CHAPTER 8

Anabel had prepared sandwiches. She’d scraped mustard from the bottom of the jar Gimenez had brought them on his last visit and smeared it on top of the ham. She topped it off with a slice of lettuce for crunchiness, just as Serguey liked it. She was looking to give him temporary satisfaction, to be mindful of the small pleasures left for them. She was sensing the insidious approach of change, Serguey assumed, and she wanted to retain matrimonial gestures, packed with love in their simplicity. It was either that, or she intended to make a demand and wanted him in a favorable mood.

Regardless, he was grateful. He shared with her in detail what’d happened at Calderas. Montalvo knew about his Sweden assignment, so he feared that the State Security Department at work was already monitoring him. He told her about Kiko and Claudia and how that might be a start. Things just needed to get moving. He had purchased two calling cards on the way to the apartment. Leave nothing to chance, was his new attitude. Give them nothing that they can use as evidence later.

Anabel listened straight-faced, barely touching her sandwich. When he asked her if she wasn’t hungry, she replied that she would save it for later. She took Serguey’s empty plate, brushed the breadcrumbs into the garbage bin in the kitchen, and dumped the plate in the sink. Her own plate she put in the fridge.

A demand it was.

As she walked back to the dining table, he asked her, “What’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing’ because I know that isn’t true.”

She sat next to him. “I don’t want to play the wife-at-home role on this one. I want to help. I want my opinions to matter. I know Felipe’s your father, but he’s my family too.”

“Who says you can’t help?”

“I’m just pointing out how I feel.”

What he saw as protecting his wife, she saw as exclusion. Still, he was surprised. Anabel was seldom selfish about her feelings. “Where’s all this coming from?”

“You shouldn’t tackle your problems alone. I know you have your brother, but quite frankly, and you know I like him, he isn’t the brightest bulb in the box.”

“Victor’s smarter than you think,” he said instinctively. “And of course I want your help. But it’s not like you need to go with me everywhere.”

She began fidgeting with her fingers. “I just want my opinions to matter.”

“You already said that.”

“I think we should go to the Church.” Her eyes met his, then she withdrew them to her own hands, watching her fingers continue to fiddle with an invisible object.

She should have opened with that, he thought. “The Church?”

“My parents are friends with a priest. My mom believes he’s assisted in getting people out of prison before.”

“You mean political prisoners?”

“Some of them, yes.”

She had fallen for the set-up. “You’ve already told your parents that my dad is a political prisoner?”

She crossed her arms. “What was I supposed to tell them? My parents aren’t communists, Serguey. They know how this country works.”

Serguey shoved his chair back as he got up. “So they have no respect for what I do.”

Anabel’s mouth twisted into a mien of anger. “Don’t pretend like they don’t love you. They’re very happy for us. They might be religious, but they don’t judge other people like that, especially their son-in-law.”

Serguey clamped two fingers to the bridge of his nose and lifted his head. Through a narrow gap in his lips he released a prolonged hiss, meant to signify deep irritation. A feeling of déjà vu suddenly swept over him. He realized he was imitating his father, hoping to maximize the effect that his histrionics might have on his audience. He dropped his arms inelegantly and said, “The Church could be problematic, Anabel. You know how the government feels about it.”

Her eyes were pinned on his. “And how do you think they feel about bloggers?”

“I can keep my name out of it.”

“You can do the same with the Church. You can trust my parents.”

It took a moment for him to reply. “We can’t go around involving people. If all this backfires, then who knows what route the river of shit that will follow is going to take?”

“What’s the alternative? Hope that some woman you’ve never met gets Felipe’s story to the right people? Are you going to walk into a police station and demand your dad’s freedom?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Maybe what it takes is going to the Church. We have to take risks. We have to be willing to sacrifice everything.” She tilted back and raised her eyebrows. “If you play it safe, you won’t forgive yourself, and then I’ll have to deal with that for the rest of my life.”

He had no retort. He sat still in his chair and laid his hands on the table, gazing at the opposite wall. “Do you really think it’ll make a difference?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But—”

“But we have to try.”

“We’ve been dealt a shitty hand. We have no choice but to play it. We’ve always been that couple: whatever has to be done, we do it. With your dad, it can’t be different.”

He sighed. “Let me sleep on it, at least.”

Anabel took his hands. “Thank you.”

