Next Year in Havana(90)

It’s a hard pill to swallow, but the logical, rational part of me knows he’s right. And if Ana, Caridad, and Cristina can be stoic about this, I must be as well.

“I promise.”

“This man—he’s important to you, yes?”

“He is.” I swallow. “Will he be okay?”

My grandfather’s expression is grim.

“I hope so.”



* * *



? ? ?

The next few hours creep by with agonizing slowness. Life doesn’t stop because Luis is in jail; the Rodriguez women still prepare meals, taking in guests, the kitchen quiet as a tomb save for the occasional piece of silverware scraping against a plate, a pot banging against the stovetop, the hiss and boil of water.

The urge to cry is a battering ram weakening my defenses, and yet, there is an unspoken agreement here. Luis’s grandmother, his mother, Cristina—none of them break. There’s a tremor in their hands, the occasional hitch in their throat, but they don’t cry.

No one objects when I join them in the kitchen, helping to make the picadillo for the evening meal. The paladar is full tonight, the tables packed with tourists—Canadians, two Australian couples, and a French family. Cristina and Caridad serve the guests with somber expressions and trays laden with food.

I worry most about Ana.

When the other two women are out serving guests, she allows the facade to slip a bit, murmuring prayers and rubbing the bracelet on her wrist as though it’s a rosary.

“Would you like to lie down?” I ask.

My cooking skills aren’t on par with Ana’s, but picadillo is a staple in the Cuban diet. I’ve helped my grandmother make it hundreds of times, and it’s one of my few culinary achievements.

“Thank you, but no. It helps me to stay busy—to keep my mind from wandering.”

“Me, too.”

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “He’ll be okay,” she proclaims, her hand drifting to her chest, a beat above her heart. “I feel it here.”

We cook in silence, working in tandem to create the picadillo. When I press Ana to eat some herself, she waves me off and says I should eat instead. My stomach is too full of nerves and worry for me to bother with food, and we continue on in the tiny space.

Cristina and Caridad drift in and out of the kitchen, returning to serve the guests.

Someone pounds at the front door.

We both still. Ana’s gaze darts toward the kitchen entrance and back to me.

Her hands drift to the bracelet again, her fingers flying over the beads. “Will you come with me?”

I nod, the words stuck in my throat.

I take her hand, and we walk toward the door together. When we reach the front door, I pause. “Do you think we should—”

Wait? Get help? A litany of objections runs through my mind before I remember this is Cuba, and the rules here work differently. There is no media to highlight these abuses, no government to complain to, no friend or neighbor to call upon to aid us. We are really and truly alone with only ourselves to rely on.

Ana straightens, pushing her shoulders back, her fingers fumbling with the lock on the door. She swings it open.

Luis and my grandfather stand on the other side.

The sight of Luis is a shock, even more so because of the condition he’s in. His lip is swollen, a fresh bruise on his cheekbone, a cut near his jaw, his beard matted with blood. His arm hangs at his side, his torso hunched over as though damage has been done there, too.

They cross the threshold and Ana closes the door behind them.

I step forward, wrapping my arms around Luis, careful to keep my touch gentle, to avoid doing further injury to him. I pull back, searching his expression, my gaze running over his face for more injuries I might have missed.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “What happened?”

“I’m okay,” he answers, his voice weak.

I step back while Ana hugs him, her voice full of worry and love.

“Did you get him out?” I ask my grandfather. When I went to him for help, I didn’t expect such quick results.

“For now. Is there somewhere we can talk? Somewhere private?”

Ana nods and takes us to the small sitting room off the entryway.

When the door shuts, my grandfather fills us in on the rest of it.

“Officially, it’ll look like he was accidentally released. It happens—clerical errors, overcrowded jails and prisons, people get lost in the shuffle. It’s not going to buy much time, though.”

He turns his attention to Luis. “You have a passport, yes?”

Luis gives a clipped nod in return. “I thought it was a prudent move when they removed the ban on foreign travel.”

I don’t miss the way he says “they” or the look he gives my grandfather when he says it. At the same time, there’s a wary trust in Luis’s eyes and I’ve no doubt my grandfather told Luis about his relationship to me.

“Good,” Pablo answers. “Then you can go from Havana to Antigua. Buy a return ticket—Marisol can help you. The fare will be high, but they won’t require you to have a visa to get into the country. There’s no time to get you a visa to fly to a country that will require one. Hopefully, at the airport they will think you are going on vacation.”

“Won’t they flag his passport at the airport, though?” I interject.