chapter twenty-four

TO FEEL NOTHING

The last days before the competition passed quickly. Pablo kept us too worn out to think—he grew more agitated by the day. “What’s the matter with you kids?” he’d ask. “You’ve lost your spark.”

We couldn’t tell him, of course. The days after the car ride were almost a relief, though. The previous week we’d suspected someone was watching us. Now we knew we were being watched. The certainty of it was liberating.

It wasn’t fear that got me, that final week. It was living my last days in Havana and knowing I might never return.

I sat down for breakfast with Juanita, and she told me next year I had to come for Yolanda’s birthday. We’d rent a cabin on the beach and grill food and lounge in the sun. I nodded and smiled and said that sounded nice. She laughed with someone on the phone or sang boleros doing the dishes—and I couldn’t understand how someone right next to me, someone breathing the same air, could possibly be so cheerful.

As for Yosvany, all he talked about these days was his reggaeton CD. His band had gotten studio time, and he talked of winning a Latin Grammy already. Neither Ana nor I saw much point in dampening his spirits.

“I like him,” Ana said. “I mean, cantidad. But it’s not his political acumen that gets me going, if you know what I’m saying.”

Which was a conversation that I stopped right there. But still, despite everything, I knew I’d miss my cousin.

Yolanda had freaked out the night of our conversation with Valdes. We’d only remembered to call her when we got to Avenida de los Presidentes. By that time she’d taken a cab to La Gruta and asked everyone within five blocks if they’d seen us. She’d been about to go home and tell Juanita everything, hoping her government friends could help. When we finally met up on Twenty-Third that night, she sat us down in a small street café, her expression quiet, grave.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I made a mistake getting you guys involved. You have to promise me one thing—for the rest of your time in Cuba, don’t take any risks. Not a single one, okay?”

We didn’t tell her that we’d already made that same decision.

The morning before the contest, we walked to Pablo’s for one final practice. In the stairwell to his apartment, the sound of raised voices made us stop—Pablo’s voice and his daughter Liliana’s.

“—give me a chance, mija. I’m working things out—”

“Yeah, with Jimmy and Dionisio and those guys every night, don’t you think I know?”

“Yes, with Jimmy and Dionisio, playing dominoes!”

“Ha!”

“Come back and you’ll see. I’m working hard every day, training those yumas for a TV show—”

“Oh, stop already—”

“It’s true! You should see them now that—”

“Grow up, papá. I’ve got to go.”

Ana tugged at my arm. Up to that point I’d stood frozen on the stairs, listening, not sure whether to go up or retreat. But she pulled me forward decisively.

We reached the top to find Pablo and his daughter still there, faced off outside his apartment door. Liliana wore the same white outfit as the last time I saw her, and it looked damp with sweat. Her son Lalo hugged her waist and studied the floor between his mother and grandfather.

“There they are!” Relief washed across Pablo’s face. “Morning, guys.”

“Morning,” Ana said. She strode right up to them, leaving me to catch up.

“Hi,” I said with my usual eloquence.

Liliana acknowledged us with a tight nod. “I’m off, papá. We’ve got shopping to do.”

“Come in for a minute,” Pablo said. “Watch Rick and Ana dance.”

“I don’t want to bother them,” Liliana said.

“It’s no problem,” I said.

Liliana shook her head. “I only came by for the mail. It’s a busy day.”

“Well, then, promise us one thing.” Ana smiled cheerfully, as if she really believed Liliana’s words. “You’ll watch us on TV.”

Liliana’s eyebrows rose. She glanced at Pablo, nodded. “Fine. Let’s go, Lalo.”

The boy cast a look over his shoulder, waved at his grandpa uncertainly. Pablo didn’t wave back. When they were gone he didn’t move from the door, didn’t say a thing, didn’t look at us—only stared at where Lalo had been moments ago.

After a moment Ana touched his shoulder. “Come, Pablo. Let’s dance.”

“I . . . ,” he began, then seemed to gather himself. “I can’t today.”

“The contest’s tomorrow,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” Pablo said flatly. “I’ve got plans.”

