And then there’s Miguel.
My son will grow up knowing freedom. The freedom to express his thoughts without fear of being jailed, the freedom to work to support himself, the freedom to dream that he can be anything he wants, do anything he wants.
Once he’s tired of playing we pack up, strolling down the street. We point out the sights to him, stop and buy ice cream from a stand.
At the corner of Whitehead and South Street, there is a sign with a palm tree.
THE SOUTHERNMOST POINT OF SOUTHERNMOST CITY KEY WEST, FLA.
A woman stands in front of the sign in a floral dress, selling conch shells laid out on the ground.
Miguel is instantly captivated by the shells, and Juan smiles indulgently, taking his wallet out of his pocket. It’ll make a good souvenir for our boy.
I watch as Juan shows Miguel how to hold the shell up to his ear so he can hear the sound of the ocean. Our son’s face lights up at the novelty, the pride on Juan’s face inescapable. He loves him as though he were his own flesh and blood.
I walk forward a bit, their conversation drifting away, the roar of the ocean and the sound of the wind blocking out all else. It’s late in the day, the sun nearly setting, the sky a placid blue.
If I close my eyes, I can almost see it; if I look straight ahead, my gaze fixed on the point beyond the horizon, I imagine I do.
There’s a girl in a white dress, strolling along the Malecón, a white silk rose clutched in her hand, her dark hair blowing in the breeze. And there’s a boy. He’s taller, older, his head slightly bent as he leans into her, as he strains to hear what she says over the sounds of the city, the honking of horns, the laughter of people passing them by. She wants to laugh, too, but the thudding in her chest robs her of the emotion, and instead she feels something portentous, like the moment before a storm rolls in over the water. It’s in the air around them, carried on the wind—hope, anticipation, longing.
He will kiss her and everything will change.
They will march from the mountains to the sea and everything will change.
The girl is now in a pink dress, her figure altered by motherhood and time, the white rose left in a box, buried in a backyard in Havana, for when she returns.
She sees his eyes every day in another’s. It is both her greatest pleasure and her deepest pain that all she has to do is look to her son to see the man she loved and lost.
But one day . . .
Her knowledge of God was formed in the pews of the Cathedral of Havana. Some of it has stuck; most of it ebbs and flows with age, with circumstance.
But there’s an undercurrent of hope, whether brought on by religion or Cuban birth—
One day when she dies, she’ll see him again. She knows this with a certainty that resides in her bones.
If there is a Heaven, surely it will be this—
Five miles of seawall. Havana behind her, an ocean before her. They’ll walk hand in hand, their son between them, a trumpet playing in the background, the smell of jasmine on the air, coconut ice cream on her tongue.
But for now there’s only the sea. And beyond it, ninety miles away, a country.
Home.
How long before we return?
A year? Two?
Ojalá.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
The novel alternates between Elisa Perez’s life in Cuba in 1958 and 1959 and her granddaughter Marisol Ferrera’s trip to Cuba in 2017. Which woman did you identify with more? What parallels can you see between their personalities and their lives? What differences?
The first chapter ends with Elisa wondering how long her family will be away from Cuba. The final chapter ends over a decade later with her posing the same question. How are the themes of hope and exile illustrated in the book? How does the weight of exile affect the Perez family?
When Marisol arrives in Cuba she struggles with identifying as Cuban because she grew up in the United States and because she has never set foot on Cuban soil. How much does a physical place define one’s identity? How does Marisol’s trip alter her views about being Cuban and change her perception of herself? How do Marisol and her family attempt to keep their heritage alive in exile? Are there stories and rituals handed down through the generations in your family?
Like her grandmother, Marisol falls in love with a man who has revolutionary political leanings. What similarities can you see between Pablo’s and Luis’s dreams for Cuba? What differences are there in their worldviews? How do they go about achieving their dreams for a better Cuba?
Sacrifice is a major theme that runs throughout the novel. How do the characters make sacrifices for one another, and what are some examples of them risking their safety and security for their loved ones? How do you think you would have acted in similar situations?
Family plays an important role in the novel, and each of the characters face their own struggles in their attempts to live up to their family’s expectations. What are some examples of this? Did you identify with one character’s point of view more? Are there certain expectations in your own family? Do you feel the need to live up to them? How have they shaped your life decisions?
Elisa’s final wish is to have her ashes scattered over Cuban soil. Do you agree with her decision? Would you have wanted your ashes spread in Cuba or would you have preferred to be buried on American soil? Do you think Marisol picked the best place to spread Elisa’s ashes? Where else would you have considered scattering them? Have you scattered the ashes of a loved one? What was the experience like?
What initially attracts Elisa to Pablo? Do you believe they would have been able to overcome the differences between them if they weren’t caught in the midst of the Cuban Revolution? Or was their love fueled by the urgency of the times?
Elisa chooses to save her letters from Pablo and her memories of their romance by burying them in a box in the backyard. If you had a box in which to bury your most precious possessions, what would you choose to keep safe?
What parallels do you see between life in modern Cuba and life in pre-revolutionary Cuba? What differences?
