Next Year in Havana(104)
Our family’s attorney is waiting for us along with the immigration attorney Lucia contacted for me. When my great-grandfather arrived in the United States in 1959, he made it his mission to rebuild his fortune, to insert himself and his daughters in Palm Beach society, to win the ear of politicians. Perhaps it was the image of his son’s dead body lying on the dirt in front of his home that motivated him, or the need to protect his daughters and wife, the understanding that everything he built could be stolen from him in an instant with a change in government. Over the years, our family has given to Republican and Democratic candidates alike, and in this instance, I am grateful for the Cuban pragmatism.
My father has called in favors at the highest levels in the government to get Luis into the country on a visa. It’s temporary and uncertain, but it’s enough for now. Enough to keep him safe. Enough to buy us a little time before we can figure out what we will do next.
It would have been an easy feat not too long ago, but as with all things, Cuban-American relations are shifting, promises broken, agreements changing, our countries on the precipice of something new and uncertain. And still, in this we are lucky to be Cuban, where so many others face far greater hurdles to set foot on American soil.
Once we’ve dealt with the preliminary immigration matters, we’re free to go. There’s so much to be done in the coming weeks—getting Luis settled in, meetings with his attorney to find out the next steps, finding him a job, a place to live—will he want to stay with me? So many obstacles in front of us, and yet there’s a natural rhythm to this; it is quintessentially Cuban to help another find a new life in the United States, just as those before me did for my family.
We get to my car in the parking garage and slide into the seats, and at once I begin to cry, the tears streaming down my face until I don’t know what I’m crying for anymore—a mix of sadness and relief.
My grandmother. Luis’s grandmother that we left behind. My grandfather that I didn’t get a chance to know as well as I would have liked. The people who share my blood in Havana who I never got a chance to meet. The home I fear I’ll never see again. The pain I fear Luis will carry with him from here on out.
He holds me, his face pressed against mine, his lips on my lips.
There is so much he will have to learn now—
We carry our home with us in our hearts, laden with hope. So much hope.
When Fidel dies, we’ll return. You’ll see.
chapter thirty-one
We spend the next three days holed up in my house in Coral Gables, our bodies tucked under the big duvet, lounging on the patio, as I dodge family calls. We’re still adjusting to this change, growing used to our new life, mourning in our own way. And then I’m ready and it’s time to go out in search of the last piece of the puzzle.
Throughout my childhood, there was always one person who would give me the unvarnished truth. She gave me the sex talk when I was curious about boys, filled in the blanks when I had questions about the Great Divorce and the rubber heiress.
My great-aunt Beatriz is the family secret-keeper.
She lives in an estate in Palm Beach rumored to have been given to her by a former lover. An heiress in her own right, she easily could have purchased the seven-thousand-square-foot mansion on her own, but I imagine she likes the romance of drifting through the rooms and feeling that connection to her younger years.
If the walls could talk.
I leave Luis settling into my house, getting acquainted with all of the changes in his new life, and make the drive to Palm Beach alone.
Beatriz answers the door in a cloud of Chanel, dressed in a floral shift I own in a different color—she looks better in it. Her face is that of a woman ten years younger. Her dark hair is pulled back in a dramatic bun, fat diamond studs on her earlobes.
She wore those same studs in the spread Vanity Fair did on her years ago. In certain circles, she is a legend.
Beatriz greets me with a kiss on each cheek before stepping back. “Come in, come in.”
Her hands flutter in the breeze as she speaks, a canary diamond on her ring finger, another gift, another lover.
“Is Diana off today?” I ask.
Her longtime housekeeper is as much a member of the family as any of us. Now that my great-aunt is nearing eighty, she and Diana have become companions in their older years.
“She is. She went to visit her sister in Punta Gorda for the weekend.”
I step over the threshold and follow her lead into the floral sitting room she’s constantly redecorating. This time it’s done in pinks and yellows, a new chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Palm Beach chic.
We sit on opposite couches, and she offers me a drink. Midway through the sentence she stops, her eyes gleaming.
“Something’s different about you.” Her smile deepens. “You met a man.”
I grin. Beatriz is also remarkably perceptive. “I did.”
She leans forward, the drinks temporarily forgotten. “Tell me everything.”
“I met someone. He came back with me.”
Her eyes widen. “Darling, you bring a questionable hat back with you, one you’ll probably never wear but can’t resist because you’re on vacation. Maybe even a bottle of rum. But a man?” Her gaze narrows as she takes in my appearance. “You’re in love.”
She says the word cautiously, as though there’s a world of danger contained there, as though it’s a word that could topple governments, conquer kingdoms, lay siege to everything in its path. She says it as if she knows a thing or two about bargaining with love and isn’t a satisfied customer.