At night they made love. Another small pleasure. More than anything, it felt like release to him, as if all his tension and worries had been momentarily exorcised from his body. He thought of a joke, as the double-entendres were not lost on him, but he refrained, not wanting to cheapen the moment. He let Anabel snuggle close, her cheek on his sweaty shoulder. He loved how her skin felt when it was wet: warm and slippery, as if it could slide into any position until their bodies locked. She wasn’t shy in bed. Quite the opposite. She was brazen, self-assured. The first few times they were intimate, Serguey wondered whether she’d find him too passive, too hesitant, and whether this would cause her to grow bored of him. He caressed her body, always stealing looks at her face, searching for signals. Apparently she enjoyed it, never discouraging him. Occasionally, she proffered him an indicator—the subtle thrust of her pelvis, the palpable tightening of her thigh, the sensual arching of her back. She’d licked her own lips once. It had been reactionary, not something to entice him. He naively thought this only occurred in movies. He was thankful. Perhaps he’d gotten better at it, though he’d been too abashed to ask her.

As Serguey turned off the bedside lamp, he sensed Anabel’s hand crawling to his pelvis.

“I’m spent,” he told her.

She recoiled her hand. “It’s okay.” Her voice was lambent, like a drifting ember in the darkness of the room.

“Are you sure your mother’s fine making an appointment to see the priest?”

She repositioned her head on her pillow, the way he knew she did when she was readying herself to sleep. “The only reason she didn’t make it already,” she said, “is that I warned her not to until I’d spoken with you.”

“Good.”

“And we’re going together.”

He scrabbled for and kissed the edge of her mouth, still moist from the sweat. “Of course,” he said. “Together.”

It was during instants like this one, in the placating space of their bedroom, where he could isolate his thoughts as he could her scent or her slightest movement, that he felt most blessed to have her by his side. It was here that he could reflect on what she had forgone for his sake. Anabel had had dreams of her own when they met. She wanted to be a psychologist. She attended the University of Havana for a year before being burned out—as many students were—by the insufferable load of Marxism-Leninism courses.

“They feed you so much bullshit,” she told Serguey in confidence. “It’s like they want you to quit. I’m interested in psychology, not politics.”

She took a handful of courses and got her license to teach elementary school math, a job that was in high demand. She figured she could land one quickly, somewhere near their home, and do that while Serguey’s career took off. Then came the vague promise of a secretarial position if Serguey got the Swedish Embassy position. That’d been six months prior. Anabel chose to quit after two years of teaching. She wanted to be available in case the opportunity presented itself. That’s what she told her husband, though Serguey suspected that it was because her menial salary, like that of most Cubans, didn’t justify the amount of work.

Now, Serguey knew, his window to travel might be closing, and Anabel was sacrificing just as much as he was.

This is what he opted to tell Gimenez the following morning, when, as Serguey did a second set of push-ups on the balcony while Anabel slept, the phone rang with a call from his boss. Gimenez began with a sequence of polite questions about Felipe’s condition.

“All things considered,” Serguey replied, sitting stiffly on the sofa, his muscles throbbing from the exercise, “he’s doing fine.”

Gimenez expressed what Serguey would have described as overstated gladness, and then told him that he had phoned to let Serguey know that he was holding down the fort in regards to the guys on the fifth floor.

“They’re curious about your involvement,” his boss said, “but that shouldn’t be surprising. I told them you’ve been given a week-long leave of absence so that you can clear up everything on your end.”

“Right,” Serguey said, his own tone a bit inflated. “Thank you.” The neurons on his brain conditioned to carry and transmit legal knowledge were telling him that “clear up everything” was coded language. It was more than advice. It was a warning. “I just want to make sure this won’t affect my Sweden assignment.” He stood, holding the telephone cord like a fishing line, gradually releasing the tension as he peered down the hall. “Anabel is really worried. This is an opportunity for both of us.”

“And that’s what you should keep in mind,” Gimenez said. “Can I expect you back next week?”

Serguey twirled the cord with his fingers. “Absolutely.”

“If you need anything, I’m here for you.” There was a gap in his mentor’s voice, filled by the sound of shuffling papers and a drawer slamming shut. Edging his mouth closer to the receiver, it seemed to Serguey, Gimenez said, “Tell Anabel that.”

Serguey collapsed slowly onto the sofa. His arms now ached from fatigue. Letting go of the cord, he lolled his head back and responded, “I will.”