Across the street he points out Coppelia—the ice cream shop Fidel made famous after the revolution.
“It’s always busy,” he answers when I comment on the size of the line. “Cubans do lines better than anyone. Lines for bread, lines for beans . . .” There’s good-natured humor in his voice; I guess if you can’t laugh about it then you just might cry.
“You probably don’t do much waiting,” he adds, and I can’t tell if he’s speaking generally about life or my family specifically.
Either way, he isn’t wrong. Our fortunes haven’t changed much since we left Cuba. Castro temporarily derailed them, but it wasn’t long before my great-grandfather had rebuilt his empire.
What would our life have been like if we’d stayed? Would I be here on the sidewalk, standing in line for food? Was staying even an option considering Castro’s regime targeted my family?
“Do you ever wonder what things would have been like if your family had left?” I ask Luis.
“When I was younger, I thought about it more than I do now. What’s the point? I wouldn’t be the person I am if I didn’t grow up here, in this time, in this place.”
Even though we share the same heritage, as hard as I search for commonalities between us, as much as I want to belong here, the differences are glaring.
I am Cuban, and yet, I am not. I don’t know where I fit here, in the land of my grandparents, attempting to recreate a Cuba that no longer exists in reality.
Perhaps we’re the dreamers in all of this. The hopeful ones. Dreaming of a Cuba we cannot see with our eyes, that we cannot touch, whose taste lingers on our palates, with the tang of memory.
The exiles are the historians, the memory keepers of a lost Cuba, one that’s nearly forgotten.
chapter eleven
The day winds down with too much speed, the air turning cooler, the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky. I’m eager to return to the house and ask Ana the questions that have been running through my mind, but I’m also reluctant for the day to end. Luis is good company, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s enjoying himself, too. With each hour that passes, he seems more relaxed, his tongue loosening as he teaches me about Cuba.
And then there’s the part we don’t speak of—the manner in which our bodies shift with each second, the physical distance between us lessening with each breath. Awareness sparks within me, an electric, tingling feeling of anticipation and longing—that infinitesimal pause before lips touch for the first time, the beat when fingers link, the instant when you’re unwrapping a present and realize it is exactly what you wanted.
Married, Marisol. He’s married.
We drive down a street in Vedado, the old buildings surrounding us capped in the sky’s golden rays.
“Why don’t we make one more stop?” Luis suggests. “You can’t miss the sunset over the Malecón.”
That sounds . . . romantic.
“It’s getting late,” I answer.
And I’m enjoying myself far more than I should. I’m ashamed of my reaction to him, the ease with which I’ve allowed myself to be distracted from my purpose here—finding my grandmother’s final resting place. I want to talk to Ana, to learn more about my grandmother’s mysterious love. And at the same time—
I don’t want this day to end.
I’ve avoided the topic of his wife all afternoon, and he hasn’t brought her up, either, but she exists between us regardless, her body taking up space on the car’s bench seat—the disappearing inches between his hand and my leg, his shoulder and mine, the gap between the whisper of my dress floating in the breeze and the clothes that drape his tanned limbs.
I slide my palms down the fabric of my dress, attempting to release some of the nervous energy that runs from my wrist to fingertip. The water peeks out between buildings, the sky already in transition, and I want to sit on the mighty seawall and get the full effect.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “We could swing by for a minute. It’s not something you want to miss.”
I hesitate, torn between the need to play it safe and the desire to indulge. Just for a moment. There’s a boundary between us I absolutely will not cross, no matter what. So what’s the harm?
“Maybe just a minute.”
Luis nods as though either answer I could have given him would have been satisfactory, but I don’t miss the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, or the warmth that enters his eyes. My stomach clenches.
He finds a spot to park the car, coming around the side and opening the door for me.
The city vibrates with energy now that the temperature has cooled, people hanging out their windows, lounging on balconies and stoops, calling to one another with good-natured teasing. It’s raucous and beautiful, and more than anything, I want to belong here, want this city to become a part of me.
It takes us a while to cross the street. Luis gestures at drivers, tugging me along as we maneuver through the lanes. He stops when a car comes too close, his body between me and the vehicle, shielding me from the oncoming traffic. The vintage cars drive past, the smell of diesel pungent, the roar of their engines in my ears. In this snapshot of Cuba, I see it through my grandmother’s eyes, as she remembered it.
At night, the Malecón comes alive.
But there are cracks in the image, and not just the ones on the path beneath our feet, the gaps freckling the surface. It’s easy to spot the tourists; the locals approach them selling cigars, scantily clad women offering something more. It’s a stark reminder that this isn’t the country my grandmother remembered, that underneath the historic beauty there’s a sense of desperation.
No one approaches us; perhaps they identify Luis as one of their own. This piece of Havana isn’t for the tourists; rather, we’re allowed to share their part of the city however briefly.
This is the beating heart of Havana.
Teenagers congregate, laughing and joking around; young couples stroll hand in hand, their walk punctuated by the occasional kiss. Ice cream vendors pepper the landscape. Farther afield, people fish off the seawall. One day will they tear down the beautiful old buildings and replace them with high-rise condos that sell for hundreds of dollars a square foot, touting this unparalleled view of the Caribbean?
We walk down the promenade, our shoulders almost touching. Luis adjusts his stride for the difference in our height. I barely reach his chin.
“Do you think it will change in the future?” I ask him. “If money begins pouring in and the tourists come?”
“Perhaps? We’ve learned not to look toward the future too much. It’s hard to get excited about building things when someone comes behind you and knocks them down again.”
“That sounds frustrating,” I say, knowing my words aren’t enough.
He laughs, the sound devoid of humor. “To say the least.”
“How long has the Malecón been part of Havana?” I ask, changing tack.
“They began construction in 1901.”
I can easily see Luis standing before a classroom of students as he gives me a rundown on the site’s history, can equally imagine his students hanging on his every word. I pull out my notebook and write down a few of the facts he shares with me. Once he’s finished speaking, he gestures toward an open space. “Do you want to sit for a moment?”
I nod, following him to the edge. He offers me his hand and I take it, my fingers curling around his as I sit down on the seawall, my legs hanging over the ocean.
He releases me and lowers himself next to me.
“During the day, it’s hot,” Luis says. “You still see people here, but it changes at night. The temperature cools, the sun recedes. It becomes—”
“Magic,” I finish for him, embarrassed by the emotion in my voice. This is the Cuba my grandmother described to me.
“Yes.”
A man strums a guitar in the background. Luis’s hand is on the stone inches away, his naked fingers long and tapered, his nails neatly trimmed, his skin a few shades darker than mine.
Those inches feel like a mile—or ninety.