Next Year in Havana(26)
Maria’s lower lip juts out.
I try a different tactic, guilt filling me. “I’m meeting Ana for lunch.” Liar. “What if we get ice cream when I come back?”
She hesitates. “Coconut?”
Her weakness for sweets is another not-so-well-hidden family secret.
“Whatever you want.”
I don’t blame her for wishing to accompany me; life in the Perez household has become incrementally more restrictive with each act of violence in Havana. Batista might attempt to convince the rest of the country that the unrest is contained to a few isolated incidents firmly under his control, but our mother isn’t fooled, nor is she willing to expose her daughters to anything deadly or unseemly.
More reason why today’s outing must be a secret.
I leave Maria playing the piano, our ice cream date secured, and make my way to Central Havana, already a few minutes late. Sneaking out is becoming a habit, one I’m surprisingly good at, and a skill I wished I’d discovered in my younger years. I can only imagine the adventures I would have had.
I walk through the enormous gate heralding the entrance to the Barrio Chino, stepping into an unfamiliar part of the city. Havana and her secrets. When we dine out my parents tend to favor places like La Zaragozana or the many French restaurants that have sprung up in recent years. I can’t recall if I’ve ever been to this part of the city—at least, not since I was a child.
Sugar’s heavy influence over our fates and fortunes is evident here, too—it was sugar that brought the Chinese workers to the island long ago. Some of the workers returned to China when their contracts had ended, but many stayed, finding their home in Havana and the countryside.
Looking around me, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that my family has played a role in an industry that has supported the economy for so long, and at the same time, taken so much from its people, bringing wealth and prosperity to the island on the backs of so many. Our lifeblood as a nation is also a source of shame. I like to believe my father is a fair man, that he treats his workers well, pays them justly for their efforts, but I am not so sheltered as to believe it has always been thus for those who work the fields. It was sugar that kept us under the yoke of the Spaniards, that brought slaves to our shores, meant workers languished under harsh conditions, gave the Americans a heavy interest and control over our fortunes.
The island gives and the island takes in one fell swoop.
This is the legacy my brother rebels against, the cause that drives him. Is it Pablo’s cause, too?
Once I’m through the gate, I’m surrounded by a mixture of Spanish and Chinese spoken around me, the signage in characters I can’t read. The scents in the air are familiar, yet not—the smell of roast pig is mixed with seasonings and spices I can’t identify, spilling from tiny restaurants and storefronts. Bodies are crammed more tightly together here, and I fight my way through the crowd, looking for—
Pablo leans against a building with a red awning, his gaze scanning the street, settling on me.
He’s dressed casually today, his long legs encased in buff-colored pants and a paper-thin linen shirt—a concession to the heat, I imagine. He pushes off from the wall and walks toward me, a smile on his face that has my heart pounding.
“I wondered if you would come,” he says once again as though this is becoming our standard greeting, acknowledging the uncertainty between us. He steps forward, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
It’s only been a day since we last saw each other, but I can’t deny the urgency in my limbs, the eagerness in my heart.
“I’m sorry I’m late. My sisters—” I don’t know how much to share with him about my family, this man about whom I know so little. It’s one thing to trust him with my heart and another entirely to trust him with my family. “It’s complicated,” I say, realizing my words offer little explanation.
Pablo nods. “I appreciate you meeting me here. I thought it would be better if we went somewhere you aren’t known, where you don’t have to worry about being seen.”
He’s right about that—everyone is busy going about their day; no one bothers to glance our way. There’s freedom in the anonymity this part of Havana affords us, which has me standing just a bit closer to him than I normally would. It makes it easier that Pablo understands the risks I’m taking, but at the same time, I can’t deny the thread of shame that fills me—surely he deserves better than a girl who fears going against her family’s wishes.
“This is perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever been to this part of the city before,” I reply.
“We used to come here when we were younger. My father would bring me and my sisters to buy fireworks. You’ve never seen fireworks such as these.” He smiles, and I suspect he’s caught in a memory. “We used to fight over who would light them.”
I grin. “That sounds like something my siblings and I would do.”
“Are you hungry?” he asks after a moment.
I nod.
“There’s a good place right around the corner; they have the best Chinese food in the city.”
Pablo takes my hand, and I link my fingers with his. I’m grateful I removed my gloves before I came, that I’m able to touch him like this, our bare skin clasped together. His thumb strokes the inside of my palm.
He walks with purpose, navigating the crowds with ease.