He steps away from me, leaving me standing on the sidewalk alone, my hand dangling at my side. It’s only a few steps, but he might as well have shoved me away from him. We were together, and now we’re not. I am Cuban, and I am not.
Luis’s back is to me, but tension is evident in the set of his shoulders, in the distance between us. The perimeter surrounding him and the men walking toward him might as well be contained by an electrified fence—no one on the street pays us any attention, their gazes anywhere but on Luis and the men, on me, their gaits growing more rapid, their feet carrying them far away from the danger surrounding them. The effort they exert not looking toward us is a palpable thing.
The men stop in front of Luis. Their voices are low, and I can only make out bits and pieces of the conversation, but it’s enough—
They’re taking him with them. I don’t know where.
Luis doesn’t look back at me as he gets in the car. Doesn’t turn around and beseech me to tell his grandmother and mother where he’s gone, doesn’t ask for me to call an attorney on his behalf. He doesn’t protest or attempt to fight them off, as though he’s resigned himself to the inevitability of this.
The car drives away in a squeal of tires, and he’s gone, the dark vehicle making its way down the Havana street, leaving me behind, wondering when—if—he’ll return.
My heart pounds, the passport in my purse burning a hole there. Should I go to the American embassy? Or return to the Rodriguez home and let Ana and Caridad know what has happened? Minutes earlier, I felt safe, happy here in Havana with Luis. Now I’m terrified.
The streets in Vedado no longer look so friendly, the evening growing dark, and I doubt I could find my way back to Miramar without assistance. Should I hail a cab? Check into a hotel and ask for help?
Another car pulls up alongside me. I grip my bag, holding it to my body, trying to remember the lessons I learned in the self-defense class my grandmother made me take nearly a decade ago.
A single girl living alone in Miami can never be too careful, Marisol.
A man with a thick neck and hulking shoulders gets out of the car. He looks like the sort of man women take note of in parking garages, on elevators, the sort of man you instinctively fear.
For a moment I freeze, my brain attempting to reconcile the fact that he’s walking toward me. He reaches out, his hand gripping my arm, pulling me toward the car, and I explode, my arms and legs hitting him, a scream torn from the depths of my throat.
Will anyone help me?
And then there are more hands on me, and they lift me, limbs flailing, and dump me in the back seat of the car.
chapter twenty-five
Elisa
As quickly as they grabbed him, the regime returns our father to us, battered and bloody but alive. We exist in a state of nervous détente; no one knows why Fidel chose to toss him back like a fish too small to be gobbled up by the regime, but we’re on tenterhooks, waiting to see if they will come for him again. Perhaps Fidel’s too busy, his attention on bigger things.
We’ve gone from private firing squads under Batista to public trials and executions courtesy of Fidel. I can just summon up the bare minimum amount of rage, the smallest dollop of horror. I’m numb on the inside—it’s been two weeks since Guillermo came to our door and told me Pablo had died, and it still feels like I’m living a nightmare. At night I read Pablo’s letters over and over again, as though they could conjure him up, the words on the page transforming into flesh-and-blood man.
No one warned me love would hurt so much.
We gather in front of the television, in a routine that is now becoming all too familiar. Indeed, this is a family affair; even my mother is here watching. As much as the whole process repels her—the very idea of the masses judging the elite is anathema to her—there’s a morbid curiosity that drives us all. Is this what they felt in France as they watched the guillotine’s blade be judge, jury, and executioner?
All it takes these days is an accusation, even the word of a child, to commit a man to death. Fidel says these spectacles will bring transparency, that he has nothing to hide, and he isn’t wrong—the horror of what has befallen our country is indeed on display for the world to see.
When will someone come to our aid? When will the rest of the world condemn him?
In the end it’s too much to watch, the television’s harsh glare doing nothing to dull the travesty before us. We sit slack-jawed and appalled, unable to speak, unable to move. How many of our countrymen have died since Fidel took power? A thousand? Two? Their names are whispered, and then forgotten, left to linger in the air before they disappear forever.
Finally, it’s Beatriz who breaks the spell.
“Turn off the TV,” she snaps at Maria.
She should not be seeing this. What are my parents thinking? We should all be working to preserve the fiction of her innocence, to protect her from all of this. They should be protecting her. But ever since Fidel marched into Havana, ever since Batista left and everything changed, my parents have devolved into a state of inaction.
Maria’s eyes widen at Beatriz’s tone; she’s enjoyed a sanctuary of sorts as the youngest. We’ve all tried our best to be patient with her, gentle with her. But these are challenging times.
I turn my gaze toward the flickering light on the TV before it goes dark completely. They’re trying Batista supporters, those who served in the military, as war criminals in the Havana sports stadium. Tens of thousands sit in the crowd cheering and jeering, eating ice cream and peanuts, roaring as they call for blood. We are Rome, and this is the Coliseum, the lions’ teeth sinking into Cuban flesh for vengeance and blood sport, televised for the entire nation to watch—a cautionary tale of sorts.
Will I see my father’s face on TV next? My brother’s? I’ve already lost the man I loved to this madness. When does it end? This is not a trial. This is not justice. And I think of Pablo now, of what he fought and died for. The man I knew, the man I loved, would not have wanted to see us reduced to this. Where is the constitution we were promised? The end to Batista’s cruelty? We have replaced one dictator with another and still my countrymen cheer. They chant “to the wall” now, quite literally calling for the deaths of those who supported Batista, those they believe have slighted them, those they wish to stand before a firing squad.
At night when I dream it is a strange mix that assails me—Pablo’s blood-soaked hands, Fidel’s roguish smile, maniacal white doves heralding disaster, crowds chanting, calling for our heads, setting Havana ablaze. Magda says it’s the baby causing the dreams, that it’s normal for my emotions to run high. She burns candles and offers prayers to the gods, but neither Changó nor Jesus appear concerned with saving Havana.
* * *
? ? ?
The events at the stadium affect the tenor in the city as the weeks drag on and January becomes February. My parents have snapped out of the fog that surrounded them, and they speak in hushed voices late at night, long after they think my sisters and I have gone to sleep. The household dynamics have shifted—there’s an undercurrent now as though the staff is holding its collective breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Magda senses it, too, mediating the tension between the family and the staff, taking care of all of us.
She prepares a bath for me, filling the water with herbs and perfumes, a dash of holy water smuggled out of the Cathedral of Havana.
“It will protect you,” she says as I sink into the water.
The clock is running down on my ability to keep the pregnancy a secret. My clothes still fit, but it’s only a matter of time, and I can’t help but think that if we lived in different times, if the world as we know it wasn’t falling down around us, my parents would have noticed that something is wrong by now.
It’s perhaps the only favor Fidel has done or ever will do for me.