Ana and I exchanged a glance. Minutes ago Pablo had been ready for a class. I think we both knew what kind of plan he’d come up with.

“These things take time, Pablo,” Ana said. “They will learn to trust you again, if you only—”

“Shut your mouth!” Pablo barked.

I jumped. Ana herself barely even drew back, though I suspected that was surprise more than anything.

“I don’t need advice from a couple of kids who’ve seen nothing of life,” Pablo said.

Ana looked at him. It was a steady look and calm.

I realized I’d been wrong. She wasn’t surprised at all.

“You’re right. I haven’t seen much of life.” Ana spoke quietly. “But I know this. Your daughter, she wants to believe you. She wants to believe you so bad it hurts. But she’s afraid.”

I listened to her. Something ached deep in my chest.

Pablo grunted. He turned away, walked to his door.

That ache in my chest, it worked its way up my throat. “You made a promise,” I said. “Back when we started out, you promised that you’d keep it together.”

Pablo stopped halfway through the door. Didn’t turn to look at me.

“Hold off until tomorrow,” I said. “Come see us dance. You owe us that.”

He went inside and shut the door. The lock turned.

Ana sighed.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah.” Ana gestured dismissively. “People make their own choices. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

I nodded, though I didn’t buy her nonchalance. “Want to go back and practice on our own?”

“Maybe later. Yosvany’s playing at the paladar this morning. You want to come?”

That pang in my chest again.

“Some other time,” I said.

We both knew there would be no other time on this trip. Or possibly ever.

By eleven o’clock that night, Ana and Yosvany still hadn’t returned.

It was a hot, windless evening, and the electricity was out in our building. I sat bare-chested in the dark of the living room, hoping to catch a breeze from the open windows, and stared at the door. I felt like the star of one of those dog-waiting-for-owner videos—not a fitting pastime for the Cat Guy, perhaps, but I couldn’t make myself turn away.

When Juanita had asked, I’d covered for them, said Yosvany was taking Ana to a concert. In fact, Ana and I had been planning to practice.

A hundred scenarios floated before my eyes in the dark, a hallucinogenic sequence. The two of them held up by thugs on a dark street in Centro Habana, or locked up in some police cell, or disappeared behind the gray walls of Valdes’s workplace, never to emerge again.

There was also a different kind of vision. The two of them in some bedroom, going at it loud and hard, in Technicolor and Dolby Surround. Oblivious that I was freaking out.

At eleven fifteen, I picked up my cell and dialed Ana’s number for the seventeenth time. The tone rang. Rang. Rang. Clicked off.

It was time to tell Yolanda.

My cell buzzed.

A message from Ana. It contained the address of an intersection in Miramar and one word, come.

I caught a rolling coffin of an almendrón across town. My destination proved a well-lit corner in a residential part of Miramar, home to a mansion-sized night club.

Kids my age were chilling outside, smoking and drinking and chatting among themselves. Even out on the street, the music rattled windows.

I steeled myself, paid the entrance, and went in.

Dark corridors. Choking cigarette smoke. Cold, cold air from industrial-strength AC—my damp T-shirt became an icy towel about my torso. Kids lounged about by the walls. I scanned the faces in the dark but saw no sign of Ana or Yosvany. A door off the corridor led to a dance floor; I went inside.

Noise. Louder than anything I’d ever heard. The music blasted at you like a cannon going off in your face three times a second.

Disco lights flashed on and off in a rapid, dizzying sequence. Lasers painted green patterns on the black-box walls and floor, and on the milling kids. Teenagers all of them, the youngest club crowd I’d seen in Havana, swaying and gyrating, thrusting their chests in and out to the reggaeton beat. Many of the kids danced in couples. The girl bent forward at the waist, swaying. The guy behind her, his crotch up against her butt, thrusting in rhythmic pantomime. A subtle, nuanced dance, reggaeton.

I looked for Ana and Yosvany in the crowd.

Not here.

I left the dance floor, kept going down the corridor outside. It ended in a bar area. The music here, still louder than at any bar in New York, must have been too quiet for the locals—only a few kids were at the counter drinking.

In the corner, at a plastic table with six Bucanero empties before her, sat Ana.

