When We Left Cuba(34)

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t say such things. I’m sorry. I—”

“No, you probably shouldn’t.” I take a deep breath. “I wondered about you, too. Constantly.”

His hand pauses in midair, the glass halfway to his lips.

“Beatriz.”

There it is again, a host of emotions contained in my name. It really sounds quite beautiful when he says it like that.

Before I can respond, the waiter returns with another staff member. They clear our appetizers away, bringing out the main course, the steaks juicy and thick.

“This is a mess,” Nick says once we are alone again. He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.

“It is,” I agree.

In this moment, with him, I’m not that sorry, either.

“I’m normally quite boring.”

I grin. “I have a hard time believing that, and if it were true, it would be a sad thing, indeed. No rebellions?”

He laughs. “Sadly, no. My siblings are the wild ones. I’m the eldest, the head of the family now that my father is gone. They’re forever getting into scrapes.”

“And you run behind and clean up their messes?”

“Invariably.” He takes another bite of his steak, and when he’s finished chewing, his gaze reverts to me. “And you? Are you the troublemaker among your sisters or the one taking care of everyone else?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

He laughs again.

“You should try a little rebellion sometimes,” I add. “It’s really not so bad.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”

And because I want him to know me, because I hate the idea of him seeing me as little more than the frivolous girl so many think me to be—careless, and reckless, and dangerous—I say—

“I took care of my brother. We were twins,” I add, unsure of how much he knows about my life. Clearly, he’s privy to most of it, but at the same time, my brother is the one topic my family never discusses.

Nick doesn’t attempt to fill the silence with probing questions or meaningless platitudes, and perhaps it’s his silence—steady, reassuring—that gives me the courage I need to continue.

“Alejandro was killed in Havana after the revolution. He was killed because he was a threat to Fidel’s attempts to consolidate power. My family was influential in Cuba. Alejandro was well-known and popular, active in one of the other groups opposing former president Batista. He was a risk, and Fidel is a paranoid man.”

“That’s why you’re working with the CIA?”

“Yes.” I take a deep breath. “I found my brother. We had lost track of him during the early weeks of the revolution. Everything was so chaotic then, and my parents had disowned my brother a couple years earlier for his role in a plot to attack the Presidential Palace when Batista was in power. I saw the car pull up to the curb, watched them . . . They dumped his body in front of the gates of our home in Miramar as though he was garbage.” I can still hear the sickening thud of my brother’s dead body hitting the ground, can still remember the feel of the gravel cutting into my skin as I cradled him, as his blood covered my hands. “I vowed Fidel would pay. For what he did to Cuba, for what he did to my family: for throwing my father in prison until we feared he was lost to us, for his role in my brother’s death. There were days, so many days, when that vow was all that kept me going.”

Nick reaches between us, lacing our fingers together.

My mouth goes dry.

He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze before releasing me.

“And the CIA’s going to help you destroy Fidel?” he asks, his voice low.

“Yes. I hope so, at least.”

“Whatever they tell you, at the end of the day, their interests will always come first. You’re expendable to them, and they won’t hesitate to use you in order to further their own interests.”

“Maybe I’m using them.”

“It’s not a game.”

I laugh, the sound devoid of humor. “You think I don’t know that? I come from a country where men are executed without proof, in travesties of trials without any respect for their legal rights, for nothing more than the fact that Fidel has willed it so. And before that? Batista was no better. And before that? I come from a long line of dictators. Trust me, your CIA can do their worst, and I seriously doubt it will come close to the things I’ve seen.”

“And yet you want to return to Cuba?”

“Cuba is my home. It will always be home. I will always wish for it to be better, to be what I think it could be, but yes. It will always have my heart.”

“I admire your loyalty.”

“But?”

“Look, I understand. My family wanted me to be involved in politics, but at the same time, I wanted to do it for my own reasons. I was young when I went off to fight in the war. It was exciting in a distant sort of way, and it seemed like the sort of thing I should do. And when I saw what war was, outside of the books I’d read or the stories I’d heard, I understood just how important politics and diplomacy were. War should always be a last resort. That desire for more you speak of; I understand it. I hope my work in the Senate can help in some small way. But at the same time—”

“What? I shouldn’t risk my life? You risked your life because you believed in what you were fighting for, didn’t you?”