Next Year in Havana(101)

I nod through the tears clouding my vision.

“Take care of each other,” she says.

“We will,” I promise.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, staring at Luis, and then she’s gone.



* * *



? ? ?

I finish packing my bags while Luis says good-bye to Cristina. I put the letters my grandfather gave me on the Malecón in my carry-on along with the white rose and the letters my grandmother saved in the wooden box for when I explain the story to my family. I also carry the letter my grandfather has written to his son and asked me to deliver to my father. I leave the gifts I brought for Ana and her family as well as the leftover cash I brought with me, keeping just enough to cover our journey out of the country. Hopefully, it will help them.

Someone knocks on the door.

“Come in,” I call out.

Luis opens the door. “Are you ready?”

“I am. How did it go with Cristina?”

“I said good-bye.”

“Will she be okay?”

“I hope so. She has distant relatives in the Oriente. She may go stay with them; she hasn’t decided yet. My grandmother and mother consider her family; I hope she’ll stay here with them.”

“Will you be okay?” I ask.

“I hope so.” Luis holds out his hand to me. “My grandmother wants to see us off. My friend Oscar should be here soon to pick us up.”

He takes my bags in one hand, holding on to me with his free one. A lone suitcase waits at the base of the stairs.

Pablo advised him not to take too much, that it would raise red flags if Luis looked like he was leaving for longer than a short trip—a romantic jaunt to Antigua with his American girlfriend. I hope they don’t dig too deeply at the airport, that my grandfather was successful in shielding Luis for a day or two. It’s a lot to hope for, but right now hope is all we have.

We make our way to Ana’s sitting room, where she’s seated on the worn silk couch, a smile on her face, her best china set out in front of us.

“It was my mother’s,” she answers when I comment on how beautiful the pieces are. “And her mother’s before her. And her mother’s before that. They came on a ship from Spain.”

We sit on chairs opposite her while she pours us coffee, offering us a plate of snacks she’s set out. There’s an elegance to her motions, a ceremony to the whole process that speaks to a civility long since forgotten.

I sip my coffee while she and Luis make small talk about the dinner that evening, about the neighborhood, about anything and everything but the day ahead of us.

A knock sounds at the door, the noise ominous, intruding on the peace we’ve created in this little room.

It’s either the police or Luis’s friend come to take us to the airport.

Luis reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing reassuringly. My heart pounds as he excuses himself and greets whoever’s on the other side, and when I finally hear the sound of his voice mixed with Oscar’s, the tension subsides a bit.

Ana and I stare at each other across the sea of her family’s china.

“You’re doing the right thing. Both of you,” she says.

“I hope so.”

“You are. It was time for him to go, even if he wasn’t ready to leave.”

“We could—”

“—Get me out?”

I nod.

“It’s fifty-eight years too late for that. Cuba is my home. I will die here, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Luis, though, is young. He deserves to have children, to be able to raise them in a world where they can have a bright future. Where they can dream. You’ll bring them back one day and show them where we lived. You’ll tell them our stories so they can know where they come from. So they can know their roots.”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you found each other,” she says. “Glad you returned. Elisa would be so proud of you. I pray she will watch over you and guide you on your journey ahead.”

The sound of Oscar’s and Luis’s footsteps grows louder as they get closer, and we rise from our seats. Her arms wrap around me, holding me tight, her hands stroking my hair.

“Never forget where you come from. You come from a long line of survivors. Trust in that when things get hard. And in each other.”

That trust feels tenuous when Luis and I have only known each other a week, but then again, what is certain in this world? Governments change, regimes fall, alliances shift—with so much that lies out of our hands, it seems like love is the easiest and only thing worth trusting.

Ana pulls away from me, smiling at Luis standing in the doorway.

“Come here.” She motions to her grandson.

He walks toward her; he looks as though he’s barely holding it all together.

She whispers something to him, and he nods, his arms around her. She pulls back, tears swimming in her eyes, her gaze beaming with love and pride.

We move to where Oscar waits in the entryway, Ana behind us, our bags already loaded in the trunk of Luis’s convertible. We exchange kisses on the cheek, and then we’re climbing into the car, Luis and I in the back seat, Oscar in the front, Ana watching over all of us, her presence both reassuring and a reminder of all he leaves behind.

Luis keeps my hand clutched in his as we turn back to glance at Ana standing in the doorway, at the only house he’s ever known.