There’s a photo of the Malecón at sunset hanging over my grandmother’s favorite chair in the sitting room where she used to tell me tales of Cuba. I imagine the spirit of her there now, in the wind, in the waves crashing against the rocks, in the notes of the trumpet playing across the promenade, in the smiles of the couples in love, their fingers linked as they sneak off together, in the look in Pablo’s eyes as we scattered her ashes over the sea.
When I first arrived in Cuba I felt like I’d come home, as though the part of me that had been traveling for so long had finally found a place to rest.
But now I know.
There is no home for us in a world where we can’t speak our minds for fear of being thrown in prison, where daring to dream is a criminal act, where you aren’t limited by your own ability and ambition, but instead by the whims of those who keep a tight rein on power.
I’ve known two versions of Cuba in my lifetime: the romanticized version of my grandmother’s that was frozen in time, and the version I’m learning from Luis, one of harsh reality and relentless struggle. That’s the Cuba that speaks to me now, the mantle I pick up, the cause to fight for.
We started working on a new article last night—a series of them, really—a chance to shine a light on life in modern Cuba; a call for change and an attempt to rally the international community.
Luis comes behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, pressing his lips to my nape.
“How was your aunt?” he asks.
“Good.”
I don’t tell him about Beatriz’s parting comment about Castro or the new questions running through my mind. That’s a tale for another day, and besides, we Perez women must be allowed our secrets.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too.”
We have dinner scheduled with my father next week. I plan on sharing the news about Pablo with him then. I’ll tell my sisters after that.
I imagine they’ll want to go to Cuba to meet our grandfather, will want to know this side of our family that we’ve lost for so long. Who knows what the future will hold? It’s not safe for Luis to return now. But one day—
One day the regime will fall. It has to.
Until then, we’ll do everything we can, for Ana, for Magda, Luis’s mother, for Cristina, my grandfather, for everyone who deserves a chance to know freedom, imperfect though it may be. For everyone who deserves a chance to hope for a free and democratic Cuba. The Cuba my great-uncle died for, the Cuba Pablo fought for, the Cuba we were promised so long ago.
Luis pours us both a glass of wine as I tell him about my visit with Beatriz, as he fills me in on the details of his upcoming meeting with the immigration attorney we’ve hired. When he’s finished, he raises his glass to me in a silent toast, and the words, the fidelity of them, filter out of me as naturally as breathing.
“Next year in Havana.”
Elisa
1970
The days drift into weeks, and flow into months, and sail away into years, a decade, and still we remain.
Marriages are celebrated, babies born, lives lost and mourned, and still we remain.
Juan drives us down to Key West for the day. Otis Redding blares on the car radio speakers, and we all sing along, our voices slightly off-key.
The top is down on the cherry red convertible he bought me for my thirtieth birthday, the wind blowing my hair despite the colorful scarf that attempts to force it into submission. Our son, Miguel, loves going over the bridge, looking down at the water.
The ocean is a pretty shade of blue, the kind that will likely dazzle tourists from up north. If you haven’t traveled farther south, you might believe it to be the most beautiful ocean in the world.
But if you have—
We stuff ourselves on Key Lime pie and stone crabs, washing down peeled shrimp with fruity drinks tempered by the sharp bite of alcohol. Miguel plays on the beach, his pants rolled up around his calves, the water lapping at his feet. He spots a group of children playing in the sand, their brightly colored pails swinging from their little hands. He walks over to them and joins in, his sturdy body ambling along, peals of laughter mixing with the sound of the waves.
Juan takes my hand, his fingers linking with mine.
“I love you,” he says, his gaze on our son.
“I love you, too,” I answer, the habit of the words comforting.
And I do love him.
It’s not blazing fire or mighty flame; it’s steady, true, strong. There’s peace in his love, and I’ve had enough war to last a lifetime. He’s a fine man, a good husband, an excellent father, a bulwark against the madness of the world.
And then there’s Miguel.
My son will grow up knowing freedom. The freedom to express his thoughts without fear of being jailed, the freedom to work to support himself, the freedom to dream that he can be anything he wants, do anything he wants.
Once he’s tired of playing we pack up, strolling down the street. We point out the sights to him, stop and buy ice cream from a stand.
At the corner of Whitehead and South Street, there is a sign with a palm tree.
THE SOUTHERNMOST POINT OF SOUTHERNMOST CITY KEY WEST, FLA.
A woman stands in front of the sign in a floral dress, selling conch shells laid out on the ground.
Miguel is instantly captivated by the shells, and Juan smiles indulgently, taking his wallet out of his pocket. It’ll make a good souvenir for our boy.
I watch as Juan shows Miguel how to hold the shell up to his ear so he can hear the sound of the ocean. Our son’s face lights up at the novelty, the pride on Juan’s face inescapable. He loves him as though he were his own flesh and blood.
I walk forward a bit, their conversation drifting away, the roar of the ocean and the sound of the wind blocking out all else. It’s late in the day, the sun nearly setting, the sky a placid blue.
If I close my eyes, I can almost see it; if I look straight ahead, my gaze fixed on the point beyond the horizon, I imagine I do.
There’s a girl in a white dress, strolling along the Malecón, a white silk rose clutched in her hand, her dark hair blowing in the breeze. And there’s a boy. He’s taller, older, his head slightly bent as he leans into her, as he strains to hear what she says over the sounds of the city, the honking of horns, the laughter of people passing them by. She wants to laugh, too, but the thudding in her chest robs her of the emotion, and instead she feels something portentous, like the moment before a storm rolls in over the water. It’s in the air around them, carried on the wind—hope, anticipation, longing.
He will kiss her and everything will change.
They will march from the mountains to the sea and everything will change.
The girl is now in a pink dress, her figure altered by motherhood and time, the white rose left in a box, buried in a backyard in Havana, for when she returns.
She sees his eyes every day in another’s. It is both her greatest pleasure and her deepest pain that all she has to do is look to her son to see the man she loved and lost.
But one day . . .
Her knowledge of God was formed in the pews of the Cathedral of Havana. Some of it has stuck; most of it ebbs and flows with age, with circumstance.
But there’s an undercurrent of hope, whether brought on by religion or Cuban birth—
One day when she dies, she’ll see him again. She knows this with a certainty that resides in her bones.
If there is a Heaven, surely it will be this—
Five miles of seawall. Havana behind her, an ocean before her. They’ll walk hand in hand, their son between them, a trumpet playing in the background, the smell of jasmine on the air, coconut ice cream on her tongue.
But for now there’s only the sea. And beyond it, ninety miles away, a country.
Home.
How long before we return?
A year? Two?
Ojalá.