When We Left Cuba(87)
“You want me to stay out of Cuba.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I have heard whispers of your involvement, don’t you think Fidel likely has? Don’t you think he has spies all over, reporting back to him with possible threats? He is a very dangerous man. I underestimated him once, and it was a costly mistake.”
“You once called him a foolish man.”
“And now he has proven himself to be dangerous, too, and the United States has foolishly made an adversary out of him, elevating him to more of a threat than he ever was.”
“He killed Alejandro.”
“Yes, he likely did.”
“How do you live with that? How can you stand not avenging your own son?”
“Because you will one day learn the cost is not worth the payoff. Would it bring me pleasure to see Fidel burn? Of course. But what would it cost me in order to bring such an outcome about? What would I lose?”
“I’m in too deep now to turn back. I have to try. Don’t you see that?”
He sighs. “I do. But I still worry. Be careful. Be careful of who you trust. At the end of the day, none of these people have your best interests at heart, and they won’t hesitate to put you in jeopardy if it furthers their aims.
“And no matter what happens, you are always a Perez. Your mother . . .” His voice trails off. “I made my mistakes with your brother. I regret them more than you can ever know. I don’t agree with your mother’s perspective on this, and while I had hoped her sending you to Spain would get you away from this mess with the CIA, would keep you safe, I never wanted you to feel like you didn’t have a part in this family. You are my daughter. You are a Perez. My fortune, my name, all of it will always be yours. You will always be my daughter.”
Tears fill my eyes. “Thank you.”
“And because you are my daughter, and because I know you, I understand what you must do. Be safe, Beatriz.”
“I will,” I whisper.
“If you have a chance to see the house again—”
His eyes grow wet, and I am struck by how old he looks, how unfair it is that my father has been put in this position at the end of his days, that he is forced to rebuild, a lifetime of work eradicated by the winds of revolution. His legacy has been stolen from him, along with his son.
“I might not be able to keep you safe, may not be able to go with you on this journey, but if you get in trouble when you are in Havana—”
I listen closely as my father shares another Perez family secret with me.
* * *
? ? ?
NOVEMBER 26, 2016
PALM BEACH
She hangs up the phone, a smile on her face. There is something special to be found in conversations with old friends, former lovers, and family. That sense that you are known, that there are words that need not be said, emotions that need not be voiced, yet are felt from miles away. Despite the differences between them, the choices Eduardo has made, at the end of her life, there is still love and respect between them. At her age, there is a reckoning of sorts, and a need to heal old wounds.
They are, after all, countrymen.
Family.
She finishes getting ready, putting on the last piece of jewelry—
The diamond earrings she bought herself to celebrate when she graduated from law school all those years ago.
She studies her reflection in the mirror, pleased with the image staring back at her, her heart quickening as the phone rings once more, this time the voice on the other end of the line inviting her to an impromptu celebration—expected, yet long overdue.
It is, perhaps, poor taste to celebrate a death, even Fidel’s. It might be tempting fate to rejoice in the misfortune of another who has succumbed to the travails of time when she stares it down herself. But this is both celebration and mourning—not for Fidel, never for Fidel, but a way of laying all she has lost to rest now that the villain has finally been brought to a justice of sorts for his crimes.
It’s not the justice she wanted, of course, but she’s learned life doesn’t always give you what you want; time has a way of sorting things out in its own peculiar, indecipherable manner.
When Fidel dies . . .
She goes out into the night.
chapter thirty-one
The letter is delivered in the waning days of November, as the weather turns cooler, Palm Beach readying itself for another season—minor royals and Kennedys, steel magnates and celebrities, descending on the island.
The messenger is Eduardo himself, the intervening months since we last saw each other restoring him to his prior health, his skin tan, his body less slight, more muscular than when he returned from Cuba.
His expression is dark.
“Bad news?” I ask, letting him in.
“Is Preston here?”
“No, he’s in Dallas with the president.”
Eduardo stops in his tracks. “What do you mean he’s in Dallas?”
I hesitate. Nick’s purpose on the trip isn’t exactly secret, but at the same time, I’m not sure he wants me sharing his affairs with Eduardo of all people.
“There are problems within the Democratic Party in Texas. One of the men was Nick’s roommate at Harvard. Kennedy thought Nick could help smooth things over.”