Next Year in Havana(6)
“Most of the time. It’s fun. I like traveling and seeing new places, enjoy meeting new people. It’s usually a puzzle—I know where I’ll end up, the words I’ll use to get there, but the magic comes when I sit at my computer and string sentences together to reach the heart of what I’m trying to say. There’s always a new challenge, a new surprise waiting for me when I begin researching.”
And I like the freedom it brings, but I don’t say that. I grow restless if I’m in one place too long, and while I always return to Miami, the familiar itch springs up after a month or so. An itch that has infected other areas of my life since my grandmother died, her loss and the memories she left behind making me examine my own legacy—thirty-one, unmarried, childless, driven by a career I like, but don’t love.
“So it’s the quest you enjoy?”
I never really thought about it that way, but—
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
We pass by a wall decorated in a mural of Cuban flags, and I sneak a sidelong glance at Luis. His arm rests on the seat next to mine, inches between us.
Has he ever left Cuba? Do the Cubans who remained resent those who left? Are they worried we will attempt to retake the things we lost when the revolution came? Would he leave if he could? Does he wonder about the world beyond Cuba’s shores? It’s strange to be in a place that is so cut off from the rest of the world, to realize we likely view life through such different lenses.
“You can just ask me.” A smile plays on his lips as his gaze flicks to the rearview mirror. “I can practically feel all the questions in your mind pushing to get out.”
I open my mouth to object, but he shakes his head, his gaze back on the road.
“Journalists.”
There’s a sort of indulgent affection in that word.
“What do you do?” I ask instead of responding to his statement.
“I’m a history professor at the University of Havana. I teach courses on Cuban history. If you have questions about the city for your article, I’m happy to answer them.”
“That would be great, thanks. I have a list of places I want to see—the Malecón, the Hotel Nacional, the Tropicana—but I’d love to visit sites locals frequent as well.”
“I’m happy to show you around, then.”
I didn’t expect a built-in tour guide when I accepted Ana’s invitation to stay with her, but I’m grateful for his help. Besides, it’s not exactly a hardship to be shown around Cuba by a handsome, intelligent man.
“How much do you know about Cuba?” he asks.
“I was raised on it,” I answer proudly. “My grandmother’s favorite pastime was to tell me stories about Cuba, the house where she grew up, trips to Varadero, attending dances in the squares. Cuba was part of my everyday life. In the food we ate, the music we listened to. It still is, but now that my grandmother is gone it feels more removed.”
“Was your father born here?”
“No. He was born after my grandmother left in ’59.”
“And he didn’t want to visit with you?”
I shrug. “He works a lot. He runs the family company, and that keeps him busy.”
My father is a man of business and action, not prone to sentimentality or self-discovery. When relations between the United States and Cuba normalize—if they normalize—I fully expect him to pave a way in the new market. But this? Chasing down his family’s legacy? No.
“Sugar, isn’t it?”
I nod, wondering what else his grandmother told him about us.
“My grandmother wanted her ashes spread here. She told me I’d know where to scatter them, but after talking to her sisters, I haven’t decided where would be ideal. They gave me some ideas, but I’d like to visit the places and get a feel for them myself. She trusted me with this; I don’t want to let her down.”
My grandfather was buried in a cemetery in Miami, but my grandmother’s letter made it clear that she didn’t want to be buried on American soil.
I always said I would go back, and now it’s up to you to fulfill that wish for me, to reunite me with those I left behind.
“I’m sorry for your loss. You were close?”
“She was like a mother to me.”
He nods as though he understands that my words are not said lightly. “My grandmother spoke of her often and fondly. She hoped they would see each other again.”
“My grandmother thought she would return,” I reply, the grief creeping up on me the more I speak of her. Talking about her is always a double-edged sword—it keeps her close to me, but it also makes me feel her absence more acutely.
Luis turns onto another road, and I experience my first glimpse of Havana.
I’ve seen pictures, of course, but there’s nothing like viewing it in person, the buildings towering before us. Many of the exteriors are adorned in vibrant colors—coral, canary yellow, and turquoise—the sun bathing them in an amber glow. The walls match the flashy cars surrounding us, the paint on the structures peeling in places. Clotheslines hang from intricate wrought iron and stone balconies, clothes flapping in the breeze; power lines zigzag across buildings. People are stacked upon one another here, crammed into any available space, spilling from the buildings.
The architecture is breathtaking, though. Ornate black iron lamps are posted as sentries along sidewalks. The detail on the buildings is truly remarkable, intricate carvings and scrollwork adorning apartments. But pieces of plaster have crumbled off, leaving gaps on the walls, and there’s a faint sheen of gray that adorns the landscape as though the entire city needs a good scrubbing.