Next Year in Havana(60)
One afternoon I confide in Ana, telling her I met a man and little else. I want to talk about Pablo, want to share this secret with those closest to me, but each time I begin to speak of him, something inside me rebels. Instead, I content myself with the letters he sends me, the ones I write to him. I hide his letters in my room, reading them over and over again when I am alone, when the connection between us is gossamer thin. I worry my own letters won’t reach him in the mountains, that they’ll be intercepted, fear I am barreling toward disaster.
Despite the way we left things, the uncertainty of us, I cannot stop hoping our relationship isn’t finished.
When the next letter arrives, I rip it open greedily.
There’s a stillness in the mountains. A quiet I never found in the city. It’s so beautiful—you would love it here. We are drawn to the water, but the countryside has its charms, too. It’s so green—we wake up to the sun rising over the mountains, and the view rivals even that over the seawall. The clouds are so low it feels as though you could reach up and touch them.
I think of you often. I miss you.
I adopt an intense piety I never possessed before, kneeling in the pews of the Cathedral and praying God will protect Pablo, keep him safe, bring him back to me. And I worry about Alejandro. Constantly.
I’m not sure where God weighs in on the issue of Cuba’s future—I fear he created this paradise on earth and left us to fend for ourselves—but I hope he’ll protect my brother and Pablo. Hope is all you have to cling to when the world around you evokes every other emotion.
I’ve taken to spending more and more of my days with Ana. We lounge by the pool, drinks in hand while Maria plays in the water, splashing around. It’s hard to reconcile this image of Havana with the one that greets me each time I read my father’s discarded newspapers. The news often tells a gruesome tale—bloody pictures of dead Cubans cover the pages. I can’t help it—I search the images, the faces, fearing the day Pablo or Alejandro will stare back at me. Batista has been especially prolific lately, purging the streets of anyone he deems a threat. It must be exhausting to have so many enemies, to feel the breath of Fidel Castro against the back of his neck.
Today, Beatriz and Isabel are fighting off boredom by fighting with each other in the living room while I sit on the couch, curled up with a book. God knows where Maria is, probably off chasing lizards in the backyard.
“She’s crazy, isn’t she?”
Beatriz’s voice intrudes on my novel.
“What?” I ask.
“Isabel. She’s crazy for saying she’ll marry Alberto. Tell her.”
Our eldest sister shoots daggers at Beatriz, her gaze turning swiftly to me.
Our parents don’t know about the engagement yet. Personally, I doubt Alberto had the stomach to face our father—not that I can entirely blame him. Alberto’s father is a doctor, successful and staunchly middle-class, but not exactly sugar baron money; Alberto works as an accountant. He and Isabel met in Varadero nine months ago, and from that moment, she hasn’t paid attention to any other man.
He’s handsome enough, and he does seem to genuinely care about Isabel, but I’m not quite sure how she feels about him. She’s the most difficult one to read of all of us. She keeps her emotions locked tightly away whereas Beatriz lets them fly for the entire world to see. I’d like to think I’m as contained as Isabel, but I fear my heart gives me away.
“If she’s happy, that’s all that matters,” I reply.
Isabel’s expression softens, shooting me a grateful look.
Beatriz lets out an inelegant snort.
“If only it were that simple. How long do you think happiness and love will continue once the difference in their circumstances is too much for them to overcome? Do you think it simply won’t matter that she was born into all of this and he wasn’t?” Her tone gentles as her attention turns to Isabel. “You love him, maybe. You’re infatuated with him, yes. But is that enough for marriage?”
“What else is there?” Isabel snaps.
“Compatibility.”
Beatriz has an uncanny way of striking at the uncomfortable heart of things.
“We’re fine in that department, but thanks for your concern,” Isabel retorts.
Beatriz rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about sex.”
“Beatriz,” Isabel hisses, her face reddening.
“Please, like we don’t know that’s what you mean.”
“Perhaps some of us don’t believe you must say every single thing you think. That some things are private.”
Beatriz shrugs. “I suppose I don’t see the point in pretending.”
“You haven’t any sense.”
“Sense? I’m not the one marrying a man who’s utterly wrong for me.” Beatriz rises from her perch on the sofa, her voice softening a bit. “I love you. I don’t want to see you make a mistake. Alberto is a nice enough man for someone. I just don’t believe he’s right for you, and I want you to be with a man who is worthy of you, a man who is your match in every way.”
“Then you presume too much. We are not all you. We do not all have your ambitions. Alberto makes me happy. He is a good man. That is enough.” Isabel’s gaze narrows. “Is that why you reject every man who proposes, why you play the flirt and keep them at arm’s length? Because you don’t think they’re worthy of you?”