His face fell. “I thought you wanted to see me.”
“Yes, I would have wanted to see you,” she admitted with a smile. “But I don’t understand why Vic didn’t tell me outright. I almost didn’t go. Yesterday my secretary didn’t show up, and I had a ton of things to take care of. These useless Cuban employees! Work ethic is still a foreign concept here, you know?”
Commander in bitch speaking. Juan suppressed a laugh.
“I showed up a bit late.”
“Unfortunately for me, I was too early.” He frowned at the memory. “Which made the cops think I knew how he died.”
“How’s that?”
Elsa listened as he filled her in on the details. He didn’t mention Sharon, though. If only by omission, he wanted to let Elsa think he was in Cuba alone.
“I thought it was just an accident,” she said when he finished. “That’s what people kept saying.”
“Marlene Martínez seemed to think differently,” Juan said. “But even she wasn’t sure.”
“Who’s that?”
“The lieutenant in charge of the case, a tall blonde with an ass as big as a basketball.”
“You noticed her ass, huh?”
“Couldn’t help it.” He laughed. “You know how I am.”
Elsa shifted in her chair.
“It could have been Lázaro,” she said after a short silence. “He followed Vic around, controlled her and behaved like a total caveman. The worst part was that she liked it.”
She giggled, then covered her mouth with a hand.
“Ay, Dios!” she said. “What am I saying? Poor Vic.”
Juan smiled. This was his Elsa—her quick laugh, her irreverence. And Víctor was a safe topic. A good way to put off the moment he’d have to explain everything.
“Did you know, back then, at the ISA, that he was . . . ?” he asked.
“I sort of suspected it.”
“Guess I was the only one out of the loop,” he said. “Were you two close?”
“Not very. We saw each other occasionally. I tried to help him—her. I still mess up the pronouns sometimes, but I did come to acknowledge her as a woman.”
She stood, opened a drawer under the granite counter and took out a pack of Camels. While her back was turned, Juan palmed his wedding ring and slipped it into his pocket.
“Want one?” she asked.
“I shouldn’t. I quit a few years ago.”
“I took it up after—”
She paused. Juan waited, his heart rate speeding up again.
“After you left,” she concluded.
This was it. But Juan didn’t know where to start. Coño, there was so much to say! He had wanted to ask why she hadn’t joined them that night, demand an explanation, but now he knew Rosita was the explanation.
A noise startled him. It was a soft rustling, as if a wind had blown the leaves outside. But there was no wind, and the leaves were still.
“What was that?” Juan asked.
Elsa got up and surveyed the backyard, then closed the window. The kitchen looked darker, and the stainless-steel appliances seemed to have lost their shine.
“I thought El Vedado was safe,” Juan said.
She shook her head. Her short bob was cute, Juan thought, but he preferred her hair as it had been before, longer and crazier.
“You’ve been away from Cuba for too long,” she said. “There are no safe places anymore. There’s scum everywhere, and we have plenty of break-ins, especially in rich neighborhoods.”
“So would you say you’re rich now?” He was careful not to sound resentful or envious.
“I guess so,” she said casually. “By Cuban standards, at least.”
“Well, you always were, right?”
She let the comment slide. “You need to walk around with four eyes these days. My secretary called earlier to say that a suspicious-looking guy came to the office this morning asking for me.”
He chuckled. “That was me! I didn’t think I looked suspicious, though.”
“Not you. A mulatto. And by the way, who gave you my address?”
Juan drummed nervously on the table before answering, “Víctor.”
She pursed her lips. “Figures.”
She had a way of holding the cigarette in her left hand that reminded Juan of the black-and-white movies they used to watch. Like Bette Davis! Back at the ISA, Elsa had worshipped her.
“All those movies we watched,” she said, as if reading his mind. “Weren’t they so much more interesting than reality? I wanted to live them, despite what our professors thought of my acting ability. As if they knew so much, those Teatro Estudio types! Big fish in a small pond, that’s what they were.”
