chapter seventeen

Marisol

I check us into a resort on the beach, Luis beside me as I speak to the woman behind the desk, curiosity in her gaze.

We lack the familiarity of longtime couples, and it’s impossible to miss the tension between us. Luis shifts from side to side, his hands sunk deep in the pockets of his trousers, his eyes trained to a spot on the wall, near—but not quite meeting—the receptionist’s gaze.

I glance around us—we’re surrounded by couples, families, all clearly tourists. A man stands off to the side, a folded copy of Granma in his hand. While obviously a local, he definitely doesn’t look like a guest.

In the research I did before coming to Cuba, I read about the more tragic parts of life here—the flourishing sex trade, tourists preying on the sheer desperation of Cuban men and women who can earn more in a night selling themselves than they will in a year working for the state. Does she think that’s what this is? That my expensive clothes and bags, the fat wad of CUCs in my hand, mean I’m here taking advantage of Luis?

I finish the transaction quickly, my gaze now resting on the same invisible point that draws Luis’s attention, my heart pounding.

We are an unlikely match, and I have no clue how to bridge the differences between us. I know a thing or two about Cuban pride—is he ashamed that I’m the one paying for the room, that the differences between us are so vast? Will his friends judge him for taking up with a rich American, view him as a sellout or me as his winning lottery ticket?

And how could I explain this to my family? Would they consider Luis a communist because he stayed behind, because his family has served the regime in different capacities? I can’t imagine him in my world, and I certainly don’t belong in his. Where does that leave us?

Luis carries my bag and his own, following my lead as we walk through the lobby, heading toward the room the woman assigned us. We step into the elevator—blissfully empty—and I stare down at my feet, doubts running through my mind.

I should have gotten us two rooms. This has “bad idea” written all over it. We barely know each other. I came here to lay my grandmother to rest, not to have a fling, however much I gravitate toward him. This is happening too quickly, gaining speed with each moment we spend together, with each kiss—

“Marisol.” Luis takes my hand, his fingers stroking my wrist. “For most of my life, it was against the law for Cubans to stay in hotels like this. Now we can, but only the smallest percentage of Cubans can actually afford them. I’m sorry if I’m a bit”—he pauses as though he’s searching for the right word—“uncomfortable,” he finishes. “It’s not you; it’s simply the way of things.”

I can’t imagine the lack of freedom he describes, not to mention the feeling that Cubans are treated as though their country isn’t even theirs, as though their wants, their needs, their lives are subservient to the foreigners who come and go at will, when they themselves have little to no control over their own movements.

“I’ve never done this before,” he adds.

“No American tourists?” I ask, my heart thundering in my chest as I struggle to keep my tone light.

“No tourists at all.” He leans into me, his lips brushing my cheekbone. “This means something to me.”

“This means something to me, too,” I reply.

The elevator pings, and the door slides open. Luis holds his arm out while I walk into the hall, following the sign to our room.

There it is.

610.

I fumble with the key, my fingers shaking as I try to turn it in the lock. Once. Twice. The key scrapes against the metal, my palms damp.

Luis steps up, his chest against my back, his hand covering mine. He takes the key from me, slipping it into the lock, turning it in one fluid motion.

Goose bumps rise over my skin.

His free arm snakes around my waist, holding me against him, his breath on my neck, his face buried in my hair.

The door opens, revealing our hotel room. It’s small, but clean. Certainly not opulent, but enough.

We cross the threshold, Luis’s arm still around me, and the door closes behind us with a click.

We’re finally alone.

I set my bag on the floor near the door, my gaze on the bed. It overshadows everything else in the room, the implication contained there setting off a whole new set of jitters. Is this really about to happen?

I take a deep breath, then another, attempting to sift through the emotions tumbling around inside me. A part of me wants this desperately, has wanted it from the beginning, the desire intensified by our kisses on the beach, by each moment I spend with him. The other part of me is still mulling over the impossibility of us, guarding my heart as I listen to my head. A little caution seems prudent in this situation, even as my willpower crumbles with each second that passes.

