell phone, the limited Cuban telecommunications connectivity rendering it virtually useless but for the clock display—it’s almost eight o’clock in the evening. I napped for three hours.

  It’s strange to be so separated from the rest of the world, from my sisters, my friends, my editor, but that’s part of the Cuban experience, I suppose, adding to the sensation that I truly have journeyed to the land of my grandmother’s memories, firmly walled off from my life back home in Miami. There are a limited number of places where you can get Internet here, and even then it’s unreliable at best; there is no service in private homes, and everyone told me to expect to be cut off for the week I was staying with the Rodriguez family. My cell service doesn’t work, either, so it’s just Cuba and me.

&
nbsp; I climb out of bed, padding to the window and pulling back the curtain, staring at the view in front of me. The sky is gold; a palette edged in pinks and blues, the sun a radiant ball of fire as it drifts into the horizon. The ocean is equally stunning. Back home, it would be a multimillion-dollar view, one many would clamor to possess. I’ve seen some beautiful sights in my life, but my grandmother was right; this really is paradise.

  My gaze drifts to the patio beneath my room. A few tables are empty, but the dinner crowd has begun gathering. Glasses clink, silverware scrapes across dishes, and the aroma of black beans and rice fills the air. I grew up eating Cuban food; between my grandmother’s love of cooking and the plethora of Cuban restaurants on Calle Ocho and beyond, black beans and rice have always been a staple in my diet.

  I pause as Luis comes into view. He walks toward one of the tables, plates in hand, setting them down in front of a family of tourists before exchanging a few words with them in the same flawless English he used when he greeted me at the airport. He bobs and weaves through the tables crammed into the tiny outdoor space, moving past one of the waitresses in a coordinated dance. There’s an economy and efficiency to their movements as they pass by each other without speaking.

  Luis says something else to one of the diners, offering a friendly smile, and then he looks up at my window and our gazes connect. I don’t get a smile, just a faint inclination of his head before he disappears from view, trading places with the same waitress from earlier, a pretty brunette.

  In his absence, my attention turns back to the view ahead of me—the ocean and beyond.

  The sound of the saxophone returns—low, haunting, each note aching and melancholy. The music fills me with a soaring emotion, and it doesn’t surprise me in the least when the saxophone player steps into the little courtyard, his eyes finding mine as his lips press against the instrument, his fingers flying over the keys, playing for the guests. That explains the calluses.

  History professor. Musician. Waiter.

  The legacy of the Cuban revolution—donning many hats to stay afloat.

  Luis doesn’t look away from me as he plays, his stare unblinking, sending another tremor through me, his fingers caressing the keys with practiced ease. The first strands of “Guantanamera” drift over the courtyard, goose bumps rising over my skin as the tourists gasp and clap somewhere in the background. It’s a beautiful song, one every Cuban knows, the ballad taken from one of our greatest national treasures—José Martí’s poem “Versos Sencillos”—and performed by a queen, Celia Cruz. He plays it beautifully.