Next Year in Havana(50)
“It’s poetic justice, of course. We had everything when much of Cuba had nothing. Fidel took everything away so now we all have nothing. We are all equal, you see.”
“Except for Fidel, who lived like a king,” Luis interjects, sliding into the empty seat next to me without acknowledging my presence. “And so many of his top officials who continue to do so.”
How long has he been standing there?
Luis lights a cigar, the flame a bright torch that crackles the paper. A familiar scent fills the air; my father’s abhorrence of Castro never extended to the expensive cigars he smuggled into the United States.
“All are equal, but some are more equal than others,” I muse.
Luis inclines his head toward me. “Was that an Animal Farm reference?”
A hint of what might be admiration lingers in his gaze, coupled with that same indulgent amusement I’ve come to associate with his reactions to me.
I force a smile, attempting to keep my voice light, to not draw notice to how rattled I am by his presence, how my body shifts once he’s around, my attention gravitating toward him. It seems supremely unfair that these pings of energy, these sparks flying around me, have found a target they cannot—and should not—have.
“If the hoof fits, I guess,” I joke.
A voice calls out from the kitchen for Ana. She excuses herself, leaving us alone, silence filling the room, its presence fairly screaming with discomfort.
“So you read Orwell?” Luis asks after a pregnant pause.
I shrug. “I have. I’m surprised you’ve read Orwell.”
“Why? Because I live in a communist paradise?” A smile plays on his lips.
Playful Luis is perhaps the most lethal version of all. I take a deep breath. “Partly. Everything we hear in the United States is centered on the scarcity of resources in Cuba, the banning of ones the government disagrees with on principle. Things are painted as austere.”
“I’m sure that helps with the political rhetoric on both sides,” he acknowledges. “The evils of communism and all that. And when it comes to the scarcity of resources, well, it helps the regime sell the idea that we’re all equal, that your neighbor has exactly what you have even when your neighbor is a high-ranking government official driving a luxury import.”
His voice builds with each word, growing from a murmur to something louder, stronger.
The confidence in his tone, the conviction, is as seductive as it is surprising.
My heart pounds. “You’re angry.”
There were hints of his discontent earlier, but now something has changed between us, and it feels as though the mask has fallen and he’s sharing a part of himself he normally keeps hidden away.
“‘Angry’ is the easiest emotion,” Luis replies. “You’d be surprised what people do when they’re desperate, when the dream of a society that provides for its citizens isn’t the reality.”
“People thrive regardless of their circumstances?”
“Something like that. The irony of the revolution is that it sought to eradicate capitalism, entrepreneurship, but the revolution’s greatest legacy has been the rise of a new breed of Cuban entrepreneurs. The black market thrives.”
“So where does Orwell in Cuba fit in?” I ask, returning to our original point.
He smiles faintly, his previous rancor erased. “You forget, I am a history professor.”
“A Cuban history professor. I thought Castro discouraged such activity—examining the why behind things.”
“How can we study history if we only examine the events in a vacuum? Orwell’s stocked in the National Library and others. Knowledge is not discouraged in Cuba, only acting upon that knowledge.”
“And reading?”
“Reading is encouraged.” His lips twist, that tinge of disdain back again. “Few can afford to buy books, however, so we borrow them. My students attend the university for free, which is a great thing, but they still must pay for books, supplies, transportation, food, on limited incomes. How can we afford those things when we’re barely surviving as it is? When our ability to support ourselves is limited by the government? The legacy of modern Cuba is that we can enjoy things for a moment, but we cannot truly possess them. The country is not ours; it is merely on loan from Fidel.”
If I thought him attractive before, this conversation, the passion that animates him now, is my undoing.
“Do all Cubans think like this, speak like this?” It surprises me to hear the same thoughts fall from his lips echoed by the exiles hanging around Versailles in Miami, sipping espresso and eating pastelitos while calling for change in Cuba.
“Some do. Not enough.” His voice lowers. “Those of us who want more speak in whispers.”
Luis takes a deep breath, leaning forward. His scent fills my nostrils, and once again, we’re sharing confidences. A line of goose bumps rises over my skin. I glance away from his dark flashing eyes, his full mouth, simultaneously craving his words and wishing I could build an impenetrable wall between us.
“Existing in a constant state of uncertainty is hell,” Luis says. “This restaurant is the difference between putting meals on the table and the days when we went hungry. But how long will it last? The government controls everything.”
A curse falls from his beautiful mouth.