When We Left Cuba(31)

Men always want that which they cannot, or should not, have.

I speak to my neighbors at the table, engaging in small talk about world events, listening while Fidel decries the ongoing war in the Congo. He rails against the imperialist Belgians, the conversation becoming increasingly more difficult to follow. I confess my interest in world affairs is typically limited to Cuba and her concerns; my knowledge of the conflicts of which they speak is far more limited. Does Fidel consider the conflict in Cuba resolved, and is he now turning his gaze to other countries, hoping to replicate his revolution throughout the world?

I contribute little to the conversation, but then again, it’s evident I’m not meant to. I’m here to look pretty and hang on Fidel’s every word.

The seat I’ve taken comes complete with a full place setting of silverware, and the cutlery tempts me, the steak knife inches away from my fingers. If I grabbed it now, if I lunged across the table and stabbed Fidel with it, would I be fast enough before his security personnel could stop me? Would I have a chance?

I reach for the knife.

The brunette stares at me again, her gaze narrowed once more as though she is attempting to work something out in her mind.

I force my hand back to my lap.

As the evening progresses, the crowd thins, the conversation changing as the men and women group together. Fidel’s gaze grows bolder with each glass of Chivas Regal.

Does he want the conquest of sleeping with one of Emilio Perez’s daughters?

I—

I consider it.

How could I not?

Mr. Dwyer never specified how close I should get to Fidel at this meeting. Was this his intent all along? Sleeping with Fidel would be one manner of gaining his attention, but considering my lack of expertise in that particular area, I fear it might be one evening and nothing more, and if I am not to kill him on American soil . . .

Could I sleep with him?

“You should go home, girl.” The brunette slides into the seat next to me, a glass of whiskey in hand.

“Excuse me?”

She smiles, her red lips curving as she leans closer to me, the scent of her perfume filling my nostrils. “You may be the toast of the society scene, but do you really think you could hold a man like Fidel’s interest for very long? You’re in way over your head.”

And suddenly, sitting next to this woman, watching her move, the mannerisms she affects, the sheer confidence and sensuality that seemingly oozes from her pores, she’s right. I feel out of my league.

She leans in even closer, her breath hot against my neck.

“Go back to where you came from, Beatriz Perez. Before you do something you regret.”

She rises from the chair, offering me a polite, impersonal smile before she slides back into her seat, turning her attention to the man next to her. He hooks an arm around her waist, pulling her onto his lap, his mouth on her neck.

I look away, my cheeks heating.

The tenor of the evening is changing, the men becoming more amorous, the women welcoming their attentions—or at least pretending to. I can’t make myself smile at Fidel, can’t accept the invitation in his gaze. Now that the moment is here—the choice mine—I can’t bear the thought of spending the rest of the evening on his arm and in his bed.

Fidel is accustomed to getting his way; I hope tonight I did enough to intrigue him. I hope our plan will be best served by keeping him dangling on the line.

I have nothing left to give.



* * *



? ? ?

I leave the party without a backward glance for Fidel, the weight of the brunette’s gaze on me as I reenact my own Cinderella routine sans the discarded pump. If Cinderella had paid what I did for these shoes, she’d have made sure she left the ball with both, too.

The cab ferries me from Harlem back to my hotel in Midtown, the New York skyline passing me by. I have one more day in the city, my flight leaving tomorrow evening, and then I am back to Palm Beach, expected to regale my family with stories of my indulgent weekend in the Hamptons, my lies swirling out of control.

What will I do if word of my appearance at the Hotel Theresa gets back to my parents? My father disowned Alejandro for participating in the attack on the Presidential Palace when Batista was in power. What will he do to me for consorting with Fidel? It is commonly accepted that I am his favorite, but even my father’s love has its boundaries.

We arrive at my hotel, and I pay the cab driver. I consider going up to my room, but the cramped space, austere walls, and ugly bedspread are far from appealing, and instead, I head toward the hotel bar. I was careful not to drink too much in Fidel’s presence out of fear for the alcohol loosening my tongue and the tight rein I kept on my emotions, but now I need a drink to bolster my flagging nerves, the adrenaline crash coming on strong.

I glance around the room for the kind waitress from earlier. Maybe I came here for that all along, the simple companionship of someone doting on me.

I don’t see her.

It’s rowdier here at night than it was during the day, although after the crowded room in Harlem filled with revolutionaries and a tyrant, a loquacious business traveler hardly seems fearsome. And still, the looks sliding my way—curious, interested, hungry—are unsettling.

I take a spot at the bar, waiting until the bartender, a young, handsome man a few years older than me, comes over and takes my order.

He talks to me while he makes my drink, setting the glass on the bar top in front of me with a wink and a smile.