“He was an attorney. He met Fidel at the University of Havana while studying law.”
Luis flinches, the move nearly imperceptible, and yet so slight it speaks volumes. Fidel casts a long shadow even in death.
“That’s not much to go on. You don’t even know if he remained in Cuba or if he left. If he’s still alive.”
“I know.”
Without the use of Internet searches and genealogy sites, it will be a difficult endeavor. Without a name, it seems insurmountable. And still, I can’t help but wonder if my grandmother sent me here because she knew I would need something to seize hold of once she was gone. Ana said that my grandmother asked her to keep the box for me; she had to have wanted me to have this part of her. But if she did, why did she never tell me herself?
“Your grandmother might know something,” I add, recalling Ana’s earlier words. “Maybe there were other people around who are still in Cuba. I want to try to find him, at least. If he’s still alive, if he’s in Havana, perhaps I could meet with him.”
“Why?”
Luis refills his drink, the alcohol swaying in the bottle, and then he slides the glass back to me. This time I don’t pick it up.
“Because she feels like a stranger and she was the only person in the world who really knew me.”
Understanding flashes in his eyes as a sense of recognition passes between us. It’s obvious in his interactions with Ana that there’s a special bond between them, that for a boy who lost his father at a young age, his grandmother has become a rock for the entire family, taking them into her home, running the paladar in an effort to give them a better life.
“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same,” I say.
“If things were different, perhaps I would. But this isn’t Miami. You need to be careful. Maybe he was a nice man nearly sixty years ago; that doesn’t mean he’s the same man your grandmother loved. You don’t want to start asking questions, poking into things that will agitate the regime.”
“You think finding him—trying to, at least—would be dangerous?”
It seems such a simple thing, to want to know my family’s history. The idea that the government would discover my efforts or even care is something I can’t quite wrap my head around. It’s a love affair, not political insurrection. Were my great-aunts right to worry about me coming to Cuba as much as they did?
“Yes, it could be dangerous. Marisol—”
An oath falls from his lips, and his chair slides against the chipped tile floor with a scrape. His face is flushed, though from the liquor or the conversation, I’m not sure.
“I should go to bed,” he murmurs.
The image of him lying next to Cristina assails me.
Married. He’s married.
“Thanks for the drink,” I offer haltingly.
He doesn’t answer me.
I look straight ahead, fighting the urge to turn around, to watch him walk away. I’m too old for a crush. Especially on a married man. I came here to settle my grandmother’s ashes, not for this.
“My grandmother asked me to show you around Havana tomorrow,” Luis says behind me. “I’ll be downstairs at ten.”
I open my mouth to protest, but when I turn to tell him I’m fine without a tour guide, he’s already gone.
* * *
? ? ?
The morning comes far earlier than I’m prepared for, my grandmother’s love affair spread out on the bedspread, a dull throb in my head from the alcohol. I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of rereading the letters after I returned to my room, my belly full of rum and my mind full of questions.
Was he killed? Were they separated by the revolution? Did he leave Cuba as well? If they were divided by something trivial, why did she never mention him?
I haven’t forgotten Luis’s warning last night, but I can’t ignore the desire to attempt to track down my grandmother’s mysterious revolutionary. It feels like this, too, was a charge she gave me—a puzzle surrounding our family’s past, and now that the temptation is here, I can’t shake the desire to learn who he was and to find him.
I choose my favorite maxi dress from my suitcase, pairing it with comfortable sandals and oversize sunglasses. I pretend I don’t spend more time on my hair and makeup than normal, that I’m not preening, but I do and I am.
The ring on my hand weighs heavily, and I stare down at it, envisioning it on my grandmother’s finger, as though I’m carrying a piece of her past along with me on my journey through Cuba. I hesitate but slip the container with my grandmother’s ashes into my bag as well. Perhaps it’s a bit macabre to carry her bones with me, but who knows when inspiration will strike.
I leave the room and walk down the stairs, my steps faltering when I spot Luis at the base waiting for me. He’s wearing a white linen shirt and another pair of khaki pants. His eyelid is a spectacularly awful coloration of yellow and green, his cheekbone slightly swollen. He looks tired; maybe I wasn’t the only one who passed a sleepless night.
“Are you sure you don’t want someone to take a look at that?” I say in lieu of a greeting, gesturing toward his injured face.
His lips quirk. “I’m sure.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask, my tone gentling.
“My eye’s fine; my head, on the other hand . . .”
His expression is sheepish, so out of character with the glimpses of his personality I’ve seen so far—intense and serious—that I can’t help but grin in spite of my earlier resolve to be oh-so-stoic and proper.
“It was strong rum,” I concede. My own head is fuzzy, the daylight shining through the windows in the entryway a little too bright.
“Yes, it was.” His gaze drifts over my appearance. “Are you ready?”
“I am.” I glance around the room. “Is your grandmother here?”
“No. She usually goes to the market in the mornings to buy food. My mother went with her.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“A couple hours, maybe?” A faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “She likes to visit with everyone while she’s buying groceries. They all love her.” His smile disappears. “Let me guess, you want to ask her about the letters you found.”
“I do.”
“So despite what I told you, you’re still determined to find this man.”
“I’m not going to do anything to put your grandmother at risk, but if she knows something, surely answering my questions wouldn’t be dangerous.”
“Are you always this curious?”
He says it like it’s not a compliment.
“I don’t know. I guess. Besides, this isn’t some stranger we’re talking about. This is my grandmother, the woman who raised me. How can I not take this opportunity to learn more about her? Who knows when I’ll have the opportunity to come to Cuba again; if I’ll have the opportunity to come to Cuba again.”
These are uncertain times for both of our governments, and decades of Cuban-American relations are changing on a dime.
Luis shakes his head in resignation. “If you’d like, we can hit up the major sites today and see where we end up. My grandmother will be here when we return. This article you’re writing—what kind of tips are you looking for?”
The article has been the last thing on my mind since Ana handed me that box.
“A mix, really. Tourist spots. Things that are off the beaten path.”
I can see him turning over the expression in his mind. There’s that look again, as though I’ve amused him. I can’t tell if Luis Rodriguez likes me or is vaguely appalled.
“We could start with the Malecón,” he says. “It’s better at night if you want the full effect, though. That’s when everyone comes out. By day, it’s not much to see.”
The Malecón—five miles of seawall and promenade separating Havana from the Caribbean Sea—has been on the top of my must-see list after hearing about it from my grandmother. It was one of her favorite places in Havana.