No, I didn’t realize the Mendozas fled with Batista. What a shame we didn’t get to say good-bye.
Workers are striking, the city celebrating, but our street in Miramar is eerily quiet except for the trickle of neighbors. Everyone cites a friend of a friend when they give their information; everyone speaks with an air of authority as though they possess a map for the future.
By the afternoon, I can’t take it anymore. My stomach is in knots, dizziness hitting me in waves, and I crave the fresh air. The atmosphere in the house is like being closeted in a sickroom. I flee to my room, changing into a pair of trousers and a cotton blouse, sliding my most serviceable pair of sandals onto my feet.
A knock sounds at my bedroom door, and Magda walks in just as I am finishing dressing, her eyes widening as she takes in my appearance.
“Absolutely not.”
I don’t bother denying my intent; she knows me too well for that.
“I want to see what the streets look like.”
I want to look for Pablo.
Her mouth tightens in a firm, disapproving line. “I can tell you what they look like. The same as they did with Machado. You don’t want to be out in that mess.”
“Just for a moment. Please don’t tell my parents.”
“What is this about? Really?”
I want to go to the house where Pablo stayed the last time he was in the city. I want to know if he’s returned to Havana. I need to see him.
“I have a friend. He was fighting in Santa Clara.”
“Elisa—”
Only Magda could say my name in such a way that I felt compelled to confess all my sins.
“He’s more than just a friend,” I whisper.
“What have you done?”
It’s the worry in her voice that tugs at me. With my parents, I would expect condemnation, but with Magda I only find concern.
The knot in my stomach tightens. “I fell in love.”
She closes her eyes, her lips moving as though in prayer.
“He’s a good man,” I protest.
“You play a dangerous game. Your family—”
“I know. I only want to see that he’s back safely. That he’s alright.”
I don’t tell her the rest of it; there are some things I’m not ready to share.
She shakes her head, making the sign of the cross over herself. “May the saints preserve us.”
* * *
? ? ?
I walk down the Paseo del Prado, Magda beside me, her arm tucked in mine, a worried expression on her face. No matter how hard I tried to convince her to stay home, she wouldn’t be dissuaded. No one even noticed us leaving—they were so thoroughly engrossed in the tale of Batista’s exodus.
Magda’s strides quicken with each step, her gaze sweeping around. The streets are crowded, people talking and laughing, evidence of the strike everywhere you look. They are clearly ready to give Fidel a hero’s welcome. I overhear pieces of conversations—someone let pigs loose in one of the mob’s casinos.
My heart pounds as we turn down street after street until we reach the building where Pablo was staying. Two children sit on the front steps throwing a ball around, a dog lying beside them. Magda follows me inside, refusing to leave me when I climb the stairs to the second floor.
A wave of dizziness hits me again, and I regret not eating the lunch my mother served at the house earlier—after one bite it tasted like sawdust in my mouth. My hands tremble when I reach Pablo’s front door, as I knock on the wood.
Magda’s disapproval over the condition of the apartment building is stamped all over her face.
No one answers.
I knock again this time, louder, my knuckles moving in desperation. The door opposite Pablo’s opens, a woman sticking her head out, her gaze running over Magda and me.
“What do you want?” she demands.
“I’m looking for the man who lives here.”
Her gaze narrows, clouded with suspicion. “No one has been around for weeks.”
Disappointment fills me. “If he comes back, will you tell him a woman was here looking for him?”
She shrugs before closing the door behind her, the sound of a child’s cries filling the hallway.
I sag against the wall.
“Are you ready?” Magda asks. “This is not the kind of neighborhood you want to be in once the night comes.”
I nod, my eyes welling with frustrated tears.
We leave the building, walking down the street, heading toward our car. The crowd appears to have swelled since we first entered the apartment, more and more people clogging the streets, their voices growing louder, the frenzy magnified.
I curse my stupidity, the foolishness that had me taking to the streets looking for him.
My voice is strained. “We need to get home.”
I’ve never seen the city like this—it’s a jubilant madness, but madness just the same. A man wielding a bat in his hands runs up to one of the parking meters, smashing it over and over again, his face contorted in fierce determination.
Whack. Whack.
The change inside clangs together before the machine tips over, smashing to the ground, coins spilling all over the concrete sidewalk. People swoop in—children, their parents—scooping up the money.
What surprises me most, what terrifies me most, is the anger. It’s as if they’ve kept a tight lid on their emotions, letting the fury fester for years, contained by Batista’s policies, Batista’s injustices, and now that he’s gone their anger has shifted, threatening everything in its path.
Magda’s grip on me tightens as our strides lengthen, the mob swelling.
How long before they turn their attention from the parking meters to us?
My heart pounds when we reach the car, my hands shaking as I struggle to open the door. It takes two attempts for me to wrest the handle and pull the door open. My fingers tremble as I sit in the driver’s seat and start the car.
“I’m so sorry. I should have never tried to go out today. I had no idea it would be like this.”
“It was like this in ’33, with Machado,” Magda says, her voice grim. “It will get worse before it gets better.”
I’m afraid she’s right, and the anger bubbles up inside me, threatening to overflow. I’m angry at the men on the street, angry with Batista, Pablo, my brother. What did they usher into this country?
We’re silent on the drive back, and it’s only once we’re in the safety of the big house, behind the gates again, that I feel some semblance of peace, and even that is short-lived. How long before the violence comes here?
Magda follows me to my bedroom, sitting beside me while I sink down onto the bed.
“Promise you won’t go out like that again.”
I nod, a wave of nausea hitting me. “I promise.”
“That boy—”
I’ve been carrying this secret for far too long, and I need to tell someone. The words tumble out.
“I’m pregnant.”
* * *
? ? ?
It is a truly bizarre thing to know your body for nineteen years, to grow used to it, its habits and quirks, and then to have it change on you so unexpectedly.
It began slowly a few weeks after the last time we saw each other—an urge to nap during the day, a bitter taste in my mouth, nausea constant. I eschewed my favorite foods for things I never enjoyed before, my emotions heightened. By the time I missed my period, I knew. I was late, and I was never late, and my body erased any doubt from my mind.
Magda hovers over me now that she knows about the baby, feeding me more food than I can possibly eat, encouraging me to nap, stroking my hair, praying beside me.