His head is bent, his gaze not on the sunset, on those beautiful colors, but on our hands and the distance between them.
My fingers itch to move forward; my palm is rooted to the stone.
“Is there anyone waiting for you back in the United States?” he asks, his voice low.
My heart skips and sputters in my chest.
It takes a moment for me to speak, and when I do, the word is little more than a whisper, drowned out by the crash of sea against rock, a group of musicians playing several yards away, cars whizzing past us.
But I know he hears me.
His hand moves.
An inch. Two.
His pinkie rests against mine, his finger grazing mine. It stays there, his response to my answer—
“No.”
* * *
? ? ?
We don’t speak the rest of the evening, from the time we depart the Malecón to the moment Luis leaves me in the entryway of his family’s house with a nod, taking the stairs two at a time before he disappears entirely.
I stare after him—is he going to see his wife?—more than a little ashamed by my behavior this afternoon. Nothing happened, but the desire was there, simmering below the surface. There will be no more tours of Havana with Luis.
I walk up the stairs and into the guest room, setting my bag on the bed and removing the container with my grandmother’s ashes. I place the makeshift urn on the desk before heading off in search of Ana. I find her in a tiny room off the kitchen area, seated on a couch in what was once probably a small salon in their grand home and now serves as their only living area. The silk furnishing is faded and worn, the fabric sagging and stretched thin in places, but it’s obvious it used to be a beautiful piece.
Ana smiles as I walk into the room, gesturing to the empty chair across from her.
“You’ve returned. Did Luis show you Havana? Did you have a good time? I’m sorry I wasn’t able to go with you, but today is my day for the market, and honestly, the girls never get the good vegetables,” she says with a smile.
I assume “the girls” are Luis’s mother and his wife.
“Tonight we have ropa vieja,” she adds.
The mention of the dish reminds me of Luis’s discussion earlier about the rationing system in Cuba and the challenges most Cubans face. The meal, which translates to “old clothes,” is one of my favorites—shredded beef seasoned with peppers and garlic in a stew-like creation that’s served over rice.
“It was wonderful to see the city,” I say, rattling off the list of places we went, wondering if my face is as flushed as I feel.
Ana pours me a cafecito from a set on the tray in front of us. She takes a sip of the coffee, and I follow her lead.
“I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself. Now, you aren’t here to talk about Havana, are you? You opened the box.”
I nod.
“You have questions.”
“Yes. Did you know my grandmother was involved with a man here in Cuba? His letters to her were in the box she buried in her backyard. I think he was a revolutionary. Did you know about him?”
“I didn’t know him. Elisa and I were best friends. We told each other everything. But with him, it was different; she talked about him a bit—not by name, but the occasional allusion.” She sighs. “Those were dangerous times. Batista’s punishments were merciless. She likely kept her young man a secret to protect both him and the people she loved. I knew she was in trouble, though. And I knew she was in pain.” Ana takes another sip of her coffee. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. What was his name? What happened between them? Was he really involved with Castro? Is he still here in Cuba?”
“I’ll tell you what I know, because she wanted you to have the box, the letters. She wanted you to know this part of her life.”
“Then why didn’t she just tell me? I don’t understand why she never mentioned him in all of the stories she told me about Cuba.”
“Perhaps it hurt her to talk about him. And there was probably shame, too. Those were polarizing times for the Cuban people; families were torn apart by political disagreements—including Elisa’s.”
“My great-uncle was disowned for opposing Batista, wasn’t he?”
Even now, my great-uncle is a sore spot for my family.
“He was. Your great-grandfather was one of Batista’s biggest backers—whether out of expediency or true fervor, I do not know. I was too young to worry about those things. But much of the country did not share those views. There were real problems in Cuba before the revolution. There was no justice, no chance of democracy. Those of us who lived behind the gates of the grand estates in Miramar knew little of suffering. We were surrounded by people who looked like us, who had access to education, who possessed wealth. Our lives were parties and decadence, the violence somewhere in the background. But for many Cubans, those were horrible times.
“A movement began within the country. It started, strangely enough, among children of the elites. Don’t forget, Fidel himself was the son of a wealthy farmer. The very people who enjoyed Batista’s largesse discovered their children sympathized with the revolutionaries. Their sons fought for democracy and change, and were willing to spill Cuban blood to achieve it. It would be easy to say that the revolution divided us along the lines of poor and wealthy, but it’s not that simple.
“It’s not shocking to me that Elisa fell in love with such a man, but Emilio Perez would never have accepted his daughter with a revolutionary. And it would have killed your great-grandmother. She was descended from Spanish royalty, and she expected her daughters to conduct themselves accordingly.”
“And my grandmother never told you his name?”
“No. He was from Havana, but I’m not sure what part of the city.”
“Was he her age?”
He sounded older from the tone of his letters—more worldly, certainly.
“A bit older, I think. Most of the men involved with Fidel’s movement were in their twenties or early thirties. Boys, really.”
“What else did she tell you about him?”
“One day, we were supposed to have lunch and go shopping at El Encanto. This was a couple months before everything fell apart. Late October or early November. I went to the house to see Elisa . . .”
chapter twelve
Elisa
NOVEMBER 1958
This time he’s gone for longer than ever before, and the letters arrive sporadically, delivered through subterfuge and random messengers in his absence, read in the privacy of my room when I can sneak away from everyone and escape into his words.
The fighting is intensifying; the tide is turning, Batista is on the defense, his forces and resolve weakening. Hopefully, this will be over soon and he will be gone; hopefully, I will be back in Havana and we will be together again.
I write him nearly every day, my letters tame compared to the stories he tells me, of sleeping beneath the stars, existing on meager rations. He gives me enough detail that I feel as though I am there with him. There’s poetry in his letters, in the manner in which he describes his actions, his fidelity to Cuba, and in his words for me.
I think of you often. I try to imagine you going through your day, laughing with your sisters. I use my imagination to paint a picture of your life. It keeps me company when we’re marching, waiting for things to happen. I never realized war would be so much waiting.
I imagine what our future will look like, where we will live, how we will live together. Attempt to envision what my life will look like when we defeat Batista. I think I would like to go back to practicing law, perhaps become a judge one day. I can no longer fathom a future without you.
I write back to him, the act of committing my pen to paper giving me courage to share all that is in my heart.