She looked up unsteadily when I approached. “Hey.” Her makeup was smudged. She’d been crying.

I sat beside her. “What happened?”

Ana didn’t answer for so long I thought she never would. She picked up a can of Bucanero, rattled it, looked at the bar as if weighing the difficulty of getting up. “Remember when I started going out with Yosvany? How I said I just wanted to have fun? That I knew what he was like?”

“Aha.”

“Well, I was right about the second part.”

I considered this. “I’m sorry.”

And I was. To my own surprise, I felt no vindictiveness, no urge to say I told you so.

“I thought I wouldn’t care.” Ana’s voice shook. “But that’s tough, you know?”

I thought of Tania my last morning in Trinidad, standing there in the middle of my room. “Yeah.”

“I guess it takes practice, learning to feel nothing.” She tipped over the empty can of beer at her fingertips. “This stuff does help, though. You do feel less. I wonder if my dad . . . I wonder if that’s why . . .”

I had no wisdom to offer her, so we sat in silence for a while. Ana bumped her shoulder against mine once, as if by accident, then again. Then she leaned against me.

It occurred to me that Yosvany would call this a prime opportunity. Comfort Ana, pat her back, see if this could become something more.

Maybe a few weeks ago I would have felt tempted.

Eventually Ana spoke again. “So I showed up at the paladar, looking for Yosvany. But his uncle Elio was like, what are you doing here? Said Yosvany asked for the key to his house and he figured we, well . . .” Ana glanced at me, looked away. “Well, we used the house sometimes, you know. So we could—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said quickly. “No need to draw me a picture.”

“Except going to the house wasn’t the plan today. I understood at once what was up. Elio must have realized too, because he got this look. I told him—oh, yeah, d’oh, I forgot, what a dumbass. And I ran out of there, grabbed a cab. Because you know these machos, I was sure the first thing Elio did was call Yosvany, give him a heads up. So I rushed across Vedado, thinking maybe I’ll catch this girl bolting out of the house. Except I was wrong.” Ana laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I forgot Yosvany turns off his phone in bed.”

I pulled away from her a bit. I didn’t want to know what Yosvany did in bed.

Ana kept right on. “I walked in on them. Kenny G playing, this song he said made him think of me. An empty Havana Club on the floor. And the two of them on the kitchen table. You want to know the best part?”

I really wasn’t sure I did, but Ana told me anyway.

“The girl was Celia, this white dancer chick. Yosvany introduced us a while ago. I shot her dancing for my film. We’d been hanging out for weeks, the three of us—and all the while he was banging her.” Ana crunched her fist around the nearest beer can. “Classy guy, your cousin.”

“I’m sorry.” Then, piecing it together, “Wait, you shot this girl for your film? Is she . . . ?”

“Yeah. She’s dancing in the contest tomorrow.”

“With Yosvany?”

“What? No, with her partner.” Ana snorted. “I told Yosvany he better not show up tomorrow, or I’m gonna slug him on national TV.”

“Well . . .” I considered what I was about to say, decided I was okay with it. “We don’t have to dance tomorrow. Not if you don’t want to.”

“You kidding? We’re gonna show up and we’re gonna win this thing. Show that skank how it’s done.”

“Sure.” Ana had shown me some footage of the other couples practicing. I rated our chances on par with those of the Jamaican bobsled team in the Winter Olympics. “We’ll leave them in the dust.”

Ana draped her arm across my back, an easy, familiar gesture. “You’re a great guy, Rick.” She leaned her head on my shoulder. “Trustworthy, not like that comemierda. And you’re a hunk too.”

I sat perfectly still for a moment, wondering. Maybe . . .

But I knew this wasn’t real.

I put my arm around her shoulders, gave them a squeeze. “We’d better get home.”

“I’m not a drunk,” she spoke up then, straightening forcefully. “I’ve just had a hard day. You know that, Rick. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I told her. “Let’s get back, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She slurred her words a bit, gave me a sly little smile. “Take me to bed, Rick Gutiérrez.”

I did. Ana to her bed and me to mine.

Though not before she hugged me goodnight, long and tight. Then I too wished I knew how to feel nothing.