CHAPTER 17

It required some convincing, but Serguey ultimately accepted a proposal by his brother to spend the night somewhere out in El Vedado. The alternative—sitting at home with no plans—beset him with baleful anxiety. In a matter of days, it was as if every element comprising his personal and professional life had been loaded into a dump truck, its bed gradually tilting toward a precipitous release.

Victor, in his small bedroom, was jamming clothes into a backpack. “We could treat Anabel and Alida to some nice food and drinks. I know you’re worried about what we just did.” He seemed free from his own conscience, unafraid of what might happen. “Kiko’s right,” he continued, “that statement was ballsy. So let’s do something that can make us forget for a bit. Maybe I’ll get you drunk.”

“We shouldn’t be spending money.” Serguey paced tensely around his brother’s bed. As they’d returned to the house, a prickling sensation had infiltrated his skin. His joints ached, a thumping emanating from within his bones. Despite being damp from the rain, his neck and face felt hot. He looked at his reflection in Victor’s mirror to see if red blotches had materialized on them. “I’m going to lose my job, and we don’t know if we’re going to need—”

“Don’t worry about money.” Victor zipped the backpack closed. “I have friends in low places. I can get us stuff for free. You’ve been getting me out of jail, right? Let me repay you, show you why I’ve been to jail in the first place.”

“I know why you’ve been to jail, Victor. I’ve seen your record.”

“In theory.” His brother showed a wry smile. “I want you to see it in practice.”

They strode away from the house under a gray sky. Though the rain had stopped, its vestiges remained, scooped up from the glazed pavement by a misty wind. How small the neighborhood seemed when soaked and tamped under the mantle of low, dark clouds, like the chamber of an ancient underground city. Even in the anonymity of their walk to the bus stop, Serguey felt singled out from the crowd, differentiated by the video they had just recorded. He was reminded of a classmate in his seventh grade civics course. After their teacher made a rhetorical claim lauding the economic achievements of the Revolution, the boy did the unthinkable: he raised his hand and said that his grandfather had told him there’d been more food and clothes before Fidel took power. His imprudence prompted a venomous stare from the teacher, and Serguey got the sense, when the boy was instructed to stay after class, that punishment awaited him.

As they waited for the bus, he found that the open air alleviated his apprehension, prodding him to consider the positives. The people he had neglected were coming through for him. It was such a curious thing, how life worked, why people like Toya were prone to believe in spiritual truisms and the magical weavings of human interaction. The irony of one’s life, the balance and unbalance, the circles that seemed to close when one least expected it: there had to be an order to it all. And yet Serguey preferred it as he always saw it: chaotic and surprising, no otherworldly explanation necessary. To impose harmonious form or mystical sense on life was to be naïve, to diverge from the rational pragmatism that had built and still sustained the world.

He and Victor stood quietly, watching cars and bicycles go by, glad to be in each other’s company. This moment, for instance, begged for no elevated meaning, no spiritual reasoning. The heart of the matter—if one disrobed it to its fundamental truth—was that Serguey felt afraid. The words he had spoken in the recording weren’t an act of bravery; they were an act of desperation, a reckless attempt at honoring his father. What tempered his fear was having his brother next to him. He had debated whether to remove Victor from the video altogether, take the fall himself, but the unity demonstrated by their side-by-side image would have a greater effect. The night before and that morning, he’d been unmistakably sure. Now, as they clambered into the predictably crowded bus, he realized he had also needed Victor as a source of strength, of camaraderie, to validate the fantasy that it would be harder for State Security to persecute them both.

Anabel and Alida weren’t at the apartment when they got there. Anabel had replied to a text from Serguey prior to leaving Victor’s place, assuring him that she would be home. He called her, an eruption of concern crawling toward his hand as he held the phone to his ear.

“Come on,” he whispered with each ring in the garroting dusk of his bedroom. She answered on the fifth ring and told him they were taking a walk. She sounded nervous, but when he referred to it—to the jiggling notes in her voice—she swore to him that she was fine, that they’d be back soon. She asked about the video.

