“You’ll see,” he answers with a wink.
A car turns down the street, bathing me in the glow of two bright headlights.
It stops.
Luis brings me to his side, putting his body between the vehicle and me.
It’s not a vintage car like the ones I’m used to seeing in Havana now—chrome, leather, bright colors, and rolling lines. This one is black, boxy, ugly, old in a way that’s neither glamorous nor nostalgic.
Luis’s hand on my waist tenses. It drops away.
Two men step out of the car.
They’re dressed casually, nondescript clothes that wouldn’t draw my attention under normal circumstances. They walk as though they’re in uniform, though, with the kind of purpose that comes with the sanction of official power. They might not approach us flashing badges, but it makes no difference. They are important. They are powerful.
Even though he is in the grave, there is no mistaking it—they are Fidel’s.
It happens so quickly—the flash of headlights, the sound of heavy metal car doors opening, slamming shut, the footfall of shoes on the cracked sidewalk, Luis’s voice saying my name, the warning contained there a scream wrapped in a whisper.
“Marisol—”
He steps away from me, leaving me standing on the sidewalk alone, my hand dangling at my side. It’s only a few steps, but he might as well have shoved me away from him. We were together, and now we’re not. I am Cuban, and I am not.
Luis’s back is to me, but tension is evident in the set of his shoulders, in the distance between us. The perimeter surrounding him and the men walking toward him might as well be contained by an electrified fence—no one on the street pays us any attention, their gazes anywhere but on Luis and the men, on me, their gaits growing more rapid, their feet carrying them far away from the danger surrounding them. The effort they exert not looking toward us is a palpable thing.
The men stop in front of Luis. Their voices are low, and I can only make out bits and pieces of the conversation, but it’s enough—
They’re taking him with them. I don’t know where.
Luis doesn’t look back at me as he gets in the car. Doesn’t turn around and beseech me to tell his grandmother and mother where he’s gone, doesn’t ask for me to call an attorney on his behalf. He doesn’t protest or attempt to fight them off, as though he’s resigned himself to the inevitability of this.
The car drives away in a squeal of tires, and he’s gone, the dark vehicle making its way down the Havana street, leaving me behind, wondering when—if—he’ll return.
My heart pounds, the passport in my purse burning a hole there. Should I go to the American embassy? Or return to the Rodriguez home and let Ana and Caridad know what has happened? Minutes earlier, I felt safe, happy here in Havana with Luis. Now I’m terrified.
The streets in Vedado no longer look so friendly, the evening growing dark, and I doubt I could find my way back to Miramar without assistance. Should I hail a cab? Check into a hotel and ask for help?
Another car pulls up alongside me. I grip my bag, holding it to my body, trying to remember the lessons I learned in the self-defense class my grandmother made me take nearly a decade ago.
A single girl living alone in Miami can never be too careful, Marisol.
A man with a thick neck and hulking shoulders gets out of the car. He looks like the sort of man women take note of in parking garages, on elevators, the sort of man you instinctively fear.
For a moment I freeze, my brain attempting to reconcile the fact that he’s walking toward me. He reaches out, his hand gripping my arm, pulling me toward the car, and I explode, my arms and legs hitting him, a scream torn from the depths of my throat.
Will anyone help me?
And then there are more hands on me, and they lift me, limbs flailing, and dump me in the back seat of the car.
chapter twenty-five
Elisa
As quickly as they grabbed him, the regime returns our father to us, battered and bloody but alive. We exist in a state of nervous détente; no one knows why Fidel chose to toss him back like a fish too small to be gobbled up by the regime, but we’re on tenterhooks, waiting to see if they will come for him again. Perhaps Fidel’s too busy, his attention on bigger things.
We’ve gone from private firing squads under Batista to public trials and executions courtesy of Fidel. I can just summon up the bare minimum amount of rage, the smallest dollop of horror. I’m numb on the inside—it’s been two weeks since Guillermo came to our door and told me Pablo had died, and it still feels like I’m living a nightmare. At night I read Pablo’s letters over and over again, as though they could conjure him up, the words on the page transforming into flesh-and-blood man.
No one warned me love would hurt so much.
We gather in front of the television, in a routine that is now becoming all too familiar. Indeed, this is a family affair; even my mother is here watching. As much as the whole process repels her—the very idea of the masses judging the elite is anathema to her—there’s a morbid curiosity that drives us all. Is this what they felt in France as they watched the guillotine’s blade be judge, jury, and executioner?
All it takes these days is an accusation, even the word of a child, to commit a man to death. Fidel says these spectacles will bring transparency, that he has nothing to hide, and he isn’t wrong—the horror of what has befallen our country is indeed on display for the world to see.
When will someone come to our aid? When will the rest of the world condemn him?
In the end it’s too much to watch, the television’s harsh glare doing nothing to dull the travesty before us. We sit slack-jawed and appalled, unable to speak, unable to move. How many of our countrymen have died since Fidel took power? A thousand? Two? Their names are whispered, and then forgotten, left to linger in the air before they disappear forever.
Finally, it’s Beatriz who breaks the spell.
