Another oath falls from Pablo’s lips, and in a flash, I see the conflict in his eyes, the truth and the lie contained in his words.
“If only it were that simple. I should hate your family. Men like your father have stolen this country from the rest of us. I should hate your family, but—”
His voice trails off as though he cannot explain the vagaries of the human heart.
“I’m not my family,” I protest even as I recognize the falsehood for what it is as the words fall from my lips.
It is a remarkably painful thing to have someone you care about and admire judge your existence, your very identity, the world you inhabit, and deem it rotten to the core. My brother hates everything about being a Perez, and the more he professes his desire to distance himself from our family, the more it seems impossible for him to love those of us who were born into this lifestyle. I am my parents’ daughter. How can you love something you denounce with such fervor?
“Of course you are,” Pablo says. “It’s in your bones, the tilt of your head, the sound of your voice, every step of your stride. You’re a Perez, through and through.”
And that’s the problem. I don’t know how to undo a lifetime of behavior, of rules, of manners that have been drilled into me. How to repudiate those I love the most—Beatriz, Isabel, Maria, my parents, Alejandro. We are not Batista, nor do we agree with many of his policies. But where is the difference between sin and survival? Does the benefit we receive from his position of power automatically damn us?
“I wish things were simpler,” Pablo adds. “I wish you could live in my world and I could live in yours. I wish there wasn’t such a sharp divide between those who have everything and those who simply yearn for a chance at more.”
“And you think you can bring that to Cuba?”
“Me and others like me. Fidel Castro for one.”
I know little about Castro besides the mentions of him I hear in the news and the derision in my brother’s voice. Fidel is calling for those running for the upcoming presidential elections to be shot and jailed; he says he will bomb polling places where people will gather. Perhaps Pablo thinks he is a good man, but the little I’ve seen of him has yet to convince me, and as much as I might disagree with my brother, I can’t ignore his thoughts on the matter, either.
“Were you with Fidel on the Granma?” I ask.
“Yes. I’ve been with him throughout the journey.”
“He’s your friend.”
I don’t bother hiding the fact that I’m mildly appalled. My mother has always cautioned us that we are to be judged by the company we keep, and it is difficult to not do the same to Pablo. Just as it appears difficult for him to not do the same to me.
“He is,” Pablo answers. “He’s also one of Cuba’s best chances at stepping out from under Batista’s shadow. He’s a good man, a lawyer, a reformer, a constitutional scholar, and a student of history.”
The bombs going off around Havana—some of them have belonged to Castro’s 26th of July Movement. Some of the Cuban blood that has spilled on the streets, the lives lost, have been at their hands, too. Either directly or indirectly, he’s been responsible for those deaths.
How can I admire such a man? How can I care for him?
“Isn’t Castro in the mountains? Shouldn’t you be with him now? What are you doing in Havana?”
He’s silent for a long time. “I was with him in the mountains for a while. I was needed here. It’s best if you don’t know why.”
“What happens if you are caught?”
“They question me. Throw me in prison.”
“Shoot you?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Maybe. Probably.”
He takes my hand, lacing our fingers together, his gaze on me. He leans forward, shattering the distance between us, his voice lowering again. “If you don’t want to see me again, if you can’t understand . . .” His voice trails off. “My family—” Emotion splinters the words. “My family wanted no part of this, either. Wanted no part of me now that this is my life. I understand. They’ve gone to America. To Florida. We don’t speak.”
“I’m sorry. That must be hard for you. I can’t imagine my life without my family.”
“It is.”
“When my brother—” I take a deep breath. How much will I trust him with? How much of myself, of my family, should I give? Pablo just shared enough to see himself hanged. Can you have a relationship where you exist in half measures, or does the very nature of love demand you throw yourself into it with gusto?
“It’s been hard on everyone.” I twist the white linen napkin around in my hands. “He wants nothing to do with our parents, the money, his legacy of running our family’s sugar company.”
“He’s with the Directorio Revolucionario Estudiantil,” Pablo says.
The DRE, who a year ago stormed the Presidential Palace and attempted to assassinate President Batista. With the death of their leader José Antonio Echeverría after he took part in an assault at the National Radio Station of Cuba, the group all but collapsed, many of its members choosing to join the 26th of July fighting in the mountains. My brother has remained in Havana with his friends who refuse to join Fidel and his men.
My stomach clenches. “Yes. How did you—”
“I asked around. Discreetly, of course.”
My eyes narrow. “My parents have told everyone he’s studying in Europe. Everyone thinks he’s studying in Europe.”
“The people who know of your brother run in very different circles from the ones you likely see at the yacht club. We’re a small, disreputable lot, but word travels quickly.” He hesitates, the smile slipping. “Your brother has gained notice lately. His writing is . . .”
“I know.”
“You’ve read his papers?” Pablo asks, his tone fairly incredulous.
“He is my brother.”
“But you don’t share his views?”
“Of course not. He’s still my brother. I don’t always like him, don’t always agree with him, but I love him.” I think about it for a moment. “I’m proud of him for believing in something so passionately, even if it isn’t something I believe in. Even as his beliefs drive a wedge between him and the rest of the family. He wouldn’t be happy to be a replica of our father; he needs to be—is—his own man. And at the same time, I worry about him. Constantly. With each day he’s gone, it feels like he’s further and further away from us.”
“And where do you fit in all of this?” Pablo asks.
“It’s different for me. It’s different to be a woman in Cuba.”
“Perhaps. But it doesn’t have to be.”
I shake my head. “You hope for too much.”
“And you ask for too little.”
“Perhaps,” I acknowledge.
We break apart as the waiter sets our plates on the table. Pablo ordered us a dish that looks and smells wonderful, chunks of meat mixed into the rice.
When the waiter leaves, I say calmly, “How long will you be in Havana?”
“A few weeks, maybe. I’m not sure.”
Then we’ll have a few weeks.
“I want to see you again,” he says, his gaze intent. “Can I see you again?”
Perhaps I fell in love with him while walking on the Malecón. Or maybe it was at the party, or a few minutes ago when he spoke of his dreams for Cuba. Or maybe this is merely a precursor to love, an emotion singularly difficult to identify by name when you’ve yet to experience it; maybe there are stages to it, like the moment when you wade into the ocean, right before the waves crash over your head. And maybe—
“Yes.”
Relief shines in his gaze.
Pablo takes my hand, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist, teasing the soft skin there.
“You’re going to be difficult to walk away from, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice resigned.
My heart thuds.
“I hope so.”
* * *
? ? ?
He drives me back to Miramar in a car he says he borrowed from a friend, dropping me off a few streets away from my house to avoid anyone seeing us together.
Pablo turns in his seat to face me. “Would you like to go for a walk with me tomorrow? I have some business in the morning, but we could meet in the afternoon if you’d like. On the Malecón, near the Paseo del Prado.”
With each day we spend together, the risk of discovery grows—and yet—