Slowly, as if released from a spell, people begin to stand, shouting and gesturing. Ana and I rise from the ground. My legs shake, knees buckling as I grab the table for support. There’s a gash on my palm from where I hit the ground, gravel embedded in my skin. The splatter of overturned black beans mars my hand. I wipe it on the linen napkin clutched in my white-knuckle fist. My fingers tremble as a new kind of worry fills me.
It’s a strange sensation to feel tethered to violence—to know that somewhere in the city, this explosion of gunfire might have touched someone close to me, either perpetrator or victim—my brother or Pablo.
We drop money on the table for the meal, fleeing the restaurant. Around us people swarm the street, shopkeepers and restaurant owners emerging from their businesses, their voices carrying.
It was the rebels.
No, it was the mob.
Please, anyone could see they were Batista’s men. The rebels are making progress in the mountains; what do you expect?
Batista’s men? They were common criminals. The crime in this neighborhood gets worse each year. My niece was walking through the neighborhood the other night . . .
“Come on.” I link arms with Ana, turning down the street, heading toward the car, panic filling my limbs, my head, my heart.
I stop in my tracks.
Two men lie facedown on the ground in front of us less than one hundred feet away, blood pooling beneath their bodies, their lifeless eyes staring back at me.
How can I not look?
Relief fills me—swift and decisive—
It isn’t them.
* * *
• • •
We’re quiet on the drive back to Miramar. Ana’s behind the wheel—a good thing considering how rattled I am by this afternoon’s events. I sit in the passenger seat, my face tilted toward the open window, the breeze, the hint of salt in the air. Anything to get the scent and sight of blood from my mind. Nausea rolls around in my stomach.
Ana breaks the silence first.
“Do you think it will ever end?”
The hopelessness in her voice breaks my heart. We don’t talk about the violence, the madness in the city, but it’s clear how much it has affected her, too.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
Batista has been in power for over half my life. His first term they say he was somewhat progressive—he gave us the 1940 Constitution we aspire to now, which among other things protected women from discrimination based on their gender and gave them the right to demand equal pay. When he returned to the presidency years later, he became a dictator, populist government eschewed for corruption, a hero transformed to a villain. The American mafia runs Cuba now—tourists swarm our beaches, fill hotels Cubans cannot stay in, gamble in casinos built by avarice.
For those of us who have known little else, it’s hard to imagine a different version of Cuba, as though we can somehow turn back time and undo the changes his regime has implemented. And at the same time, I can’t envision a future when the island isn’t as fractured as it currently is.
Ana turns onto our street, the sight of those swaying palm trees calming my nerves a bit. My gaze drifts and settles on a man standing next to a bright blue convertible.
My heartbeat kicks up.
Pablo is dressed casually today, smoking a cigar, far enough away from the house to keep it from appearing as though he’s here for me, but close enough that I have no doubt he is.
What is he doing here?
I get out of the car, pleading a headache when Ana asks me if I want to come in for coffee. I keep my gaze peeled for anyone I know as I pass our house, walking toward Pablo. Thankfully, none of our neighbors are out, but one of the gardeners casts a curious glance my way.
I stop a few feet away from Pablo, wanting more than anything to close the distance between us, to relax into his embrace, even when reason dictates I cannot.
“Hello,” I say, keeping my voice low.
His smile sends a flash of heat through me, the fire of it instantly banked by the worry tingeing his expression.
“I’m sorry to come. I don’t want to cause trouble for you, but I didn’t want to leave without seeing you one last time.”
My stomach lurches. “You’re leaving?”
I’ve only seen him once since he’s been back in the city this trip. He comes and goes so frequently that it is difficult to settle into a routine of seeing each other, the parting and subsequent reunions granting all of our interactions with a sense of urgency.
“My plans have changed,” Pablo replies, his voice laced with regret. He reaches out, surreptitiously capturing a strand of my hair and wrapping it around his fingers before releasing me with a sigh. “I have to leave Havana tomorrow. I’m sorry.”
I knew this was coming, knew he would have to leave again eventually, but there’s still a wave of sadness and a sense of foreboding. When will we see each other again? Will we see each other again? The image of those dead men enters my mind once more, sending a shudder through my body.