“What are we doing here?” I ask, staring at the bed, the floral bedspread, the two pillows propped against the headboard. I imagine us lying there, limbs entwined.

“I don’t know,” Luis admits as he takes a step closer to me. Then another. “You are entirely unexpected.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No. Just complicated.” He takes a deep breath. “I thought you were beautiful when I watched you walk out of the airport. You looked so vibrant and excited, your hair blowing in the breeze. I hoped you were the one I was there to pick up, and then you walked toward me and I thanked whatever power it was that brought us together.”

I turn, facing him, the uncertainty in his expression surprisingly reassuring, the desire in his eyes sending a thrill through me.

“I thought you were laughing at me,” I confess.

“I thought you were charming,” he says. “And yes, you made me laugh, but not at you. And then I drove you through Havana, took you to your family’s house and saw the way you looked at it, heard the way you spoke of your family, of what being Cuban meant to you, and I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That you were here for me.”

“How? How can this work? I don’t know what I want here,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, the caution and control I clung to slipping away. “In this moment, I want you. But after that—”

“Then maybe we just have this moment.”

“Is that enough?”

He smiles, a tinge of sadness on his face. “I have a feeling there will never be enough moments with you, Marisol.”

If any other guy said that to me, I would dismiss it as another line, a move in the dating game, but there is something eminently trustworthy in him, and the sincerity I saw in him from the beginning, the solemnity in his expression, the truth in his words removes any doubt. He is not a careless man, and whatever the future holds, I know he will be careful with me.

My legs quiver as I sink down on the edge of the bed. My fingers fist the bedspread beneath me as I stare at the bright pattern—the garish colors blending together into a kaleidoscope before my eyes, my heart thundering in my chest.

How can someone be so comforting, and yet, utterly terrifying at the same time?

When I look up, Luis is standing next to the edge of the bed, the leg of his trousers brushing against my knees.

He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to. There have been moments when I’ve found him to be impossible to read, but in this moment, in this hotel room, his guard is down, his emotions etched all over his face, in the tremor in his hand as he reaches out and strokes my hair, as I curl into his touch, as he skims the curve of my cheek.

My eyes slam closed.

I wait for him to kiss me, to lever me back onto the mattress, his strong arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me against his sinewy frame. I wait for a moment that stretches on and on, until I can’t wait anymore, the anticipation building inside me, the spark that was lit burning fierce and strong.

In the end, I’m the one who moves. Because while I don’t have the answers to any of the questions filling me with doubt and uncertainty, I know this—

If I don’t close the distance between us now, I will regret it for the rest of my life.

I lean into the arc of his body, pulling him down to meet me, catching him on an exhale, my mouth pressed against his, his breath becoming my breath, my hands taking over, my body colliding with his as the last of my misgivings retreat.

Luis bends me back, taking over the kiss, lowering me to the mattress, the comforter rough against the bare skin above my dress, his body firm against mine, a hint of breeze blowing across my skin from the ceiling fan rotating overhead, the distant noise of guests in the hall intruding on our privacy.

He whispers endearments to me in the language of my heart, his lips ghosting across my earlobe, his hands roaming over my curves, his fingers unhooking and removing clothing in a tangle of limbs, as I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, his belt, our shoes falling off the edge of the bed, our movements punctuated by the occasional bout of laughter, by a sweeping wave of desire that binds me to him with each moment that passes, until the rightness of this—of us—simply eclipses all else.

---

•   •   •

Afterward we lie in bed, naked, my head resting on his bare chest, his hand stroking my hair.

Minutes pass. The only sound in the room is the inhale and exhale of breath. What comes next?

His fingers walk across my skin.

I tip my head toward him for a kiss.

“I wasn’t expecting this when I picked you up at the airport,” Luis whispers against my mouth.

