Next Year in Havana

by Chanel Cleeton

  “How is the search going? Have you learned anything else about him since last night? Did my grandmother have anything else to add when you spoke with her this morning?”

  “No. I’m hoping Magda will have some answers.”

  He’s quiet a moment. “Your grandmother—you said she was all you had. Is that why it’s so important to you to find him?”

  I nod. “Losing her has been harder than I imagined. I should have realized it would be, but she was always so vibrant, seemed so much younger than her years, and I suppose I took for granted that she would be around a long time. Would see me get married, hold my child in her arms.” A tear trickles down my cheek and I bat it away. “I hate that she’s not going to be here for all of these moments. That she won’t be here to sing ‘Cielito Lindo’ to my child like she did to me when I was a little girl. There’s this giant hole in my heart. I miss her arms around me, the scent of her perfume, the smell of her cooking.” More tears well in my eyes, another spilling over onto my cheek. Then another.

  Luis’s arm tightens around my waist, his lips brushing against my temple

  “We had this connection,” I continue, the sound muffled against his bare chest. “I could talk to her in a way I couldn’t talk to anyone else. And now that she’s gone—”

  I brush at my cheeks and pull back slightly.

  “I have to find him. To try at least. Right now, their relationship is this giant unknown. It sounds like they loved each other, and he was a revolutionary, but beyond that, I have no clue what happened between them. She asked your grandmother to hold the letters for me. She wanted me to come here and spread her ashes. Wanted me to find this. My grandmother knew me better than anyone; she knew I’d have to see this through one way or another.”

  “Are you worried that what you find will change the way you remember her relationship with your grandfather?” Luis asks, his voice kind.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I was so young when he died. My perspective of their relationship was a child’s perspective. Who knows what goes on behind closed doors?”

  “Marriage is hard,” he agrees.

  I can’t help it. Curiosity has filled me since he first mentioned he was divorced.

  “What happened between the two of you—with Cristina?”

  He turns his head to stare out at the water.

  “It wasn’t one thing,” he finally answers, and I realize his silence is more a product of his attempt to answer my question as honestly as possible rather than discomfort. “It would be easier to explain if one of us cheated or we had some big fight, but it wasn’t like that at all. Each night we went to bed together, and the next morning we woke up and had drifted a little farther apart than the day before. One morning we woke up strangers.”

  “That sounds painful.”

  “It was, although, I suppose it could have been worse. Our lives simply diverged. She wanted children. When we married, I thought I did, too. But the more I thought about it, about the world I was bringing them into, the country I was handing off to them, I couldn’t do it. That was my fault. She married me expecting one thing and ended up with another. It wasn’t fair to her, I wasn’t fair to her, and that was my mistake. You learn the deepest truths about yourself when you fail at something. When I failed at marriage, I learned I couldn’t pretend to be someone I wasn’t in order to please another person.”

  He rubs his jaw, his eyelashes sweeping downward.

  “She thought I was too serious. Wanted me to stop holding on to things.” He gives a dry little laugh. “I’m not the easiest person to live with.”

  His words are both confession and warning.

  “And yet you both still do—live together. Work in the restaurant together. How do you handle it? How does she?”

  “I wouldn’t say we live together, exactly. It’s not like we share a bedroom anymore. It’s different here in Cuba. There’s a massive housing shortage in Havana. Cristina wanted to move out, but there was nowhere for her to go. So she’s stuck. Thank you, Fidel.”

  “I can’t even imagine how awkward that must be. The idea of living with one of my exes . . .”

  “You’d think so, but it’s not so bad, really. We’ve become friends more than anything. Family, in a way. Her parents are both dead. She doesn’t have anyone else, and I’m fairly certain she’s as disinterested in me as anything other than platonic as I am her. Occasionally she’ll bring men home, but I make a point to be out those nights. It’s not a perfect solution, but you make do. If things don’t look the way you anticipated, you change your expectations. It’s an easy way to avoid being disappointed.”

  “And you never—”

  “Bring women home?” Luis grins. “I live with my grandmother and mother. What do you think?”

  I laugh. “Fair enough.”

  “What about you?” He takes the drink from my outstretched hand and raises it to his lips.

  “What about me?”

  “You never married?”

  “No.”

  “Did you come close?”

  “I’ve never been engaged or anything like that. My longest relationship was in college. We were together for three years.”

  “What happened?”

  It feels so long ago; in the moment, the breakup had been all-consuming, but now I barely remember why we fell apart.

  “Just life, I guess. We got to the point where we either had to be more serious or go our separate ways, and neither one of us cared enough to take it to the next level.”

  “And since then?”

  “I date, but I haven’t met anyone who’s made me want more.”

  Until now.

  “What about your family?” I ask. “Your grandmother mentioned you used to come here with your father. What was he like?”

  “Strict,” Luis answers. “He was a good father, a good man, but he was a military man, used to giving orders and others following him. He was my hero, though. When he wore his uniform he was larger-than-life to me. When I was a very young boy, I wanted to serve in the military like him.”

  “What changed?”

