Next Year in Havana(75)

Others have been executed by firing squad.

My father rattles off a list of names, men who came and dined at my mother’s infamous Parisian dinner table, who gave us mints and sweets when we were children, men whose sons I danced with, whose daughters I knew well. My mother’s cries drown out the rest of the names.

My hand drifts to my stomach, my palm resting protectively against the silk fabric. What world am I bringing this child into?

“They’ve frozen the assets of Batista’s officials,” my father says.

My mother’s eyes widen with alarm. “And our investments?”

“They can’t touch the money overseas. That’s something, at least. The president of the National Bank is gone. Same with the Agricultural and Industrial Bank.”

More friends of my father’s.

“They say Batista is in Santo Domingo now, taking refuge with Trujillo.”

He’s in good company, then. The Dominican president is a longtime friend of Batista’s and as much of a tyrant.

“Many of Batista’s closest advisors are with him, waiting this thing out until it is safe to return.”

My father doesn’t say more, but I hear the unspoken worry in his voice, the push and pull. Should we leave or should we stay?



* * *



? ? ?

We gather in front of the television that evening, the room silent as we watch Fidel speak in front of the crowds at Camp Columbia, the military barracks in Havana. There must be thousands of people there, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. He’s surrounded by a sea of Cubans looking to him as though he is the answer to everything they’ve ever hoped for, prayed for.

A week ago a different man stood there, sneaking out of the country he controlled for many years. Leaving us with this. Earlier, tanks and trucks rolled through the city as though we’re being occupied by an invading army rather than liberated by one of our own. They’ve opened Camp Columbia’s gates, and the space is filled with Fidel’s compatriots, with ordinary Cubans. They come to see Fidel—their messiah. He is still relatively unknown throughout Havana, a Robin Hood figure of sorts, but they know one important thing about him—

He is not Batista.

They hated Batista.

But it is clear that Fidel is no savior, either.

There are no saints in Havana.



* * *



? ? ?

I wake the next morning, and the sky is duller, the air thick and cloying, last night’s spectacle casting a pall over the entire city.

I join my sisters in the dining room for breakfast; our parents have disappeared somewhere in the house. The more Fidel inserts himself into Havana, the more my parents retreat.

What would the corsair have done? Would he have taken up arms and fought? Or would he have taken his pretty French wife and their child and hied off in his great big ship for better lands?

More people are leaving each day—friends of my fathers, friends of Batista’s. Fidel and his cohorts are obsessed with purging the country of anyone tied to the old regime, but what happens when they’ve spilled all the Batista loyalist blood there is to spill? Who will they come for next?

The food tastes like sludge in my mouth, my stomach and the babe rebelling, but I force myself to swallow, shoveling the rich breakfast down my throat.

It is entirely too quiet in the house. Our silverware scrapes across bone china. Only Maria seems content to sit in silence, stifling yawns between bites of her food. The rest of us look shell-shocked. On the streets people celebrate, the mood of the country jubilant.

In our house and so many others like it, we’re afraid to venture out, fear the knock on the door, worry they’ll eventually get to our family’s name on a list somewhere. Afraid to leave, afraid to stay.

“Miss Elisa?”

Our maid Charo stands in the doorway to the dining room, her eyes wide. “There’s a man here to see you,” she whispers, her gaze darting around, no doubt looking for my mother.

I hear the word “man,” and everything else disappears. My sisters ask me questions somewhere in the background, but I don’t hear them. I don’t even hear the rest of what Charo says before I’m pushing back from the table, walking—nearly running—through the house.

He’s home. Everything will be fine now. He’s safe. He’s alive. My hand falls to my stomach, caressing our child, my other hand opening the front door, eager to see Pablo, to collapse into his arms.

The sunlight hits me first, so bright it’s nearly blinding, deigning to break through the clouds and show its face. The sound of people cheering somewhere off in the distance is a dull roar, but that, too, fades away.

A man stands near the front gates, his head ducked, wearing olive green fatigues and a matching cap, a beard covering the lower half of his face.

My heart pounds.

I walk toward him, my feet moving more quickly now, kicking up stones in the front drive.

He’s home. We will be married now. He will be so happy about the baby. We’ll sort out the rest of it.

He’s home and that’s all that matters.

He looks up as I approach, his dark gaze solemn, and I stop in my tracks, confusion filling me. The eyes that stare back at me aren’t Pablo’s. It takes a moment for me to recognize the face, another moment still for the words to come to me, bursting through the recesses of my memory.