“I wasn’t expecting any of this,” I admit. “I came here planning to write an article about traveling to Cuba, and instead of paladares and sightseeing, my notepad is filled with politics.”

“Cuba is rubbing off on you,” he says, pride in his voice.

“I guess it is.”

“You could write an article about politics once you’re home, you know.”

“Cuban politics?”

“Why not?”

“Politics aren’t really my thing. I write about accessible topics—the best restaurants to eat at when you’re in a particular city, a skin-care regimen that will help keep wrinkles at bay, the ideal way to pack your suitcase to maximize your storage space.”

“And politics aren’t accessible?”

I turn onto my side, facing him. “I suppose I’ve never seen myself that way. I’ll leave things like revolutions to people who are well versed in what they’re talking about. I’m not exactly known for being serious.” I offer a wry grin. “I’m sort of the flighty one in the family.”

Luis makes a disapproving noise in his throat. “You can write about revolutions and the best way to pack your suitcase. One doesn’t make you less than the other.”

I laugh. “If only it were that simple.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Because my family expects things of me, because my last name carries a weight of responsibility and I’ve never quite measured up. I doubt anyone cares to hear what I have to say about politics. Every family has that one person who doesn’t fit; that’s always been me.”

Except for my grandmother. She adjusted to the curves and shifts of my life with agility and understanding, and occasionally, a plate of merenguitos.

“It can be simpler than you think,” Luis replies. “You can’t live your life to please others if you’re not proud of yourself. I saw the man Cristina wanted me to be, and no matter how hard I tried to pretend, I simply could not be that sort of man—the type who turned a blind eye to injustice and cruelty—and still retain some semblance of pride.”

“Are you happy now?”

He smiles. “Am I happy in this very moment? Right now, in bed with you?”

I grin, burying my head in the curve of his neck. “Yes.”

“Yes,” he echoes.

I look into his eyes, my fingers skimming the bruise on his cheekbone, his expression sobering. I open my mouth to speak—

“I don’t know—”

“—Things are complicated right now,” he says, finishing the thought for me.

“Yes.”

I’m leaving in a few days, and he’ll remain here. Even as things are slowly, subtly changing, a wall exists between our countries—an ocean of differences—and I don’t know how to navigate it.

Luis sighs, his chest heaving with the effort. “These are difficult times in Cuba. Right now my fortunes are hers, and unless things radically change they’re on a decidedly downward trend.” He’s silent for a heartbeat. “I don’t want them to be yours.”

“Is it better for anyone? Than it was before?”

“Is the status quo better for some? Perhaps,” Luis answers after a beat. “For those involved in the upper echelons of the regime, sure. The military, for one. I saw that firsthand. For certain members of the artistic class, their art shields them from that which most Cubans experience. They can travel, tout their talent and the impression that it was nurtured in a Cuba that prizes education and art, making Cuba look good. Same for the baseball players and other elite athletes.”

“And for those who don’t agree with the regime?”

Luis grimaces. “Then it is very bad.” He sits up, pulling away from me, leaning back against the headboard. Gone is the man content to languish over my curves, interspersing his caresses with laughing kisses.

“It’s a bit better for the farmers, I suppose, for those living in the rural areas,” Luis continues. “They were pushed to the fringes of Cuban society under Batista. Under Fidel, they at least had the ability to feed themselves off the land, even if they risked imprisonment to do it. When we were hungry, life in the city became a curse.

“When I was a boy, we went to the country and a family friend gave us meat from one of his animals that he had killed. It was illegal for us to have it, but food was scarce then and we were so hungry. On the way back to Havana, our car broke down, the same one I am driving now, and I will never forget the fear in my grandmother’s and mother’s eyes as men came and helped us get it working again, as they worried someone would discover the meat in their trunk.”

“What would have happened?”

“Life in prison.”

I gasp.

