“You lied to me, Francesca.” Her mother was smoking a cigarette in the living room when Frankie returned. Her mother never smoked.
Frankie thought about lying again, but she was tired of the pretense. She would be leaving soon, anyway.
“Yes. I did,” she said.
Her mother took a drag of her cigarette. “Well? Who is he?” Smoke streamed out of her nostrils, like one of those dragons in comic books. “I demand you tell me.”
Frankie refused. “You don’t know him. And it doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again.”
Her mother continued, undeterred. “Ramon? A friend of Ramon’s?”
Frankie stayed quiet.
Her mother took another drag. “As you say, it doesn’t matter. Ramon has been let go.”
“That’s not fair. He didn’t do anything.”
“If you are not involved with him, why do you care? He is a waiter.”
“But I wasn’t—he wasn’t—his mother is sick,” she said miserably. “He needs money to get medicine for her.”
“That’s what he told you.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Who knows?” Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “If it’s the truth, that should spur him to find another job quickly.” Her mother crushed the cigarette stub in an ashtray. “He is—was—not family, Francesca.” She sniffed. “It does not matter.”
Frankie crept to her bedroom. Her mother was not a cruel person, and Frankie knew she was worried. Attacks on police stations and other places were a daily event. Her mother was probably afraid she’d been kidnapped. Frankie couldn’t blame her. The thought had crossed Frankie’s mind, hadn’t it?
But her mother didn’t know Luis. She wanted to tell her about him. How intelligent he was. How principled. How he made her feel like a graceful, sensual woman with a fully functioning brain.
She couldn’t. She hugged her pillow and stared at her clock radio. Each passing second marked the grim reality. She’d never see Luis again. She’d tried to soak up every moment, every sensation, every inch of his body. But those memories were already slipping away, and she knew they would fade more until only a few fragile wisps remained. And those would eventually disappear into the dead, shriveled realm of the past.
There was always a short dry period at the end of August, but the autumn currents of September brought in a heavy rain, as if all of Cuba were crying at Frankie’s departure. She spent most of her last day in bed, feeling sorry for herself. At six she put on her underwear, her garter belt and stockings, and dressed in a sapphire blue evening gown. She applied her make-up and went down to La Perla’s nightclub for the farewell party her parents were throwing.
Her friends from the American school were there, at least the ones who hadn’t yet left for college. Her parents’ friends, too, dressed in expensive clothes with expensive jewelry. The decorations were festive, the food abundant, and the band played Frankie’s favorite music—including rock and roll. There was a huge cake frosted with the words “Goodbye and Good Luck,” and she blew out the candles. Afterwards, everyone applauded. Even Meyer Lansky dropped in to say goodbye.
It was after one by the time she got back upstairs. Her flight was at ten the next morning. Frankie undressed and got into bed, but she was still awake an hour later when her parents came up and went into their room. Frankie gazed at the three suitcases by the door. They were all neatly packed, along with a trunk filled with her books, records, and collection of painted snails. She would be taking everything home.
Home. The word reverberated. Home wasn’t Chicago, not any more. For fifteen years Havana had been her home. And now she had someone to share it with. Someone with whom to wake up each morning, drop off to sleep at night. Cook, eat, spend their days together, reveling in each other’s presence. How could she throw that away?
She pushed the covers off and turned on the light. She emptied her Pan-Am travel bag, then repacked it with a toothbrush, three pairs of underwear, a pair of slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, bathing suit, and her hairbrush. She dressed in a skirt, blouse, and sandals and draped her trench coat over her shoulders.
Her father had made sure she had plenty of traveling cash, and she counted over three hundred dollars, a small fortune. She took her purse, her bag, and tiptoed out of her room, across the carpeting, and out of the penthouse. She closed the door quietly.
She couldn’t risk the elevator. The casino never closed, and the security staff, though fewer at night, would recognize her. She took off her sandals, padded across to the stairway, and took the steps down eighteen flights to the basement. Then she put her sandals back on and walked across a concrete floor to the back door. She tried to be quiet, but halfway to the door, near the janitor’s storeroom, she heard a noise. She froze. Please, God. Not now.
Another noise. Followed by a low murmur and a female groan. Then it grew quiet, except for a persistent thump. A couple was going at it in the storeroom. Relieved, she felt the flicker of a smile. She sneaked past the storeroom to the door.
Outside the rain had fallen off to a light mist. The lights were still bright on the Malecón, but she headed away from them into the darkest part of the night. Objects seemed farther apart here, and mysterious shadows prowled the streets. She wrapped her trench coat more tightly around her, ignoring the occasional whistle and catcall, and searched for a taxi. There should be one; there were drivers who worked all night, ferrying gamblers from place to place, sometimes getting a cut of the action depending where they dropped them.
Within a few minutes, a cab cruised slowly down the street. She held up her hand and waved. The cab slowed; she opened the door and climbed in. The driver wasn’t much older than she, and his eyes widened when he saw her. He clearly wasn’t used to a young woman traveling alone in the middle of the night. A knowing expression came into his eyes when she gave him the address.
“You are lucky I saw you, Señorita. It is very late, and the streets are dangerous. You are going home?”
“Drive,” she said quietly. She was in no mood for platitudes about safety.
Ten minutes later she was there.
She paid, slid out of the cab, and watched it drive away. Then she turned and gazed up at Luis’s house. Her plan had only taken her as far as his front door. Now that she was here, she didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t ring the bell at this hour. Everyone would be asleep. She thought about throwing stones at Luis’s window, but there were several windows on the third floor, and she didn’t know which was his. Still, she’d come all this way.
She looked up and down the block. It was empty. Dark. Peaceful. She climbed the steps to the front porch, sat down, and propped herself against a column. She would close her eyes for a little while. She was just so tired.