“Pass me a cigarette.”
She arched an eyebrow and grinned slightly. With her left hand, she lit one with her own and handed it to him.
“Now, Voyager!” Juan exclaimed.
“Paul Henreid. I was so in love with him.”
Juan took a long drag of his cigarette.
“I forgot you were left-handed,” he said.
“A contrarian in everything, like my dad says.”
“How’s he doing? And your mom?”
“Fine. They live in Los Angeles now, near Hollywood. Can you imagine?”
No, he couldn’t. Weren’t they pinchos who hated the Yankees? He wanted to ask but didn’t.
“I liked American movies, but those were from our parents’ times,” Elsa went on. “We had Subiela. Remember Last Images of the Shipwreck? It was our favorite, wasn’t it?”
“Yes . . . You cried every time we watched it. Funny how sorry we felt for the Argentinians who suffered under a military dictatorship when we were blind to our own suffering.”
“Everybody was worse off than Cubans. Argentineans, Uruguayans, Angolans, South Africans—you name it. That’s what they wanted us to believe. Cabrones!”
Elsa, like most children of revolutionary parents, had had the privilege to rebel, criticizing the government and rooting for perestroika. Poor kids like Víctor had been the ones who still defended communism.
She touched his arm softly, and he felt the old spark pass between them.
“I met Subiela in São Paulo,” she said. “At the premiere of The Hostage of Illusions. I didn’t have a chance to really talk to him, though. But do you know who’s a friend of ours now?” she asked, her expression happy and playful.
“Who?” said Juan, flinching at the implied “us” of Elsa and her husband.
“Pedro Almodóvar!”
“You’re kidding.”
“An acquaintance introduced us at a reception at the Spanish embassy.” She smiled, and her eyes crinkled. “He talked about filming some scenes here, in our house. He used to come to Havana every year—until he was caught in a raid at El Periquitón, a gay discotheque.” She laughed. “That was long before Mariela Castro and her maricongas. It was the end of his love affair with Cuba, but we’ve kept in touch. He knew I’d studied acting and even offered me a role once.”
“Did you take it?”
“I was tempted, but no. It was only a small role, and I have a business to manage. Life’s too short.”
Life was too short. There was never enough time. Juan glanced at the clock. He had been there for almost half an hour and hadn’t told her yet.
“Listen, Elsa,” he said urgently, leaning forward. “I got involved with Rosita once or twice because she kept chasing me. I felt sorry for her. But I only loved you. I would have done anything for you. I was so devastated when—when you didn’t show up that night.”
Her face had hardened. She looked older now. A mature woman who had survived the biggest shipwreck of her life.
“Why did you leave then?” she asked coldly.
“Because—because Camilo insis
ted. It wasn’t the first time you had backpedaled. I just found out on this trip that Rosita told you about us and thought—”
Elsa chewed lightly on her cigarette butt before tossing it away.
“No jodas, Juan!” she yelled. “Yes, I was furious when Rosita told me you had knocked her up, but I loved you. I was determined to go. I had collected cans of Spam, soft drinks and antidehydration fluids. Everything was ready, but someone stole two tires off Dad’s Jeep that night.”
An invisible hand choked Juan. A wet hand, dripping water.
“I couldn’t find you! You didn’t have a phone. I called Víctor, and he said you guys weren’t speaking anymore. The next day, I discovered you and Camilo were gone.”
“You said someone stole your tires?” His voice quavered.
“Yes, it happened all the time then. Rafters were using them to secure their balsas. Don’t you remember?”
Juan heard Camilo’s voice as he insisted they leave that night. “Elsa is a spoiled girl, the daughter of a pincho . . . Where’s she going to go where she’s worth more?” The raft, the waves, the tires that had saved their lives. But at what cost? He couldn’t say a word, feeling as if he had taken a double dose of those whackadoodle pills that Sharon and his shrink were always pushing on him.
