Next Year in Havana(67)

“Did they, though? How can you live in a place that seeks to eradicate your existence? That offers so little and takes so much?”

“I don’t have the answer to that. But you’ve seen the people suffering here. What do you think of the embargo?”

“The embargo hurts the Cuban people and fails to target the regime,” I reply. “But I didn’t lose a loved one to Fidel. My whole life, everything I worked for wasn’t taken from me. My generation is less inclined to hold on to the anger, but I am loyal to my grandmother, to my great-aunts. For the exiles, being Cuban means you’re born with a loathing for Fidel even after his death.”

Luis smiles ruthlessly. “That might be another trait we share.”

“Where do you stand on all of this?” I ask again.

“I love my country,” he replies. “I am Cuban. I will always be Cuban. Go to America to visit? Perhaps. But my home is here. My loyalty is with my country.”

“Is it really that simple, though? Not everyone has the luxury of tying their Cuban heritage to a place. For many being Cuban is something they carry with them in their hearts, something they fight to preserve even when all they have are their memories. When they left, they couldn’t take anything with them. No photographs, no official documents, no family heirlooms or mementos. That kind of exile makes you angry.”

“You’re right. Both sides love Cuba, they just do it in different ways. Some love it so much they can’t leave; others love it so much, they cannot stay.”

Luis takes a deep breath. “I write. Under a pseudonym. Online.”

The words would be innocuous anywhere else. I know quite a few people who blog on a wide range of subjects. But Luis doesn’t say the words like they’re innocuous; rather, as if he’s entrusting me with a secret—a deadly one. There’s an earnestness there, too, as though he wants me to know him, and this is the most intimate part.

“What do you write about?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Politics. He’s been hinting at it the entire time, and now that I know him better, it’s not shocking, really. He has a strong sense of justice coupled with an appreciation for history, and there is an abundance of injustice around him.

The look in his eyes—the fury blazing above a fading bruise on his cheekbone—says it all.

“What would they do if they found out?” I ask. “That’s the reason for the pseudonym, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I wanted to protect my family. They didn’t sign up for this, and it didn’t seem fair that they would suffer for me speaking out.”

“What would they do?” I ask again, a chill sliding down my spine as my gaze drifts back to the hints of violence on his face.

“It depends on how big of a threat they determined me to be, and given that I’m a professor teaching at the university, where I possess the power to subvert my students . . .” He sighs. “They could see me as a significant threat. They could block my site. Fire me. Fine my grandmother’s business to the point where it would no longer be viable or simply shut it down altogether. They could pay my neighbors and colleagues to spy on me. Hire men to rough me up. Throw me in jail. Arrange for me to meet with an untimely accident—a car crash or something similar. Perhaps a mugging in one of the less savory parts of the city.”

He delivers the words in a calm tone, yet with each deliberate pause, it’s clear how much he’s thought about this.

“That night we shared the rum on the veranda—you weren’t mugged, were you?”

“No.”

“So they already know who you are. They want you to stop.”

“Yes.”

“And the roughing-up was what, exactly?”

“A warning.”

“Has this happened before?”

“No. I wasn’t on their radar before, but now I appear to be.”

“What changed?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

I don’t believe him for a second. He’s not a man predisposed to deceit, and the false note in his words rings true in his voice and in his eyes.

“What changed?” I repeat.

“I don’t know for sure. They were more concerned with their fists connecting with my face than conversation, but if I had to guess . . .”

No.

“Me.”

His silence is all the confirmation I need.

“Oh my God.”

I’m going to be sick.

“It’s not your fault,” he adds quickly. “But you’re here as a journalist—tourism article or not—and no doubt they checked up on us when they learned you would be staying with the family. Perhaps the closer inspection was all it took.” Luis rubs his jaw. “It was only a matter of time before they found out. I knew when my grandmother mentioned you would be staying with us that it might draw the regime’s attention. It was my decision to make, my risk to take. I don’t regret it for a moment.”

“I am so sorry. I never wanted to bring trouble to your family, never wanted to be a burden. I could have stayed at a hotel or—”

“No. I am tired of worrying. Tired of hiding. I don’t want to endanger my family, but at the same time I knew the risk I was taking when I began blogging a few years ago. This was my choice, and I’ll deal with the consequences.”