Next Year in Havana(74)

“It was like this in ’33, with Machado,” Magda says, her voice grim. “It will get worse before it gets better.”

I’m afraid she’s right, and the anger bubbles up inside me, threatening to overflow. I’m angry at the men on the street, angry with Batista, Pablo, my brother. What did they usher into this country?

We’re silent on the drive back, and it’s only once we’re in the safety of the big house, behind the gates again, that I feel some semblance of peace, and even that is short-lived. How long before the violence comes here?

Magda follows me to my bedroom, sitting beside me while I sink down onto the bed.

“Promise you won’t go out like that again.”

I nod, a wave of nausea hitting me. “I promise.”

“That boy—”

I’ve been carrying this secret for far too long, and I need to tell someone. The words tumble out.

“I’m pregnant.”



* * *



? ? ?

It is a truly bizarre thing to know your body for nineteen years, to grow used to it, its habits and quirks, and then to have it change on you so unexpectedly.

It began slowly a few weeks after the last time we saw each other—an urge to nap during the day, a bitter taste in my mouth, nausea constant. I eschewed my favorite foods for things I never enjoyed before, my emotions heightened. By the time I missed my period, I knew. I was late, and I was never late, and my body erased any doubt from my mind.

Magda hovers over me now that she knows about the baby, feeding me more food than I can possibly eat, encouraging me to nap, stroking my hair, praying beside me.

Even as I worry about the baby, about the uncertainty of my future, the troubles in Cuba’s future loom large. Fidel has named Dr. Manuel Urrutia Lleó as the provisional president, but everyone says Castro will be the one pulling the strings anyway. The airport has been shut down; no one can get flights out of the country. Our driver reported seeing American tourists sitting on the front lawn of the Hotel Nacional, their suitcases in hand, fear and anger etched on their faces. They were finally evacuated by ship to Key West. And it’s not just the airport—the whole country is under general strike. Our father’s been making angry phone calls all morning, trying to figure out what’s happening with his workers.

Mobs have opened the doors at El Principe, letting the prisoners escape. Havana has descended into madness.

I’m back in the house, perched on a silk couch in our elegant sitting room, surrounded by paintings in heavy gold frames.

“They ransacked El Encanto,” my mother says, her lips pursed in a tight line. There is no greater sin in her mind than the destruction of haute couture.

I imagine all those dresses we used to try on, now in apartments throughout Havana, worn by those who admired them in magazines. We used to find a little bit of magic in those dresses; will that same magic rub off on their new owners?

“They got the casinos, too,” my father says. “No one is doing anything to stop them—the military, the police, they’ve all simply given up. They’re giving our country away without a fight,” he thunders.

“Are they going to come here? For us?” Maria asks.

My mother pales. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” she snaps.

“What?” Maria looks bewildered. “They want money, don’t they? We have money.”

My father ignores her.

“They’re patrolling the streets now. They say the 26th of July has pushed the police force out.” His face turns red. “People are hanging signs outside their houses thanking Fidel. For what? Do they really think he is on our side? He preaches peace and democracy while he prepares to feast on the carcasses of his enemies. He has made fools of all of us, mark my words, and I fear far worse before the month is out.”





chapter twenty-one


They swarm into the city in a steady flow of green uniforms and beards. They carry guns in their hands, and I cringe at the cold black metal, at the manner in which they survey their surroundings as though Havana belongs to the 26th of July. They’re good-natured in their victory, but then, victors can always afford the luxury of happiness. For the rest of us—

I scan each face looking for Pablo, searching, equal parts hoping to find him, equal parts afraid I will.

I fear it would break my heart to see his face, his body in those odious fatigues. And yet, the absence of him brings its own pain. Surely, he’ll come to me? And my brother—no one knows where Alejandro is or what he’s doing. Has he aligned himself with the 26th of July? Is he their enemy?

We are inundated with images of Fidel marching toward the city, taking his time, prolonging the six-hundred-mile journey like a predator savoring his kill. The nauseous feeling in my stomach doesn’t subside.

“They’ve recognized Fidel’s government,” my father says.

“They?” my mother asks.

“The Americans.”

“And the elections?”

“In eighteen months or two years.” My father’s mouth tightens. “In the meantime, the president—controlled by Fidel—has removed all political figures appointed by Batista. Some of his cabinet members have sought asylum in foreign embassies. Others have been arrested.”

He doesn’t say the rest, but I know—