“It went great,” he said matter-of-factly, but he preferred not to discuss the details on the phone. “Victor and I are going to have some lunch and take a siesta. He’s finally convinced me it’ll do me some good.”

She promised to keep quiet once she and Alida returned.

He woke late in the afternoon. Victor was already chatting with the women in the living room. His brother and Anabel were on the couch. Through his bleary eyes he could see their feet, rigid and sallow like marionettes, parallel to each other. Alida was on the floor, legs crossed. Her buttocks protruded from the bottom of her arched back, a picture of sensual elegance. He lurched toward the group.

“How are you, Sleeping Beauty?” Victor said when he saw him.

Anabel bounded from the sofa and kissed him. “Your brother was telling me about the video.”

Alida looked up at him. “Sounds like you went all in.” There was a demure aura to her expression, the source of which Serguey couldn’t place.

He yawned into his hand. “We did what was right.”

Anabel leaned her head on his shoulder but withheld most of its weight. An act of solidarity, and at times, he knew, an advent of bad news. She said, “I had something important to discuss, but I didn’t want to wake you.”

Serguey appraised the group, sensing that he’d been the topic of conversation. “You should have.”

“Do you want to sit?” she asked him.

“Here.” Victor pounded the sofa with his hand, then went to the balcony, brought in a chair, and offered it to Alida.

“I’m fine down here.” She bit one of her nails and stared uneasily at the floor.

Victor took the chair for himself. He wasn’t as tense as the women, but his actions were carefully contained, as if he were walking down the aisle of a packed, speeding train. Serguey and Anabel rested their bodies on the sofa cushions. She interlaced her fingers with his, keeping their hands perched on his leg, another act of solidarity.

“Gimenez called,” she said, her countenance glumly expectant. He smiled, the faux contrivance of the wounded, the defeated. He’d become such an expert on contrivances, they were now reflexive. “He wants to see you tomorrow,” she added, perhaps wishing to avoid confusion. “He says it’s about your contract.”

A lugubrious silence overtook the room. Everyone was waiting on him. Serguey inspected Anabel’s eyes. Had she cried? Had the walk with Alida been to mourn the probable loss of his job, to grouse about Gimenez, to seriously reflect on her situation, on the perils of a rocky future with Serguey Blanco?

“How did he sound?” Serguey said.

“I asked him outright. He says you’re not fired but that it’s urgent he sees you tomorrow.”

Serguey couldn’t mask his disappointment. Whatever Gimenez had to say, it wouldn’t be good news. “I knew this was coming,” he said softly. In essence, he was nothing more than a glorified errand boy; that’s what he’d been to Gimenez from the start. And what had he gotten in exchange? A loaned apartment, a job, the promise of a trip: a terminated contract would nullify all of it. What human connection did he and his mentor have? Some runny paella in a plastic container, that’d been Gimenez’s attempt at providing comfort. That, and the assurance that he’d call, the one thing for which Serguey could be grateful in the long run, if he chose to see it that way.

“I’m sorry,” Victor said.

“Me too,” Alida said. Her empathy was sincere, which made it nearly unbearable.

“He’s not fired yet,” Anabel said, kneading his fingers.

Serguey kept his pulse and breathing steady. The video, Gimenez, Claudia, Linares, his father: everything conspired to break the quaking foundation of his calm. “All right, no moping,” he said, launching outward what he wanted to tell himself. “Victor’s taking us out tonight. Let’s shower and get ready.”

“What do you mean?” Anabel said.

He used on her the same logic his brother had used on him. Panicking and scrambling would achieve nothing.

“With all that’s going on, I need a fucking drink.”

Anabel was apprehensive, and he could understand why. The last time, there had been a fight, spilled alcohol, and a broken bottle.

Alida, however, supported the plan. It was three against one, and Anabel wasn’t disposed to be the contrarian, not in front of the others.

He pulled her hands to him, not so much an appeal as it was an exhibition of dignity. “The problems will be there tomorrow,” he said plainly. “I’ll deal with it then.”

