Next Year in Havana(16)

The food, though, obviously doesn’t know the difference. Black beans, rice, maduros—sweet fried plantains—and roast pork await the tourists seated outside, and judging by the mouthwatering smell emanating from the kitchen, they’re in for a treat.

Three women bustle around the kitchen—Ana Rodriguez, another woman who looks a lot like Luis, and a third, the waitress from earlier. The waitress has dark hair contained in a tight bun, strands escaping at intervals, a clipped expression on her face as she moves at a frenetic pace.

I duck my head as her gaze runs over my appearance, taking in the sandals that cost more than most Cubans make in a year. When I packed for this trip, I intentionally chose the least flashy pieces in my closet, opting for comfort and simplicity over high fashion. Not that it matters. We both know the difference, and shame fills me at the condemnation in her eyes.

She brushes past me, a plate of tostones in hand for the tourists, the scent of the salty fried plantains filling the tiny space. The older woman—she has to be Luis’s mother—eyes me as though I’m an alien dropped in her midst before grabbing more food and exiting the cramped kitchen.

Ana turns, a smile on her face, spoon in hand.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks me.

“I did, thank you.”

“Good. Are you hungry?”

“A bit, but I can wait. Can I help you with anything?”

I know a thing about Cuban pride, and yet, I feel like an interloper here, an unnecessary burden to a family who has likely faced more than their share.

Ana waves me off and points to a tiny table shoved in the corner. “Sit, sit. You’ll eat and we’ll chat while I finish up the meal. We have one table left, and then we’ll be done for the night.”

“How many guests do you serve each meal?”

“It varies by day. About a hundred between lunch and dinner.”

The expression on my face must say it all.

She laughs. “You get used to it after a while.”

“How long have you had the restaurant?”

A twinkle enters her eyes. “Officially? Twenty years or so. Unofficially, perhaps a bit longer than that. Luis cooked here when he was in university and still does occasionally.”

She scoops a heaping portion of beans and rice, and spoons them into a white bowl with a floral pattern along the rim, setting it on the table in front of me where a napkin and silverware lay. A glass of guarapo follows, the sweet drink coating my throat in sugar.

Ana gestures toward the plate. “Eat. Then you can have some pork and some plantains.”

“Thank you.”

The beans have thickened, the taste familiar comfort food. There are subtle differences between Ana’s beans and those I’ve grown up eating in Miami, but their essence is inescapably similar.

“This is amazing.”

She beams. “Thank you.”

Ana returns to the dinner service for a few minutes while I eat before turning to face me. “I received pieces of the story from my letters with Beatriz, but I gather there’s more to your visit than merely wanting to see Cuba or writing an article.”

“There is. My grandmother left a letter spelling out her last wishes to me. Her attorney gave it to me when her will was read. Her desire was to be cremated and to have her ashes spread in Cuba.”

Ana doesn’t seem surprised by this news, which leads me to think this isn’t the first time she’s heard of my grandmother’s request. When Isabel died, she asked to be buried in the United States beside her American husband who’d died a year before. I’d assumed my grandmother would want the same thing—to be buried beside my grandfather at the cemetery in Miami. We’d never discussed it, though.

I’d always thought we’d have more time together. The stroke came on unexpectedly and swiftly, stealing her from us in the night. If we were to be comforted by anything, it was the knowledge that her doctor said it likely had been a painless way to pass.

“And she chose you to do it,” Ana says. “You were always her favorite.”

“Did she ever tell you why?”

I’m curious for this side of my grandmother I otherwise wouldn’t have known.

Ana smiles. “She did.”

I wait while she peels and chops a plantain with shaky fingers.

“Lucia is your father’s daughter—confident, determined, driven. She pushes herself constantly; for her, the accomplishment is in the attempt.”

It isn’t an unfair assessment of my sister. I love Lucia, but she’s always blazed her own path, determined to make her way despite our family’s last name. Her world is her horses, her friends, distinct from the one the rest of us inhabit. She shows up for major family events, is never more than a phone call away, but we’ve never been that close despite the mere two years between us.

“Daniela is—”

“Trouble,” I finish with a smile, no condemnation in the word. Daniela is my favorite sister, the eldest, the adventurous one. She’s the closest to our mother, perhaps by virtue of her age, and as far as I know, has never backed down from a challenge.

Ana laughs. “I might have heard something to that effect.”

And then there’s me.

“Your grandmother saw herself in you. Always. You’re the romantic, the dreamer, the one who’s searching for something. She always prayed you would find it. You were the most affected by your parents’ divorce.” Her mouth tightens in a firm line. “By your mother leaving. You needed Elisa and she you.”