Frankie couldn’t believe her good fortune. The Orisha gods were working their magic. It was as if she and Luis were destined to come to Santa Clara. The rooms they rented were perfect, complete with a tiny kitchen. She promptly went shopping for new towels, sheets, and kitchen tools, and discovered she didn’t have to spend a fortune. She was able to snag good bargains at the flea market.
Two days after they moved in, she went to a hair salon recommended by her landlady. The “Pixie” hairdo was all the rage in the States, and she asked the hairdresser to cut her hair short. The hairdresser balked at cutting Frankie’s long, thick curls, but Frankie insisted. Afterwards the ladies in the shop said she looked like Audrey Hepburn. Frankie smiled; it must be a good disguise. Then she went shopping and bought a few inexpensive dresses, skirts, and blouses. The styles and materials were very different from her wardrobe in Havana, and as she pirouetted before the mirror in the dressing room, she was sure no one could recognize her. Luis had changed his appearance too; she’d helped him cut and dye his hair, and he now wore a pair of fake glasses.
The next day, wearing her new hairstyle and clothes, Frankie interviewed at a bank that needed an English-speaking clerk. She made up a story about her parents sending her to live with relatives in Chicago while they tried to better themselves in Cuba. After seven years, they had scrounged enough money to fly her back for a visit. Which is why her Spanish wasn’t quite fluent, but her English was. The man interviewing her asked why she hadn’t gone back to the States. She was planning to, she told him, but then she met Julio. Blushing prettily, she added, “And you know how that goes, Señor.” The man nodded. He understood the arrow of love. She got the job.
Her new life settled into a routine. In the morning Luisa Lopez went to the bank, while Julio saw to his activities. She was home by evening to cook dinner. Growing up, she’d spent hours glued to her nanny’s apron strings, and the nanny was their cook. She always begged to help add ingredients or stir the pot, and her nanny obliged, explaining what she was doing and why. Frankie had clearly absorbed more than she thought, because she developed a flair for cooking. Luis especially liked her pulpeta, a Cuban version of meat loaf, and her ajiaco, a hearty vegetable soup.
His approval delighted her. For eighteen years she’d led the life of a princess, but it had left her unfulfilled. Now she was simply an ordinary woman, but she had a purpose, and that made all the difference. She would share her life with Luis and fill it with the things they loved, from food to a new home, a family, long, passionate nights in each other’s arms. It was odd—ironic, really—that she should feel so blessed while a revolution seethed, but she was practical enough to take her happiness where she found it. Revolution or not, she had no regrets.
It took a few weeks for Luis to forge connections with the rebels, but by the middle of October he was running interference between Che Guevara, whose column had reached the Escambray Mountains south of Santa Clara, and the local rebel leaders in Las Villas province. Unity between the revolutionary factions was not a given, and Enrique Oltusky, the underground leader in Las Villas, had different ideas than Che. The two disagreed about agrarian reform, as well as the future role of the U.S. At one point, Che wanted to carry out a series of bank robberies to augment rebel funds, but Oltusky opposed the idea. He argued that robbing a bank was contrary to the Cuban spirit. Not even Fidel would condone it. As a courier and supplier, Luis was a friend to both camps and became a de facto peace-maker, spending hours trying to ease tensions.
In mid-October Fidel redeployed Camilo Cienfuegos. He was no longer tasked with marching his men to Pinar del Rio. Instead, Fidel ordered him to the northern part of Las Villas to support Che. Luis met Cienfuegos for the first time near the end of the month. Cienfuegos was recruiting workers from the sugar mills, and Luis was asked to help. Luis came home with stories that made Frankie think Cienfuegos, who, like Luis, came from the working class, was the real hero of the revolution. As much, perhaps more than Fidel.
By November Luis was either with Che in the mountains or with Cienfuegos somewhere in Las Villas, sometimes for days at a stretch. Frankie wished he would confide in her more; she knew she would understand the tactics the revolutionaries were using. But she also knew that it would be dangerous for her to know too much. Like her father’s people, the revolutionaries had their own omerta.