In the beat of a breath, she nodded, a subtle pinching of his fingers her sign of agreement. He knew instantly that he’d succeeded in eluding the issue—the possible loss of his job and apartment—and the decision-driven conversation he and Anabel needed to have. He’d succeeded in delaying it, but only for a while.

For one night, he would see his own passivity as a victory.

The group left the building by sundown. Serguey wore a glossy gray shirt—the color the sky had been that morning—with folded sleeves and dark-navy pants. He refused to try a pair of jeans Victor claimed would fit him just right. Victor had brought them in his backpack to try a new look on his brother, but Serguey wouldn’t budge. His preference for certain clothes, he explained, wasn’t a mere pretense for the people at the Ministry. For better or worse, his taste had settled on a more mature look. Anabel picked one of her cocktail dresses, this time green with an oval opening between her shoulder blades. Alida wore a red blouse with short transparent sleeves and a ruffle mini-skirt, making herself look even younger. Victor, proud of his body, wore a tight purple T-shirt with an unrecognizable logo and slim-style jeans. He put on an inordinate amount of hair gel. The women teased him the minute they saw him exit the bathroom, his hair shining like a polished granite countertop.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen hair sparkle like that,” Alida said.

Victor was undeterred, saying his hair was a gift. “The kind that must be shared.”

They hailed a taxi on Twenty-Third Avenue, a 1950s Chevy that was missing the rear door panels. Victor asked the shabby-looking driver to take them to El Capitolio and proposed extra cash so he wouldn’t pick up anyone else. The man snatched the bills, stashing them in his pocket, his face unchanged in the rearview mirror. Taxis were a shared mode of transportation in Havana, fitting as many commuters as possible on every pre-determined trip. With bench seats on virtually every old vehicle, it wasn’t uncommon for six or seven people to cram inside one.

The car sputtered its way to Fraternity Park, bustling at this time of day. Evening began to take hold of the city as they got off the taxi and rambled down Paseo de Martí. The diagonally parked cars in the middle of the avenue served as the center of a raring, desperate desire to attract tourists. Competing rates, cash exchanges, genial shouting matches between cleanly dressed drivers, questions in garbled Spanish: the Malecon, Museo Revolucion, bueno restaurant. They left El Capitolio and its gigantic white cupola behind, passing by the old Palace of the Galician Centre, renamed the Cultural Complex of Garcia Lorca’s Great Theater. It hosted Alicia Alonso’s renowned Cuban National Ballet Company. Grand titles and labels were ubiquitous in Cuba, a way to proclaim prestige when the dignity of a decent plate of food might escape you. The palace itself was one of Havana’s most striking buildings, an unmistakable illustration of Neo-Baroque architecture, beautifully balanced with marble statues, decorative balconies, and high-rising columns. As a whole, it looked elegant and lavish, a renovated remnant of a city whose grandeur and glory now relied on its resistance against becoming rubble.

“Such sad memories,” Alida said, hugging Anabel as they walked.

Serguey recalled that Alida had once practiced her craft inside those walls. She’d been an aspiring ballerina, a member of Alicia Alonso’s school. She attended seminars and workshops with famous dancers, seeing up-close—no doubt wide-eyed and eager—an auspicious future for herself. Yet, with the snap of an ankle, it had vanished. Serguey could see his own struggle in Alida’s, though hers had undoubtedly been more painful. Life was a cycle repeating itself, camouflaging its recurrence behind individuality, behind the idea that our paths are unique.

The sisters moved together, hands at each other’s hips. They bore sardonic, layered smiles as they listened to Victor brag, half in whispers, about selling stolen old editions and mediocre Cuban art to tourists on this very boulevard. He got the idea from one of Felipe’s friends, a young painter and sculptor. The man had sold an abstract watercolor painting to a French couple for thirty-five dollars.

“To them, that’s nothing,” Victor said to the women.

“Is that so?” Alida said.

“The trick,” Victor said, “is to let the license inspectors in on the deal. People have to make money somehow, right? The problem is the government wants the money being spent in their hotels and restaurants, not the black market.”

“Why don’t you just get a license?” Anabel asked.

“They’ll suck you dry that way. Better to pay the inspectors on the side. Much cheaper.”