Luis shrugs. “When you’re so hungry you fear you will die, you’re willing to risk it. It wasn’t always like that in Cuba, but there were too many times when desperation was all we knew.”

“Your mother and grandmother must have been very strong to survive on their own like that. To raise you amid such tumult.”

Luis smiles, love shining in his eyes. “They’re amazing. Two of the strongest people I’ve ever known. My grandmother is all smiles and welcomes everyone. My mother is more guarded, but she’s always been there for me.”

“Did your mother ever think of leaving Cuba with you?”

“We never discussed it,” Luis answers. “When my father was alive, there was no need. Life was relatively good as an officer’s wife, as an officer’s son. And I think my mother was more open to the regime back then. Her family believed in Fidel’s reforms; it was a passion she and my father initially shared, although I imagine that passion has all but disappeared after she’s seen the future the revolution promised.”

“I can’t believe the regime has lasted so long given the life you describe.”

“It would be narrow-minded to say the entire country feels as I do, but many do,” Luis replies. “And even though we cannot wear that banner proudly, I believe there are enough of us to change things.”

He delivers the words with such conviction that I almost believe it possible.

“Did any of Fidel’s reforms succeed?” I ask.

“The social ones fared far better than the economic and political ones, for sure. Look, it’s not all bad. I agree with some of the things he’s done or attempted to do. Being black in Cuba is a bit better than it was in 1959—on paper, at least,” Luis adds. “But is ‘a bit better’ enough? It’s been nearly sixty years. How much has the world changed in that time? Race still matters here even though the regime says it does not. The majority of the exiles who send money back in the form of remittances to their relatives are of European descent. My black friends face difficulty getting hired to work in the tourism sector. Without remittances, without access to CUCs, the deck is stacked against black Cubans. And how can we measure racial inequality when the regime willfully ignores it?

“Men and women are ‘equal’ under Fidel’s government, but what does that mean? ‘On paper’ tells a far different tale from the reality of everyday life. This incremental progress where we exalt Fidel for the fact that things have gotten just the tiniest bit better in nearly sixty years is not enough. Fidel was good for Fidel and his cronies. The rest of us deserve more . . .”

He makes a sound of disgust.

“This island will break your heart if you let it.”

I think of my grandmother dreaming of a country just removed from her grasp, ninety miles that stretched on to eternity, of all the refugees and exiles in Miami and throughout the world, and I can’t disagree with him.

“Would you ever want to travel to the United States? If things changed and opportunities for Cubans increased?”

The question fills the air around us, the divide between our circumstances the elephant in the room.

“I don’t know. I got my passport years ago when they finally made it legal to travel. It seemed safe to hedge my bets even if the cost was prohibitively expensive. Without the paladar, I never would have had the funds. In Cuba, your passport is issued for six years, but it costs about two hundred dollars to perform the mandatory renewal every two years. Nearly a year’s salary every two years to just hold a passport. Add in the cost of travel and it seems like a very distant dream unless you have an outside benefactor or access to CUCs.

“And the United States?” Luis sighs. “It’s complicated. Within Cuba, there are different views on our relationship with the Americans. Some believe the United States is the source of our problems; others dream of moving there so they can earn enough money to send back to their families and eventually bring them over, too. And some think the reality lies in the middle.”

“Where do you fall on the United States?” I ask, half afraid of his answer.

Is it possible to separate your political views from your personal ones? To love someone who represents something you don’t agree with? I am American. Does he see me as an extension of my country’s at times flawed policies?

“We’ve paid the price of politics over and over again,” Luis responds. “The embargo is ridiculous. It’s hurt the Cuban people, not Fidel and his cohorts. It doesn’t work.”

“True. But to some it isn’t merely politics. For the most part, there’s a generational divide on the embargo. My grandparents’ contemporaries hate the idea of giving Fidel anything after he took everything from them. They had family members that stood before those firing squads, whose blood spilled on the ground, who were imprisoned for speaking out against injustice. Families were torn apart. They were separated from their loved ones, their memories, their legacies. Everything they had was seized by the government when they left. Their thoughts, emotions, lives were regulated by Fidel before they left. They watched the country they loved change into something they no longer recognized.