So she passed the time when Luis was gone either working—she was beginning to enjoy the job and the respect that went with it—or with her new friends from the bank. On evenings and weekends they headed to the Parque Vidal in the center of town. The custom was to walk around the park several times, the women strolling along an inner circle, the men an outer one. It was an excellent way for young women to check out men and vice versa, and the girls whispered and giggled when they spotted appealing prospects.
Frankie felt like an old married woman compared to the girls, but she joined in; there wasn’t much else to do. Her favorite time was Sunday afternoon, when local musicians, in fancy guayabera shirts and polished shoes, played guitars in impromptu concerts.
It was on one of those Sundays that Maria, one of the girls from the bank, gazed at Frankie as they strolled. Maria’s expression grew solemn.
Frankie felt her stomach clench. Had Maria figured out she wasn’t Luisa Lopez? Was she going to confront her?
“What’s wrong, Maria? You look so serious,” she said hesitantly.
Maria didn’t reply for a moment. Then she cocked her head. “I’ve been watching you, Luisa.” She pointed. “I think perhaps you are becoming a little thick around the middle.”
Frankie, who was still at the age where she could eat anything without gaining weight, objected. “Impossible. I can eat anything. It never shows.”
Maria shot Frankie a meaningful glance. “I didn’t say it was from eating. And your skin—it has a glow I haven’t noticed before.”
Frankie stopped. When did she last get her period? It had been a while. Before they came to Santa Clara. In fact, now that she was thinking about it, her breasts seemed more sensitive these days. She’d thought it had to do with her new clothes. Tighter fitting. But then there was Luis. When he was home, they were having glorious sex. Often two or three times a night. She turned around and gave Maria a hug.
It wasn’t until the middle of December that Ramon got a lead on Luis and Frankie. By that time Havana was simmering with rumors, secrets, and conspiracies. Propaganda from both sides churned, the newspapers bragging about the number of rebels captured, while the broadcasts from Radio Rebelde boasted that the rebels were making progress. The truth was somewhere in between. The rebels were advancing, but many thought that timing and luck—as opposed to skill—were the reasons. Batista’s army was demoralized. More soldiers deserted, and the rebels made it a point to treat them well, so their ranks had swelled. Meanwhile, those who remained in the army refused to mount vigorous attacks. The rebels managed to block highways and blow up telephone and electrical installations, which made travel and communication between Havana and the rest of the island uncertain.
Without Luis at the helm, Ramon’s group fell apart—that could happen—which, perversely, made Ramon’s job easier. He didn’t have to lie to his former compatriots about his assignment. He prowled Havana streets, penetrating as many other cells as he could to ferret out information about Luis. He carefully constructed his approach. He couldn’t appear desperate. Just concerned. He and Luis had been best friends since childhood, and he was worried. Had Luis been picked up? Had some misfortune befallen with the girl? He needed to know. Luis’s family was going crazy.
But it was dangerous to divulge too much information these days, and if his colleagues had news, they weren’t sharing. After weeks of hearing nothing, Ramon’s nerves were shot. Tony Pacelli demanded he report in every day and asked detailed questions, including who he was talking to, and where he’d tracked down the contact.
Indeed, Pacelli’s insistence on knowing every detail made Ramon wonder if Pacelli was planning to take matters into his own hands, which, of course, would mean the end of Ramon. He lost his appetite, and he couldn’t sleep. His house was still being watched, and the few pesos Pacelli doled out to him barely paid for food for himself and his mother. She never complained, but she was looking frail and drawn. If not for her, Ramon himself would have fled. Instead he was trapped like a mouse in a cage. This was how you died, he decided. Not in a fiery ball of violence, but bit by bit. First you lost your power, then your freedom, then your will.
