Next Year in Havana

by Chanel Cleeton

  Despite Castro’s desire to ban religion in Cuba, people have found ways to honor their faith, both in the pews of the Cathedral of Havana and here, with this offering to the Santeria gods and goddesses. It’s a quiet act of defiance, but a powerful one all the same.

  Magda excuses herself for a moment, returning with drinks. She settles on the chair opposite us, the fabric fraying at the edges. By looking at her, I never would have guessed she’s as old as she is, and her manner is that of a woman a decade or so younger.

  In all the stories my grandmother told me of Cuba, she always spoke of Magda as the woman who raised her, a surrogate mother of sorts, and now I understand that was another thing my grandmother and I shared—our lives were shaped by strong women who raised us as their own.

  I answer Magda’s questions about my great-aunts, my grandmother, telling her the story of my grandmother’s ashes. The emotion that snuck up on me before, the grief, is absent in this little room, and instead I am filled with joy talking about my family. I can easily imagine my grandmother next to me, interjecting throughout this conversation, sharing confidences and stories. I hear her in Magda’s voice, see her in Magda’s eyes. That’s the thing about death—even when you think someone is gone, glimpses of them remain in those they loved and left behind.

  Luis sits beside me, sipping his espresso, his knee resting against mine, his presence reassuring. An hour passes as we catch up on each other’s lives, and then I ask Magda about the letters.

  “I have some questions about my grandmother. Ana thought you might be able to shed some light on them.”

  “Of course, what would you like to know?”

  “I found a box of my grandmother’s things.” I tell her about the letters. “Did you know about him?”

  “Yes.”

  I lean forward in my seat.

  “Well, I knew some of it,” she clarifies. “Those last days—their last days in Cuba—were heartbreaking for Elisa. The last day I saw her—”

  A tear trickles down her cheek.

  “What happened?”

  Magda sighs. “The family left. It was a terrible day. We weren’t supposed to know, of course. They pretended they were going for a trip. They would do that—your great-grandmother and the girls. Go to Europe or America to shop. They were careful; all it took was the wrong word overheard and repeated to the wrong person. Especially for a family like the Perezes.”

  She makes the motion of a beard over her face.

  We all know who the bearded one is.

  Fidel.

  “I knew, though, when I looked in my girls’ faces. Isabel took it the hardest at first. Her fiancé stayed behind. Isabel was never one for talking about her emotions. Eventually her sisters would pry whatever was bothering her out of her and she’d open up to them, but it took time.

  “Beatriz was angry,” Magda continues. “She was always fired up about something. Your great-grandfather loved her best; no matter how hard he tried to act like he loved his girls equally, you could tell. She drove him crazy, but he loved her. They got into a fight in his study the night before they left. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but you couldn’t help but overhear—the whole house listened to them carrying on. She didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to give Fidel the satisfaction of winning.”

  That sounds like Beatriz.

  “Maria was the baby, of course. The girls all tried to shield her as much as they could. Alejandro—”

  Her voice breaks off as she makes the sign of the cross over her body.

  A lump swells in my throat. I’ve grown so used to my great-uncle’s name evoking that same reaction among his sisters.

  “Your grandmother was my favorite,” Magda whispers conspiratorially. “I didn’t have children then; I hadn’t met my husband yet. Elisa was mine as much as she was your great-grandmother’s. In those days, the nannies raised the children. Not like now. I dried Elisa’s tears. Held her when she was in pain. And after what happened with that boy—”

  My heart pounds.

  “The revolutionary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please. What did she tell you about him?”

  Magda’s expression darkens. “He was trouble; I knew it from the first moment she mentioned him.”

  “Did she tell you his name?”

  “No. She never did.”

  Disappointment fills me. We’ve come this far in our search only to be back where we started.

  “She didn’t want to tell me about him at first, of course, but then she didn’t have much of a choice,” Magda continues. “She was scared, and she needed help with the baby.”

  It takes a moment for her words to register, to hear them over the white noise rushing through my ears.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  She blinks. “I assumed that was why you wanted to know about him, because of the baby.”

  “What baby?”

  chapter twenty

  Elisa

  It’s strange how the world around you can change in the blink of an eye, how the difference between a few hours can mean everything. In one moment it was 1958 and the world was one thing; minutes passed and then it was 1959, and the world as we knew it disappeared.

  The morning light confirms what we learned last night. Batista has fled and left us in the hands of the men marching into Havana from the countryside, the Sierra Maestra. Is Pablo with them? What will become of my brother? Their return is the only glimmer of hope in all of this, and I cling to it now.

  Gossip filters in throughout the day. The neighbors are out, Ana’s parents stopping by, everyone gathering around the television and radio, attempting to discern what will happen next. They say the fighters are coming back, pouring in from the mountains, carrying weapons and dressed in olive green fatigues, flaunting long, scraggly beards. It appears as though the victory has caught them nearly as off guard as it has caught the rest of us. Batista seemed like an inevitability we would always suffer. Fidel is a looming unknown.

