Luis Perez had never expected to fall in love. Ideology was his mistress, then the Directorio Revolucionario. Love was frivolous, for poets, perhaps the Santería goddess Oshun, but not for him. The faction he headed carried out both armed operations and logistics. Logistics involved raising money for the rebels, so when Ramon suggested kidnapping the daughter of a mobster, Luis thought it over.
“She is willful, rebellious, and spoiled,” Ramon said at a meeting a month earlier. Cells of underground rebel sympathizers had proliferated over the past few months, and hotel workers were in a unique position to keep tabs on who was coming in and out of Cuba.
“She is due to leave in a few weeks to go back to the States, so we’ll have to move quickly,” Ramon went on. “But we can use her to make a statement.”
“A statement is not as important as weapons and supplies,” Luis countered. “Can’t we get into the casino?” Ramon had been stealing food and supplies from La Perla when he could, but his take was paltry, usually not worth transporting to the mountains. They needed money, and plenty of it.
Ramon agreed there was a lot of cash at La Perla, but since he’d been working so many extra shifts, he’d learned that getting to it was impossible. “There are armed guards in the casino every hour of the day and night,” he said. “Every few hours, the cash goes into a safe. Then every morning Pacelli takes it in an armored Cadillac to the bank.”
That’s when he’d suggested the alternative. The daughter would be worth at least ten or twenty thousand dollars, he reasoned. Enough to buy new stocks of machine guns, ammunition, bazookas.
They spent hours planning the operation. They would grab her during one of her shopping excursions. One of the bellboys, a sympathizer, had told them she regularly came back to the hotel weighed down with shopping bags from El Encanto. They would nab her as she exited the store at Galiano and San Rafael. Shove her into a waiting car, blindfold her, and drive her to a safe house. Once they had the ransom, they would let her go.
“That’s a mistake,” said a tall young man who worked in the parking garage. “What if she screams or makes a commotion when we grab her? There are too many informers and secret police on the streets. It would be our luck for one to stop us.”
Ramon nodded. “He’s right. Plus her father won’t let her go out without a bodyguard.” He glanced at Luis. “But I have an idea.”
“What?”
“What if we could get her to come with us willingly?”
Luis considered it. As their leader, he had the authority to make the final decision, although he put everything to a vote. “How do you propose to do that?”
“She is a vain, silly creature,” Ramon said. “You can pretend to fall for her. Make her think you care. She will be intrigued. Curious. You flatter her for a few days. Tell her you love her. Then arrange to meet her somewhere…” He snapped his fingers. “And presto.”
“No,” Luis said. “I will not do that.”
“Why not?”
“Kidnapping is one thing. But deceiving her like that? It is—degrading.”
“Aren’t you the one who says the revolution requires deception, sometimes towards our loved ones?” Ramon said.
Luis tightened his lips. He had said that. More than once.
“I tell you, she’s ripe,” Ramon gestured. “She has this American boyfriend, but que mariquita!” He scoffed. “She needs a real man. Someone macho, like you.”
The others laughed.
Luis didn’t like the idea, but the others were eager to go ahead, and he was outvoted.
It started out according to plan. He intercepted her at the café in Havana Vieja. He pretended to be infatuated. She was young, naïve, and passionate enough to believe him. The next day he took her to the Hotel Nacional for a drink. She was curious, asking so many questions and soaking up his answers that she reminded him of one of Cuba’s tiny hummingbirds that consumed half its weight in nectar each day. To his surprise, he found her company invigorating. He looked forward to their next meeting.
Two days later they walked along the Malecón, gulls cawing, the salty spray erupting over the seawall. She was telling him about the Santería dancer she’d seen a few nights earlier. The way she described the woman, with graceful gestures, a sensual smile, and wide eyes, amused him. Her perfume, a sultry, cinnamon aroma, enveloped him. Luis wanted to touch her. That was when he realized he might fail in his mission.
He tried to regain the advantage when he took her to La Cabaña the next day. He was deliberately cool, aloof. Then she asked him about the revolution. He reminded himself of the stakes, what his fellow guerrillas were expecting. He answered truthfully, but she didn’t seem shocked. In fact, she seemed to take it in and consider his point of view. Until she spoke up.
“If you succeed you will destroy my family.”
She was subdued when she said it. Just a statement of fact. But it sliced through to his core. He was purposely, intentionally planning to ruin her life. And tricking her in order to make it happen.
Luis couldn’t face himself. He’d lied to her earlier when he pretended to blame Ramon for not telling him about their three o’clock meeting yesterday. Ramon had told him. In fact, Ramon and the others said the timing was perfect. He should walk her out of the coffee shop, and they would be waiting to kidnap her. But he couldn’t do it. So he’d stood her up and told his men he couldn’t find a car.
But they found one for him, and rescheduled the operation for the next morning. He would meet her at the coffee shop in the morning. All he had to do was drive her to the safe house. Instead he took her to the beach at Varadero, and made love to her in the sand. And now she was leaving.
He told the others she never showed that morning, and that he’d gone for a drive by himself. He knew they didn’t believe him, but he didn’t care. Operations failed. He’d take the blame. There wasn’t time to reflect, anyway—another Havana rebel group was planning to ambush a police precinct that night, set it on fire, and steal their weapons. Luis’s faction would drive the get-away car.
The operation went smoothly, and they spent the rest of the night brainstorming their next move. Unlike the rebels in the mountains, urban guerrillas had different tactics. Fidel and his men could make strategic retreats to regroup, care for the wounded, and plan their next attack. But underground guerrillas had to be constant and relentless. The point was to keep Batista’s men on the defensive, demoralize them psychologically. But they had to be careful. Unlimited jail time, torture, or outright execution were the consequences if they failed.
It was practically dawn when Luis got back to the house. As he bent down to retrieve the morning paper, something caught his eye, and when he straightened up, he saw Francesca curled up on the porch. She was asleep.
“Ay Dios mio!”
She stirred and slowly opened her eyes. “Buenos dias,” she said sleepily.
Luis’s jaw dropped. “How long have you been here?”
“Since last night.” She stretched her arms and gave him a smile.
“What are you doing?”
Her smile faded. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I—I couldn’t leave you.”
“Who—does anyone know?”
“Not yet.” Anxiety clouded her face. “It is all right, isn’t it?”
He swallowed hard. In one instant everything had changed. It was counter to everything he’d planned, everything he’d worked for. He wrestled with his thoughts, then gazed at her. Whatever he did next would seal their fate.
He climbed the porch steps and took her in his arms. Relief erased her worried expression, and she touched his face. She started to chatter about her escape and the taxi—she liked to talk when she was nervous, he’d discovered—but he shushed her with his lips. She kissed him back, and soon he heard a soft whimper. He unlocked the door and sneaked her up to his room.