As Serguey’s preoccupations hummed like an engine inside a calm exterior, Victor seemed unflappable in his own skin. He’d appeared concerned prior to making the video, but after the fact he had reverted to his natural state. He had gelled and combed his hair back, his distinct eyebrows highlighting his face. He’d gotten them from Felipe. Serguey’s were much thinner, less conspicuous. He had inherited Irene’s. But there were similarities: the brown eyes, their narrow jawlines, their slack noses. The same comparison applied to Anabel and Alida. There were slight differences between them—in size, skin color, the thickness of their lips—but they were indisputably sisters.

Alida’s head hung slightly tilted toward Anabel’s chest, her cheek rested at the top of her sister’s breasts. The smirks were still embossed on their faces, but their bodies were huddled as if the ground beneath their feet was unsafe. Alida looked like the protected child, Anabel the valiant mother. Serguey found Anabel’s strength alluring. Her composed demeanor had been intimidating in the beginning, when they were teenagers. Even then he saw her as a woman, not a girl. He hadn’t seen himself a man until years later, when he attained his law degree and began signing and stamping official documents—and for the first time, receiving a salary—during his year of mandatory social service.

Questions about the future were inescapable now. He couldn’t fault Anabel if she had them. Was he supposed to get by on personality alone, on pretentions and under-the-table deals? Here lied another irony: Cuba was a country sustained by the black market. Government status didn’t really apply at the neighborhood level. One had to learn to socialize, mingle with strangers, fall in love with the young girl from your block, go to the movies and create your own History of Film quasi-manifesto. One had to pick up respectable hobbies and read books on any subject. How else could you join the retired men on a park bench and hold your own at debating or at chess? That was real prestige: to be hailed the best chess player in your neighborhood, to be nicknamed “The Killer Russian” despite not knowing a word beyond tovarish, because of your shoddy but unbeatable imitations of Kasparov and Karpov on the board. Or maybe you could become an artist, like Felipe, and feel part of something larger, more esoteric. A rich tradition of expression and suffering and ecstasy. Serguey didn’t believe in the human soul, but if he were to, no doubt art would be the best way to satisfy it. It required you to be intellectually and emotionally sensitive to the human condition. If he had allowed himself to be this person, he would’ve spat at Gimenez the first time they met.

“Why so quiet?” he heard Victor say. “Always brooding about something.”

“Brooding,” Serguey said. “That’s a big word.”

They kept on down Paseo del Prado, Havana’s first paved street. It divided the Centro Habana and Habana Vieja municipalities. Under their feet was a wide, diamond-shaped strip of sidewalk, flanked by weathered marble benches, black streetlamps, and the occasional tree. They passed theaters, cinemas, and hotels—old European-style mansions now caked with dust and fading paint jobs, the result of appropriation by the government. As they approached the sea, the occasional renovated building rose on one side, mirrored on the other by a pile of debris or scaffolding enclosing a brittle wall. Night had fallen almost completely. The air from the sea began to reach them. It carried a subtle scent of salt and refuse. Across the mouth of the harbor, the dazzling lights of El Morro fortress beamed in a yellowish hue, aimed ominously at the fortified walls and the lighthouse, reflecting back in streaks over the ridged motions of the waves.

They stepped beyond Lover’s Park and, further to the right, the monumental statue of Dominican-born general Maximo Gomez. The illustrious Ten Year’s War and War of Independence’s main strategist, depicted on horseback, was propped on a dozen columns, in turn supported by a series of sculptures narrating some of his heroics. Serguey had been brought here on an elementary school field trip. Across from the park, he got to see El Castillo de la Punta. Together with El Morro, the Spanish built it to protect the entrance to the harbor. He also got to see the entrance to El Tunel de la Habana. The tunnel left the biggest impression on him when his teacher, a sweet lady serendipitously named Dulce, indicated that the road dipped below the harbor and continued all the way underwater until it emerged behind El Morro. Serguey marveled at the ability of a man-made structure to withstand so much weight, his excitement amplified by the possibility that it could drown at any moment.

