We walk side by side, the sun shining down on us, close but not touching. His lean, tall frame shields me from the view of onlookers. My hair blows in the breeze with the faintest gust of wind, and he inclines his head, watching the strands in the light, his expression softening. My cheeks heat again.
I’m not normally this serious, not normally this shy, but everything about this feels different, important somehow. There are a finite number of minutes left in this one afternoon I’ve granted myself, and I’m torn between hoarding them, feasting on every look, every word, and making the most of them, filling the spaces in our conversation with words I’ve yet to seize.
The rose is almost unbearably soft in my hands.
“Have you read Montesquieu?” Pablo asks, the question catching me off guard.
“I haven’t.”
“You should. His words never seem more true to me than when I am in Havana.” He turns away from me, his gaze sweeping over the buildings on the other side of the Malecón. “Montesquieu said that an empire born in war must maintain itself by war.”
“Cuba is hardly an empire,” I interject.
“True. The spirit is similar, though. When have we ever not been at war? With others—Spain and the United States? With ourselves?”
“Are we to be forever at war, then?” I counter.
Why do men always think war is the answer? Alejandro was eager to take up arms against Batista, to spill Cuban blood, and for what? Batista remains in power, and all it earned Alejandro was exile from Havana. Officially, my parents have told their friends he is studying in Europe, traveling the world. There are whispers, of course, but no one has the temerity to challenge my father or mother, to ask if the rumors are true—my brother, Beatriz’s twin, is a radical.
“Bombs are exploding in movie theaters,” I argue. “Dead bodies litter our streets. Are those not Cuban lives being taken? Innocents caught in the middle of a fight that is not their own? You speak as though all Cubans should take up arms, but what if we don’t want the same things? Then what?”
“And what of those who stand by and do nothing while a tyrant runs our country into the ground, slaughtering our countrymen because they speak out against his injustices? What is the cost of inaction, of turning away when atrocities are committed in the name of Batista? There is a disconnect between those in the city who yearn for change and those who pretend everything is grand. The industries we rely on as a nation—sugar, tobacco, coffee, tourism—enslave us as a nation, as a people who serve others in the fields, in the casinos and hotels run by American scoundrels.”
I flinch as the word “sugar” falls from his lips. What must he think of my family? Of me? He is here, walking beside me, and yet, I can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t see my father as part of the problem. Alejandro certainly did.
“The Americans control so much of our industry, our economy, and who benefits from that largesse? Batista,” he continues. “The rich are extravagantly rich, and the poor are so desperately poor.”
Everything disappears, the roar of the Malecón, the noise from the road. I can’t tear my gaze away from him, the conviction in his voice mesmerizing. With each word that falls from his lips, he’s transformed. The serious man I met at the party last night has been replaced by someone else entirely.
“When I am in the country, I see my fellow Cubans without electricity, running water, unable to read, their children unable to go to school,” Pablo says, his gaze once again on those looming buildings. “When I am in Havana the lights are on, people walking down the Paseo del Prado as though they do not have a care in the world. There are other parts of the city—far too many—where people are suffering tremendously, yet it still feels as though Havana exists in its own self-contained bubble. I was a boy in ’33 when we overthrew Machado. I understand that people are tired of violence, tired of conflict, tired of Cuban blood spilling. But—”
“I have a brother—” The words tumble out without thought, the secret that isn’t really a secret at all. “He shared those thoughts once.”
Beside me, Pablo stills as though he is adept at reading the pauses in a conversation, the tense, unfinished sentences and words uttered in a whisper.
“Families can be hard,” he says after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Is he safe?” he asks, as though he, too, knows a thing or two about the precariousness of going against one’s family, defying one’s president.
“I hope so.”
I wish I possessed more optimism to inject in those words.
“In any event, I have not read Montesquieu, but I will search for his work in our library.” I flinch as the word leaves my mouth, but really, what’s the point in pretending? He’s seen the newspaper, knows my last name now. As much as I envy Alejandro his freedom, I lack the ability to cast off my family, to repudiate them and all they stand for. They—we—are flawed, yes. But the legacy and blood that binds us is inescapable.
“Yes—my father has a library in his home, the walls brimming with books,” I continue, my tone dry. “I’m sure you think us decadent. We are decadent. My family’s fortunes were cast a long time ago, and those of us born under the Perez name have enjoyed the benefits of that wealth.”
“And would you apologize for it?” His tone is idle, but there’s real interest behind his words.
“For my family’s fortune? For the grand house and the rest of it? You could strip away the paintings—except for the corsair, I am indeed quite fond of him—and I do not think I would mind.” I cast a sidelong glance his way, attempting to take his measure. “Or perhaps I would be better served by exclaiming my disgust with our wealth and the shame that it brings me? Or tell you of our charitable endeavors, the men who served in the military and died for Cuba’s independence, my father’s efforts to work with Batista drafting the 1940 Constitution, the ancestors who have served in the national legislature?”
I sigh.
“Perhaps our legacy will always be that we have more than we ever need in a country where many do not have enough. And even so, I see the limitations my father faces—the whims of the sugar crop that was once booming and now keeps him up working late in his office. I overhear his strained conversations—the broken promises, the fears over the direction in which the country is headed. Even the wealthy are not immune—we have friends who have been thrown in Batista’s prisons; we fear the firing squad as much as the poor. My own brother is evidence of that. Money buys us the proximity to power, but in this current climate that proximity is a target on all our backs.”
My little speech leaves me a bit breathless, the ferocity of it catching me off guard. When was the last time anyone asked me what I thought? How I felt about the world swirling around me? When was the last time I was able to utter Alejandro’s name? I sneak a peek at Pablo, wondering if I’ve scared him off—the girl who is too free with her opinions.
Instead, a gleam of admiration enters his gaze.
“You’re brave, Elisa Perez.”
In a family such as mine, there are varying degrees of bravery, but I’ll take the compliment all the same, even as I wonder just how brave I really am.
“Why me?” I ask, pushing the limits of my alleged bravery a bit further, indulging the curiosity turning over in my mind.
A moment passes before he answers me. “Because you’re comfortable in your own skin. Because you appear content to show yourself to the world exactly as you are without deception or artifice. That’s a novel quality these days, and I suspect, in Miramar, even more so.”
It’s the sort of compliment whose very nature makes testing the veracity of it exceedingly difficult, and the pleasure of it seems best savored with acceptance rather than dissection. I smile, though, holding his gaze for a moment and lingering there before ducking my head and looking out to the sea.