[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Well?” she said. “Miguel?”

  He forced himself back. “¡Perdone! What did you say?”

  “I was saying that Christmas in Cuba is a religious holiday. But, before the revolution—I was quite young, maybe three or four—I remember the stores and hotels were decorated. They imported fir trees and dressed them with those big balls of color. And lights. After 1959, of course, the holiday was banned as a symbol of imperialism. But every now and then you see a red sock on a door. Before the CDR makes them take it down.”

  Michael took her hand. She let him. It had to be the first time, he thought.

  “The New Year is our big celebration. It coincides with the success of the revolution. The country goes wild. Fireworks, parties, drinking, fiestas.” She nodded. “It is better that way.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what you said. You Americans are consumed by material things. You should hear the letters my patients get from their relatives. Full of how much money they have, what they have bought, what they are going to buy. They try to make you feel the streets are paved with dollars.”

  Michael was about to say “what did you expect” when it occurred to him that like Carla, there had to be many Cubans who didn’t want to be in thrall to America, politically or materially. Who might actually resent the people who left or escaped when Fidel came to power. People like his mother. He wondered what Carla would think of his mother if they met. Probably not much, he thought. But aloud he said, “You don’t like Americans much, do you?”

  Carla corrected him. “I don’t like greedy people. Or those who try to control others because of where they live or how much they have.”

  “Like I said, you don’t like Americans much.”

  She dropped his hand. “Miguel, I grew up with Fidel. We were taught Americans cannot be trusted. There was the exploitation before the revolution, then the invasion afterwards—what you call the Bay of Pigs—then the Missile Crisis. And embargo. Why should we trust you?”

  “What about all those letters your patients get from their relatives?”

  She made a brushing aside gesture. “Much of what is written is a lie. It’s intended to make us resent Fidel and long for America. But it doesn’t work. Your country has problems. War-mongering, racism, discrimination. In America, Cubans are treated as badly as your blacks.”

  “That’s not true.” Michael felt his cheeks get hot. “Cubans are always given asylum.”

  “Yes, but after that, a man who was once a doctor in Havana washes dishes in Miami. Or drives a taxi in New York.”

  “So, you’d rather stay here and barely survive? Use all your energy to ‘resolver?’”

  “Cuba is home.” Her expression went flat, and she picked up her pace.

  Michael followed. This was their first fight.

  They continued down the Malecón in silence, Carla a few feet ahead of him, as if determined not to bow before the almighty fortress of capitalism that Michael represented. For his part, Michael, who was jaded by nature, had to admire her tenacity. And, because she was a few steps in front, he couldn’t help but admire her ass too. Small and beautifully shaped.

  As if she’d read his mind, she stopped and wheeled around. “Oh. I almost forgot.” Something in her tone told him she hadn’t forgotten at all but was waiting for the right time to bring it up. “Someone came looking for you today at the clinic.”

  Michael was jolted out of his fantasy. “Who?”

  “He wrote down his name and address.” She fished in her bag and pulled out a scrap of paper.

  “Was it Luis Perez?”

  Carla’s eyebrows arched as she gazed at the paper. “How did you know?”

  “He’s the man I’ve been trying to find.”

  She handed it over.

  He held it up to a lamppost and read the address. “Where is this?”

  “Lawton.” At his questioning look, she added, “It’s a neighborhood a bit south of here. A working-class neighborhood.” She hesitated. Then, “I suppose that now that you know where he is, you will conduct your business.”

  Michael nodded.

  “And then you will go back to America?” Her expression was unreadable.

  Michael didn’t answer. The night air that had seemed so refreshing a moment ago suddenly grew close and stifling. His plans were to get the map, deal with Perez, and leave Cuba before Christmas. But he couldn’t tell that to Carla. The thought of lying to her filled him with guilt.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Michael and his contact, Walters, had prepared a cover story back in the States that wasn’t far from the truth. The gist of it was that Ramon Suarez was still alive, living in Miami, and wanted to reestablish ties with Luis. When he finally did meet Perez, Michael would case Perez’s home and decide how best to get the map.

  It was a shoot-to-kill mission. If Perez resisted before Michael had the map, he would be eliminated. If not, he would be dispatched afterwards; they’d agreed it was better not to leave loose ends. Michael had killed while he was in the Gulf; he could do it again. Especially because, despite his grandfather’s denials, he suspected he was helping get Tony Pacelli out of a tight spot.

  Michael spent a sleepless night planning his strategy. He decided to carry out the mission the next morning. Lawton was working class; people would be on the streets; he wouldn’t stand out. Once he arrived at Perez’s house, he would try to win the man’s trust. Maybe swap war stories. Perez had been in Angola; Michael in the Middle East. He mentally brainstormed the questions Perez would ask. Questions like what happened to Ramon after the rebels kidnapped him… why he never came back to Cuba… why he never got in touch. Michael rehearsed his answers. He didn’t know what happened to Ramon, but he knew it had been gruesome. Ramon settled in Miami because the South Africans turned him over to the Americans who granted him asylum. He didn’t write because the mail—telegrams and telephones as well—couldn’t be trusted. And Ramon didn’t want to make trouble for Perez if the wrong people discovered they were communicating.