A couple of years later, Felipe took him and Victor to El Morro. Serguey was already in secondary school. He could now remember flickering lights rolling by as the bus sped inside the tunnel, the echoing rumbles and swooshes of adjacent cars. He kept thinking about the sea above him, about the tunnel caving in and tons of water engulfing vehicle after vehicle.

From El Morro, Felipe and the boys beheld the sprawling splendor that was Havana. The Malecon promenade curved away from them, graceful as a fine blade. Regardless of the physical desolation of so many neglected buildings, taken as a whole, Havana inspired awe. Felipe had described it once as an expansive cluster of varied architecture, unified by a lingering colonial aesthetic. At its core, the misery was so abundant, he said, so overwhelming, that it transformed itself into something evocative and beautiful. A young Serguey had understood what his father meant, but he was more captivated by something else: the vibrant blue of the water; the music of the waves lapping at the rocks below the fortress like a bristle broom gently sweeping; the air emboldened by the height and open spaces. His senses were acutely stirred. It put him in a meditative trance as he observed Havana. He didn’t think of history, the Revolution, martyrs—what was inculcated at school. It was as if he were suddenly capable of simplifying everything, as if he were maturing in a moment’s spell, finding himself able to do what only grown men or women could: willfully fall in love with his country.

As the group prepared to cross First Avenue, Serguey considered asking Victor if he recalled the trip to El Morro, but he decided against it. With the women present, Victor was bound to boast about something inconsequential, or worse, make fun of Serguey somehow.

“Let’s wait by El Malecon,” Victor said. “My buddy should be calling me soon.”

“Where exactly are we going?” Alida asked.

“A restaurant, just a few blocks away. It’s called Casa Fina.”

“Are we allowed in there?” Anabel said. She and Serguey had walked by it before, though they had never seen the interior.

Victor shook his head. “Tourists only. We have to pretend to be Spanish.”

“Have you looked at your jeans?” Anabel said. “Who’s going to believe you’re from Madrid or Barcelona?”

“I’m kidding,” Victor said. “One of the servers and the manager owe me one. I took the rap for a deal that went bad.”

“What kind of deal?” Anabel said.

“Stealing meat from the restaurant and selling it to some contacts I have. We got caught, and I basically claimed I was the only one stealing. They acted like heroes for catching me, and they got to keep their jobs. So tonight I’m cashing in on their debt. They’re going to give us a corner table, food on the house, drinks on me.”

“You shouldn’t be spending that money,” Serguey said. “Didn’t you tell me you were worried about your prospects?”

“I was just complaining. I got some money stashed away, don’t worry. A crook like me plans for the future. I’m not shortsighted.”

They arrived at the seaside promenade, and Alida hopped backwards onto the wall. Serguey buttressed Anabel’s elbow to help her sit. Below them, a wave crashed on the rocks with a thunderous, guzzling sound, foam and droplets leaping like fireworks over their heads. The seawater sprayed the group as it plummeted. Serguey tried making himself into a canopy, but it was too late.

“We should move over,” he said, shaking water from his hair.

“Such a gentleman,” Victor said.

“You should learn from him,” Alida said, hopping down from the wall.

“Too bad for you, he’s already taken,” Victor said.

Alida struck his shoulder. “You’re such an asshole.”

They moved along the promenade, swerving around a few puddles and settling on a dry spot about twenty meters from where the wave had crashed.

“Alida’s always had a crush on Serguey,” Anabel told Victor.

Serguey held his breath. His wife had never uttered such a thing, not even in jest.

This time Alida punched her sister. “Et tu, Brute?”

“Ah, so it’s true!” Victor said.

Serguey had sensed a sort of affinity from Alida, perhaps as far as a modest attraction, but he hadn’t considered it a full-on crush. This revelation made his sexual dream analogous to mortal sin, a conclusive betrayal of his wife’s trust.

On the verge of blushing, Anabel committed to her disclosure, a tinge of social artistry in the tapering progression of her words: “She’s always been jealous of me. When Serguey and I got married, she told me I was very lucky, but she said it while looking at Serguey. Right away I knew.”

“Damn, Serguey,” Victor said. “Leave some women for the rest of us!”