Elsa was still talking. “I didn’t think you would leave without me! I figured you’d wait at least another day. I even thought that you and Camilo . . .”
Juan stayed silent, his arms hanging by his sides in total defeat.
“But it’s true that I had changed my mind at the last minute several times already,” she admitted in a softer tone. “I wanted to go because it was this big adventure and you were part of it, but I was afraid too. I still don’t know if I would’ve had the courage—I tried to cover it up, but I was a big chicken. And I was hurt, but you did the right thing. They closed the Malecón a few days afterward.”
The doorbell rang.
“Oh, Lobster Lady,” Elsa said with a tired smile. “I forgot she was coming today.”
“Lobster Lady?” Juan echoed, still in shock.
“There’s a woman who sells lobster and shrimp in the neighborhood. Illegally, of course, but cheaper than in the dollar shops. Wait here. If she sees you, she’ll get nervous since she doesn’t know you.”
“Why? Will she think I’m law enforcement or something?”
She sighed. “Just wait here, okay?”
Juan was left alone in the kitchen. He grabbed another éclair and devoured it. He heard Camilo’s last pleading words again. So that was what had eaten at him as he lay dying of thirst under the merciless Caribbean sun. “Forgive me.” But Juan never would. What a pair, Camilo and Rosita. How could the people who had claimed to love him have betrayed him in the most ruinous ways?
He would have to tell Elsa. It was awful to lay the blame on Camilo now, but she deserved to know the truth. He wondered if, once she found out, their love might have a second chance. But what about Sharon? Ah, why should he care? Did anybody care about his feelings?
Five minutes passed. Was Elsa still talking to Lobster Lady? He went back to the living room. The door was half-open, and he heard the two women making small talk. In a corner was a huge duffel bag he hadn’t noticed before. It was unzipped and filled with soap, toothpaste, batteries, flashlights and other small items.
An umbrella hung from the hook of a standing coatrack. A funny piece, that coatrack. How many times a year did people wear coats in Cuba? Well, Elsa seemed to have done just that. There was a chic gray coat there. She had always been friolenta, more sensitive to cold than others. He turned his attention to the photographs on top of the entertainment center. He recognized a well-dressed couple in front of the Eiffel Tower. Elsa’s parents. He thought bitterly of his own father in his small, phoneless apartment, with no money to buy milk or meat. He scowled at the other photos: Elsa with an older guy, probably her husband; Elsa, the old guy and Raúl Castro (Juan gasped at the sight); Elsa with a group of friends at the restaurant Versailles in Miami; Elsa and a young man with dark hair and tear-shaped eyes.
When Lobster Lady left, Elsa closed the door and came back with a basket wrapped in newspaper.
“I thought she would never leave!” she said. “I try not to be rude, but you don’t want these people getting into your house and snooping around, then telling everybody and their sister what they see.”
She passed by the open duffel bag and shook her head, embarrassed.
“Excuse the mess. I haven’t had time to unpack. When I leave the country, I always bring back little gifts for my employees, stuff that’s cheap outside of Cuba but you can’t get here, not even at the dollar shops.”
She stopped, noticing Juan’s angry expression.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He pointed at the pictures. “Is this why you married the Spaniard?”
She returned to the kitchen without a word. Juan remained in the living room, staring at the picture of the young man skiing in Vail. The kid had his eyes, his hair, his shy smile. It was like looking at himself at twenty years old. It was the son he had dreamt of all along. Not Rosita’s child but Elsa’s. He felt miserable and lucky at once, impotent and strong.
He finally followed her. She sat at the table, staring at the basket full of lobster tails in front of her. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Juan knelt at her side and tried to take her hand. She withdrew it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.
“What do you mean, tell you?” She slammed the table, making the basket jump. “You had already left me by the time I realized! What was I supposed to do? I tried to have an abortion, but I couldn’t. I had polyneuritis, and the doctor refused to do it. It could have killed me.”
