Even as I worry about the baby, about the uncertainty of my future, the troubles in Cuba’s future loom large. Fidel has named Dr. Manuel Urrutia Lleó as the provisional president, but everyone says Castro will be the one pulling the strings anyway. The airport has been shut down; no one can get flights out of the country. Our driver reported seeing American tourists sitting on the front lawn of the Hotel Nacional, their suitcases in hand, fear and anger etched on their faces. They were finally evacuated by ship to Key West. And it’s not just the airport—the whole country is under general strike. Our father’s been making angry phone calls all morning, trying to figure out what’s happening with his workers.
Mobs have opened the doors at El Principe, letting the prisoners escape. Havana has descended into madness.
I’m back in the house, perched on a silk couch in our elegant sitting room, surrounded by paintings in heavy gold frames.
“They ransacked El Encanto,” my mother says, her lips pursed in a tight line. There is no greater sin in her mind than the destruction of haute couture.
I imagine all those dresses we used to try on, now in apartments throughout Havana, worn by those who admired them in magazines. We used to find a little bit of magic in those dresses; will that same magic rub off on their new owners?
“They got the casinos, too,” my father says. “No one is doing anything to stop them—the military, the police, they’ve all simply given up. They’re giving our country away without a fight,” he thunders.
“Are they going to come here? For us?” Maria asks.
My mother pales. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” she snaps.
“What?” Maria looks bewildered. “They want money, don’t they? We have money.”
My father ignores her.
“They’re patrolling the streets now. They say the 26th of July has pushed the police force out.” His face turns red. “People are hanging signs outside their houses thanking Fidel. For what? Do they really think he is on our side? He preaches peace and democracy while he prepares to feast on the carcasses of his enemies. He has made fools of all of us, mark my words, and I fear far worse before the month is out.”
chapter twenty-one
They swarm into the city in a steady flow of green uniforms and beards. They carry guns in their hands, and I cringe at the cold black metal, at the manner in which they survey their surroundings as though Havana belongs to the 26th of July. They’re good-natured in their victory, but then, victors can always afford the luxury of happiness. For the rest of us—
I scan each face looking for Pablo, searching, equal parts hoping to find him, equal parts afraid I will.
I fear it would break my heart to see his face, his body in those odious fatigues. And yet, the absence of him brings its own pain. Surely, he’ll come to me? And my brother—no one knows where Alejandro is or what he’s doing. Has he aligned himself with the 26th of July? Is he their enemy?
We are inundated with images of Fidel marching toward the city, taking his time, prolonging the six-hundred-mile journey like a predator savoring his kill. The nauseous feeling in my stomach doesn’t subside.
“They’ve recognized Fidel’s government,” my father says.
“They?” my mother asks.
“The Americans.”
“And the elections?”
“In eighteen months or two years.” My father’s mouth tightens. “In the meantime, the president—controlled by Fidel—has removed all political figures appointed by Batista. Some of his cabinet members have sought asylum in foreign embassies. Others have been arrested.”
He doesn’t say the rest, but I know—
Others have been executed by firing squad.
My father rattles off a list of names, men who came and dined at my mother’s infamous Parisian dinner table, who gave us mints and sweets when we were children, men whose sons I danced with, whose daughters I knew well. My mother’s cries drown out the rest of the names.
My hand drifts to my stomach, my palm resting protectively against the silk fabric. What world am I bringing this child into?
“They’ve frozen the assets of Batista’s officials,” my father says.
My mother’s eyes widen with alarm. “And our investments?”
“They can’t touch the money overseas. That’s something, at least. The president of the National Bank is gone. Same with the Agricultural and Industrial Bank.”
More friends of my father’s.
“They say Batista is in Santo Domingo now, taking refuge with Trujillo.”
He’s in good company, then. The Dominican president is a longtime friend of Batista’s and as much of a tyrant.
“Many of Batista’s closest advisors are with him, waiting this thing out until it is safe to return.”
My father doesn’t say more, but I hear the unspoken worry in his voice, the push and pull. Should we leave or should we stay?
* * *
? ? ?
We gather in front of the television that evening, the room silent as we watch Fidel speak in front of the crowds at Camp Columbia, the military barracks in Havana. There must be thousands of people there, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. He’s surrounded by a sea of Cubans looking to him as though he is the answer to everything they’ve ever hoped for, prayed for.
A week ago a different man stood there, sneaking out of the country he controlled for many years. Leaving us with this. Earlier, tanks and trucks rolled through the city as though we’re being occupied by an invading army rather than liberated by one of our own. They’ve opened Camp Columbia’s gates, and the space is filled with Fidel’s compatriots, with ordinary Cubans. They come to see Fidel—their messiah. He is still relatively unknown throughout Havana, a Robin Hood figure of sorts, but they know one important thing about him—
He is not Batista.
They hated Batista.
But it is clear that Fidel is no savior, either.
There are no saints in Havana.
* * *
? ? ?
I wake the next morning, and the sky is duller, the air thick and cloying, last night’s spectacle casting a pall over the entire city.
I join my sisters in the dining room for breakfast; our parents have disappeared somewhere in the house. The more Fidel inserts himself into Havana, the more my parents retreat.
What would the corsair have done? Would he have taken up arms and fought? Or would he have taken his pretty French wife and their child and hied off in his great big ship for better lands?
More people are leaving each day—friends of my fathers, friends of Batista’s. Fidel and his cohorts are obsessed with purging the country of anyone tied to the old regime, but what happens when they’ve spilled all the Batista loyalist blood there is to spill? Who will they come for next?
The food tastes like sludge in my mouth, my stomach and the babe rebelling, but I force myself to swallow, shoveling the rich breakfast down my throat.
It is entirely too quiet in the house. Our silverware scrapes across bone china. Only Maria seems content to sit in silence, stifling yawns between bites of her food. The rest of us look shell-shocked. On the streets people celebrate, the mood of the country jubilant.
In our house and so many others like it, we’re afraid to venture out, fear the knock on the door, worry they’ll eventually get to our family’s name on a list somewhere. Afraid to leave, afraid to stay.
“Miss Elisa?”
Our maid Charo stands in the doorway to the dining room, her eyes wide. “There’s a man here to see you,” she whispers, her gaze darting around, no doubt looking for my mother.
I hear the word “man,” and everything else disappears. My sisters ask me questions somewhere in the background, but I don’t hear them. I don’t even hear the rest of what Charo says before I’m pushing back from the table, walking—nearly running—through the house.
He’s home. Everything will be fine now. He’s safe. He’s alive. My hand falls to my stomach, caressing our child, my other hand opening the front door, eager to see Pablo, to collapse into his arms.
The sunlight hits me first, so bright it’s nearly blinding, deigning to break through the clouds and show its face. The sound of people cheering somewhere off in the distance is a dull roar, but that, too, fades away.
A man stands near the front gates, his head ducked, wearing olive green fatigues and a matching cap, a beard covering the lower half of his face.
My heart pounds.
I walk toward him, my feet moving more quickly now, kicking up stones in the front drive.
He’s home. We will be married now. He will be so happy about the baby. We’ll sort out the rest of it.