Serguey hoped that in the dim twilight his reaction wouldn’t show. He could feel his cheeks blazing. His eyes stared in shock.

“There’s nothing wrong with liking a person,” Alida said, herself blushing. “If there’s something I’ve learned from theater, it’s to be in touch with my emotions.”

“Thank you,” Serguey said, finally able to breathe. “I appreciate the honesty. We’re all adults here.”

“Well, to be honest,” Anabel said, “if you ever get too close to her, I’ll chop off your balls.”

Victor laughed, the sound strident in Serguey’s ears. He felt a surge of anxiety behind his own uneasy grin. He gazed at the water, spectral and soundless except for the occasional wave brushing along the seawall. The sun had vanished to their left. In the distance he could see sparks of lightning glinting like a camera flash. Soon they were all looking out at the darkness. A gust of wind buffeted them, and Alida’s mini-skirt flapped and billowed enough to expose part of her underwear. She quickly shoved the skirt down.

“Happens to the best of us,” Victor said.

Alida held on to the hem of her skirt as the wind died down. “That’s funny. When’s the last time you showed your butt in public?”

Serguey cast a sideway glance at Anabel. The Alida dream, his fantasies, they’ve been splattered on his face like a cake, the frosting of his humiliation still dripping from what he thought had to be a dumbfounded expression. Anabel took a deep breath, and he zoomed in on her lips, struggling to deduce, in the span of a second, what she was about to say. The rush of excitement from her delighted manipulation of the conversation had disappeared. She was now gloating within a curtain of introspection that unnerved him further.

“Victor, what did you want to be when you were a child?”

He hadn’t expected this.

Victor was quiet for a while. “Can’t really remember.”

“A medieval warrior,” Serguey said, happy to shunt the talk down another road. “When he was eight, he took a piece of cardboard and cut a big circle to make a shield. He used markers to draw a lion. Then he glued a handle wide enough that he could stick his arm through it. One of Dad’s friends, I don’t remember if he was a sculptor or just a stagehand . . .” Serguey looked at his brother. “He made a wooden sword for you, remember?”

“Camilo,” Victor said. “He was a prop master.”

“Right! Anyway, you walked around riding a palm tree leaf like a horse, calling yourself Richard the Lionheart, after hearing it in some movie.”

The memory seemed to filter from Victor’s mind to his eyes, which glimmered more endearingly than he would’ve conceded. “I think it was a TV series.”

Serguey turned his attention to the women. “Whenever Dad talked about Richard III—you know, Shakespeare’s play—Victor thought he was talking about the same guy.”

“So your little brother was always a fighter,” Anabel said. They were all facing each other now.

Serguey said, “He broke a couple of things in the house with that sword.”

“I always wanted to be a ballerina,” Alida said. “We watched Alicia Alonso on television when I was a kid, and I fell in love with her. She was so stunning and gracious.”

“She did have a talent for it,” Anabel admitted of her sister. “I couldn’t dance to a slow ballad, never got the steps right, but Alida learned the difficult ballet techniques so easily.”

“What did you want to be, Anabel?” Victor said.

“A veterinarian,” Alida said. “She dissected lizards in our backyard.”

Serguey was embarrassed. He’d never heard Anabel’s lizard dissecting story. They must have had a conversation about these topics before, while sitting on the shore of some beach or in bed. His mind raced, searching for the most accurate guess as to what he thought Anabel had wanted to be.

“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin proudly, “a veterinarian. Even when I met Serguey, I was kind of interested, but then I saw that the practical part of the studies was too far outside Havana. It would’ve been a hassle going everyday, and for what, to end up working with emaciated cows? There are dogs and cats all over the streets here in the city, and no one cares.”

“You could’ve studied biology,” Serguey said, irked that she hadn’t told him any of this, and that—more inexcusably—he conceivably hadn’t asked.

“I figured being a teacher was better.”

“School’s a waste,” Victor said.

“Says the convict,” Alida said.

“Actually, I’ve never been convicted. I have my brother to thank for that.”

Serguey was anticipating irony, but what he detected in Victor was smugness.

