Next Year in Havana(38)

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? ? ?

The morning comes far earlier than I’m prepared for, my grandmother’s love affair spread out on the bedspread, a dull throb in my head from the alcohol. I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of rereading the letters after I returned to my room, my belly full of rum and my mind full of questions.

Was he killed? Were they separated by the revolution? Did he leave Cuba as well? If they were divided by something trivial, why did she never mention him?

I haven’t forgotten Luis’s warning last night, but I can’t ignore the desire to attempt to track down my grandmother’s mysterious revolutionary. It feels like this, too, was a charge she gave me—a puzzle surrounding our family’s past, and now that the temptation is here, I can’t shake the desire to learn who he was and to find him.

I choose my favorite maxi dress from my suitcase, pairing it with comfortable sandals and oversize sunglasses. I pretend I don’t spend more time on my hair and makeup than normal, that I’m not preening, but I do and I am.

The ring on my hand weighs heavily, and I stare down at it, envisioning it on my grandmother’s finger, as though I’m carrying a piece of her past along with me on my journey through Cuba. I hesitate but slip the container with my grandmother’s ashes into my bag as well. Perhaps it’s a bit macabre to carry her bones with me, but who knows when inspiration will strike.

I leave the room and walk down the stairs, my steps faltering when I spot Luis at the base waiting for me. He’s wearing a white linen shirt and another pair of khaki pants. His eyelid is a spectacularly awful coloration of yellow and green, his cheekbone slightly swollen. He looks tired; maybe I wasn’t the only one who passed a sleepless night.

“Are you sure you don’t want someone to take a look at that?” I say in lieu of a greeting, gesturing toward his injured face.

His lips quirk. “I’m sure.”

“How are you feeling?” I ask, my tone gentling.

“My eye’s fine; my head, on the other hand . . .”

His expression is sheepish, so out of character with the glimpses of his personality I’ve seen so far—intense and serious—that I can’t help but grin in spite of my earlier resolve to be oh-so-stoic and proper.

“It was strong rum,” I concede. My own head is fuzzy, the daylight shining through the windows in the entryway a little too bright.

“Yes, it was.” His gaze drifts over my appearance. “Are you ready?”

“I am.” I glance around the room. “Is your grandmother here?”

“No. She usually goes to the market in the mornings to buy food. My mother went with her.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“A couple hours, maybe?” A faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “She likes to visit with everyone while she’s buying groceries. They all love her.” His smile disappears. “Let me guess, you want to ask her about the letters you found.”

“I do.”

“So despite what I told you, you’re still determined to find this man.”

“I’m not going to do anything to put your grandmother at risk, but if she knows something, surely answering my questions wouldn’t be dangerous.”

“Are you always this curious?”

He says it like it’s not a compliment.

“I don’t know. I guess. Besides, this isn’t some stranger we’re talking about. This is my grandmother, the woman who raised me. How can I not take this opportunity to learn more about her? Who knows when I’ll have the opportunity to come to Cuba again; if I’ll have the opportunity to come to Cuba again.”

These are uncertain times for both of our governments, and decades of Cuban-American relations are changing on a dime.

Luis shakes his head in resignation. “If you’d like, we can hit up the major sites today and see where we end up. My grandmother will be here when we return. This article you’re writing—what kind of tips are you looking for?”

The article has been the last thing on my mind since Ana handed me that box.

“A mix, really. Tourist spots. Things that are off the beaten path.”

I can see him turning over the expression in his mind. There’s that look again, as though I’ve amused him. I can’t tell if Luis Rodriguez likes me or is vaguely appalled.

“We could start with the Malecón,” he says. “It’s better at night if you want the full effect, though. That’s when everyone comes out. By day, it’s not much to see.”

The Malecón—five miles of seawall and promenade separating Havana from the Caribbean Sea—has been on the top of my must-see list after hearing about it from my grandmother. It was one of her favorite places in Havana.

I used to stand at the edge of the water and look out at the ocean. You could see all manner of things when you stared into that wide expanse of blue, Marisol. The world felt limitless, as though it was ours for the taking.

After reading the letters and learning what the Malecón meant to her and her lover, about their first date there, I now understand a bit more why the spot was so dear to her.

“Do you have a list of places where you’re considering spreading your grandmother’s ashes?” Luis asks. “We could tackle those first if you’d like, then do more tourist sites.”