CHAPTER 10

Serguey could understand, even in a moment of belligerent frustration, how Felipe’s arrest had blemished his colleagues’ names. In some ways, Felipe had betrayed them, jeopardized their futures. His father had taught him that during the Mariel exodus in 1980, people egged the houses of those who were leaving the country, sometimes spit in their faces. Some did it out of spite and jealousy, sure, but there was no denying that a few had done it out of necessity. If they didn’t show their camaraderie with such zealotry, who was to say they wouldn’t come under suspicion? Who was to say they wouldn’t wake up one day to find their own front walls slathered with yolk, their porch floor peppered with sticky shells, the rancid smell not clearing for days? Even Parra had raised his voice, hoping to be heard confronting a dissident’s offspring. Serguey grasped that, for the foreseeable future, the mere mention of his own name and relationship to his father would elicit this kind of reaction. He was a walking plague. He also knew that sympathy for his father’s colleagues would have no legal bearing. It would get him no leniency if the police showed up at his home for assaulting Parra.

He chose not to share what’d transpired with Anabel and Alida. He simply told them the people at the council had declined to speak with him and insisted that he leave.

“State Security really scared them,” he said, relieved that the sisters weren’t feeling inquisitive. He spent the rest of the afternoon fretting a call at the door. He took his post-dinner coffee on the balcony, stealing glances at the street, dreading the sight of rotating lights, the wail of a police cruiser. He kept fiddling with the paper containing the phone number in his pocket. Could he trust Vivi or the Vilma woman whose name she’d written? Should he tell Anabel? Should he ask Alida if, by any chance, she’d heard of this Vilma? While omitting Parra from his version of the council trip, he had also omitted Vivi’s gesture. It was too late now, he thought, deciding that he would wait until the next day to call the woman. He needed time to weigh his options, to act rationally and not lose control again as he had with Parra and the other man. If the squabble at the council had stirred interest from the authorities, or if someone had seen Vivi chase after him, reaching out to the woman too soon could work against him.

Evening had swallowed El Vedado. On the nights when the scheduled power-outage hit their neighborhood, the distant lights of El Melia Cohiba and Riviera hotels became starkly visible. One section of the municipality glowed and sparkled, the tall streetlamps of El Malecon forming a luminous barricade, while the other lied dormant in a sprawling darkness. Energy had to be saved, the government had lamented since the beginning of the Special Period. Petroleum shortages called for sacrifices to be made.

Those who lived close to a lighted area often migrated to a friend’s home to watch the nine o’clock soap opera. It wasn’t rare, on evening walks, to see a crowd bundled up against a window, gasping and murmuring at the drama unfolding on a generous stranger’s television. When the power went out in Santos Suarez, people sat on their front porches in search of fresh air. Late night conversations unfurled, full of political jokes and hysterical laughter, the only way to keep madness at bay in such heat. All was forgiven on these nights, like a rant from a drunk who bites his tongue in the sobering morning. If the administrators in charge of the power grid weren’t feeling merciful and stuck to the full eight hours, entire families carried their mattresses out and dreamed under the stars. They rose from their slumber with whistles and celebratory cries when the power finally returned. Felipe didn’t allow Serguey and Victor to sleep outside. Perhaps as a form of protest against his father, an older Serguey and Anabel had slept on the balcony one night at his request, their own private camping trip.

Beyond the hotels was the sea, remote and dark. Presently, a strong wind gust pelted him, making him aware of how high up he was standing. Anabel had lost a sun visor cap once out here, propelled away from her like a balloon. Serguey was reminded of Milan Kundera’s The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, the last book he’d read before leaving his father’s house. In the novel’s opening, politician Vladimir Clementis had lent communist leader Klement Gottwald his hat to shield him from the cold as they stood on a balcony. Years later, when Clementis was accused of treason and executed, he was erased from the photograph that existed of him and Gottwald. Only his hat remained. What would remain of Serguey when he could no longer stand on this balcony? Anabel hadn’t taken any photographs, and neither had he. No one would write his small story, so insignificant before a large world. Maybe a wind gust could swoop him away and drop him somewhere in a dark patch of the city, into a more grounded life. Maybe it was already happening.

When he was a teenager, Serguey overheard Kiko’s mother telling a friend that a woman in Alamar had plunged from a fifth-floor balcony with a four-month-old baby in her arms. The baby died, but the woman survived. She blamed her cheating husband for it. The man was indifferent. He left the woman and moved in with a younger one, or so the story went. Serguey couldn’t avoid imagining what it would be like to leap off from such heights. He wondered about the unthinkable pain that would greet him upon landing, if the shock of the impact would even make room for pain. He wondered whether he’d hold his breath, whether he’d even be able to breathe. He imagined that the woman must have really wanted a way out, choosing such an act of letting go.