“How were you able to get him off?” Alida asked with sincere curiosity. “Hasn’t he been arrested a lot?”

“It hasn’t been that many times.” Serguey browsed their surroundings, making certain no one was near enough to spy. “It was a combination of things. My dad was friends with the sector chief; Gimenez knew one of the police captains in our area; Victor usually got caught mostly on suspicion of intent to sell but never in the act. He was smart enough for that. And there was never a reliable witness. They can still convict you if they want, but if you know the law well, you can scare the officers into releasing a suspect. They don’t want to fuck up and have their names end up on an official complaint or a blog. You’d be surprised how many officers are afraid of being mentioned in an internet post or independent article somewhere. Some of those guys want to leave the country. It doesn’t look good if they can find out you were screwing people over. But if you’re the accused and your case gets to trial, that’s when you’re fucked, because then it comes down to the judges. If they want to hang you, make an example out of you, they’ll hang you. Look at Dad, there’s no lawyer who can help him, not through legal channels. Some lawyers take advantage. They make people pay whatever they got, whatever their families can send them from abroad, knowing they’re not going to win. They sell hope.” Serguey stopped. He’d gotten carried away. He sensed it in his expanding chest, his accelerated breathing.

Anabel shot Victor a look. “What were you saying about school being a waste?”

Victor chuckled. “All I’m saying is, no matter what you study, you’re going to either hit a ceiling or get fucked. Salaries are shit. Doctors and architects can make more cleaning hotels. You can’t travel unless you get some lucky work assignment. This country has nothing to offer.”

“That’s not true,” Serguey said instinctively, though an absence of total confidence snagged at his statement.

Victor became animated, struggling to keep his gesticulations ringed inside an invisible boundary. “What are our prospects, Serguey?” He took a step forward. “Tell me, where are we going to be when we’re forty, fifty? And who’s to blame? You, me, the system? The people across the water,” he extended his index finger with the impetus of someone at the helm of a ship sighting land, “they aren’t as fucked as we are.”

Victor’s phone rang. He composed himself, looking at the screen longer than he had to, and answered. It was his friend. Their table was almost ready.

“Sorry about my little rant,” he said, flipping the phone shut. “It’s my hunger talking.”

“It’s all right,” Alida said, cascading her fingers over his elbow. “I think I’m starting to warm up to you.”

The restaurant was a handful of blocks to the west, on San Lazaro Avenue. They walked past slick awnings and patio-style tables on the sidewalk. The muffled notes of classic Cuban singers crooned behind a few walls. Exoticism and antiquity—the biggest exports after cheap sex, tobacco, and rum—were being sold to tourists. Victor’s friend was standing at the end of the street. He was dressed in black, his shirt tucked in. As they got closer, Serguey smelled a hint of seafood. He noticed the man’s bald head was slathered in sweat. The restaurant’s exterior was unassuming except for a couple of freshly painted wrought iron windows. A car drove by, and Victor’s friend waited an instant before speaking.

“Hello, everyone,” he said with hushed agitation. “I have to take you in through the back.”

They skirted the building down a narrow alleyway and stepped into the sound of clattering pots, spoons hitting plates, and wine glasses clinking like the gentle tap of a mallet on a xylophone. There was no music playing, just the hum of a dozen-throated conversations.

Serguey heard the man whisper to Victor, “The binds you put me in.”

Their table was in the rear corner, near the kitchen. It felt cramped, a forced addition to the space. Serguey didn’t dare complain: the farther they were from the rest of the patrons, the better.

“Did you tell them the rules?” the man asked Victor.

“They know, they know.”

No, we don’t, Serguey wanted to say. Not exactly.

The man bared a spurious smile. “I’ll be back with your menus.”

Victor explained that they were not to use the bathroom unless it was an emergency. They couldn’t speak with any patrons or get obnoxiously loud. Serguey was well aware, as was every Cuban, of the government-imposed apartheid when it came to tourists, something he saw Gimenez circumvent again and again. That was one of the biggest perks of working at the Ministry: dealing with foreign people was part of your job description.

