Next Year in Havana(69)
When we attend Mass for Christmas, I sit in the pews of the Cathedral of Havana, my head bent in prayer, my fingers steepled together. I’m not even sure what I’m praying for anymore—for the rebels to succeed? For Batista to fall? For the rebels to lose and for things to remain as they are? The only constant in my prayers, the only words that fill my head, are for them to be safe. I think I could bear anything else, if God or whoever is up there keeps Pablo and Alejandro safe.
* * *
? ? ?
It begins with a murmur after midnight, spreading throughout the New Year’s party. We’re at a family friend’s house in Miramar, the ballroom crammed with Havana society save for a few missing this evening.
“They’re saying on the radio that Guevara’s forces have taken Santa Clara.”
I jerk, the untouched champagne sloshing in my glass. Beside me, Beatriz stills.
We’re dressed in designer gowns our mother ordered us from New York months ago, our organza skirts gliding across the dance floor, the light from the sparkling chandelier above our heads making our jewels glimmer and shine. Isabel dances with Alberto; Maria is off in the corner with some of her friends; Ana stands next to Beatriz.
The murmur grows. “Someone saw cars loaded with suitcases on the road to the airport.”
Beatriz grabs my arm, her nails biting into my skin. My gaze darts to my parents, standing at the opposite end of the room, some intrinsic need to search for reassurance driving me, as though I am a young girl once more and they will tell me all will be right in the world.
My mother’s face has gone white; my father’s expression is grim.
“Batista announced his plans to leave the country,” another person proclaims. “He’s taking over a hundred of his advisors and friends with him.”
And suddenly, the absences make sense, the men and women who should be here, the children I’ve played with who are not. And more than anything, there’s a sharp stab of panic, the realization that if what they’re saying is true, we have been left behind.
The murmur transforms into a shout.
“President Batista has fled the country! Long live a free Cuba!”
The evidence of how divided we are as a country could not be more terrifyingly obvious than at this moment. For some the news that Batista has fled, abandoning us to Fidel and his men, is met with the kind of exuberance that suggests they’ve been pretending all along, their bodies bowed in obeisance as hatred filled their hearts. For the rest of us, a deathly calm has settled over the crowd; it is fear. Bone-deep fear.
My mother is the first to move, organizing us until we stand in a huddle of Perez girls, our pastel gowns crushed together.
“We need to go home. Now.”
It’s the first time I can ever remember my mother commanding my father to do anything, but there’s no question now that she’s in charge.
None of us speak as the band begins playing, people cheering and dancing, champagne flutes rising in the air. I follow behind Isabel, Maria’s hand in my free one, my stomach pitching and swaying with each step. It takes a few minutes for us to push our way through the throng, the alcohol and news loosening everyone’s limbs. It’s as if they’ve decided that for a few hours—the space between Batista leaving and Fidel reaching the city—Cuba is without a ruler and they are determined to make the most of it.
With every step, though, my gaze connects with someone else in the crowd wearing an expression I fear mirrors my own.
What will become of us now?
chapter nineteen
Marisol
The next morning, I’m equal parts nerves and anticipation. We’re headed to Santa Clara today, and I can’t wait to meet Magda. Earlier as we lingered over coffee in the hotel room—our hands linked, Luis’s lips brushing against mine, his free arm wrapped around my waist—I called to let Magda know we were coming, a lump forming in my throat at the emotion in her voice. I can’t believe I’ll finally meet her.
I follow Luis outside to his car, waiting while he holds the door open for me, as he walks to the driver side, uncoiling his long frame into the front seat. The engine comes to life in a series of fits and starts, a few whispered prayers from Luis, the caress of his fingers against the dashboard.
“Are we going to be okay to get to Santa Clara?”
He grins and shrugs. “We’ll find out.”
After a few words for the Virgin Mary the car settles into a rhythm, the engine plugging along as we pull out onto the road.
I struggle to push aside my worry over our future. Over the risks Luis is taking with his writing. The danger I’ve brought into his life.
“So what answers are we looking for here?” he asks, our bodies tucked against each other.
One night has changed so much—the brush of skin against skin, the mingling of breaths, has rearranged space and time. Our hands are linked, resting against the convertible’s worn leather seat, our bodies as close as the car’s interior will allow. It’s the most natural thing in the world now to accentuate our drive with casual touches—his hand running through my hair, my head on his shoulder, our legs against each other.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I’m hoping my grandmother trusted Magda, confided in her. And I’m excited to see Santa Clara. He fought there. At least, I think he did. His last letter mentioned he was joining Che.”