Pablo tells Elisa that everything is political. Do you agree with him?
Despite coming from very different backgrounds, Marisol and Luis share many similarities that bring them together as a couple. What are some examples of this? Why do you think they get along so well? Do you think they are a good influence on each other?
Pablo believes that the best way to change his country is from within. Others like Elisa’s family choose to leave Cuba because they can no longer support the regime. Which approach do you identify with? What are the differences between the Cubans who remained in Cuba and those who live in exile? What are the similarities?
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM CHANEL CLEETON’S NEXT NOVEL, FEATURING BEATRIZ PEREZ.
AVAILABLE WINTER 2019 FROM BERKLEY!
Beatriz
JANUARY 1960
The thing about collecting marriage proposals is they’re much like cultivating eccentricities. One is an absolute must for being admired in polite—or slightly less-than-polite—society. Two ensure you’re a sought-after guest at parties. Three add a soupçon of mystery, four are a scandal, and five, well, five make you a legend.
I peer down at the man on bended knee in front of me—what is his name?—his body tipping precariously from an overabundance of champagne, and mentally catalogue his appeal. He’s a second cousin to the venerable Preston clan, related by marriage to a former vice president, and cousin to a sitting U.S. senator. His tuxedo is understated elegance, his fortune modest, if not optimistic, for the largesse of a bequest from a deceased aunt or an unexpected inheritance landing on his doorstep. His chin is weak from one too many Prestons marrying Prestons, his last name likely to be followed by Roman numerals.
Andrew. Maybe Albert. Adam?
We’ve met a handful of times at parties like this in Palm Beach, ones I once would have ruled over in Havana but now must bow and scrape in order to gain admittance. I could do worse than a second cousin to American royalty; after all, beggars can’t be choosers, and exiles even less so. The prudent thing would be to accept his proposal—my auspicious fifth—and to follow my sister Elisa into the sacrament of holy matrimony.
But where’s the fun in that?
Whispers brush against my gown. I feel the weight of curious gazes on my back, some more malevolent than others, and the words clawing their way up my skirt, snatching the faux jewels from my neck and casting them to the ground.
Look at her.
Haughty. The whole family is. Someone should tell them this isn’t Cuba.
Those hips. That dress.
Didn’t they lose everything? Fidel Castro nationalized all those sugar fields her father used to own.
Has she no shame?
Perhaps it would be different if we were men, if we weren’t threats to the marital prospects of their friends, nieces, or daughters. If we slid seamlessly into the social fabric they’ve created here.
But we aren’t men, and our sex too often has a particular affinity for hitting where it hurts. With a look, we are dismissed, some indescribable quality identifying us as different, as separate from the society we’ve fled to. We’re treated as cuckoos in a nest, as though our presence here will only serve to snatch up the limited marital resources and steal some of the spotlight that is apparently in meager supply in Palm Beach. The truth is, they can keep their prospective husbands; I’ve little use for men these days.
My smile widens, brightening, flashier than the fake jewels at my neck and just as sincere. I lift my chin an inch and scan the crowd, sweeping past Alexander on his knees, looking like a man who hasn’t quite acquired his sea legs, past the Palm Beach guard shooting daggers my way. My gaze rests on my sisters Isabel and Elisa, standing in the corner, deep in conversation, flutes of champagne in hand. Elisa’s husband hovers nearby in that protective way of his. She might no longer be a Perez in name, but the sight of them, the reminder to bow to nothing and no one . . .
I turn back to Alistair.
“Thank you, but I fear I must decline.”
I keep my tone light, as though the whole thing is a giant jest, which I hope it is. People don’t go falling in love and proposing in one fell swoop, do they? Surely that’s . . . inconvenient. I’ve seen the havoc love has wrought on my sisters’ lives, and I’m more than a little glad to have escaped a similar fate.
For a moment, poor Arthur looks stunned by my answer. Perhaps this wasn’t a joke after all. Slowly, he recovers, and the same easy smile on his face that lingered moments before he fell to his knees returns with a vengeance, restoring his countenance to what is likely its natural state: perpetually pleased with himself and the world he inhabits. He grasps my outstretched hand, his palm clammy against mine, and pulls himself up with an unsteady sway. A soft grunt escapes his lips.
His eyes narrow a bit once we’re level—nearly level, at least, given the extra inch my sister’s borrowed heels provide. It truly is a tragic thing when God doesn’t give you the height you deserve. I would like to be an Amazon, preternaturally tall, stalwart and fierce, towering over my foes, rather than a curvy slip of a woman bent by the winds of revolution.
The glint in Alec’s eyes reminds me of a child whose favorite toy has been taken away and will make you pay for it later by throwing a spectacularly effective tantrum. I think I prefer the honesty of it compared to the smile.
“Let me guess, you left someone back in Cuba?” he asks, enough of a bite in his tone to nip at my skin.
Men so do enjoy pursuing that which they cannot have.
My diamond smile reappears. Honed at my mother’s knee and so very useful in situations like these, the edges sharp and brittle, warning the recipient of the perils of coming too close.
I bite, too.
