Next Year in Havana(63)

“Would that be such a bad thing? If the cease-fire had held? We’ve been fighting for what? Over five years? What has the rebellion accomplished other than chipping away at us? Batista’s still in power.”

“He won’t be forever. What else is there to do but fight? There is nothing I wouldn’t do for Cuba, nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice.”

Pablo climbs out of bed, walking to where his clothes lie in a pile on the floor, where I stripped them from his body, a sliver of light from the open window highlighting his nakedness. My body is suddenly cold without his warmth.

I never considered that the war would make monsters out of all of them, but I fear it now. There’s a danger in the way we live, in blithely continuing on as though nothing is wrong with the society we’ve created, but there’s also danger in the fervor that fills him, the emotion driving all of the bearded ones.

And suddenly, I am very afraid.

“I love you,” Pablo says, his voice fierce.

I close my eyes.

“I love you, too.”

I’ve never told a man I wasn’t related to that I loved him before today, never had a man say those words to me. It should feel like the beginning of everything, but it sounds unmistakably like good-bye.

Pablo reaches into his trouser pocket, pulling out a tiny box.

I still.

He flips open the box.

His voice is hoarse. “It was my grandmother’s.”

The ring is beautiful and delicate, the diamonds arranged in a vintage shape.

I swallow, my mouth going dry at the sight of that ring, my heart thundering in my chest.

It’s fast. Much too fast.

He’s leaving. Revolution is here, knocking on the door.

Pablo swallows, a tremor in his voice. “I don’t know what kind of life we’ll have when this is over. I probably won’t be able to give you the life you’re used to. But I love you. Always. I can promise you that.”

Tears slide down my face. He slides the ring on my finger.

“Come back to me,” I say.

“I promise.”





chapter seventeen


Marisol


I check us into a resort on the beach, Luis beside me as I speak to the woman behind the desk, curiosity in her gaze.

We lack the familiarity of longtime couples, and it’s impossible to miss the tension between us. Luis shifts from side to side, his hands sunk deep in the pockets of his trousers, his eyes trained to a spot on the wall, near—but not quite meeting—the receptionist’s gaze.

I glance around us—we’re surrounded by couples, families, all clearly tourists. A man stands off to the side, a folded copy of Granma in his hand. While obviously a local, he definitely doesn’t look like a guest.

In the research I did before coming to Cuba, I read about the more tragic parts of life here—the flourishing sex trade, tourists preying on the sheer desperation of Cuban men and women who can earn more in a night selling themselves than they will in a year working for the state. Does she think that’s what this is? That my expensive clothes and bags, the fat wad of CUCs in my hand, mean I’m here taking advantage of Luis?

I finish the transaction quickly, my gaze now resting on the same invisible point that draws Luis’s attention, my heart pounding.

We are an unlikely match, and I have no clue how to bridge the differences between us. I know a thing or two about Cuban pride—is he ashamed that I’m the one paying for the room, that the differences between us are so vast? Will his friends judge him for taking up with a rich American, view him as a sellout or me as his winning lottery ticket?

And how could I explain this to my family? Would they consider Luis a communist because he stayed behind, because his family has served the regime in different capacities? I can’t imagine him in my world, and I certainly don’t belong in his. Where does that leave us?

Luis carries my bag and his own, following my lead as we walk through the lobby, heading toward the room the woman assigned us. We step into the elevator—blissfully empty—and I stare down at my feet, doubts running through my mind.

I should have gotten us two rooms. This has “bad idea” written all over it. We barely know each other. I came here to lay my grandmother to rest, not to have a fling, however much I gravitate toward him. This is happening too quickly, gaining speed with each moment we spend together, with each kiss—

“Marisol.” Luis takes my hand, his fingers stroking my wrist. “For most of my life, it was against the law for Cubans to stay in hotels like this. Now we can, but only the smallest percentage of Cubans can actually afford them. I’m sorry if I’m a bit”—he pauses as though he’s searching for the right word—“uncomfortable,” he finishes. “It’s not you; it’s simply the way of things.”

I can’t imagine the lack of freedom he describes, not to mention the feeling that Cubans are treated as though their country isn’t even theirs, as though their wants, their needs, their lives are subservient to the foreigners who come and go at will, when they themselves have little to no control over their own movements.

“I’ve never done this before,” he adds.

“No American tourists?” I ask, my heart thundering in my chest as I struggle to keep my tone light.

“No tourists at all.” He leans into me, his lips brushing my cheekbone. “This means something to me.”