“The anger among the exiles is legitimate. It’s lessened with each subsequent generation, but there are real reasons for the anger. The revolution didn’t happen nearly sixty years ago for them. They live the revolution over and over again with each day they are in exile, with each hour they are reminded that they cannot go home.”

“And those of us who remained?” Luis asks. “In some cases perhaps those Cubans were made to leave, but for the most part you seem to forget that they had a choice.”

“Did they, though? How can you live in a place that seeks to eradicate your existence? That offers so little and takes so much?”

“I don’t have the answer to that. But you’ve seen the people suffering here. What do you think of the embargo?”

“The embargo hurts the Cuban people and fails to target the regime,” I reply. “But I didn’t lose a loved one to Fidel. My whole life, everything I worked for wasn’t taken from me. My generation is less inclined to hold on to the anger, but I am loyal to my grandmother, to my great-aunts. For the exiles, being Cuban means you’re born with a loathing for Fidel even after his death.”

Luis smiles ruthlessly. “That might be another trait we share.”

“Where do you stand on all of this?” I ask again.

“I love my country,” he replies. “I am Cuban. I will always be Cuban. Go to America to visit? Perhaps. But my home is here. My loyalty is with my country.”

“Is it really that simple, though? Not everyone has the luxury of tying their Cuban heritage to a place. For many being Cuban is something they carry with them in their hearts, something they fight to preserve even when all they have are their memories. When they left, they couldn’t take anything with them. No photographs, no official documents, no family heirlooms or mementos. That kind of exile makes you angry.”

“You’re right. Both sides love Cuba, they just do it in different ways. Some love it so much they can’t leave; others love it so much, they cannot stay.”

Luis takes a deep breath. “I write. Under a pseudonym. Online.”

The words would be innocuous anywhere else. I know quite a few people who blog on a wide range of subjects. But Luis doesn’t say the words like they’re innocuous; rather, as if he’s entrusting me with a secret—a deadly one. There’s an earnestness there, too, as though he wants me to know him, and this is the most intimate part.

“What do you write about?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Politics. He’s been hinting at it the entire time, and now that I know him better, it’s not shocking, really. He has a strong sense of justice coupled with an appreciation for history, and there is an abundance of injustice around him.

The look in his eyes—the fury blazing above a fading bruise on his cheekbone—says it all.

“What would they do if they found out?” I ask. “That’s the reason for the pseudonym, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I wanted to protect my family. They didn’t sign up for this, and it didn’t seem fair that they would suffer for me speaking out.”

“What would they do?” I ask again, a chill sliding down my spine as my gaze drifts back to the hints of violence on his face.

“It depends on how big of a threat they determined me to be, and given that I’m a professor teaching at the university, where I possess the power to subvert my students . . .” He sighs. “They could see me as a significant threat. They could block my site. Fire me. Fine my grandmother’s business to the point where it would no longer be viable or simply shut it down altogether. They could pay my neighbors and colleagues to spy on me. Hire men to rough me up. Throw me in jail. Arrange for me to meet with an untimely accident—a car crash or something similar. Perhaps a mugging in one of the less savory parts of the city.”

He delivers the words in a calm tone, yet with each deliberate pause, it’s clear how much he’s thought about this.

“That night we shared the rum on the veranda—you weren’t mugged, were you?”

“No.”

“So they already know who you are. They want you to stop.”

“Yes.”

“And the roughing-up was what, exactly?”

“A warning.”

“Has this happened before?”

“No. I wasn’t on their radar before, but now I appear to be.”

“What changed?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

I don’t believe him for a second. He’s not a man predisposed to deceit, and the false note in his words rings true in his voice and in his eyes.