“Something like that,” I reply in a casual drawl.
Now that one of their own is back on his feet, no longer prostrate in front of the interloper they’ve been forced to tolerate this social season, the crowd turns its attention from us with a sniff, a sigh, and a flurry of bespoke gowns. We possess just enough money and influence—it turns out sugar is nearly as lucrative in America as it is in Cuba—that they can’t afford to cut us directly, but not nearly enough to prevent them from devouring us like a sleek pack of wolves scenting red meat. Fidel Castro has made beggars of all of us, and for that alone, I’d thrust a knife through his heart.
And suddenly, unexpectedly, the walls are too close together, the lights in the ballroom too bright, my bodice too tight, and my heart bleeds out over the elegant parquet floor. Acting as though everything is effortless is surprisingly exhausting, and pretending that their disdain is beyond my notice even more so.
It’s been nearly a year since we left Cuba for what was supposed to be a few months away, until the world realized what Fidel Castro had done to our island—before Cubans came to their senses and understood he wasn’t the savior they sought, but rather a charlatan hungry for power. Hardly better than President Batista, and with each day that passes, I fear far worse.
America has welcomed us into her loving embrace—almost.
I am surrounded by people who don’t want me here, even if their contempt hides behind a polite smile and feigned sympathy. They look down their patrician noses at me because my family hasn’t been in America since the country’s founding or hadn’t sailed on a boat from England, or some nonsense like that. They think their sons are too good to dance with me, their daughters too precious to speak to me. Thanks to my education, I speak English well enough, if not for the faintest accent, but that’s not enough for them. My features are a hint too dark, my voice too foreign, my religion too Catholic, my last name too Cuban. I am not one of them, and they won’t let me forget it.
And at the same time . . .
There is no quarter in Cuba right now for differing from Fidel in the slightest. They’re killing Perezes in Havana, so we must make do with the life we borrow in Palm Beach.
It is a strange thing to lack a corner of the world to call your own, to feel as though you are reviled wherever you go. In Havana, we are ostracized for having too much. In Palm Beach, we are written off for not being enough, dismissed as being of little use by a society that defines itself by how high one has climbed until one has reached a rarified status and can prevent all others from occupying the same space.
In truth, we did the same in Havana, and look where it has landed us.
The past tugs at me each moment, the memory of what we left behind a constant ache. The present hurls me back to the airport lounge at Rancho Boyeros airport—now renamed by Castro to Jose Martí airport—waiting in between our old life and an uncertain future. It’s easy to not feel like any of this counts, as though this year we’ve spent in Palm Beach is a placeholder, a dress rehearsal for a different life. What will we care for their contempt when we have returned home?
In a flash, an elderly woman who looks suspiciously like Anderson’s mother approaches us, sparing me a cutting look no doubt designed to knock me down a peg or two—as though a pair of steely gray eyes compares to the face of a firing squad—before turning her attention to her son. In a cloud of Givenchy, he’s swept away until I’m left standing alone, my fall from grace on full display.
If I had my way, we wouldn’t attend these parties, save this one, wouldn’t attempt to ingratiate ourselves to Palm Beach society; they and their stuffy opinions can hang, for all I care. Of course, it isn’t about me and what I want. It’s about my mother and sisters, and my father’s need to extend his business empire through these social connections so no one ever has the power to destroy us again.
And of course, as always, it’s about Alejandro.
I perfo
rm another visual sweep of the ballroom. There must be two hundred people here tonight, surrounded by walls adorned in gold leaf, entombed in their unwritten rules and code. We had them in Havana, too, and while some things translate, others don’t. I’ve learned the basics, but there are subtle nuances I’ve yet to grasp.
I turn on my heel and head for one of the open balconies off the ballroom, the hem of my gown gathered in hand, careful to keep from tearing the delicate fabric. We have a system in place for re-wearing and repurposing gowns; there’s an art to appearing far wealthier than you really are.
I slip through one of the open doors and step out onto the stone terrace, a breeze from the water blowing the skirt of my dress. There’s the barest hint of a chill in the air, or at least as close to one as South Florida experiences, the sky is clear, the stars are shining down, and the moon is full. The sound of the ocean is a dull, distant roar. It’s the noise of my childhood and my adulthood calling to me like a Siren’s song. I close my eyes, a sting there, pretending for a moment that I’m standing on another balcony, in another country, in another time. What would happen if I left the party behind and headed for the water, removed the pinching shoes and curled my toes in the sand, let the ocean pool around my ankles?
I close my eyes, moisture gathering in the corners, a tear trickling down my cheek. Just one.
I never imagined it was possible to miss a place this much.
When I open my eyes again, I turn, rubbing my damp cheek with the back of my hand, my gaze on the corner of the balcony, the palms swaying in the distance—
A man stands off to the side of the house, one side of him shrouded in darkness, the rest illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. He’s tall. Blond hair—nearly reddish, really. His arms are braced against the railing, his broad shoulders straining the back of his tailored tuxedo, as though he, too, knows a thing about cramped ballrooms and strangling obligations.
Next Year in Havana Page 34