“I don’t know,” he answers.
Pablo takes my hand, brushing his lips against my knuckles. I wrap my arm around his waist, careful to keep from hitting his bruises, my head resting against his shoulder, his heart beating beneath me. I hold on to him even as I feel him slipping away.
He was right when we first met; everything is political.
Where does that leave us?
chapter fifteen
Marisol
The morning after I learn Luis isn’t married, I’m up early, dressing to meet him at the University of Havana. I barely slept the night before, the sensation that everything has shifted inescapable. The attraction I’ve felt for him and attempted to shove in the background of our interactions has reared its head, no longer satisfied being confined to the margins, and what was a crush entirely contained in the safety of my imagination is now a crackling tension between us filled with possibility.
I change my outfit twice before settling on a long black skirt and matching top. I grab a pair of leather sandals and my trusty cross-body bag, my grandmother’s ashes a constant presence on my journey through Cuba to the point that it no longer feels unusual to carry her with me. I throw a bathing suit and a change of clothes into a larger tote bag; I don’t know where Luis is taking me after his class, but he said it involves swimming.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Come in.”
The door opens and Ana greets me with a smile, her eyes twinkling as she takes in my appearance.
“Luis mentioned he wouldn’t be working at the restaurant tonight. I take it he’s showing you more of Cuba?”
My cheeks flush and I nod. “He mentioned swimming.”
Her smile deepens. “It’ll be Varadero, then. He’s always loved it ever since he was a child.” A hint of sadness dims her smile. “He and his father used to go fishing there.”
She reaches out, handing me a piece of paper. I glance at the words scrawled there—an address.
“I spoke with Magda last night,” Ana says. “She can’t wait to meet you.”
I look up at Ana, my heart pounding. “I can’t believe it. Thank you so much.”
“It was nothing. My pleasure. Varadero is not that far from Santa Clara. You could go there after your trip to the beach.”
“I feel bad asking Luis to go out of his way.” I could probably rent a car or something. Some of the guidebooks I read prior to coming to Cuba mentioned tour buses as well.
Ana practically winks at me. “I don’t think he’ll mind. Besides, Luis doesn’t have classes tomorrow. We can handle his shift at the restaurant.”
“I guess I could ask him,” I hedge, torn between my desire to meet with Magda and my guilt over asking Luis to play tour guide for another day.
“It’s settled, then. Please give Magda my best. It’s been far too long since we last saw each other.”
I bite back a grin at the decisive way Ana handles things, as she herds me from the room. She reminds me so much of my grandmother.
We part at the bottom of the stairs, Ana heading for the kitchen and the lunch service. Luis’s mom is waiting for me in the entryway, a disapproving glint in her eyes.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
I nod.
Apparently, Luis shares his car with his mom, so he asked if I minded if she drove me to the university on her way to work and left his car waiting near the campus while he took the bus this morning. What could I say? It couldn’t be more obvious that his mother doesn’t like me if she came out and said it herself, and unfortunately, the ride into Vedado will likely give her plenty of time to do so.
“Thank you for giving me a ride.”
She might not like me, but I can’t suppress the urge to change her opinion of me, to demonstrate that I’m more than the shallow foreigner she fears will sink her claws into her son.
She shrugs me off. “Luis asked me to.”
My cheeks heat as her gaze drifts to the larger bag in my hands, at the implication contained there. I open my mouth to explain that it’s not what she thinks—we’re going swimming—but she doesn’t give me a chance. She turns, leaving me no choice but to follow her outside where Luis’s convertible sits at the curb waiting for us.
With traffic, it takes us nearly thirty minutes to get from Miramar to the University of Havana, and I content myself with staring out the window, watching people pass us by. I attempt a few meager forays into conversation with Luis’s mother; my efforts yield the information that her name is Caridad, the general impression that she views me as an outsider, and not much else. I can’t blame her; I’d probably dislike me, too, given the disparities between our lives and the fact that my family benefitted from leaving whereas hers suffered for staying.
The question runs through my mind again—what would have happened if we’d never left? If I’d grown up here, alongside Luis? If the revolution had never come? Who would I be if you stripped away the other parts of me and just left me with the identity of being Cuban?
There’s a freedom to life here—no need to check status updates, or obsess over someone’s posted photos, or spend time crafting a cleverly worded line to share with hundreds of followers and friends. And at the same time, that freedom is an incredible indulgence, the abstention of a life available to me, the choice of it, whereas for the Cubans who live without the barrage of statuses about how much someone loves their spouse or that picture of a friend from grade school climbing Machu Picchu, arms flung out against the backdrop of a fortuitously setting sun, there is no choice. No freedom. Their exile from these things isn’t self-imposed; it was thrust upon them by a government that has been in power their entire lives. And so, the beauty of life here—the simplicity of it—is also the tragedy of it.
Caridad drops me off outside the university, handing me the keys to the car to give to Luis as she walks to her job.
My first impression of the University of Havana is of an imposing building, beautiful in its own way. The architecture—like that of so many of the other buildings in Havana—is impressive, the landscape marred by the presence of air-conditioning units hanging outside the windows, marks on the building’s exterior.
I climb the steps, staring at the looming Alma Mater statue. I walk through the campus, past students sitting on benches, their conversations carrying throughout the outdoor space, the atmosphere reminiscent of my own college experience, following the map Luis gave me until I find his classroom.
Here the differences are more visible—the walls are khaki colored, calling to mind military fatigues, the green chalkboard at the front of the room a far cry from the modern equipment I knew in my university days. Luis leans over a wooden desk in front of the chalkboard, the sleeves of his blue dress shirt rolled up, his long legs encased in darker blue trousers. He’s obviously consumed by whatever he’s reading, his head bent, his forearms braced against the wood, and I take the opportunity to sneak in the back, sliding into an empty desk chair.
One at a time students filter into the classroom, discussing their evening plans, the lesson they read. Two girls sit in the row in front of me—one of the girls is convinced her boyfriend is cheating on her, and by the details she provides, I’m inclined to agree.
Luis looks up from his desk, his gaze scanning the room—
It settles on me.
He smiles.
That spark is there again, the inevitability of it flaming before my eyes.
Luis glances away, the smile still on his lips and in his eyes as he calls the class to order. Today’s lesson deals with a French blockade of Cuba in the sixteenth century, and through the passion in Luis’s voice, the French corsair and the struggle of the Cuban people come to life.