When We Left Cuba(94)

“I don’t know who killed President Kennedy, and I am sorry for his loss. But it wasn’t on my order.” Fidel gestures toward the door. “Go back and tell the men who sent you what I told you. And don’t come back again. If you do, I won’t be so generous.”



* * *



? ? ?

I exit the Habana Hilton alone, my stomach in knots, bile in my throat, the poison pill in my bra. My gaze darts around the street looking for Eduardo, for the blue Buick.

It’s nowhere to be found.

I can’t stop trembling, the adrenaline crash ripping through my body.

I’ve spent years preparing for this, sacrificed so much, and for what? I spent five minutes in Fidel’s presence and then it was all over.

So much for saving Cuba. So much for avenging my brother.

A lump forms in my throat as I glance down the street, looking for Eduardo, for the blue Buick.

Where is he?

Eduardo is responsible for the connection at the boatyard, for getting us out of here.

Has something happened to him?

A car whizzes past me, and I flatten my body against the wall, my gaze darting around the street once more.

The streets of Havana no longer look so friendly now that Fidel is in power.

And then I remember my father’s words, the family secret he passed on to me.

It’s about two miles from the Habana Hilton to Miramar, but I spent years sneaking out of the house at night, know the streets of Havana better than anyone.

I could sit here and wait for help, or I could—

I head home.



* * *



? ? ?

My childhood home is still much as I remembered it, the windows of the big house dark.

I cross the street in a hurry, glancing over my shoulder, once, twice.

I don’t even know who lives here now. The staff is long gone, the house likely taken over by Fidel’s cronies.

It feels as though I’ve time-traveled, back to the days when I used to sneak out and meet Eduardo and Alejandro at political meetings. It’s both familiar and completely foreign to me.

I walk toward the house. When I reach the gate, I still. This is where I found Alejandro. This is where they dumped his body. This is where it all started.

My brother’s blood is now stained in the gravel, soaked in the earth, and while there are no longer Perezes in the house where we lived for generations, a part of him is here, watching over it for us.

I push the gate open, wincing at the creak of metal.

My gaze darts around once more. I almost expect to see Fidel’s men burst out of the darkness, come to take me away.

The street is silent. The house looms before me.

In the darkness, I travel by memory.

Does the painting of the corsair still hang on the walls? He was the first Perez ancestor of note and we used to make up stories about him when we were children; I think Elisa fancied herself a bit in love with him. Is the painting of his wife still there beside him—the woman who sailed from Spain to marry a man with a fearsome reputation, whose blood runs through my veins now?

Is the house just as we left it the morning we left Havana nearly five years ago, or have the new residents changed it?

There’s a shed near the back of the property where the gardeners used to keep their supplies. I walk over to it, stumbling over the uneven ground, the changes in the landscape since I left.

I still once more.

The palms sway in the breeze, the bushes and grass rustling around me.

I have an hour or two at most before the sun rises and I lose the cover of darkness. The current climate in Cuba is one of fear and uncertainty, and I don’t trust that anyone who finds me back here won’t turn me in to the police. If my life rests on Fidel’s word, I’d rather not take my chances.

I open the door and quickly riffle through the items in the shed, my hand gripping the handle of a shovel.

I close the door behind me.

I follow my father’s instructions, stopping in front of the old palm tree where we used to play when we were young girls, where I first snuck a kiss from Eduardo when we were children.

I stake the shovel into the ground, digging out a plot of dirt. I freeze at another sound in the distance, struggling to remember the noises the estate used to make.

Is it the swaying palms?

What if can’t convince someone to smuggle me out of Havana?

What has happened to Eduardo?

Silence fills the night.

I keep digging.

My gaze drifts to the Rodriguez house as I dig. Are our neighbors and old family friends still in residence? I yearn to see Ana once more, even though it would be too risky to embroil her in our affairs.

Cuba is perhaps now more dangerous than it ever was.

The shovel hits something solid beneath the ground.

I fall to my knees, the dress I bought to seduce Fidel covered in dirt. My fingers brush the wooden box my father used to keep in his study. I recognize it instantly. He hid money there sometimes, too, and after Alejandro was disowned, I used to steal cash from the box to give to my brother. My father always replaced the money, and even though we didn’t speak of it, he had to have known.

I pull the box from the ground, lifting the lid and flipping through the contents.

My father is not one for sentimentality, and at the moment, I am grateful for it. The box is filled with jewelry, money, things that were once our family legacy, valuable items we couldn’t take with us when we were forced to leave Havana.