Next Year in Havana(81)
How can I return to Miami and resume the life I lived before now that everything has changed?
Luis’s grip on me tightens, a sharp exhale escaping his mouth. He doesn’t answer me; what is there to say? I hope I can return soon, hope relations will continue to improve, pray the barriers between our countries will lessen with time. Who knows? We are just a small country in a world full of tragedies.
I want a chance to learn about my grandfather, to see Ana again, to explore the parts of the island I’ve yet to see. And of course, there’s Luis.
He tips my head toward him, capturing my mouth in a fierce kiss. My hand rests over his heart, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.
I’ve been with enough men, am old enough to recognize that this thing between us is different than any time before, that my heart is engaged in a way it never has been. I’ve never felt this instant connection with someone, this sense of recognition, the audible click of two pieces fitting together.
Behind us someone laughs and cheers, the sound filtering to background noise, my world narrowed to this.
I love you.
The words seem unfair, a burden to place on him, a tether with far too many commitments attached. Our lives couldn’t be more different, and I struggle to imagine him inhabiting my world as much as it’s impossible to envision myself living here. The part of me that yearns to feel a connection to this place wishes I could ignore the realization that this is not my home. It’s the land of my grandmother, the legacy that shapes me, but the modern iteration is something else entirely, something I can’t quite identify with no matter how badly I wish it were so. My family’s fortunes have changed, and while this is our past—and hopefully, our future—it cannot be our present.
And yet this is where my grandmother wished to rest, the country that held such a fierce hold over her heart—was it the country or the man? Or did the memory of both become so inextricably linked, tangled up in each other, that it became impossible for her to tell where one ended and the other began? She fell in love with him here, on the Malecón, the words they whispered carried on the air, their eyes cast toward the sea.
“What are you thinking about?” Luis asks.
“My grandmother. Her life here.”
“You don’t have much time left to decide where to spread her ashes.”
“I know.”
I look out at the water, the sun making its final descent.
“I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if he never died, if they’d had a chance at a life together. Would the revolution have kept them apart or would they have loved each other enough to make it work?”
Luis brings our joined hands to his lips.
“I don’t know.”
Neither do I.
* * *
? ? ?
We walk into Vedado, down darkened streets, the tourists ensconced in their hotels, the locals out in full swing. Without the kitschy-themed bars and the state-run restaurants in the more touristy parts of the city, Cubans make their own fun, impromptu dance parties breaking out on the sidewalk, kids gathered in circles, playing games, their laughter ringing in the night.
Luis grins at me, my hand in his. “Now you’re getting the authentic Cuban experience.”
“Where are we going?”
He’s vacillated between playful and serious all evening, and these moments when he’s happy and teasing are my absolute favorite.
“You’ll see,” he answers with a wink.
A car turns down the street, bathing me in the glow of two bright headlights.
It stops.
Luis brings me to his side, putting his body between the vehicle and me.
It’s not a vintage car like the ones I’m used to seeing in Havana now—chrome, leather, bright colors, and rolling lines. This one is black, boxy, ugly, old in a way that’s neither glamorous nor nostalgic.
Luis’s hand on my waist tenses. It drops away.
Two men step out of the car.
They’re dressed casually, nondescript clothes that wouldn’t draw my attention under normal circumstances. They walk as though they’re in uniform, though, with the kind of purpose that comes with the sanction of official power. They might not approach us flashing badges, but it makes no difference. They are important. They are powerful.
Even though he is in the grave, there is no mistaking it—they are Fidel’s.
It happens so quickly—the flash of headlights, the sound of heavy metal car doors opening, slamming shut, the footfall of shoes on the cracked sidewalk, Luis’s voice saying my name, the warning contained there a scream wrapped in a whisper.
“Marisol—”
He steps away from me, leaving me standing on the sidewalk alone, my hand dangling at my side. It’s only a few steps, but he might as well have shoved me away from him. We were together, and now we’re not. I am Cuban, and I am not.
Luis’s back is to me, but tension is evident in the set of his shoulders, in the distance between us. The perimeter surrounding him and the men walking toward him might as well be contained by an electrified fence—no one on the street pays us any attention, their gazes anywhere but on Luis and the men, on me, their gaits growing more rapid, their feet carrying them far away from the danger surrounding them. The effort they exert not looking toward us is a palpable thing.
The men stop in front of Luis. Their voices are low, and I can only make out bits and pieces of the conversation, but it’s enough—