He felt a hand caressing his shoulder and then retreating. Alida smiled at him, resting her elbows on the balcony rail. She’d taken a shower, her hair still wet and dense. Anabel had lent her a pair of shorts that were too wide. She stretched her right leg until she was able to touch the sliding glass door behind her with the tip of her toes.

“How come you’re always doing that?” he asked.

“I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll lose my flexibility.”

He stared at her leg, lithe and firm. “How’s the ankle?”

She pursed her lips, deliberating her response. “It’s tighter than it used to be, but otherwise it’s fine.” She put her leg down and extended the other.

“I’m sorry about this whole thing with my dad. I know you’re very talented, and the show was going well . . .”

“Please, Serguey. There’s nothing to be sorry about. If it weren’t for your dad, I wouldn’t have had an opportunity to do theater.”

“It’s still unfortunate that it affects you.” He was apologizing on behalf of his family, for the toxic influence they’d become. “It was selfish on his part if he knew that whatever he was doing could get you and the other actors in trouble.”

She lowered her leg and stood elegantly on her toes, her hands gripping the rail. “I’m sure it’s more complicated than that. You shouldn’t resent him.”

“I’ll try not to.” The sound of his voice sailed away from him like the airplane lights behind Alida, scudding across the sky with rote intermittence.

“What I need is a change of venue,” she said. “I need to start over.”

“There’s got to be other theater groups in the city you can audition for.”

She looked at him, vivacious, earnest, open. “I want to leave the country.” Her hands jerked up and down, refusing to release the railing, like a motorcyclist changing speeds.

What response was she seeking from him? Her eyes seemed exposed, yet unafraid of his gaze in return. “Are you just saying that?”

She laughed, as if he had uttered the exact words she was expecting. “I’m not stupid. I know it won’t be easy. The hardest part is going to be telling Anabel and my parents. It’s been in the back of my mind, even before my injury. Now I’m sure I want to do it.”

“One’s never sure about something like that.”

Her hands stopped. “I am.”

Serguey was taken aback by the shattering simplicity of her answer. “Where would you go?” he challenged.

She didn’t balk. “One of the actors in our group was talking about how Felipe might try to land us a show in Miami. He’s supposed to know some people in the theater scene there, people he worked with who left for good.”

“You can’t count on that. I have no idea if he’s ever going to get out of prison.”

“What I mean is, Florida seems to be a nice place for me to try. I have to get out of here. If I stay, I’m going to end up with my parents, no job prospects, listening to my mother chirp about getting an older boyfriend or going to church. You don’t get many second opportunities in this country, not in the arts. I look at what happened to your dad, and it scares me.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.

She appeared confused by his statement, but she accepted it nonetheless.

“Tell me about what?” Anabel asked, wriggling between them. She’d come furtively.

He waited for Alida to answer.

“I was telling Serguey that I’m thinking about leaving the country.”

Serguey was impressed, proud of his sister-in-law. She was going for it, then and there.

Anabel laughed. “Another impulse?”

“No. I’m dead set on it.”

“Where are you going to go, Ali? We don’t have family anywhere.”

“Dad has a cousin in Orlando.”

“He and Dad barely talk. He’s not going to help you.”

Serguey pondered how he’d react if this had been Victor. He liked to think that he’d be supportive, but in truth, he’d have no faith in his brother’s aptitude to lead a proper life in a foreign city.

“How do you know?” Alida said. “Have you asked him? I know you guys are happy here, but not everyone has what you have.”

“Yes, we have everything,” Anabel said.

“You’re doing better than most people.”

“Alida, you’re too young to be on your own in a strange country.”

She pounded her own chest, her vocal chords vibrating with acrimony. “I’m twenty-three years old.”

“What are you going to do over there? Do you think someone will just hire you as an actress?”

“I can study, get a waitressing job. I’m good with languages. I can fend for myself in English and Italian.”

“Ha! You’re delusional.” Anabel stole a glimpse at Serguey. “Are you listening to this?”

He wavered, but he was too inspired by Alida’s candor. “She should do what she wants. She’s an adult.”

Anabel swung her entire body. She locked her arms below her chest and glared at him with something that resembled, if only for an instant, intense aversion. He’d committed a cardinal sin, and he knew it. But he felt the need to be honest, out of solidarity for his sister-in-law.

