Michael. Miguel. It was a sturdy name; strong, Luis thought. His son—how strange to say that word after so many years—would need that strength now that he knew the truth. But his son’s reaction was not what Luis had expected. He’d prepared himself for disbelief, denial, anger. None of that happened. After his initial outburst, Miguel’s face went white, and he stiffened in the same way people told Luis he did when he was upset. He blinked rapidly, but his expression was blank.
Luis guessed it was a learned response. Someone—the army, perhaps—had trained him well. Never reveal yourself, especially in enemy territory. Never let them know what you’re thinking until you strike. Luis waited.
After a moment, a puzzled look came over Michael, as if he was trying to piece something together. That was followed by a suspicious glance around the room. And then, as if everything was suddenly too overwhelming, he sagged and sank down on the sofa.
“I wouldn’t mind coffee,” he said.
Luis hesitated. This was an unexpected request. Was it an act? If he was going to strike, this would be the moment. Should Luis go into the kitchen? What would be waiting for him when he got back? He had no idea why his son was here in Cuba. Then again, Michael was his son, and he’d gone to a lot of trouble to find him.
He weighed his options. Whether the news was good or bad was, of course, important, but his son likely wouldn’t have come all this way and not deliver it. So he took a leap of faith and went into his kitchen. He returned a moment later with two steaming cups of coffee.
Miguel was still on the sofa, but he had the photo in his hands and was studying it. Relief flooded through Luis. Relief, and a glimmer of hope. He set the coffee down on the tiny table. Miguel looked up.
“Where did you get this?”
“Excuse me?”
“The coffee.”
“It is the only luxury I allow myself. I buy it on the black market.”
Michael nodded as if he, too, would break the rules for a cup of good coffee. But it was a strange comment to make at such a moment, Luis thought. Miguel put the picture down and picked up his coffee. He took a sip. Then, “When was that taken?”
“In 1958.”
“Where?”
“In Santa Clara. That’s where we were living. Before the revolución.”
“You and my mother?”
Luis nodded and sipped his coffee. They were both silent, but Luis felt an odd intimacy between them, as if they had been drinking their morning coffee together for years. He pushed the thought out of his mind. He must be imagining it.
Michael set his cup down and gazed at Luis. “Tell me. Why should I believe you?”
“Believe what?”
“That you—and my mother—lived together? Were—are—you…” he stumbled over the words, “…my parents?”
This was the reaction Luis had been waiting for. “You should believe it because it’s the truth,” he said.
“How do I know you didn’t fake this photo? And the story? To lure me in.”
“Lure you? Where? For what purpose?” Luis spread his hands. “You found me.” At the same time, Michael’s question intimated he had not come to Cuba simply to connect with his father. Something else was driving him. Something that involved risk—perhaps danger. Luis briefly thought about retrieving his service revolver, then decided against it. This was his son.
Michael gazed at him, searching his face. What did he see, Luis wondered. Was it the same thing Luis had seen when he eavesdropped on Michael’s conversation with the men in the warehouse? How much they physically resembled each other?
Then, “So what was the relationship between my mother and you? Were you married?”
Luis didn’t bother to keep the surprise out of his voice. “She never told you?”
Michael shook his head.
“I see.” He paused. “She—your mother, Francesca—was the only woman I have ever loved. And she loved me.”
“But you weren’t married.”
“We would have—but the revolution…”
“I don’t understand. I was born in the States.”
“Your mother ran away from La Perla to be with me in Santa Clara. We were there a few months. But then her father—your grandfather—discovered where we were, came in with a squad of men, and kidnapped her. He forced her to go back to America. It was during the peak of the revolution. Everything was in chaos. Everyone was frightened. She was pregnant when she left.”
“Were you?” Michael’s tone was almost accusatory.
“Was I what?”
“Were you frightened?”
Luis hesitated again. He had to tell his son the truth. “No. I was with the rebels. I was overjoyed. Cuba was finally going to be free.”
“Except it didn’t turn out that way.”
“Nothing turned out the way it was supposed to.” Luis stared at him. “Except you.”
A faraway look came across Michael’s face. He was quiet.
After a long moment, Luis asked, “What are you thinking?”
Michael looked startled. Luis wondered if Michael thought he was presumptuous to have asked the question.
His son flicked his eyes to the photograph of his mother. His expression hardened. “My mother…” he said, eyes narrowing, “… had a secret life. A life she never shared. How could she be so selfish? Why didn’t she tell me that man she married—that man…” he spat out the word, “…wasn’t my real father?”
“It was a difficult, complicated time. She was probably forbidden to say anything.”
“Yeah, sure,” Michael said caustically in English. Then he switched back to Spanish. “Since when would that stop her, once she’d made up her mind?”
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Luis smiled. “That’s the Francesca I remember. Willful. Spoiled. But so beautiful. And such spirit…” His voice trailed off.
“You did love her,” Miguel seemed surprised.
“And I can only imagine how much she loved—loves—you,” Luis said. “She was consumed by the times. Do not be angry with her. She had no control.”
“If you loved her so much, why didn’t you go after her? Bring her back? Or move there?”
“Forces were beyond my control as well. I fought for the revolution. I became part of the new regime. I never heard a word from her in those early years, and, after a while, I realized I never would. Until now.” He shifted. “Tell me, Miguel, when did your mother change her mind? Why are you here?” Despite the toll of so many years and so much disappointment, Luis couldn’t suppress the hope in his voice. “Does she have a message for me?”
His son looked away.
Something was off. Luis leaned forward, hands on his thighs. “You are here because of her, no?”
Michael put his coffee down, stood, and started to pace the small room.
“She didn’t send me,” he finally said.
“Her father, then? What does Tony Pacelli want from me after so long?”
Miguel didn’t reply.
“Not your grandfather, either?”
When Miguel still didn’t answer, Luis straightened. “There is only one other person in the world that knows who you are. But he died in Angola….” As comprehension dawned, Luis broke off. “Perhaps he didn’t.”
Miguel wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He started toward the door. “I must go.”
Luis stood. “Why?”
Miguel didn’t reply.
“When will you come back? We have much to discuss.”
But his son bolted through the door and sprinted away from the house. He didn’t look back.