When We Left Cuba(59)

“What happened?” I ask.

“We screwed up.”

“That much is obvious. It’s also not an explanation.”

“I didn’t realize I owed you one.”

Of all the things he could have said to me, that one stings.

“You’re a member of the president’s inner circle, aren’t you? How does Kennedy feel about the invasion?”

“It’s embarrassing for the president. At this point, no one believes the CIA wasn’t involved, and the more the administration denies it, the more disastrous this will prove to be. He needs to get in front of this, to admit we made a mistake and that we are doing everything we can to fix it. Otherwise he will look like a fool.”

“And will he admit it? Is he doing everything he can to fix it?”

“I don’t know.”

“So that’s what this was, then? A mistake?”

“You can’t think it was intentional. Kennedy wants Castro defeated as much as anyone.”

“Please.”

“He does.”

“Then why didn’t he give the men who landed at Playa Girón more support? Why isn’t the United States throwing its weight and might behind removing Fidel from power? You and I both know that if they did, we’d be having a very different discussion.”

“Because we can’t look as though we are in the business of nation building, that we’re dethroning governments simply because we don’t like them.”

“But isn’t that exactly what the United States does throughout the world? Don’t tell me Cuba is any different. Fidel isn’t what the Cuban people want. Do you know how many Cubans were involved in his 26th of July Movement? A few hundred. A few hundred guerrillas took control of my country.”

“And no one fought back. Those who opposed him left. Others are trying to leave even as we speak. This was our attempt to help you get your country back. And it failed.”

“Don’t put this on us like it’s our fault, like the United States hasn’t been behind the scenes the entire time. You have no idea what it was like under Batista. None. He created an environment where there was a vacuum of power so no one would be able to take his power away from him. And you helped him with your guns and your sugar—”

“Do you really want to talk about sugar?”

I flinch.

“I can’t get past this,” I add. “I can’t compartmentalize these parts of my reply. I can’t maintain some semblance of self-respect anymore and sleep in your bed while you take your fiancée out in society. I can’t pretend I’m not angry with you for what your Congress isn’t doing to help my country, for the mess your government has caused. I can’t turn a blind eye to the president’s handling of the situation or to your friendship with him.”

“It’s just politics. It doesn’t have to affect us if we don’t let it.”

“That’s the problem. It isn’t just politics to me. It’s my life. It was my brother’s life. He died fighting for a better future for Cuba. How do I turn my back on that?”

“But what if that dream never comes true? What then? Are you to be a widow to a country that has only ever existed in your dreams?”

I’m tired. So tired. And more than anything, in this moment I am tired of attempting to explain something to someone who will not, cannot ever understand. He went to war, but then he left it, and came home to peace. He has no idea what it is like to live your whole life in war.

“This is personal to me. It’s everything to me.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“It is. I imagine even more so for the men who participated in the invasion, whose fate is now in Fidel’s hands. I’ve seen what it is like in those prisons, what Fidel does to men he views as traitors.”

“They aren’t your brother.”

“They might as well be. Where is the president on this?”

“He’s working on a deal.”

“And Fidel?”

“You can’t tell anyone what I’m telling you. This can’t get into the press. It’s serious. Lives are at risk.”

I nod.

“They think Fidel is open to negotiation. Keeping all those men prisoner will cause him more trouble than anything else. Besides, this gives him a bargaining chip, which he desperately needs right now. They’ll come home; we’ll just have to give up something in order to bring them back.”

I take a deep breath, the words rushing out of me.

“Eduardo was part of the invasion. I don’t know what happened to him—if he is alive or if he’s sitting in a jail cell somewhere.”

By the expression on Nick’s face, I have a feeling this isn’t news to him.

“I’m sorry. I know he’s important to you.”

I don’t deny it.

His gaze narrows. “I saw him after you went out on the balcony that night. He wants you, doesn’t he?”

The question lingers between us, unspoken.

Do you want him?

“He’s a friend.”

“He’s a friend now, but that’s not his endgame.”

“You can’t be jealous.”

“Why?”