“The two of you should discuss it alone,” he said preemptively, “but in my view, if Alida’s sure she wants to leave, none of us should question or try to stop her.”

He didn’t wait for Anabel’s explosion. Instead he went to the bedroom, her glare trained like a laser at his back. He had already been reckless today, so he figured it was fitting to end on this note. She would scold him soon enough for not siding with her, call him irresponsible, and maybe she’d be right.

He shut the door halfway and turned on the bedside lamp. He stripped down to his boxer shorts, but not before placing Vilma’s phone number on the nightstand. He grabbed his cell and, without caring for the time or planning what he would say (he did clear his throat and hummed), he dialed. Three rings later came a “Hello?”

“Is this Vilma?”

“Yes. Who am I speaking to?”

“My name is Serguey.” He paused, but the woman didn’t reply. “I’m Felipe Blanco’s son.”

“Oh!” Her voice spiked, waggling like a voltage needle. “I’m sorry about your father. He’s a good friend.”

“Do you know Mario Rabasa?”

Vilma’s tone leveled out. “Yes, he’s also a friend.” The word “friend” she pronounced as a question.

“I need to get in touch with him.”

“I see.” She paused. “Do you think we could meet?”

Serguey walked to the edge of the room and snuck his head out the door. Anabel and Alida were still arguing on the balcony. “If you could just give me a phone number or address, I’d really appreciate it. I won’t say who gave it to me.”

“We think Mario’s gone.”

“Who’s we?”

“I don’t have his address,” she said pointedly.

“What about his phone?”

She started to release her words more quickly, as if someone was approaching her. “It’s disconnected. Let’s meet. Where do you live?”

“That’s all right,” Serguey said, sighing. “Thank you for not hanging up on me.”

“Serguey, I’m a friend of your dad. What I’m telling you about Mario is true. But maybe we can help each other. Maybe I can help your father is what I mean. Where do you live?”

State Security, he was certain, had his address already. Giving it to Vilma wouldn’t change much. And at this stage she was the only connection to Mario. “Do you have something to write my address down?”

“I’ve got a good memory,” she said.

Not long after he’d hung up, he lay in bed with the lights off and the door completely open. He could hear Anabel’s voice rising and dipping. The sisters loved each other, cared about each other. Love did not allow half-measures, incomplete truths. What a luxury it was, the ability to passionately and freely articulate and dispute and be heard. The ability to be close and feel close to your family.

He wanted to stay with their conversation, let his thoughts be escorted by their exchange. But drowsiness overtook him. He was exhausted. In a short while, their voices, candid and musical in his fading consciousness, lulled him to sleep.

As he watched it unfold, he could intuit that it was a dream, the impossibility of the scenario: Alida was on the bed—not his bed, but a bed—nude except for her black panties. She was on her knees, her feet twined like an X behind her. Her breasts mirrored Anabel’s, but not her hair. Not her face, her thighs, her ass. She was smiling at him. Seductively. She took his hand and steered him out a door.

“Not in there,” she said. “They’ll catch us.”

And maybe it was his bedroom they had left behind. They were running by a row of bathroom stalls. She drew him into one and hooked the latch. She removed her panties. He was already pantless, though he couldn’t recall taking them off. She took hold of his penis and put it inside her. The bathroom door clattered. There were voices mumbling and hushing each other, as if trying to spy, ears to the door.

Frightened, he woke. He stared at the ceiling of his bedroom—his real bedroom—and almost cursed out loud.

He slid his hand into his boxers and confirmed his erection. He glanced at Anabel. Her back was to him. He listened to the subtle hiss of her breathing, watched her hair mantling the edge of her pillow. She was in a deep sleep. He began to touch himself, struggling to not shake the bed. He sealed his eyes and tried to remember the dream he’d just had, the crude details. He tried to picture what it’d be like to have sex with Alida in a public bathroom stall. How rushed and careful they’d have to be. He began to speed up his hand, holding his breath as much as he could while his heart rate increased. His entire body was tense, primed for a considerable release.

Then Anabel shoved her hand under the sheets and wrapped her fingers around the head of his penis. She’d rolled over on the bed, and he hadn’t detected it. It took him a few seconds before he could speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said feebly.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you. I thought you’d be mad at me.”

“Why are you like this?”

“I had a dream about you. I couldn’t help it.”

She kissed his neck and glided slowly to the foot of the bed, hauling the sheets over her upper body. She took him in her mouth. She then discarded her underwear and mounted him, tossing the sheets on the floor. He lay there, grunting and stroking her breasts. She stifled his mouth with her hand, muffling his moans. Toward the end, he shut his eyes again, an image of a bathroom stall and a nude Alida flashing briefly in his mind.

