Next Year in Havana(53)
“No.” His gaze meets mine, and when he speaks his voice is hoarse, as though he’s worn it out from screaming. “I met your father.”
A moment of silence passes between us before I can reply. “I know.”
“You asked him to have me released?”
“I did.”
I am unable to ignore the tiny thread of shame that connects my father to the men who did this; my father’s clout is a double-edged sword—both the source of Pablo’s freedom and a sign that my family is not innocent in the darker side of life in Havana, the brutalities of Batista’s regime.
“How did you even know I was arrested?”
“My brother heard about it. He told me.”
“And your father? What did you tell him? That you were in love with a revolutionary?”
It’s the first time the word “love” has fallen from either of our lips, and hearing it spoken aloud gives it a measure of power I’m unprepared for even as the truth of it resides in my bones.
“I told him you were a friend.”
“And he accepted that?”
“My father doesn’t concern himself overmuch with the affairs of his daughters.” I hesitate. “I promised I would never see you again.”
“So this is good-bye, then?”
“No.”
I’m in too deep at this point for good-byes, although at the moment, I can’t imagine we’re destined for anything else. He can’t stay in Havana. Not after this. Should I go with him? Take my chances in the mountains? There are other women fighting there, taking up arms against Batista. I wanted more out of my life, chafed at the bonds of family and society, and still— I’m not ready to join my brother in the ranks of the ostracized and disowned, am not prepared to pledge my allegiance to these causes vying for power around me when they leave a foul taste in my mouth.
Pablo sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “You should go. You don’t belong here.”
“Of course I do.”
“You can’t stay. Not with me. This is only going to become more dangerous. They would have killed me, Elisa. They will kill me if they capture me again. I can’t stay.”
“You’re going to the mountains, aren’t you?”
“Where else would I go? I don’t belong here in Havana.”
I don’t belong here with you.
“I saw how your father looked at me in that cell,” Pablo continues. “We will forever be on opposite sides of this. We are at war; I cannot pretend it does not divide us. Your family will never accept me, and I fear I will never see your father and his friends as anything other than monsters.”
“He secured your release.”
“He did. And there were eight other men in that cell with me. Men who will face the firing squad tomorrow. Not all of them have wealthy girlfriends whose fathers can protect them.”
“We don’t have a chance, do we?” I ask, tears building.
“I don’t know,” he answers.
Pablo takes my hand, brushing his lips against my knuckles. I wrap my arm around his waist, careful to keep from hitting his bruises, my head resting against his shoulder, his heart beating beneath me. I hold on to him even as I feel him slipping away.
He was right when we first met; everything is political.
Where does that leave us?
chapter fifteen
Marisol
The morning after I learn Luis isn’t married, I’m up early, dressing to meet him at the University of Havana. I barely slept the night before, the sensation that everything has shifted inescapable. The attraction I’ve felt for him and attempted to shove in the background of our interactions has reared its head, no longer satisfied being confined to the margins, and what was a crush entirely contained in the safety of my imagination is now a crackling tension between us filled with possibility.
I change my outfit twice before settling on a long black skirt and matching top. I grab a pair of leather sandals and my trusty cross-body bag, my grandmother’s ashes a constant presence on my journey through Cuba to the point that it no longer feels unusual to carry her with me. I throw a bathing suit and a change of clothes into a larger tote bag; I don’t know where Luis is taking me after his class, but he said it involves swimming.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Come in.”
The door opens and Ana greets me with a smile, her eyes twinkling as she takes in my appearance.
“Luis mentioned he wouldn’t be working at the restaurant tonight. I take it he’s showing you more of Cuba?”
My cheeks flush and I nod. “He mentioned swimming.”
Her smile deepens. “It’ll be Varadero, then. He’s always loved it ever since he was a child.” A hint of sadness dims her smile. “He and his father used to go fishing there.”
She reaches out, handing me a piece of paper. I glance at the words scrawled there—an address.
“I spoke with Magda last night,” Ana says. “She can’t wait to meet you.”
I look up at Ana, my heart pounding. “I can’t believe it. Thank you so much.”
“It was nothing. My pleasure. Varadero is not that far from Santa Clara. You could go there after your trip to the beach.”