Next Year in Havana(56)
“Is that what you came for?” Luis asks, his voice soft. He shakes his head at my silence, hiding the smile I hear in his voice with a duck of his head. “The university was founded in the early eighteenth century, was one of the first in the Americas. It was originally located in Old Havana before moving here in the early twentieth century. Batista closed the university in ’56 because he was afraid of the radicalization coming out of it. When Fidel reopened it, the university shifted focus and underwent a reformation to be more in line with revolutionary ideology.”
He almost delivers the line as though he believes in the merit of such action.
“Speaking of revolutionaries—” I take a deep breath. “Your grandmother got in touch with this woman who lives in Santa Clara. Her name is Magda, and she used to work for my family as a nanny to my grandmother and great-aunts. She might know something about my grandmother’s past. Could you drive me to Santa Clara to see her? If it’s too much, I completely understand. I can rent a car or something.”
The expression on his face gives me pause.
“Really, it’s no trouble for me to see her on my own. I know it’s a long trek.”
“It’s not the distance.” Luis is silent for a moment. “You need to be careful, Marisol.”
“Do you think it’s too dangerous to visit her?”
My great-aunts’ concerns come back to me, all those emails with information from the State Department filling my mind coupled with Luis’s earlier warnings. Are they right? Am I underestimating the political reality in Cuba? Am I causing problems for him, for Ana? Will I draw trouble to Magda’s doorstep?
“I don’t know,” Luis answers. “On the one hand, you’re visiting an old family friend. Of course, if this man is a sensitive subject for the regime, merely searching for him could be dangerous. That’s the challenge here. Sometimes you know you’re agitating the regime; other times you don’t realize they viewed your actions as a threat until it’s too late.”
“I don’t want to bring trouble to any of you.”
“I have a feeling taking you to visit your grandmother’s former nanny is the least of my problems,” he comments. “I’m more concerned about you. You’re as much at risk as any of us. Your American citizenship isn’t going to protect you here. The regime doesn’t look kindly toward journalists.”
“Even ones who write about the benefits of color-coordinating your closet?” I ask, my voice filled with exasperation.
“You have a voice and a platform. That’s all it takes to terrify them.”
“Would you let it all lie?” I ask.
“Me? Probably not. But that’s not exactly a vote of confidence.” He rubs his cheekbone, over the bruise there. “How much does this matter to you?”
“I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me, and I don’t want to end up in a Cuban prison somewhere. But it’s important to me.”
Luis sighs. “Then we’ll go see her. I was going to take you to Varadero. Santa Clara isn’t that much farther. We can go there after we go to the beach.” He hesitates. “We could stay overnight somewhere to make the trip more manageable. If that’s okay with you.”
I take a deep breath. “That sounds perfect.”
Luis takes my hand and squeezes it, our fingers threading together. He looks as conflicted as I feel even as he brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles.
Is this to be a fling? A few stolen moments I’ll remember fondly in a month or two—a vacation romance and nothing more? I’ve always been more of a relationship person, and as I try to picture myself sitting at a table with my friends in Miami, sipping cocktails and telling them about Luis, the image feels wrong somehow. There is nothing in his manner, either, that suggests he’s a man prone to flings, his nature more serious than careless.
And yet—
We’re both too old to blindly rush into things, to not know the risks involved, how ill-suited we are on paper. Despite all the things we have in common, the reality is that unless relations between the United States and Cuba drastically change, we’re starting down an untenable road. A long-distance relationship takes on a whole new meaning in a country like Cuba where the Internet is so heavily regulated, communication thwarted, tourist travel banned by the United States, Cubans’ freedom to travel subject to the whims of the government bureaucracy and economic realities. In a country where the government is a terrifying specter towering over its citizens.
How can it be more than just a fling?
“Are you sure it’s okay to go see Magda?” I ask again, pushing the niggling doubts about our future from my mind.
“It probably will be fine,” he answers, staring down at our linked hands. “If anyone is keeping an eye on you, it’ll merely look like you’re visiting an old family friend. It’s not like they know you’re looking for someone.”
I still. “What do you mean ‘if anyone is keeping an eye on you’? Are you saying the regime is spying on me?”
Did it occur to me that they likely monitored Cuban agitators, foreign officials in their country? Sure. But me?
The look Luis gives me is exceedingly patient and a little sad. “They like to keep tabs on things.”