He trudged down the Prado one evening, trying to ignore the glut of Christmas decorations that had sprung up seemingly overnight. Havana was awash in tinsel, lights, Santa Clauses, reindeer, and trees imported from the States. Tinny recordings of American Christmas carols blared out from shops, and store windows were filled with giant packages brightly wrapped with thick red ribbons. Judging by the hoopla, you wouldn’t know there was a war going on. Ramon was bitter he wasn’t working at La Perla anymore—the holidays were the best time for tips.
He slipped behind a building into an alley. A tall, skinny kid who couldn’t be older than eighteen was nervously smoking a cigarette. The kid’s hair was slicked back in a D.A. and though it was almost eighty degrees, he wore a black leather jacket. Fake, of course. Still, he looked like one of the characters from West Side Story. Marco, the dance director at La Perla, had created a dance number in honor of the Broadway play—what were the gangs’ names? The Sharks and the Jets. That was it. Ramon shook it off. How could he be thinking of a New York play when his life was at risk?
He approached the informant and drew out his own cigarette. The kid worked at the Riviera and was part of that hotel’s rebel group. Ramon had spent the better part of a day tailing him before he decided to meet, and while he didn’t trust anyone, he’d determined the kid was harmless. “Got a light?”
The kid fished in his pocket, brought out matches, flipped them to Ramon. Ramon took his time lighting up. He inhaled, blew out smoke. The kid had half a foot on him, but Ramon wanted him to know who was in control.
The kid waved away smoke.
Finally Ramon spoke. “So?”
The informant dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it. “First, the money.”
The kid was no dummy. Ramon felt in his pocket, drew out a few bills, handed them over.
“We just got back from the Escambray Mountains.” The kid slipped the bills into his pocket. “We made a drop.”
That’s where Che Guevara was holed up, Ramon knew. Che was his hero. “You were there?”
The kid looked proud. “I was one of the drivers.”
Ramon struggled to keep his composure. It wasn’t fair. He was the one who should be with Che. Not this skinny little kid. “And?”
“My boss was making the final count, making sure all the guns and ammo were there—”
“Get to the point,” Ramon cut in.
“We saw your man.”
“Luis Perez?”
The kid nodded. “He looked different. His hair was lighter, and he was wearing glasses, but I remembered him from the job at the police station.”
Ramon nodded. Six months earlier, their cell worked with a couple of others to set fire to a police station downtown. It hadn’t been successful—the police put the fire out before much damage was done, but it was great for morale and courage. He thought he recalled the kid. Gangly. Scared. A new recruit.
“I’m going to need proof,” Ramon said. “And I want to meet your leader.”
“That will never happen. He doesn’t meet with strangers.”
“Then how do I know it’s really Perez?”
“Because he said he’s only been in Santa Clara a couple of months. Him and his ‘wife.’”
Ramon straightened. “His wife? You saw her?”
He shook his head.
Ramon deflated.
“We drove back to Santa Clara together. Me, my boss, and Perez. Perez said how hungry he was and how his wife was such a good cook. But then my boss said he thought he recognized Perez from Havana. Perez said it was impossible. That he was from Santa Lucia. His wife, too. He clammed up after that. Wouldn’t say a thing. Had us drop him off on a street corner.”
“Do you know where they live?”
“No.”
“And you don’t know what he’s doing.”
“All I know is that he spends time with Che. Cienfuegos, too.”
“I need to know where they’re living.”
A shrewd look came over the kid. “I can maybe find out… but it’ll cost you.”
Ramon fisted his hands. Pacelli had given him money to spread around, and he had skimmed a little to buy food. He didn’t have much left. He studied the kid. It was bad enough that Luis was spending time with Che and Cienfuegos while Ramon was stuck in Havana. It was worse that he, Ramon, was in danger of being bumped off if he didn’t come through. He was supposed to be by Luis’s side. Not the girl. The Santería witch. Meanwhile he had been reduced to doling out bribes. Ramon was so angry he thought his head might explode, with steam blasting out, like in the cartoons. Then he remembered who his boss was. He told the kid he’d be in touch and headed back to Pacelli.