“Turn off the TV,” she snaps at Maria.
She should not be seeing this. What are my parents thinking? We should all be working to preserve the fiction of her innocence, to protect her from all of this. They should be protecting her. But ever since Fidel marched into Havana, ever since Batista left and everything changed, my parents have devolved into a state of inaction.
Maria’s eyes widen at Beatriz’s tone; she’s enjoyed a sanctuary of sorts as the youngest. We’ve all tried our best to be patient with her, gentle with her. But these are challenging times.
I turn my gaze toward the flickering light on the TV before it goes dark completely. They’re trying Batista supporters, those who served in the military, as war criminals in the Havana sports stadium. Tens of thousands sit in the crowd cheering and jeering, eating ice cream and peanuts, roaring as they call for blood. We are Rome, and this is the Coliseum, the lions’ teeth sinking into Cuban flesh for vengeance and blood sport, televised for the entire nation to watch—a cautionary tale of sorts.
Will I see my father’s face on TV next? My brother’s? I’ve already lost the man I loved to this madness. When does it end? This is not a trial. This is not justice. And I think of Pablo now, of what he fought and died for. The man I knew, the man I loved, would not have wanted to see us reduced to this. Where is the constitution we were promised? The end to Batista’s cruelty? We have replaced one dictator with another and still my countrymen cheer. They chant “to the wall” now, quite literally calling for the deaths of those who supported Batista, those they believe have slighted them, those they wish to stand before a firing squad.
At night when I dream it is a strange mix that assails me—Pablo’s blood-soaked hands, Fidel’s roguish smile, maniacal white doves heralding disaster, crowds chanting, calling for our heads, setting Havana ablaze. Magda says it’s the baby causing the dreams, that it’s normal for my emotions to run high. She burns candles and offers pray
ers to the gods, but neither Changó nor Jesus appear concerned with saving Havana.
* * *
• • •
The events at the stadium affect the tenor in the city as the weeks drag on and January becomes February. My parents have snapped out of the fog that surrounded them, and they speak in hushed voices late at night, long after they think my sisters and I have gone to sleep. The household dynamics have shifted—there’s an undercurrent now as though the staff is holding its collective breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Magda senses it, too, mediating the tension between the family and the staff, taking care of all of us.
She prepares a bath for me, filling the water with herbs and perfumes, a dash of holy water smuggled out of the Cathedral of Havana.
“It will protect you,” she says as I sink into the water.
The clock is running down on my ability to keep the pregnancy a secret. My clothes still fit, but it’s only a matter of time, and I can’t help but think that if we lived in different times, if the world as we know it wasn’t falling down around us, my parents would have noticed that something is wrong by now.
It’s perhaps the only favor Fidel has done or ever will do for me.
I never knew it was possible to hate someone as much as I hate him. Every glimpse of him is a slap in the face. Why couldn’t he have died instead of Pablo?
Tears run down my cheeks, spilling into the bathwater, mixing with the holy water, the items the santero suggested Magda use.
“Shh.”
She strokes my hair, singing to me in her soothing, deep voice, and I’m at once a little girl again, safe in her embrace.
“Will you sing to the baby?” I ask her.
Magda smiles. “Of course. Just as I sang to you and your sisters.” She squeezes my hand. “I will teach you my songs.”
That night I don’t dream of blood, or Pablo’s dead eyes, but of a little girl, her tiny hand clutched in mine, her long hair flowing behind me. I brush her hair until it gleams, braiding it, and she asks me to tell her stories, of Cuba, of my family. She listens intently, as I give her our history, as I kiss the top of her head. She is content to sit with me, until I wake the next morning, the overwhelming sense of loss surprising me when I find her gone. I’m not sure how I know, but I do—
She needs me. Desperately.
Perhaps it was the bath or simply the product of a good night’s sleep, but I climb out of bed feeling better than I have in a long time. I dress quickly, making my way to the dining room.
One of the maids is listening to Fidel on the radio in her room; it’s jarring to hear his voice from the back of the house, the sensation that he has invaded our sanctuary inescapable. I’ve had enough of his stupid speeches, enough of Fidel and his promises that will never come true. Empty words from another king of Cuba, replacing one tyranny with another. I want to tell her to turn it off, but in this climate no one can afford the luxury of shutting one’s doors to Fidel. He is in all our homes now whether we want him here or not.
Pablo’s dreams of reinstating the 1940 Constitution are just that—dreams. Instead, Fidel gives us the Fundamental Law, if it can even be called that. Under this farcical piece of legislation, Fidel has the power to hold prisoners without charge, but this threat pales in comparison to the macabre spectacle at the stadium.
How do they not see? The same people who cheer Fidel’s cruelty vilified Batista for his. Is it only accepted because they hate us? Because they coveted our way of life? How long do they think Fidel will continue to operate as a piece of fiction—a benevolent Robin Hood? He steals from the rich and gives to the poor, but what will happen when all the money has been driven from Havana? Will he stop or will he continue to take and take?