  “I grew up, I suppose. My eyes were opened to the reality of life around me. Things were easier when my father was alive, when the regime took care of us because he was a high-ranking official in the military. We still received some financial benefits after his death, but my world changed. My grandparents took us in, and my friends were no longer the children of the privileged, but Cubans who suffered. When the government protects you because you are one of theirs, it’s not so bad. But ordinary Cubans inhabit a very different reality.

  “Still—” He’s silent. “My father gave his life fighting in Angola, defending its people and protecting them against the United States’ proxies and their intervention in the conflict. Spent his adult life serving the regime. Sometimes I wonder if he would be disappointed that I haven’t done the same, that I’m not honoring his memory.”

  “You’ve said it yourself—your students are the future of this country. It’s clear that you love your job, that your students admire you. That’s something to be proud of. Your father fought for what he believed in. You do, too, even if it doesn’t involve picking up a gun.”

  Luis smiles faintly, his lips meeting mine. “Thank you.”

  He leans back, staring up at the sky. I lay my head in the curve created between his elbow and his neck, pressing my lips there, inhaling his scent, committing something else about him to memory—

  For when I’m gone.

  chapter sixteen

  Elisa

  The weeks eke by with agonizing slowness after Pablo leaves Havana, December creeping in, the monotony of life punctuated by the occasional bombing, shooting, random attacks that leave our mother even more convinced we mustn’t traipse around Havana on our own. I’m fine with the new rules—I’m in purgatory, clinging to each ra
dio report, every scrap of news about the fighting in the Sierra Maestra. Pablo’s letters arrive sporadically, delivered by messengers, ferreted to me by the staff members I’ve recruited through bribery and cajoling. I live in terror of my mother or father finding the letters, of Magda’s condemnation, my sisters’ questions.

  One afternoon I confide in Ana, telling her I met a man and little else. I want to talk about Pablo, want to share this secret with those closest to me, but each time I begin to speak of him, something inside me rebels. Instead, I content myself with the letters he sends me, the ones I write to him. I hide his letters in my room, reading them over and over again when I am alone, when the connection between us is gossamer thin. I worry my own letters won’t reach him in the mountains, that they’ll be intercepted, fear I am barreling toward disaster.

  Despite the way we left things, the uncertainty of us, I cannot stop hoping our relationship isn’t finished.

  When the next letter arrives, I rip it open greedily.

  There’s a stillness in the mountains. A quiet I never found in the city. It’s so beautiful—you would love it here. We are drawn to the water, but the countryside has its charms, too. It’s so green—we wake up to the sun rising over the mountains, and the view rivals even that over the seawall. The clouds are so low it feels as though you could reach up and touch them.

  I think of you often. I miss you.

  I adopt an intense piety I never possessed before, kneeling in the pews of the Cathedral and praying God will protect Pablo, keep him safe, bring him back to me. And I worry about Alejandro. Constantly.

  I’m not sure where God weighs in on the issue of Cuba’s future—I fear he created this paradise on earth and left us to fend for ourselves—but I hope he’ll protect my brother and Pablo. Hope is all you have to cling to when the world around you evokes every other emotion.

  I’ve taken to spending more and more of my days with Ana. We lounge by the pool, drinks in hand while Maria plays in the water, splashing around. It’s hard to reconcile this image of Havana with the one that greets me each time I read my father’s discarded newspapers. The news often tells a gruesome tale—bloody pictures of dead Cubans cover the pages. I can’t help it—I search the images, the faces, fearing the day Pablo or Alejandro will stare back at me. Batista has been especially prolific lately, purging the streets of anyone he deems a threat. It must be exhausting to have so many enemies, to feel the breath of Fidel Castro against the back of his neck.

  Today, Beatriz and Isabel are fighting off boredom by fighting with each other in the living room while I sit on the couch, curled up with a book. God knows where Maria is, probably off chasing lizards in the backyard.

  “She’s crazy, isn’t she?”

  Beatriz’s voice intrudes on my novel.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Isabel. She’s crazy for saying she’ll marry Alberto. Tell her.”

  Our eldest sister shoots daggers at Beatriz, her gaze turning swiftly to me.

  Our parents don’t know about the engagement yet. Personally, I doubt Alberto had the stomach to face our father—not that I can entirely blame him. Alberto’s father is a doctor, successful and staunchly middle-class, but not exactly sugar baron money; Alberto works as an accountant. He and Isabel met in Varadero nine months ago, and from that moment, she hasn’t paid attention to any other man.

  He’s handsome enough, and he does seem to genuinely care about Isabel, but I’m not quite sure how she feels about him. She’s the most difficult one to read of all of us. She keeps her emotions locked tightly away whereas Beatriz lets them fly for the entire world to see. I’d like to think I’m as contained as Isabel, but I fear my heart gives me away.

  “If she’s happy, that’s all that matters,” I reply.

  Isabel’s expression softens, shooting me a grateful look.

  Beatriz lets out an inelegant snort.

  “If only it were that simple. How long do you think happiness and love will continue once the difference in their circumstances is too much for them to overcome? Do you think it simply won’t matter that she was born into all of this and he wasn’t?” Her tone gentles as her attention turns to Isabel. “You love him, maybe. You’re infatuated with him, yes. But is that enough for marriage?”

