Next Year in Havana(65)

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? ? ?

Afterward we lie in bed, naked, my head resting on his bare chest, his hand stroking my hair.

Minutes pass. The only sound in the room is the inhale and exhale of breath. What comes next?

His fingers walk across my skin.

I tip my head toward him for a kiss.

“I wasn’t expecting this when I picked you up at the airport,” Luis whispers against my mouth.

“I wasn’t expecting any of this,” I admit. “I came here planning to write an article about traveling to Cuba, and instead of paladares and sightseeing, my notepad is filled with politics.”

“Cuba is rubbing off on you,” he says, pride in his voice.

“I guess it is.”

“You could write an article about politics once you’re home, you know.”

“Cuban politics?”

“Why not?”

“Politics aren’t really my thing. I write about accessible topics—the best restaurants to eat at when you’re in a particular city, a skin-care regimen that will help keep wrinkles at bay, the ideal way to pack your suitcase to maximize your storage space.”

“And politics aren’t accessible?”

I turn onto my side, facing him. “I suppose I’ve never seen myself that way. I’ll leave things like revolutions to people who are well versed in what they’re talking about. I’m not exactly known for being serious.” I offer a wry grin. “I’m sort of the flighty one in the family.”

Luis makes a disapproving noise in his throat. “You can write about revolutions and the best way to pack your suitcase. One doesn’t make you less than the other.”

I laugh. “If only it were that simple.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Because my family expects things of me, because my last name carries a weight of responsibility and I’ve never quite measured up. I doubt anyone cares to hear what I have to say about politics. Every family has that one person who doesn’t fit; that’s always been me.”

Except for my grandmother. She adjusted to the curves and shifts of my life with agility and understanding, and occasionally, a plate of merenguitos.

“It can be simpler than you think,” Luis replies. “You can’t live your life to please others if you’re not proud of yourself. I saw the man Cristina wanted me to be, and no matter how hard I tried to pretend, I simply could not be that sort of man—the type who turned a blind eye to injustice and cruelty—and still retain some semblance of pride.”

“Are you happy now?”

He smiles. “Am I happy in this very moment? Right now, in bed with you?”

I grin, burying my head in the curve of his neck. “Yes.”

“Yes,” he echoes.

I look into his eyes, my fingers skimming the bruise on his cheekbone, his expression sobering. I open my mouth to speak—

“I don’t know—”

“—Things are complicated right now,” he says, finishing the thought for me.

“Yes.”

I’m leaving in a few days, and he’ll remain here. Even as things are slowly, subtly changing, a wall exists between our countries—an ocean of differences—and I don’t know how to navigate it.

Luis sighs, his chest heaving with the effort. “These are difficult times in Cuba. Right now my fortunes are hers, and unless things radically change they’re on a decidedly downward trend.” He’s silent for a heartbeat. “I don’t want them to be yours.”

“Is it better for anyone? Than it was before?”

“Is the status quo better for some? Perhaps,” Luis answers after a beat. “For those involved in the upper echelons of the regime, sure. The military, for one. I saw that firsthand. For certain members of the artistic class, their art shields them from that which most Cubans experience. They can travel, tout their talent and the impression that it was nurtured in a Cuba that prizes education and art, making Cuba look good. Same for the baseball players and other elite athletes.”

“And for those who don’t agree with the regime?”

Luis grimaces. “Then it is very bad.” He sits up, pulling away from me, leaning back against the headboard. Gone is the man content to languish over my curves, interspersing his caresses with laughing kisses.

“It’s a bit better for the farmers, I suppose, for those living in the rural areas,” Luis continues. “They were pushed to the fringes of Cuban society under Batista. Under Fidel, they at least had the ability to feed themselves off the land, even if they risked imprisonment to do it. When we were hungry, life in the city became a curse.

“When I was a boy, we went to the country and a family friend gave us meat from one of his animals that he had killed. It was illegal for us to have it, but food was scarce then and we were so hungry. On the way back to Havana, our car broke down, the same one I am driving now, and I will never forget the fear in my grandmother’s and mother’s eyes as men came and helped us get it working again, as they worried someone would discover the meat in their trunk.”

“What would have happened?”

“Life in prison.”

I gasp.

Luis shrugs. “When you’re so hungry you fear you will die, you’re willing to risk it. It wasn’t always like that in Cuba, but there were too many times when desperation was all we knew.”