  I sit in the house with my parents, my sisters, making idle conversation.

  No, I didn’t realize the Mendozas fled with Batista. What a shame we didn’t get to say good-bye.

  Workers are striking, the city celebrating, but our street in Miramar is eerily quiet except for the trickle of neighbors. Everyone cites a friend of a friend when they give their information; everyone speaks with an air of authority as though they possess a map for the future.

  By the afternoon, I can’t take it anymore. My stomach is in knots, dizziness hitting me in waves, and I crave the fresh air. The atmosphere in the house is like being closeted in a sickroom. I flee to my room, changing into a pair of trousers and a cotton blouse, sliding my most serviceable pair of sandals onto my feet.

  A knock sounds at my bedroom door, and Magda walks in just as I am finishing dressing, her eyes widening as she takes in my appearance.

  “Absolutely not.”

  I don’t bother denying my intent; she knows me too well for that.

  “I want to see what the streets look like.”

  I want to look for Pablo.

  Her mouth tightens in a firm, disapproving line. “I can tell you what they look like. The same as they did with Machado. You don’t want to be out in that mess.”

  “Just for a moment. Please don’t tell my parents.”

  “What is this about? Really?”

  I want to go to the house where Pablo stayed the last time he was in the city. I want to know if he’s returned to Havana. I need to see him.

  “I have a friend. He was fighting in Santa Clara.”

  “Elisa—”

  Only Magda could say my name in such a way that I felt compelled to confess all my sins.

  “He’s more than just a friend,” I whisper.

  “What have you done?”

 
It’s the worry in her voice that tugs at me. With my parents, I would expect condemnation, but with Magda I only find concern.

  The knot in my stomach tightens. “I fell in love.”

  She closes her eyes, her lips moving as though in prayer.

  “He’s a good man,” I protest.

  “You play a dangerous game. Your family—”

  “I know. I only want to see that he’s back safely. That he’s alright.”

  I don’t tell her the rest of it; there are some things I’m not ready to share.

  She shakes her head, making the sign of the cross over herself. “May the saints preserve us.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I walk down the Paseo del Prado, Magda beside me, her arm tucked in mine, a worried expression on her face. No matter how hard I tried to convince her to stay home, she wouldn’t be dissuaded. No one even noticed us leaving—they were so thoroughly engrossed in the tale of Batista’s exodus.

  Magda’s strides quicken with each step, her gaze sweeping around. The streets are crowded, people talking and laughing, evidence of the strike everywhere you look. They are clearly ready to give Fidel a hero’s welcome. I overhear pieces of conversations—someone let pigs loose in one of the mob’s casinos.

  My heart pounds as we turn down street after street until we reach the building where Pablo was staying. Two children sit on the front steps throwing a ball around, a dog lying beside them. Magda follows me inside, refusing to leave me when I climb the stairs to the second floor.

  A wave of dizziness hits me again, and I regret not eating the lunch my mother served at the house earlier—after one bite it tasted like sawdust in my mouth. My hands tremble when I reach Pablo’s front door, as I knock on the wood.

  Magda’s disapproval over the condition of the apartment building is stamped all over her face.

  No one answers.

  I knock again this time, louder, my knuckles moving in desperation. The door opposite Pablo’s opens, a woman sticking her head out, her gaze running over Magda and me.

  “What do you want?” she demands.

  “I’m looking for the man who lives here.”

  Her gaze narrows, clouded with suspicion. “No one has been around for weeks.”

  Disappointment fills me. “If he comes back, will you tell him a woman was here looking for him?”

  She shrugs before closing the door behind her, the sound of a child’s cries filling the hallway.

  I sag against the wall.

  “Are you ready?” Magda asks. “This is not the kind of neighborhood you want to be in once the night comes.”

  I nod, my eyes welling with frustrated tears.

  We leave the building, walking down the street, heading toward our car. The crowd appears to have swelled since we first entered the apartment, more and more people clogging the streets, their voices growing louder, the frenzy magnified.

  I curse my stupidity, the foolishness that had me taking to the streets looking for him.

  My voice is strained. “We need to get home.”

  I’ve never seen the city like this—it’s a jubilant madness, but madness just the same. A man wielding a bat in his hands runs up to one of the parking meters, smashing it over and over again, his face contorted in fierce determination.

  Whack. Whack.

  The change inside clangs together before the machine tips over, smashing to the ground, coins spilling all over the concrete sidewalk. People swoop in—children, their parents—scooping up the money.

  What surprises me most, what terrifies me most, is the anger. It’s as if they’ve kept a tight lid on their emotions, letting the fury fester for years, contained by Batista’s policies, Batista’s injustices, and now that he’s gone their anger has shifted, threatening everything in its path.

  Magda’s grip on me tightens as our strides lengthen, the mob swelling.

  How long before they turn their attention from the parking meters to us?