  “What else is there?” Isabel snaps.

  “Compatibility.”

  Beatriz has an uncanny way of striking at the uncomfortable heart of things.

  “We’re fine in that department, but thanks for your concern,” Isabel retorts.

  Beatriz rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about sex.”

  “Beatriz,” Isabel hisses, her face reddening.

  “Please, like we don’t know that’s what you mean.”

  “Perhaps some of us don’t believe you must say every single thing you think. That some things are private.”

  Beatriz shrugs. “I suppose I don’t see the point in pretending.”

  “You haven’t any sense.”

  “Sense? I’m not the one marrying a man who’s utterly wrong for me.” Beatriz rises from her perch on the sofa, her voice softening a bit. “I love you. I don’t want to see you make a mistake. Alberto is a nice enough man for someone. I just don’t believe he’s right for you, and I want you to be with a man who is worthy of you, a man who is your match in every way.”

  “Then you presume too much. We are not all you. We do not all have your ambitions. Alberto makes me happy. He is a good man. That is enough.” Isabel’s gaze narrows. “Is that why you reject every man who proposes, why you play the flirt and keep them at arm’s length? Because you don’t think they’re worthy of you?”

  Beatriz shrugs, flashing us an enigmatic smile. “If telling yourself that makes you feel smug and superior about your own choices, then sure.”

  She leaves us without a good-bye.

  “She is impossible,” Isabel mutters.

  She can be. She also can be too perceptive by half.

  A minute later Isabel leaves the room and I am alone with my thoughts, not an entirely welcome place to be. It’s been a week since I’ve heard from Pablo, since I received that last letter, a week of uncertainty and nerves, a week of missing him terribly. Has he simply tired of me or is there something more at play? Has danger befallen him?

  I can’t help but think of Beatriz’s words to Isabel now; is she correct? Once passion fades are we left with compatibility, and if so, will Pablo and I forever be at odds, viewing the world from distinct—and opposing—beliefs?

  One of the gardeners walks into the room, his hat in his hands, a look of discomfort on his face. He’s one of the staff members I’ve been bribing for weeks now, using them to carry letters back and forth between Pablo’s messengers and me. I’m fairly certain Beatriz does the same thing with our brother.

  “Miss Elisa, there’s a man to see you. He’s in the backyard. He’s—”

  I leap off the couch, mustering what little decorum I can in the face of overwhelming relief and excitement.

  He’s home.

  * * *

  • • •

  In the end, I can’t resist the impulse to follow Pablo through the city to the house where he’s been staying.

  The residence is in the Vedado district, a few streets from Guillermo’s home, the site of our first meeting. It’s a nondescript place filled with generic furnishings, sparse decor, and a faintly stale scent that suggests it hasn’t been aired out in a long time.

  “Are you the only one staying here?” I ask when he closes the door behind us.

  “For now. I live here from time to time.”

  The floor plan is fairly open, room leading into room, and I follow Pablo as he walks into the kitchen, my gaze running over his appearance. He looks leaner, and at the same time, more muscular than when I last saw him, as though he’s been shaped and molded, chiseled down to the ba
re essentials during his time in the mountains. His skin is darker than it was when he left, his hair a touch longer than is fashionable. His face is once again freshly shaved; wearing a scraggly beard in Havana these days is tantamount to testing the limits of Batista’s self-restraint.

  I can’t stop looking at him, wanting to pinch myself. This isn’t a dream. He’s been gone for a month, I’ve missed him for a month, and now we’re here and we’re alone.

  “Can I get you a drink? Or something to eat? I have a few things in the cupboards.” He grins. “I warn you, I’m not the most domestic.”

  I shake my head.

  “Do you want to sit?” He walks out of the narrow kitchen and gestures toward a faded couch shoved into a corner of the tiny room.

  To the left of me, Pablo stands in the doorway to the kitchen. To the right of me is another doorway. I can make out the edge of a mattress covered in a navy blue spread, a pair of trouser pants draped across the foot of the bed, this intimate view of his domestic life sending a flutter to my stomach.

  I could rationalize my decision by saying there’s an uncertainty thickening the air in Havana these days, that each shot, each explosion, each act of rebellion pushes us closer and closer to the edge and I don’t know what we’ll find when we get there. I could point to my own lack of control in my life, the match that was lit months ago burning strong and bright inside me. I could use so many excuses to justify love, but in the end none of them seem to matter much anymore.

  He is here. I love him.

  There’s nothing else.

  I leave Pablo standing in the doorway to the kitchen, my heart pounding as I walk toward the bedroom. My knees tremble beneath my dress.

  His gaze heats my skin.

  Perhaps this is foolish—it most likely is—but what is there in life if not the ability to indulge in the occasional foolish moment? How many of these indulgences do I have left?

  I stop a foot away from the bed, its outline mottled by the dying daylight. I take a deep breath, then another, my back to him, my fingers shaking as I pull my hair forward, draping it over my shoulder, fumbling with the buttons at my nape.