  Dawn seemed to take a long time coming, and when it did, streaks of clouds strafed the sky with pink and purple. Two gulls that resembled vultures circled above Carla’s balcony. Michael watched them as he drank what Carla called coffee, a weak and watery brew that tasted like chicory. Carla told him the P-2 bus would take him to Lawton but warned it might take a few hours because of the erratic schedule. Michael made sure his pistol was in his backpack along with a change of clothes. He kissed Carla goodbye but didn’t tell her this might be the last time they’d see each other. Still, something made her turn away from him.

  • • •

  Carla was right about the bus, and it was too early for bicycle taxis, so Michael waited over an hour. When the bus finally lumbered up, belching black smoke from the exhaust, it was standing room only, and he hung onto the overhead bar during the entire trip. He got off at a major intersection in the 10th of October neighborhood where buildings with crumbling columns flanked the streets. He imagined how grand and imposing the buildings had once been; now laundry was suspended on a line between them.

  He turned the corner and started walking. He was in what looked like a barrio, although in Havana, what wasn’t? Eventually he reached the intersection of Camilo Cienfuegos Avenue and San Francisco, and headed up a hill. He found himself in a residential area. It wasn’t prettier: a canopy of telephone wires marred the view, and the pavement was cracked with weeds poking through. But a copse of healthy-looking trees stood in the center of the block, and ramshackle buildings were grouped around them. He recalled Carla telling him every house was technically the property of the state. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting these.

  He’d been right about the people on the streets. Most of them, caught up in the activities of their day, paid him no heed. The faces he passed were black or tan and looked like they needed a good meal. He passed only a few white faces. Which made him wonder why Perez lived here. His military status could probably get hi
m a nicer home, along the lines of Carla’s place. Then he remembered the officer from Chinatown and the enlisted men at the warehouse. Maybe not.

  He followed the street numbers and came to a drab, one-story house with slatted European-style shutters on the windows. One or two were missing, but the rest were partially open to let the light through. The door was open, and the smell of coffee—real coffee—wafted out. Maybe there was something to being an army officer. Maybe they got the first pick of rations.

  He strolled past the house and circled the block, passing three women and one man. No one took any notice of him. Looping back around, he returned to Perez’s house. The street was empty. He wanted to race to the door and break in, but he forced himself to walk up and knock.

  The man who came to the door had no shirt on, just pants. He was about the same height as Michael, but thinner. His face looked especially gaunt, but he looked—familiar. Thick dark unruly hair. A Roman nose that was too big for his face Full lips but an unimpressive chin. Olive skin. His eyes were dark and smoky, but Michael couldn’t read his expression. It was part knowing, part kind. Why? Michael felt uneasy.

  “Buenos dias, Señor.”

  The man nodded.

  “You are Luis Perez?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “You must be Michael DeLuca.”

  Michael nodded. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “So I hear.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “I wasn’t expecting you this soon.” He stepped back from the door and motioned Michael inside. “Make yourself at home. Let me get my shirt.”

  He led Michael into a small room. The living room. Perez disappeared into the back. Michael couldn’t believe his luck. He had the opportunity to case the place. He started to explore. The furniture was worn, but the room was immaculate; everything seemed to have its place.

  Bands of light poured through the slatted shutters, but the only colors came from a collection of books, which lined two walls of the room. Plain wooden planks supported by cinderblocks; the kind of thing you’d see in a college dorm back home. He scanned the titles. They were all in Spanish, but he could see works of literature, poetry, as well as non-fiction. Michael ran his tongue around his lips. Perez was exceptionally well-read. Practically an intellectual.

  He surveyed the rest of the room. A tiny sofa, a chair. A lamp. An open sketchpad on the sofa. A set of pencils sat on a small table, and a framed photo lay on top. He went to take a closer look. The photograph was of a woman and a man. They were both quite young. The man had his arm around the woman. The man was tall, slender, fit, and looked very much like Michael in his twenties. The woman looked to be barely out of her teens. Dark hair. Slender but curvy. High cheekbones. Dark, luminous eyes that sparkled through the frame across time. As Michael stared at it, he felt his eyes widen, and his jaw dropped. He felt as if he’d been struck by lightning.

  Perez came back into the room. Michael spun around. Perez was buttoning his shirt. He peered at Michael, the photograph, then back at Michael.

  Michael blurted it out. “What the hell are you doing with a picture of my mother?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Michael. Miguel. It was a sturdy name; strong, Luis thought. His son—how strange to say that word after so many years—would need that strength now that he knew the truth. But his son’s reaction was not what Luis had expected. He’d prepared himself for disbelief, denial, anger. None of that happened. After his initial outburst, Miguel’s face went white, and he stiffened in the same way people told Luis he did when he was upset. He blinked rapidly, but his expression was blank.