Serving in the military under Batista can get you executed. Supporting Batista in a climate where supporting Batista wasn’t an option can get you executed. What else will Fidel use as an excuse to eviscerate his opponents?
My sisters are sitting at the dining room table from Paris, eating silently when I enter.
“Where is Beatriz?” I ask, noticing her seat is empty.
Isabel’s brow furrows. “I don’t know; she was already gone when I woke up. Are you feeling better?”
Does she suspect?
“I am, thank you.”
I stare at the ring on her finger, watching the diamond catch the light, thinking of the ring hidden in my room, the one I wish I had the courage to wear. I want to tell them. I want to tell them, but I am a coward, and I fear in their eyes a traitor. I’m afraid I will break their hearts. I’m afraid they will cast me out for betraying our family.
I’m afraid.
Pablo died for the very forces that are now destroying our country, the people who threw my father in prison, who beat him, who treated him worse than one would an animal, who very well might come back and kill him. Men who kill for blood sport and entertainment.
How do I tell them that?
“Isabel, Elisa—Beatriz—” Magda runs into the room, her eyes swimming with tears, her voice shaking.
Ice fills my veins as I look at her, as her face falls before me, as her body simply crumples to the ground.
Isabel reaches her first, grasping her arms, holding her up. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
A low, keening sound erupts from Magda, and my world simply shatters.
Not Beatriz. I can’t lose my sister, too.
“Where’s Beatriz?” I ask, my voice calm compared to the terror racking my limbs. Perhaps some part of me has simply become inured to the violence. Did Beatriz return to La Cabaña? Is she in prison now, too?
Magda takes a deep breath, her body quaking. “She’s outside. She . . . she found him.” A sob escapes her lips.
Now Isabel is the calm one. “Who?”
I don’t wait for her answer, my legs carrying me out the door, running to the front gates. I kick up gravel beneath my shoes once I reach the path in the front entrance. A crowd is beginning to form in front of the house—gardeners, staff—someone calls my name behind me, but all I can think of is Beatriz—
My steps slow.
She’s sitting on the gravel floor, her gown—one we bought together not too long ago when our world was a simpler place—pooling around her. If not for the incongruous setting, she’d look like a debutante posing for a society photo; if not for the blood splattering her dress, staining her palms, or the body cradled in her lap.
I know the moment she looks at me. How could I not?
I sink to the ground beside her, my legs rubber. I know I’m crying because my cheeks are wet, but I feel removed from my body, as though I’ve left it and floated up to the sky, looking down on all of us, praying for our souls.
“They dumped him,” Beatriz babbles. I reach out and grasp her free hand. “In front of the gate. A car—it sped by and then it stopped.” Tears stream down her face. “The door opened and I saw him—he’s so skinny, isn’t he? Like he hasn’t been eating for a while.” Her fingers shake as she strokes the face that looks so very much like hers. “He was already dead when he hit the ground. I tried—”
I focus on her, because I can’t look down, can’t look at him.
The crowd around us grows, the servants shrieking, Isabel and Magda crying. Our parents should not see this. Maria cannot see this.
Beatriz’s gaze meets mine, the wet sheen there covering steel. “One day they will pay,” she vows.
“Yes, they will.”
I look down into my dead brother’s eyes.
chapter twenty-six
Marisol
When they remove the hood from my head, I’m in a room—gray, nondescript, vaguely residential in nature—there are two armchairs, a table in the corner with a lamp, the light casting a yellow glow around the room, a lumpy couch shoved into another corner. A frayed rug covers
a dirty ground.
My hands are unbound.
The man who grabbed me off the street stands before me, and I open my mouth to plead for my safety, to ask about Luis, a million words and protestations pushing to escape, but before I can cobble together my jumbled thoughts, before I can make myself move, he is gone, shutting the door behind him with a firm thud, and I am alone.
Are they going to question me? Rape me? Kill me? How long are they planning to hold me here? Will anyone realize what happened to me?
A tear trickles down my face. Then another.
The door opens.
Another man walks into the room, this one much older, his steps slow, an elegant cane in one hand, wearing a neatly pressed guayabera and crisp trousers. His black leather shoes gleam. Whereas the first man screamed “danger,” this man screams “power.”
The door shuts behind him with an ominous thud.
For a moment we stare at each other, sizing each other up. He’s tall and lean. Distinguished, his hair a steely gray, his face defined by thin lines and wrinkles, his eyes dark, his gaze hooded.
He takes a step forward. “We’re not going to hurt you,” he says in Spanish after a moment, his tone surprisingly gentle for someone who exudes such influence, as though he is the sort of man positioned to send another to his death with the stroke of a pen.
I almost believe him and then I catch myself. Is that part of their game—lulling their enemies into complacency and then attacking?
“And the man I was with? Are you going to hurt him?”
Are they hiding Luis somewhere here, too? In another room?
“I’m not. But I’m afraid I cannot speak to Mr. Rodriguez’s whereabouts.”
My stomach sinks as Luis’s last name falls from his lips. This was the threat Luis warned me about from the beginning. Was roughing him up on the street the other night a precursor to this? Will I leave this room alive?
Next Year in Havana Page 26