  My heart pounds when we reach the car, my hands shaking as I struggle to open the door. It takes two attempts for me to wrest the handle and pull the door open. My fingers tremble as I sit in the driver’s seat and start the car.

  “I’m so sorry. I should have never tried to go out today. I had no idea it would be like this.”

  “It was like this in ’33, with Machado,” Magda says, her voice grim. “It will get worse before it gets better.”

  I’m afraid she’s right, and the anger bubbles up inside me, threatening to overflow. I’m angry at the men on the street, angry with Batista, Pablo, my brother. What did they usher into this country?

  We’re silent on the drive back, and it’s only once we’re in the safety of the big house, behind the gates again, that I feel some semblance of peace, and even that is short-lived. How long before the violence comes here?

  Magda follows me to my bedroom, sitting beside me while I sink down onto the bed.

  “Promise you won’t go out like that again.”

  I nod, a wave of nausea hitting me. “I promise.”

  “That boy—”

  I’ve been carrying this secret for far too long, and I need to tell someone. The words tumble out.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It is a truly bizarre thing to know your body for nineteen years, to grow used to it, its habits and quirks, and then to have it change on you so unexpectedly.

  It began slowly a few weeks after the last time we saw each other—an urge to nap during the day, a bitter taste in my mouth, nausea constant. I eschewed my favorite foods for things I never enjoyed before, my emotions heightened. By the time I missed my period, I knew. I was late, and I was never late, and my body erased any doubt from my mind.

  Magda hovers over me now that she knows about the baby, feeding me more food than I can possibly eat, encouraging me to nap, stroking my hair, praying beside me.

  Even as I worry about the baby, about the uncertainty of my future, the troubles in Cuba’s future loom large. Fidel has named Dr. Manuel Urrutia Lleó as the provisional president, but everyone says Castro will be the one pulling the strings anyway. The airport has been shut down; no one can get flights out of the country. Our driver reported seeing American tourists sitting on the front lawn of the Hotel Nacional, their suitcases in hand, fear and anger etched on their faces. They were finally evacuated by ship to Key West. And it’s not just the airport—the whole country is under general strike. Our father’s been making angry phone calls all morning, trying to figure out what’s happening with his workers.

  Mobs have opened the doors at El Principe, letting the prisoners escape. Havana has descended into madness.

  I’m back in the house, perched on a silk couch in our elegant sitting room, surrounded by paintings in heavy gold frames.

  “They ransacked El Encanto,” my mother says, her lips pursed in a tight line. There is no greater sin in her mind than the destruction of haute couture.

  I imagine all those dresses we used to try on, now in apartments throughout Havana, worn by those who admired them in magazines. We used to find a little bit of magic in those dresses; will that same magic rub off on their new owners?

  “They got the casinos, too,” my father says. “No one is doing anything to stop them—the military, the police, they’ve all simply given up. They’re giving our country away without a fight,” he thunders.

  “Are they going to come here? For us?” Maria asks.

  My mother pales. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” she snaps.

  “What?” Maria looks bewildered. “They want money, don’t they? We have money.”

  My father ignores her.

  “They’re patrolling the streets now. They say the 26th of July has pushed the police force out.” His face turns red. �
�People are hanging signs outside their houses thanking Fidel. For what? Do they really think he is on our side? He preaches peace and democracy while he prepares to feast on the carcasses of his enemies. He has made fools of all of us, mark my words, and I fear far worse before the month is out.”

  chapter twenty-one

  They swarm into the city in a steady flow of green uniforms and beards. They carry guns in their hands, and I cringe at the cold black metal, at the manner in which they survey their surroundings as though Havana belongs to the 26th of July. They’re good-natured in their victory, but then, victors can always afford the luxury of happiness. For the rest of us—

  I scan each face looking for Pablo, searching, equal parts hoping to find him, equal parts afraid I will.

  I fear it would break my heart to see his face, his body in those odious fatigues. And yet, the absence of him brings its own pain. Surely, he’ll come to me? And my brother—no one knows where Alejandro is or what he’s doing. Has he aligned himself with the 26th of July? Is he their enemy?

  We are inundated with images of Fidel marching toward the city, taking his time, prolonging the six-hundred-mile journey like a predator savoring his kill. The nauseous feeling in my stomach doesn’t subside.

  “They’ve recognized Fidel’s government,” my father says.

  “They?” my mother asks.

  “The Americans.”

  “And the elections?”

  “In eighteen months or two years.” My father’s mouth tightens. “In the meantime, the president—controlled by Fidel—has removed all political figures appointed by Batista. Some of his cabinet members have sought asylum in foreign embassies. Others have been arrested.”

  He doesn’t say the rest, but I know—

  Others have been executed by firing squad.

  My father rattles off a list of names, men who came and dined at my mother’s infamous Parisian dinner table, who gave us mints and sweets when we were children, men whose sons I danced with, whose daughters I knew well. My mother’s cries drown out the rest of the names.