Anabel let her torso fall on his, her nipples grazing his chest. “You owe me,” she whispered in his ear.

He felt abashed. His ears were flushing, his limbs tingling with pleasurable enervation. He was a sexually satisfied man, which meant he was a tired, selfish man. Once the urge had left the body, making love became a responsibility, no longer an impulsive display of affection and desire. As his puffing chest decreased its movements, he began to search for a source of energy within him, a second wind. If he didn’t reciprocate, it would signal failure on his part, a failure magnified by the dream he’d just had, the dream he’d used to orgasm. He reminded himself that just because he experienced immense gratification and satiety, it didn’t mean Anabel had experienced the same. He should make an effort and not give excuses. He shouldn’t be a selfish man.

She straightened up and said with a smile, “I don’t mean tonight, but you owe me.”

She was letting him off the hook. Alida sleeping in the guest bedroom, on the other hand, was a different story. Serguey found his sudden sexual fixation absurd, especially considering the circumstances. Had it been seeing Alida on stage? Did hearing Felipe’s praise make her appear to him more a fully flourished woman than his wife’s younger sister? Or was it her adventurous desire to leave the country, or her physical likeness to Yusimí, the girl from Felipe’s porch steps? Maybe it was her whimsy, the capricious and unpredictable ways in which she treated her own body. Her marked youth.

Though not as childish as Alida, Anabel had been physically expressive when they’d met. The night he lost his virginity to her, she let him take her from behind and come quickly, his uncontainable teenage urges jetting from him in a choking, exhilarating burst. She performed oral sex until he was ready again, this time asking him to lie on top of her. Their bodies interlocked, his pelvis pressed to hers, and he let her swerve, sink, and raise her hips until she collapsed with a sensual giggle. He could remember feeling pleased, as he’d remained primed and patient, tasting her breath and sensing her nails digging into his back. As a reward, he witnessed something wonderful: a woman’s orgasm. It was not like his friends had described or as he’d seen in pornographic movies. It was more intimate, more contained and yet more powerful. She boosted up her legs and rested her ankles on his shoulders. He didn’t last long despite it being his second time, but he immediately understood that Anabel would be more than a girlfriend. She’d be a teacher, more aware and secure than he was.

All these years, he had been a fortunate man. This night, his wife had given him another gift while he’d behaved like a liar. A traitor. He could never see himself with someone like Alida, and yet the dream was there. The fantasy.

Anabel went to the bathroom to wash up. He waited his turn, questioning why, of all possible moments, his mind had picked this one. His father was in prison. His own career was probably on the verge of derailing. His comfortable apartment could be stripped away. And here he was visualizing an impossible and unwanted affair. He moved to the edge of the bed, his eyes adjusting to the sliver of light at the bottom of the bathroom door. He listened to the gushing faucet and was overtaken by the need to urinate. He commanded his body to get up, but it disregarded him. He was weak. The eternal victim. All he’d ever fought for was his job, and that was only after Gimenez had forged an easy path for him. He hadn’t done anything noteworthy for his wife, for anyone. No true sacrifices.

Anabel opened the door and, without asking, left the light on for him. She was massaging her own hands, waxing them with a lotion whose tangy scent he hadn’t grown accustomed to. This is what he’d given his wife: things, objects that now seemed to him a portent of a ruined future. He felt like apologizing, like calling himself a fraud. But he was too weak even for that. He locked himself in the bathroom, one hand on the wall as he stood over the toilet. Muscles moved involuntarily throughout his limbs. He flushed his waste and washed his hands, evading his reflection in the mirror. He splashed water on his face, on his dry mouth, some of it moistening his tongue. His muscles ceased their twitching. He dampened a towel and cleaned his penis. The light bulb above him blinked, and in a couple of seconds he heard the small fan in the bedroom come to life. As usual, she had switched it to the rotating setting, so that the air could cool them both. He gave himself a moment to breathe. He loved Anabel with all his heart, but the fact didn’t absolve him, it didn’t make him a better person. It was her love, her loyalty, that made it all worthwhile. If he had to fight for anything, it was to never forget that.

He exited the bathroom and climbed slowly into bed without lying down. He searched for her hand, and when she took his, a tiny circle in her pupils shining up at him in the dark, he told her that a woman named Vilma was coming the next afternoon to talk about his father and Mario.

“Okay,” she said, not withdrawing her hand.

He leaned his head on the pillow and told her about the fight with Parra and about Vivi too.