“You should have found a way to tell me! I would have sent for you both. I would have taken care of you.”
“You didn’t take care of Rosita, did you? You told her you were too young to have children.”
“With her!”
Juan was bathed in the salty smell of ocean that came from the basket. Salt. Ocean. The raft buffeted by the waves. Camilo.
“I had no way of getting in touch with you,” she said. “I didn’t even know if you had made it to Miami. It wasn’t until a month later that I heard you were in a hospital and Camilo was dead.”
Juan stood.
“He was the one who stole the tires,” he blurted out.
She froze. “What?”
He had never seen her face so pale, her green eyes so round.
“I didn’t know they were from your dad’s Jeep,” he said. “He told me he had bought them. And he kept pushing, saying that if we didn’t go that night, we would never have another chance.”
“Hijo de puta!”
She pounded the table again and burst into tears. Juan tried to hold her, but she pushed him away and ran out of the kitchen. He heard a door close with a slam. A bathroom door, he thought. Why did women always cry in the bathroom? Well, he would give her time. She needed to process this. So did he. It was going to take time. But at least she knew. Things could only get better after they’d touched bottom. They would come back up for air—together, he hoped.
For ten long minutes, he was left staring at the clock with the Savarria and Co. logo. When Elsa came back, her eyes were red. She sounded sad, but calmer.
“It was fate, Juan,” she said. “We weren’t meant to be. Let’s not blame anyone. But it’s too late.”
“It’s not too late!” he protested. “I love you, Elsa. I’ve never stopped thinking of you. I only had one thing with me when I was rescued by those fishermen—a photo of you. I’ve kept it all these years. I had it scanned and saved on my computer before it fell apart. You were the last thing I looked at before passing out on my raft.”
“Ay, Juan,” she said with a heavy sigh. “That’s sweet, but I’
m married now. Vic told me you were too. Why destroy the lives we’ve built?”
“Because we only have one chance. Why did we agree to not be happy?” he asked, quoting from their favorite movie. He felt as if Subiela and his crew were around, filming them.
He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
“No,” she said, pushing him away gently. “It’s not worth it.”
“But, Elsa—”
She took the basket with the lobster tails and placed it in the sink, then crumpled the pages of newspaper and threw them in the trash. Juan waited, not understanding why she was busying herself with these ridiculous ordinary tasks when they were discussing the most important decision of their life.
“You should go now,” she said without looking at him. “Forget this conversation; forget me. You have a good life in America, and I have a good life in Spain. Let’s keep it that way. Maybe someday we’ll meet again.”
“You’re crazy!” Juan yelled. “How can you just tell me to forget this? I want to meet my son. What’s his name? Does he know—”
“You’re the one who’s crazy,” she replied. “Of course he doesn’t know, you idiot. No one does. Why the hell would you want to meet him now?”
“Because he’s my son!”
Her lower lip trembled. “You’re not meeting him.”
“Why?”
“Can you imagine the effect it would have on him to find out his father isn’t really his father? He’s at an American university that Savarria is paying for. What can you offer him?”
The inadequacy Juan had felt before returned. He couldn’t afford to put his son through college, much less an expensive one. He didn’t even have a home of his own! Supposing that Sharon agreed to take his son in, why should the kid want to move from the East Coast to Albuquerque? He hung his head and didn’t answer.
His humility seemed to soften Elsa. It always had when they’d fought. She moved closer to him, sliding her arms around his neck.
“I’m sorry, Juan. But I have to protect him. I want the best for Emilito.”
“You’re right, amor.”
He was thinking that he would look for the boy on his own once he got back home. How hard could it be? The kid’s name was Emilito Savarria, quite an unusual one, and he lived in Cambridge. Thank God for Google, as Sharon liked to say. Though a bit late, he was learning to scheme too.
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