When We Left Cuba(85)

“Then do your part. This is no time to sit on the sidelines. To wait. This is the time for action. You can’t claim to be loyal to Cuba and sleep with one of the men responsible for this mess we’re in. You must choose. Are you loyal to him or are you loyal to your people? To Cuba? You say you left him, but that’s his bracelet on your wrist, isn’t it? You left, but you went back.”

“What would you have me do?”

“I don’t know, Beatriz. You always complained you weren’t allowed to participate in our plans, that you were shut out because you were a woman. Here’s your chance. You’re sleeping with one of the most influential men in the Senate, a man who has the ear of the president; do something with it.”

“We’re back on that, then. You want me to whore myself out for some votes in the Senate, for a new policy on Cuba.”

“There are worse ways to serve our cause,” he snaps, his gaze darkening.

“It changed you. Playa Girón.”

“How could it not?”

The flash of guilt is back again. I made love to Nick while Eduardo went to war, while he languished in one of Fidel’s prisons. Perhaps I owe him this.

“What do you want from him?”

“The same thing I want from all of them. For them to fix this.”

I once asked the same thing of Nick, for the Americans to use their power and intervene against Castro, but now, hearing such a request fall from Eduardo’s lips, I am struck by how much we continue to rely upon the Americans, and the likelihood that doing so will never be in our best interests.

“Shouldn’t we fix it ourselves?” I ask.

“I don’t think we can fix it ourselves. The failed invasion only helped Fidel, gave him more power. If anything, he’s stronger now, and he was a formidable opponent before. He has the Soviets backing him. How do we stand a chance if we don’t have a great power backing us?”

“I’ve been in contact with Dwyer. I’ve been working with him.”

“It’s not enough. We’re past the point of espionage. We’re past the point of assassination attempts. If Fidel dies, someone else will merely take his place—his brother or Che.”

“Fidel killed Alejandro. Have you forgotten that?”

“No, I haven’t. But you’re a fool if you think this is about your brother. This is bigger than your grudges, Beatriz.”

“I’m aware of that. But don’t pretend you don’t have your own debts to repay, that you’re driven by some altruistic need to save Cuba. I know you far too well for that. You want to see them suffer for what they did to you.”

His tone is mocking. “You figured me out.”

“We were friends once. I cared for you. We’re not friends anymore, are we?”

He laughs. “Friends? I think it’s a bit more complex, don’t you? I loved you once.”

“I didn’t—”

“What? Love me back?”

I stumble over the words. “I didn’t realize you felt that way about me. That you were serious about us. I thought . . .”

“I’ve loved you since we were children.”

I gape at him. “You never said anything. There were always other women.”

“I thought we were inevitable. That I could have my fun, and when we both grew up, we would get married. Start a life together. And then your senator came along; I admit I never saw that one coming. Never thought you would fall in love with a man like him.

“You’ll hurt him, you know. You’ll hurt him, because no matter how much you think you love him, you’re not right for him. You want different things, and in the long run, you’ll never make each other happy. He’s an ambitious man; he’ll need the right wife.”

“I know.” There’s no point in arguing with him, in denying the truth.

Eduardo’s expression changes, and suddenly, he looks like the man I remember.

“Did you ever—could you have ever—”

It’s easy to read the question in his voice, contained in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“And now?”

My silence is answer enough, I suppose.

He gives me a sad little smile. “If things were different, if we were in Havana, if Fidel had never taken power, so many ‘ifs.’”

In the end, life always comes down to timing.

“It’s only fair, I suppose. At one point or another, I was due to have a woman break my heart. Seems fitting it should be you.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing to be sorry about. I should go.” He hesitates, a flash of worry in his eyes. “Tread carefully, Beatriz. All of this is likely to get worse before it gets better.”

His warning sounds a lot like a good-bye.

“And what will you do now?”

“Keep fighting, of course.”

He closes the distance between us, his lips brushing my forehead for a heartbeat before he releases me.

“Will you go?” he asks.

“Where?”

“To Kennedy’s ‘welcome home’ ceremony at the Orange Bowl?”

I shake my head.

He smiles, and in an instant, he looks like the Eduardo I remember.