“What changed?” I repeat.

“I don’t know for sure. They were more concerned with their fists connecting with my face than conversation, but if I had to guess . . .”

No.

“Me.”

His silence is all the confirmation I need.

“Oh my God.”

I’m going to be sick.

“It’s not your fault,” he adds quickly. “But you’re here as a journalist—tourism article or not—and no doubt they checked up on us when they learned you would be staying with the family. Perhaps the closer inspection was all it took.” Luis rubs his jaw. “It was only a matter of time before they found out. I knew when my grandmother mentioned you would be staying with us that it might draw the regime’s attention. It was my decision to make, my risk to take. I don’t regret it for a moment.”

“I am so sorry. I never wanted to bring trouble to your family, never wanted to be a burden. I could have stayed at a hotel or—”

“No. I am tired of worrying. Tired of hiding. I don’t want to endanger my family, but at the same time I knew the risk I was taking when I began blogging a few years ago. This was my choice, and I’ll deal with the consequences.”

Yet now that he’s told me the dangers he’s faced, I am filled with worry.

“How did you get started?” I ask.

“In the beginning, the blog was more for myself than anything else. It was an outlet, a way to express myself when the walls felt like they were closing in on me, when I choked on all the things I wanted to lecture about in the classroom and couldn’t speak of. I had friends who helped me. I would email my thoughts, and they would arrange for others to post them, often from overseas. It’s dangerous, but one of my friends—”

His voice breaks off before the name slips from his lips. I’ve no doubt he’s the sort of man who would die before spilling someone else’s secrets.

“He’s good with computers and feels the same way I do. I couldn’t do it without him. And still—” Worry enters his gaze. “He has a wife. Children. We’re all at risk here. My audience was small enough that I was probably able to operate below their notice for a long time, but it has grown each year. Who knows? With Fidel’s death the government seems to be cracking down even more.”

“What will you do? Are you going to stop? That’s what they want, isn’t it?”

Luis won’t meet my gaze, and once again his silence is answer enough.

“Is it worth it? Truly?”

“It depends on how you measure that, I suppose. Have my words connected with some? Made them think about our government? Our way of life? I hope so.”

He gives a self-deprecating laugh.

“On good days, I am hopeful. On bad days, I wonder why I bother. But isn’t that the point? They’ve created a system to wear you down so you’re so tired from the weight of it, fighting lines and bureaucracy and the things you need to make it through each day, you don’t have any fight left.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s difficult spreading your message when the government censors certain words in communications. I don’t know how many Cubans read what I write. I’m speaking in the hopes someone will hear me, that those outside Cuba will understand what life is like for us. I speak to remind myself I exist.

“I don’t know how to give up. How to not fight for Cuba, to not challenge myself and others to be better, do more, speak out against injustice.” He pauses. “Yes. It is worth it.”

“Does your family know?”

“We don’t speak of it, but I imagine my grandmother and mother suspect. Cristina, too. I’ve held these opinions for a long time even if blogging has become a fairly recent development. Cristina worried about my beliefs. She wanted me to keep my head down when we were married, to not agitate the regime. She’d already lost far too much.

“I feel like a coward blogging under a secret identity when others are so brave—like the Ladies in White taking to the streets to protest—but I love my family and I wanted to protect them. Besides, when the odds are as stacked against you as they are here in Cuba, you don’t play by the rules. The government certainly doesn’t.”

Was this what my grandmother felt? This fear? Did her wealth and privilege keep her removed from the revolution until it was in front of her and she couldn’t look away anymore?

“What happens now?” I ask, watching the fan turn, the blades going around and around again. Regardless of what he says, I hate that my presence here put him in the regime’s crosshairs, that he’s now under increased scrutiny because of me.

“I don’t know,” Luis answers.

For the first time in my life, I know true, bone-chilling fear. For the first time in my life, I understand the precarious frailty of freedom.