  Luis guessed it was a learned response. Someone—the army, perhaps—had trained him well. Never reveal yourself, especially in enemy territory. Never let them know what you’re thinking until you strike. Luis waited.

  After a moment, a puzzled look came over Michael, as if he was trying to piece something together. That was followed by a suspicious glance around the room. And then, as if everything was suddenly too overwhelming, he sagged and sank down on the sofa.

  “I wouldn’t mind coffee,” he said.

  Luis hesitated. This was an unexpected request. Was it an act? If he was going to strike, this would be the moment. Should Luis go into the kitchen? What would be waiting for him when he got back? He had no idea why his son was here in Cuba. Then again, Michael was his son, and he’d gone to a lot of trouble to find him.

  He weighed his options. Whether the news was good or bad was, of course, important, but his son likely wouldn’t have come all this way and not deliver it. So he took a leap of faith and went into his kitchen. He returned a moment later with two steaming cups of coffee.

  Miguel was still on the sofa, but he had the photo in his hands and was studying it. Relief flooded through Luis. Relief, and a glimmer of hope. He set the coffee down on the tiny table. Miguel looked up.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The coffee.”

  “It is the only luxury I allow myself. I buy it on the black market.”

  Michael nodded as if he, too, would break the rules for a cup of good coffee. But it was a strange comment to make at such a moment, Luis thought. Miguel put the picture down and picked up his coffee. He took a sip. Then, “When was that taken?”

  “In 1958.”

  “Where?”

  “In Santa Clara. That’s where we were living. Before the revolución.”

  “You and my mother?”

  Luis nodded and sipped his coffee. They were both silent, but Luis felt an odd intimacy between them, as if they had been drinking their morning coffee together for years. He pushed the thought out of his mind. He must be imagining it.

  Michael set his cup down and gazed at Luis. “Tell me. Why should I believe you?”

  “Believe what?”

  “That you—and my mother—lived together? Were—are—you…” he stumbled over the words, “…my parents?”

  This was the reaction Luis had been waiting for. “You should believe it because it’s the truth,” he said.

  “How do I know you didn’t fake this photo? And the story? To lure me in.”

  “Lure you? Where? For what purpose?” Luis spread his hands. “You found me.” At the same time, Michael’s question intimated he had not come to Cuba simply to connect with his father. Something else was driving him. Something that involved risk—perhaps danger. Luis briefly thought about retrieving his service revolver, then decided against it. This was his son.

  Michael gazed at him, searching his face. What did he see, Luis wondered. Was it the same thing Luis had seen when he eavesdropped on Michael’s conversation with the men in the warehouse? How much they physically resembled each other?

  Then, “So what was the relationship between my mother and you? Were you married?”

  Luis didn’t bother to keep the surprise out of his voice. “She never told you?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “I see.” He paused. “She—your mother, Francesca—was the only woman I have ever loved. And she loved me.”

  “But you weren’t married.”

  “We would have—but the revolution…”

  “I don’t understand. I was born in the States.”

  “Your mother ran away from La Perla to be with me in Santa Clara. We were there a few months. But then her father—your grandfather—discovered where we were, came in with a squad of men, and kidnapped her. He forced her to go back to America. It was during the peak of the revolution. Everything was in chaos. Everyone was frightened. She was pregnant when she left.”

  “Were you?” Michael’s tone was almost accusatory.

  “Was I what?”

  “Were you frightened?”

  Luis hesitated again. He had to tell his son the truth. “No. I was with the rebels. I was overjoyed. Cuba was finally going to be free.”

  “Except it didn’t turn out that way.”

  “Nothing turned out the way it was supposed to.” Luis
stared at him. “Except you.”

  A faraway look came across Michael’s face. He was quiet.

  After a long moment, Luis asked, “What are you thinking?”

  Michael looked startled. Luis wondered if Michael thought he was presumptuous to have asked the question.

  His son flicked his eyes to the photograph of his mother. His expression hardened. “My mother…” he said, eyes narrowing, “… had a secret life. A life she never shared. How could she be so selfish? Why didn’t she tell me that man she married—that man…” he spat out the word, “…wasn’t my real father?”

  “It was a difficult, complicated time. She was probably forbidden to say anything.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Michael said caustically in English. Then he switched back to Spanish. “Since when would that stop her, once she’d made up her mind?”

  Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Luis smiled. “That’s the Francesca I remember. Willful. Spoiled. But so beautiful. And such spirit…” His voice trailed off.

  “You did love her,” Miguel seemed surprised.

  “And I can only imagine how much she loved—loves—you,” Luis said. “She was consumed by the times. Do not be angry with her. She had no control.”

  “If you loved her so much, why didn’t you go after her? Bring her back? Or move there?”

  “Forces were beyond my control as well. I fought for the revolution. I became part of the new regime. I never heard a word from her in those early years, and, after a while, I realized I never would. Until now.” He shifted. “Tell me, Miguel, when did your mother change her mind? Why are you here?” Despite the toll of so many years and so much disappointment, Luis couldn’t suppress the hope in his voice. “Does she have a message for me?”