Next Year in Havana(8)
We drive down the Quinta Avenida, past embassies lined up in a row. And then there are more houses—overgrown lawns, empty swimming pools in the backyard visible from the road. There’s more space here, the estates a bit larger, and from the condition of the houses, it appears Miramar has fared better than most of Havana, even as my surroundings are still so different from what I’m used to and a far cry from the opulent splendor my grandmother described to me.
The houses were fashioned after grand European estates, materials brought in from France and Spain on great big ships. Their gardens were impeccably manicured, flowers blooming, the smell of oranges in the air, the immense palm trees casting shade upon us all.
Luis points out the Russian embassy as we pass by. It’s impossible to miss—the building is austere and towering, shooting into the sky like a missile.
Luis makes another turn in the big car, as though he’s navigating a boat into a slip, and we’re on the street where my family lived.
* * *
? ? ?
Luis stops in front of a house, and despite the rambling appearance, the faded paint, I recognize the structure behind the iron gates immediately.
It was painted pink, the palest color, like the inside of a seashell. Beatriz used to stand on the upstairs balcony like a queen holding court.
And where were you, Abuela?
Swimming in the pool in the back with Maria, probably. Or reading in the library. We would make our way into the kitchen, and the cook would sneak us food before dinner. My mother hated it, of course, which was largely the appeal.
I remove my sunglasses, wiping at my face as I open the door and get out of the car, walking toward the house, staring at the palm trees, the steps leading up to the front door. From Beatriz, I learned the house was built in the Baroque style by Perezes generations past. The image in front of me doesn’t compare to the photographs I’ve seen, smuggled out by family friends and former employees over the years, but the shadow of its former glory remains.
“Who lives there now?” I ask as Luis comes to stand next to me, silent, his hands shoved into the pockets of his khakis. The sleeve of his guayabera brushes my bare shoulder, a hint of the weight of his body beside mine.
“A Russian diplomat moved in decades ago.” His breath catches as our arms graze. “When I was a teenager.”
My grandmother’s bedroom was in the back of the house, a view of the ocean from her window, and I yearn to sneak back there and explore.
“Are they in residence?”
Perhaps I can convince them to let me look around? Of all the places I’ve considered spreading my grandmother’s ashes, her childhood home seems like the best option.
“Not at the moment, no.”
The sun shines down on the building, encasing it in the same glow that bathes everything here. The sky is an explosion of color, every shade of blue you can imagine; white cotton clouds spread throughout.
I’ve never seen a more beautiful place in all my life.
“It’s gorgeous,” I whisper more to myself than him, taking a step forward, my hands curving around the wrought iron gate in front of the property.
Everything fades into the background, and it’s just the house and me.
A minute passes by. Two.
I pull back reluctantly, loath to leave. When I turn to face Luis, he isn’t looking at the house, but at me.
“Are you ready to drop your bags off and settle into your room?” he asks, his gaze speculative.
I nod, words momentarily eluding me.
Luis holds out his hand, indicating for me to proceed. I offer to carry the bags again, but he refuses, following me as I walk along the sidewalk to the house next door to my grandmother’s.
The Rodriguez house is three stories tall and painted a pale yellow. Compared to the other residences, the mansion is relatively well-kept, wearing its age with dignity and grace. A restaurant awning hangs over one side of the building, indicating the house’s changed stature in life, people milling outside on one of the patios where tables have been set out for diners. Large, nearly floor-to-ceiling glass-paneled doors open to the outside, exposing an indoor dining area.
We walk up a gravel driveway, Luis leading me toward the front doors. He opens them with a creak, and we step over the threshold. The entryway is cavernous, the marble floor cracked and scuffed, but still impressive. Judging by the empty spaces on the walls and in the room, much of the furniture is long gone, the remaining pieces in surprisingly good condition despite their age.
My grandmother told me Ana’s family was in the rum business before Castro nationalized it, and even fifty years of communism haven’t fully erased the vestiges of their wealth.
The walls are a pastel green color. A heavy gold mirror with a delicate fleur-de-lis covers one wall, the gilt tarnished in places. Another wall is covered in a hodgepodge of artwork and aged photographs. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, a double staircase leading up to the house’s second floor.
“Your home is beautiful.”
Luis removes his sunglasses and smiles. “Thank you.”
“Marisol?”
I turn.
She walks toward me from a doorway off the entryway. Even with the addition of over fifty years, I recognize her instantly from my grandmother’s old photos.
Ana Rodriguez is a petite woman—an inch or two shorter than me—with a compact build. Her dark hair curls beneath her ears, her cheeks are pink, a broad smile on her face.