Next Year in Havana(25)

The sound of footsteps, muffled by the carpet now, continue and then stop. I open one eye slowly.

Beatriz stands with her back to me, leaning over the wooden desk. Our father prefers to work privately in his study, reserving it as his inner sanctum, but he also keeps a desk here in the opulent library where he entertains guests and business associates as the mood suits him. As far as rooms go, you can’t get much more impressive than thousands of antique books collected by centuries of Perez ancestors.

The sound of drawers opening and closing, knobs rattling, fills the room.

My breath hitches. Beatriz turns.

My eyes slam closed.

“There’s no use, you know. I’ve slept in the same bedroom as you before. You snore when you’re truly asleep,” Beatriz calls out from across the room.

That’s the trouble with sisters; they know you far too well.

I open my eyes, rising from the chair, picking up the copy of Montesquieu that tumbled to the floor when I fell asleep.

“Should I be concerned by the fact that you’re skulking around Father’s desk?” I ask.

Knowing Beatriz as I do, her actions could be the result of a number of things, but it’s a not-so-hidden family secret that my father often keeps cash in his desk. Not a lot, of course, but—

Beatriz walks over to me, her gaze drifting to the book perched in my hand.

“Montesquieu? How egalitarian of you.” A twinkle gleams in her eyes.

I ignore the teasing note in her voice, the curiosity contained there.

“What are you doing going through his desk?” I repeat.

This time it’s Beatriz’s turn to look abashed.

“Money?”

Beatriz flinches.

“Have you heard from Alejandro?” I ask.

Of all of us, Beatriz and Alejandro are the closest, perhaps by virtue of being twins. She’s certainly taken his rift with the family the hardest. Beatriz was born first, and their relationship has always reflected that. She sneaks out of the house at all hours, taking packages bundled up from the kitchen among other items. She claims it’s charity, of course, but as I said, sisters always know you far too well.

Beatriz glances at the closed door, fear flickering in her gaze. If our father is willing to disown his heir, then none of us are safe from his ire, even his favorite child.

“Alejandro is in Havana,” she admits, keeping her voice low. “He needs money.”

“Is that why you wanted to go to the party? To meet up with Alejandro?”

She nods.

“Beatriz.”

Her expression turns defiant. “He’s my brother. What would you have me do?”

“If Father finds out—”

“He’ll what? Disown me, too?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Let him. I can’t keep pretending things are normal when they’re not, that our family is whole when it is not. What has Alejandro done that was so wrong?”

“He attempted to assassinate the president,” I hiss. “Participated in it, at least.”

He might not have been one of the men who stormed the Presidential Palace itself, but he planned the failed attack just the same.

“He needs our help,” Beatriz argues.

“He needs to leave Cuba,” I counter. How long can Alejandro escape Batista’s notice? How long before he is killed?

The grandfather clock chimes, cutting off Beatriz’s response. I agreed to meet Pablo at a restaurant in the Chinese quarter of the city for lunch. If I leave now, hopefully I won’t be late. The unexpected nap took quite the chunk out of my day.

Montesquieu dangles from my hands. “I need to go. We can finish this later.”

Beatriz rolls her eyes. “Must we?” Her gaze drifts to Montesquieu and back to my face again. “Meeting Ana?”

We’ve become masters in the art of reading between the lines of each other’s conversations, the art of having our own intimate discussions without saying the words aloud cultivated by the need to circumvent our parents’ notice. She doesn’t believe for a second that I’m meeting Ana, and in that moment, a truce is born. She’ll look the other way while I head off to my assignation, and I won’t say anything about her helping our brother—not that I would have anyway. In our younger years, we likely would have sealed our pact with a secret handshake or something similar. Now all it takes is a nod and a few parting words before I’m on my way out of the house—

Only to be stopped by Maria. The curse of having three sisters.

It takes every excuse I can think of to keep Maria from tagging along with me as I walk down the front stairs, the letter I’ve written Pablo tucked inside my purse. She trails behind me like a shadow.

“Please, Elisa. I just finished my math lessons. We can go shopping. I need a new dress.”

I laugh. “I seriously doubt you need a new dress.”

Even though Maria is the most rambunctious of us all, our mother insists on dressing her as though she’s a little doll, each gown itchier and fuller, more and more elaborate than the one before it. The age difference between Maria and me is due in part to the cooling relations in our parents’ marriage and punctuated by the loss of the child our mother miscarried. While Isabel, Beatriz, and I have had one another, and occasionally, Alejandro, Maria’s age has set her apart, leaving her more firmly in our mother’s care.