Next Year in Havana(52)
You know why.
“You thought I was the sort of man who would—”
He doesn’t finish the thought, but then again he doesn’t need to. We exist in a state of half-finished sentences, the pauses in our conversation filling the inadequacies of words.
“I didn’t know.”
“Now you do. I’m not.”
The sort of man who would hit on women when he’s married.
“I should go up to my room,” I say.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
“I want to show you something. Will you come with me?” he asks. “I teach a morning class at the university tomorrow; you could attend if you’d like and see the Cuban educational experience in person. And after, I can give you a tour of the island.”
“Yes.”
chapter fourteen
Elisa
A day passes, then two, without any news from my father. It takes every ounce of strength to keep from asking him about Pablo, to wipe the fear from my face, to maintain the facade that all is well. I pass the days writing Pablo letters, letters I might never have the opportunity to send, letters in which I finally admit the feelings that have been building for so long.
Surely I would know if something has happened to him, if he has passed on?
I think I loved you from the first moment you told me about your passion for Cuba, your dreams for her future. I loved your conviction, your strength, the confidence with which you approached the problem, as though it was your right as a Cuban citizen to demand more, to fight for it.
I wish I had your courage, your convictions. I wish there was more of a fight inside me. I’ve been raised from birth to continue on, to survive in this dangerous political climate. My grandfather was killed by Machado’s men—did I ever tell you that? I think it changed something in my father, in all of us.
And then there’s the rest of it. As much as I am loath to admit that my gender limits me somewhat, it does. I’ve been thinking about what you said to me that night we met at Guillermo’s party—about the changes we should demand in Cuba. Perhaps my gender shouldn’t limit me.
I read the books you told me about, the ones that inspired you, immersed myself in the words of great men, and I want to believe there is more we can do, more we can expect for our future, but I am also scared. Afraid for you, afraid my family—my siblings—will be targeted by the regime because of my actions.
I wish I weren’t so afraid.
Four days after I asked my father for help, he summons me to his study.
“I called in a favor. He’ll be released.”
My heart pounds.
“You won’t see him again.”
It is not a question.
I nod.
* * *
? ? ?
Another day passes before Pablo is released from jail, before I can see him, my promise to my father buried somewhere beneath layers of guilt. I borrow Beatriz’s gleaming Mercedes and drive to Guillermo’s house, to the place where we first met, and wait for Pablo, looking over my shoulder the entire time. It was my brother who told me they would be here. I’m not entirely surprised Alejandro knows Guillermo, especially considering Beatriz’s interest in attending the party at his house that fateful night. When I received the sealed note from Alejandro telling me Pablo would be released this morning, there was never a question of whether or not I would come. For better or worse, I have taken a stand, not with the rebels, but with my heart. I pray it doesn’t fail me now.
I wait as the car pulls into the driveway of Guillermo’s house. He’s in the driver’s seat of the Buick, Pablo beside him, sunglasses covering his eyes, his shoulders hunched over, his face partially obscured.
My heart pounds.
Pablo steps out of the car and stops in his tracks, his hand lingering on the door. He walks toward me, a limp in his gait, a mixture of surprise and what looks to be relief in his eyes. I step into his embrace, holding him gingerly, trying to avoid the bruises, the cuts.
Dried blood mars his shirt.
What did they do to him?
A sob rises in my throat, but I push it down, wanting more than anything to be strong for Pablo.
He breathes into the curve of my neck, his lips caressing my skin, his body sagging against me. In this moment, our roles have reversed, and I am the one to provide comfort, strength. My name falls from his lips like a prayer.
I want to speak, but no words come.
Our bodies shift, our mouths finding each other. I don’t even realize I’m crying until tears wet my lips.
“It’s okay,” Pablo whispers as he strokes my hair. I’m not sure if he says the words for me or for himself. His heart beats against mine, his body shuddering with each breath he takes. “You shouldn’t have come,” he says, even though he doesn’t sound the least bit sorry I did.
“How could I not?”
Pablo’s hold on me tightens for a moment before he releases me, as we walk inside the house, Guillermo trailing behind us. Guillermo doesn’t speak, but I can feel the disapproval coming off him in waves. Once, it would have bothered me. Now I can’t summon the enthusiasm to care. Guillermo gives me a cursory nod before leaving to get food for Pablo, and I follow Pablo into an empty bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him.
“Do you need anything?” I ask.