Next Year in Havana(33)
Ana turns onto our street, the sight of those swaying palm trees calming my nerves a bit. My gaze drifts and settles on a man standing next to a bright blue convertible.
My heartbeat kicks up.
Pablo is dressed casually today, smoking a cigar, far enough away from the house to keep it from appearing as though he’s here for me, but close enough that I have no doubt he is.
What is he doing here?
I get out of the car, pleading a headache when Ana asks me if I want to come in for coffee. I keep my gaze peeled for anyone I know as I pass our house, walking toward Pablo. Thankfully, none of our neighbors are out, but one of the gardeners casts a curious glance my way.
I stop a few feet away from Pablo, wanting more than anything to close the distance between us, to relax into his embrace, even when reason dictates I cannot.
“Hello,” I say, keeping my voice low.
His smile sends a flash of heat through me, the fire of it instantly banked by the worry tingeing his expression.
“I’m sorry to come. I don’t want to cause trouble for you, but I didn’t want to leave without seeing you one last time.”
My stomach lurches. “You’re leaving?”
I’ve only seen him once since he’s been back in the city this trip. He comes and goes so frequently that it is difficult to settle into a routine of seeing each other, the parting and subsequent reunions granting all of our interactions with a sense of urgency.
“My plans have changed,” Pablo replies, his voice laced with regret. He reaches out, surreptitiously capturing a strand of my hair and wrapping it around his fingers before releasing me with a sigh. “I have to leave Havana tomorrow. I’m sorry.”
I knew this was coming, knew he would have to leave again eventually, but there’s still a wave of sadness and a sense of foreboding. When will we see each other again? Will we see each other again? The image of those dead men enters my mind once more, sending a shudder through my body.
“Will you take me somewhere? Anywhere? I need to get out of the city for a moment.” I take a deep breath, the pounding in my chest growing more urgent, more insistent with each beat. “I was at lunch with my friend Ana. There was a shooting.” My voice shakes as I say the rest of it and breaks over the part I cannot say aloud.
I worried it was you lying dead on the ground.
Pablo’s eyes close once I’ve finished, and he wraps his arms around me, reason be damned, pulling me into his embrace. The top of my head fits perfectly beneath his chin; his lips brush my hair. I lack the energy to worry about who will see us. He’s silent for a long time, and then he pulls back and takes my hand without a word. He walks to the passenger side, holding the door open for me while I slide into the seat. In this moment, I’d follow him anywhere.
We drive to the beach, to Celimar, in his borrowed car. He drapes his arm around my shoulders, my body pressed against his. With each moment we spend together the knot inside my chest unravels a bit more, the nerves calming. I never imagined it would be like this; I envisioned pretty words and poetry, not this raw, primal thing that affects me now. Love is a remarkably physical entity—the beat of his pulse at his wrist, the heaving of his chest with each breath, the fluttering of lashes, the line of his jaw. I want to press my lips there, want to know every inch of his body, every movement, want the parts of him no one else sees. There’s a greediness to love that I didn’t anticipate, either.
When we reach the water, Pablo parks the car and we walk onto the beach. I reach down, removing my sandals and carrying them in my free hand, the other clasped in his. My toes sink in the sand as I walk to the shore, the waves lapping at my feet as I stare out to the sea.
“Was it you today? Your group that shot those men?”
I can’t look at him, am not prepared to see the unvarnished truth in his eyes.
“No.”
I swallow.
“Has it been your group other times?”
It’s a moment before he answers me, his gaze cast out to sea.
“Yes.”
I can’t decide if I’m grateful for his honesty or if I wish he’d lied instead. I look down at his hands, at the nicks and scrapes that once attracted me, so different from the men of my acquaintance. Now I see blood there, the same shadow of it that lingers on my brother’s skin.
How can you love someone who has taken a life?
And yet—
Are they really different from the men who give orders behind desks, who are equally responsible for the bloodshed even if the violence is carried out on their authority and not by their neatly manicured hands? Where do matters of right and wrong fall in times of war? Are my brother and Pablo soldiers even if they aren’t in uniform, or are they the criminals my father believes them to be?
I fear I’m not equipped for these judgments, for the moral equivocacy war creates. More than anything, I wish the conflict would end.
“We’re to have elections soon. Isn’t that what you wanted?” I ask. “A chance for the people’s voice to be heard?”
My voice sounds so very young, even to my own ears. What do I know of the emotions running through me, or of the things of which we speak? It’s not merely gender or age that separates us; it’s life experience. He has seen horrors I cannot fathom, possesses ambitions I cannot imagine.
“The elections only serve Batista,” Pablo replies. “He’s not a stupid man. Havana is on the brink of revolt; he’s fighting a losing battle in the countryside. These elections are Batista’s attempt to appease the masses, creating the false appearance of democracy while pulling the strings for his puppet behind the scenes. Agüero’s name is on the ballot, but Batista will call the shots if he’s elected.”