Next Year in Havana(32)
Her eyes widen. “Were your parents home?”
“No, they’re in the country. My father’s dealing with a strike in one of his factories. My mother’s playing lady of the manor, sipping coffee and sitting on the veranda.”
“I wish my parents would go to the country,” she comments. “They invited Arturo Acosta over for dinner tonight, and I’m fairly certain they have nefarious intentions.”
“Still trying to get you engaged?”
Her lip curls. “With fervor. I envy you the older sisters. It would be nice to have some pressure taken away.”
“I don’t think Isabel is far from getting engaged,” I comment.
“Really?”
“Things seem pretty serious between her and Alberto.”
“Your mother is going to have a fit.”
My mother has all sorts of problems with her daughters—one is in love with a rebel, the other is dating someone who doesn’t have the right last name, and Beatriz is, well, Beatriz. At this rate, Maria’s the only one who won’t turn out to be a massive disappointment, although she still has a few years in which to change that.
I make a face. “Probably. Although, if one of us—”
The square explodes into a fury of noise.
Rat-tat-tat-rat-tat-tat-rat-tat-tat.
I freeze, my fingers closed tightly around my fork, my hand in midair. It takes a moment for my brain to reconcile those noises—firecrackers, cars backfiring, gunshots . . .
“Get down,” Ana shouts, pushing me out of my stupor. Around us people yell and scream, the sound of crying filling the square.
Rat-tat-tat-rat-tat-tat-rat-tat-tat.
I huddle under the table, my arms around Ana, praying one of the stray bullets won’t hit us, that they won’t come over here and shoot us.
What has happened to our city?
As quickly as it begins, it stops, a deathly silence descending over the block. My body quaking, I look out from under the table. My stomach clenches. People are on the floor, hiding behind cars. Food has spilled from the tables, a stray piece of crusty bread lying on the ground near my face, wine staining the pavement in a deep red. The busy city has stilled; there is no sign of the gunmen. I fight the impulse to run, my gaze still searching.
Will the police come and tell us it’s all clear?
Slowly, as if released from a spell, people begin to stand, shouting and gesturing. Ana and I rise from the ground. My legs shake, knees buckling as I grab the table for support. There’s a gash on my palm from where I hit the ground, gravel embedded in my skin. The splatter of overturned black beans mars my hand. I wipe it on the linen napkin clutched in my white-knuckle fist. My fingers tremble as a new kind of worry fills me.
It’s a strange sensation to feel tethered to violence—to know that somewhere in the city, this explosion of gunfire might have touched someone close to me, either perpetrator or victim—my brother or Pablo.
We drop money on the table for the meal, fleeing the restaurant. Around us people swarm the street, shopkeepers and restaurant owners emerging from their businesses, their voices carrying.
It was the rebels.
No, it was the mob.
Please, anyone could see they were Batista’s men. The rebels are making progress in the mountains; what do you expect?
Batista’s men? They were common criminals. The crime in this neighborhood gets worse each year. My niece was walking through the neighborhood the other night . . .
“Come on.” I link arms with Ana, turning down the street, heading toward the car, panic filling my limbs, my head, my heart.
I stop in my tracks.
Two men lie facedown on the ground in front of us less than one hundred feet away, blood pooling beneath their bodies, their lifeless eyes staring back at me.
How can I not look?
Relief fills me—swift and decisive—
It isn’t them.
* * *
? ? ?
We’re quiet on the drive back to Miramar. Ana’s behind the wheel—a good thing considering how rattled I am by this afternoon’s events. I sit in the passenger seat, my face tilted toward the open window, the breeze, the hint of salt in the air. Anything to get the scent and sight of blood from my mind. Nausea rolls around in my stomach.
Ana breaks the silence first.
“Do you think it will ever end?”
The hopelessness in her voice breaks my heart. We don’t talk about the violence, the madness in the city, but it’s clear how much it has affected her, too.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
Batista has been in power for over half my life. His first term they say he was somewhat progressive—he gave us the 1940 Constitution we aspire to now, which among other things protected women from discrimination based on their gender and gave them the right to demand equal pay. When he returned to the presidency years later, he became a dictator, populist government eschewed for corruption, a hero transformed to a villain. The American mafia runs Cuba now—tourists swarm our beaches, fill hotels Cubans cannot stay in, gamble in casinos built by avarice.
For those of us who have known little else, it’s hard to imagine a different version of Cuba, as though we can somehow turn back time and undo the changes his regime has implemented. And at the same time, I can’t envision a future when the island isn’t as fractured as it currently is.