Next Year in Havana(13)

“Probably not,” he agrees.

I wait for him to say more, for him to remark on the recent violence, but he’s surprisingly quiet. I’m used to men who fill conversations, offering me little opportunity to speak.

“How long have you known Guillermo?” I ask, searching for someplace to start. It’s more private out here, but it was easier back in the party, the music and people filling the spaces and silences in our conversation. Now it’s up to us, and I’m at a loss for words. I know how to speak to people from my own world, people who have mastered the art of speaking without saying anything at all, but I can’t imagine having such a conversation with the boy—man—standing before me. He seems like the sort who parses and weighs his words with economy and care.

Pablo doesn’t answer me right away, those brown eyes piercing, his gaze lingering on my feet, and I immediately regret my decision to wear my mother’s fine Parisian shoes.

His are black, the leather creased in places from wear.

“Years,” he replies absentmindedly, his gaze still on my ridiculous shoes. “We’ve known each other for years.”

I shuffle back and forth, my mother’s voice in my ear again—

Don’t fidget, Elisa.

Surely, this time a little fidgeting is warranted.

“How do you know Guillermo?” I press on, motivated not only by his answer but a desire to remove his attention from my footwear. His manner makes me a bit bolder, the inclination that he’s also off-balance, a tension threading through his silence.

This time he looks into my eyes, a ghost of a smile on his mouth.

“We went to law school together years ago.”

The University of Havana has been closed for two years now, so he must have graduated a while ago.

“How do you know Guillermo?” he counters.

“I don’t. He’s a friend of a friend of a friend of my sister’s boyfriend. Or something like that. I came with my sisters.” The words escape in a whoosh. I take a deep breath. Then another. “Are you from the city?” I ask, attempting to place him in the insular circle of Havana society.

“Just down the street, actually.”

It isn’t the nicest neighborhood, but far from the worst.

There’s a twinkle in his eye when he asks his next question, and before the words leave his mouth, I know these stupid shoes have given me away.

“Miramar?”

I nod, slightly embarrassed by the knowing tone of voice, the images my neighborhood’s name conjures up. Havana’s wealthiest citizens live in our own private enclave, and the rest of the city knows it.

I was raised from birth to be proud of being a Perez; we all were. My sisters and I cannot work, but that doesn’t mean we don’t do our part to carry our family’s mantle, that it hasn’t been instilled in us that we must never tarnish our family’s reputation, our every word, every action reflecting on the Perez name, the legacy of our ancestors resting on our shoulders.

Still—this is the point in the conversation when I wish I had more to contribute, that I could share career ambitions or something similar. It has not escaped my notice that so many of my countrywomen are far more accomplished than me.

Thanks to our father’s insistence we had the finest education, are well acquainted with the classics. Thanks to our mother’s influence we have been trained in the art of entertaining—hosting dinners, organizing charity functions; living, breathing decorations that form part of the trappings of our family’s empire. Times are changing in Cuba—how long will we be little more than ornaments?

Pablo walks forward a bit before turning back to face me, his shoulders listing with the effort, and I’m surprised by how lean he is, the suit hanging from the slope of his shoulders.

“What’s life like in Miramar?” he asks.

“Probably what you’d imagine.”

I feel as though I’ve become a point of curiosity, an exhibit like the island of crocodiles at the Havana Zoo, those mighty animals sunning their backs with contempt for the gawking tourists and locals who point and exclaim over their size. Being a Perez in Havana—one of the sugar queens—is akin to wondering if you should charge admission for the window into your life—the stories they print in Diario de la Marina and the like. Beatriz welcomes the attention, Isabel attempts to cast off the veneer of notoriety, and I’m somewhere in the middle. Maria is too young to care either way; her chief amusements are still playing in the pool and the backyard.

“Fobbing off marriage proposals and attending parties all day?” Pablo teases.

I fight back an utterly unladylike snort. “Yes to the parties. No to the marriage proposals.”

“Then the men in Miramar are fools.”

His tone is light, bantering, but the solemnity in his gaze makes my heart pound.

Suddenly the nerves are too much, and I turn, looking out to the direction of the sea. I can’t see it, but I can hear the sound of the waves crashing along the Malecón.

Pablo’s voice comes from somewhere behind me in the dark night. “You missed a button. On your dress.”

I swallow.

“May I?” he asks.

I nod, my mouth dry. My mother would be thoroughly appalled to see her daughter standing outside a party such as this one, a strange man buttoning her dress. My mother would be thoroughly appalled, and yet I turn, lifting my hair, bringing it to the side, baring my nape to him.