“Will you take me somewhere? Anywhere? I need to get out of the city for a moment.” I take a deep breath, the pounding in my chest growing more urgent, more insistent with each beat. “I was at lunch with my friend Ana. There was a shooting.” My voice shakes as I say the rest of it and breaks over the part I cannot say aloud.
I worried it was you lying dead on the ground.
Pablo’s eyes close once I’ve finished, and he wraps his arms around me, reason be damned, pulling me into his embrace. The top of my head fits perfectly beneath his chin; his lips brush my hair. I lack the energy to worry about who will see us. He’s silent for a long time, and then he pulls back and takes my hand without a word. He walks to the passenger side, holding the door open for me while I slide into the seat. In this moment, I’d follow him anywhere.
We drive to the beach, to Celimar, in his borrowed car. He drapes his arm around my shoulders, my body pressed against his. With each moment we spend together the knot inside my chest unravels a bit more, the nerves calming. I never imagined it would be like this; I envisioned pretty words and poetry, not this raw, primal thing that affects me now. Love is a remarkably physical entity—the beat of his pulse at his wrist, the heaving of his chest with each breath, the fluttering of lashes, the line of his jaw. I want to press my lips there, want to know every inch of his body, every movement, want the parts of him no one else sees. There’s a greediness to love that I didn’t anticipate, either.
When we reach the water, Pablo parks the car and we walk onto the beach. I reach down, removing my sandals and carrying them in my free hand, the other clasped in his. My toes sink in the sand as I walk to the shore, the waves lapping at my feet as I stare out to the sea.
“Was it you today? Your group that shot those men?”
I can’t look at him, am not prepared to see the unvarnished truth in his eyes.
“No.”
I swallow.
“Has it been your group other times?”
It’s a moment before he answers me, his gaze cast out to sea.
“Yes.”
I can’t decide if I’m grateful for his honesty or if I wish he’d lied instead. I look down at his hands, at the nicks and scrapes that once attracted me, so different from the men of my acquaintance. Now I see blood there, the same shadow of it that lingers on my brother’s skin.
How can you love someone who has taken a life?
And yet—
Are they really different from the men who give orders behind desks, who are equally responsible for the bloodshed even if the violence is carried out on their authority and not by their neatly manicured hands? Where do matters of right and wrong fall in times of war? Are my brother and Pablo soldiers even if they aren’t in uniform, or are they the criminals my father believes them to be?
I fear I’m not equipped for these judgments, for the moral equivocacy war creates. More than anything, I wish the conflict would end.
“We’re to have elections soon. Isn’t that what you wanted?” I ask. “A chance for the people’s voice to be heard?”
My voice sounds so very young, even to my own ears. What do I know of the emotions running through me, or of the things of which we speak? It’s not merely gender or age that separates us; it’s life experience. He has seen horrors I cannot fathom, possesses ambitions I cannot imagine.
“The elections only serve Batista,” Pablo replies. “He’s not a stupid man. Havana is on the brink of revolt; he’s fighting a losing battle in the countryside. These elections are Batista’s attempt to appease the masses, creating the false appearance of democracy while pulling the strings for his puppet behind the scenes. Agüero’s name is on the ballot, but Batista will call the shots if he’s elected.”
Comprehension dawns, bringing with it a fresh new horror.
“Is that why you’re in the city? The election?”
The revolutionaries have been doing everything in their power to disrupt the election for months now.
Pablo dodges my question. “Batista might hold Havana, but his control over the rest of the island is rapidly dwindling. There are places even he can’t send his candidate for fear of what will happen,” he boasts.
Fidel Castro’s infamous threat to attack polling places has left many Cubans afraid to vote. His threats to jail and execute any candidate have left few men willing to run.
“And you support this? You agree with Fidel’s actions? You call for democracy, and yet, what is this if not standing in the way of democracy?”
“It’s preventing Batista from rigging another election.”
“By what, rigging it before he can?”
“No.” Frustration fills his voice. “I’m not saying I agree with the threats, with the calls for violence, the attempts to suppress the election, but at the same time, Batista must be stopped. There’s no clear answer here. He has all the power at his disposal, and unless we do something to wrest it away from him, this will never end.
“It is not enough to control the countryside; we need to control the entire country, including the government. We must drive him from Havana and show the people they no longer need to fear him and his firing squads, his secret police. We must give them the power to determine their own future, to decide the direction the country will take, but it’s impossible to achieve that under the current system.”