You know why.
“You thought I was the sort of man who would—”
He doesn’t finish the thought, but then again he doesn’t need to. We exist in a state of half-finished sentences, the pauses in our conversation filling the inadequacies of words.
“I didn’t know.”
“Now you do. I’m not.”
The sort of man who would hit on women when he’s married.
“I should go up to my room,” I say.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
“I want to show you something. Will you come with me?” he asks. “I teach a morning class at the university tomorrow; you could attend if you’d like and see the Cuban educational experience in person. And after, I can give you a tour of the island.”
“Yes.”
chapter fourteen
Elisa
A day passes, then two, without any news from my father. It takes every ounce of strength to keep from asking him about Pablo, to wipe the fear from my face, to maintain the facade that all is well. I pass the days writing Pablo letters, letters I might never have the opportunity to send, letters in which I finally admit the feelings that have been building for so long.
Surely I would know if something has happened to him, if he has passed on?
I think I loved you from the first moment you told me about your passion for Cuba, your dreams for her future. I loved your conviction, your strength, the confidence with which you approached the problem, as though it was your right as a Cuban citizen to demand more, to fight for it.
I wish I had your courage, your convictions. I wish there was more of a fight inside me. I’ve been raised from birth to continue on, to survive in this dangerous political climate. My grandfather was killed by Machado’s men—did I ever tell you that? I think it changed something in my father, in all of us.
And then there’s the rest of it. As much as I am loath to admit that my gender limits me somewhat, it does. I’ve been thinking about what you said to me that night we met at Guillermo’s party—about the changes we should demand in Cuba. Perhaps my gender shouldn’t limit me.
I read the books you told me about, the ones that inspired you, immersed myself in the words of great men, and I want to believe there is more we can do, more we can expect for our future, but I am also scared. Afraid for you, afraid my family—my siblings—will be targeted by the regime because of my actions.
I wish I weren’t so afraid.
Four days after I asked my father for help, he summons me to his study.
“I called in a favor. He’ll be released.”
My heart pounds.
“You won’t see him again.”
It is not a question.
I nod.
* * *
? ? ?
Another day passes before Pablo is released from jail, before I can see him, my promise to my father buried somewhere beneath layers of guilt. I borrow Beatriz’s gleaming Mercedes and drive to Guillermo’s house, to the place where we first met, and wait for Pablo, looking over my shoulder the entire time. It was my brother who told me they would be here. I’m not entirely surprised Alejandro knows Guillermo, especially considering Beatriz’s interest in attending the party at his house that fateful night. When I received the sealed note from Alejandro telling me Pablo would be released this morning, there was never a question of whether or not I would come. For better or worse, I have taken a stand, not with the rebels, but with my heart. I pray it doesn’t fail me now.
I wait as the car pulls into the driveway of Guillermo’s house. He’s in the driver’s seat of the Buick, Pablo beside him, sunglasses covering his eyes, his shoulders hunched over, his face partially obscured.
My heart pounds.
Pablo steps out of the car and stops in his tracks, his hand lingering on the door. He walks toward me, a limp in his gait, a mixture of surprise and what looks to be relief in his eyes. I step into his embrace, holding him gingerly, trying to avoid the bruises, the cuts.
Dried blood mars his shirt.
What did they do to him?
A sob rises in my throat, but I push it down, wanting more than anything to be strong for Pablo.
He breathes into the curve of my neck, his lips caressing my skin, his body sagging against me. In this moment, our roles have reversed, and I am the one to provide comfort, strength. My name falls from his lips like a prayer.
I want to speak, but no words come.
Our bodies shift, our mouths finding each other. I don’t even realize I’m crying until tears wet my lips.
“It’s okay,” Pablo whispers as he strokes my hair. I’m not sure if he says the words for me or for himself. His heart beats against mine, his body shuddering with each breath he takes. “You shouldn’t have come,” he says, even though he doesn’t sound the least bit sorry I did.
“How could I not?”
Pablo’s hold on me tightens for a moment before he releases me, as we walk inside the house, Guillermo trailing behind us. Guillermo doesn’t speak, but I can feel the disapproval coming off him in waves. Once, it would have bothered me. Now I can’t summon the enthusiasm to care. Guillermo gives me a cursory nod before leaving to get food for Pablo, and I follow Pablo into an empty bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him.
“Do you need anything?” I ask.
“No.” His gaze meets mine, and when he speaks his voice is hoarse, as though he’s worn it out from screaming. “I met your father.”
A moment of silence passes between us before I can reply. “I know.”
“You asked him to have me released?”
“I did.”
I am unable to ignore the tiny thread of shame that connects my father to the men who did this; my father’s clout is a double-edged sword—both the source of Pablo’s freedom and a sign that my family is not innocent in the darker side of life in Havana, the brutalities of Batista’s regime.
“How did you even know I was arrested?”
“My brother heard about it. He told me.”
“And your father? What did you tell him? That you were in love with a revolutionary?”
It’s the first time the word “love” has fallen from either of our lips, and hearing it spoken aloud gives it a measure of power I’m unprepared for even as the truth of it resides in my bones.
“I told him you were a friend.”
“And he accepted that?”
“My father doesn’t concern himself overmuch with the affairs of his daughters.” I hesitate. “I promised I would never see you again.”
“So this is good-bye, then?”
“No.”
I’m in too deep at this point for good-byes, although at the moment, I can’t imagine we’re destined for anything else. He can’t stay in Havana. Not after this. Should I go with him? Take my chances in the mountains? There are other women fighting there, taking up arms against Batista. I wanted more out of my life, chafed at the bonds of family and society, and still— I’m not ready to join my brother in the ranks of the ostracized and disowned, am not prepared to pledge my allegiance to these causes vying for power around me when they leave a foul taste in my mouth.
Pablo sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “You should go. You don’t belong here.”
“Of course I do.”
“You can’t stay. Not with me. This is only going to become more dangerous. They would have killed me, Elisa. They will kill me if they capture me again. I can’t stay.”
“You’re going to the mountains, aren’t you?”
“Where else would I go? I don’t belong here in Havana.”
I don’t belong here with you.
“I saw how your father looked at me in that cell,” Pablo continues. “We will forever be on opposite sides of this. We are at war; I cannot pretend it does not divide us. Your family will never accept me, and I fear I will never see your father and his friends as anything other than monsters.”
“He secured your release.”
“He did. And there were eight other men in that cell with me. Men who will face the firing squad tomorrow. Not all of them have wealthy girlfriends whose fathers can protect them.”
“We don’t have a chance, do we?” I ask, tears building.