“We’re each getting a two-course meal, with two desserts to share,” Victor added proudly. “I’m buying a couple of bottles of wine to go along with the food.”

Anabel’s eyes livened, discouraging Serguey from babbling another remark about the money.

It didn’t take long for the awkwardness of the situation to pass. The wine, which was served quickly, worked as a distraction, as did the appetizers. Anabel and Alida were given a pair of round croquettes with a diminutive side salad. Serguey and Victor got a modest assortment of imported hams and cheeses, which they split with the women. They found the food delectable. Alida said she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything of such quality. Her ballerina and actress stipends barely covered government-sanctioned groceries.

The group drank their wine and chattered again about their childhoods, what they’d do if they didn’t have to worry about money, about what restaurants might be like in other countries. Alida said the lead actress in Electra Garrigó, who’d been to several countries in Europe and South America, claimed that Spain and Italy had the best food.

“I really want to go to Madrid,” Anabel said.

“Paris for me,” said Alida wistfully. “The Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame. Did anyone read the book by Victor Hugo?” She was asking everyone and no one.

“What about you, Serguey?” Victor asked, finishing his first glass. “Where would you go?”

“Egypt,” he said. “The pyramids. Or maybe China, to see the Great Wall.”

“Your wife wants to go to Spain, and you’d take her to China?”

Serguey released the empty glass and wiped his hands sloppily on his napkin. “You asked where I would want to go.”

“I’d go to China,” Anabel said, stealing Serguey’s hand.

“California for me,” said Victor, his lips and teeth daubed with red wine. “Beaches, surfing, movies.”

“And they got palm trees over there too,” Alida said. She involuntarily banged her elbow on the table. Serguey suspected she was already a little inebriated.

They dug into the main course like ravenous children. They remained quiet, exchanging nods and slight moans of gratification until the plates were wiped clean. This was a Cuban condition, the inconsolable longing for food. Dismally staring at white rice and fried egg—the epitome of the “not again!” food in the country—was by now a tradition. Eating the same food over and over had a defeating effect. Nothing ridded a person—especially a capable, educated person—of optimism like the perpetual image of the same plain plate of food. Going to fine restaurants wasn’t part of the culture. One could acquire so much with the money spent on a two-hour meal that the experience just wasn’t worth it for most.

Although he didn’t tell the others, Serguey thought of Felipe, of the dinner he owed his father. He envisaged him sitting among them, vaunting about some artistic achievement. He’d raise the tips of his fingers to his chest, drop his head to one side, and conclude with, “Not that I deserve it.” Or maybe he would’ve told humiliating stories about Victor waking in a pool of urine and staunchly claiming it wasn’t his, or Serguey running into the house in a fit of panic, holding up his limp right wrist because he’d been “stung by a fly.”

Serguey could share embarrassing stories about his father, too. One morning, he’d found Felipe collapsed on the living room floor. Serguey asked him if he was sick. His father told him he’d gotten drunk the night before because he was depressed. Everyone had been celebrating one of his colleague’s first plays, which Felipe considered a real success. Out of petty jealousy, he had consumed too much alcohol.

“I’ll get over it,” he told Serguey, pulling himself up by gripping the center table. “I’ll spend the day writing, and I’ll feel better.” He limped his way to the bathroom and slurred from the door, “Jealousy is one of man’s most effective sources of inspiration.”

Everyone devoured the dessert, crème brûlée and a slice of chocolate cake, before Serguey could regret waving off the bite that Anabel offered him.

He turned to Victor and said, “Thank you for this. I needed it. I needed to see you all happy.”

Victor traced a circle with his spoon. “We all needed it.” He released the spoon, hoisted his glass, and said, “To Dad.”

They followed Victor’s lead, each lifting their glass, and gulped down the last of the wine. Victor’s friend approached them and asked if they were finished.

“Are we going out the back door?” Victor said sarcastically.

“I’m sorry if I’ve seemed rude tonight,” his friend said, addressing the group. “Very busy.”

Anabel flattened the tablecloth along the edge of the table. “We understand.”

The man blinked. Victor slipped a bill into his pants’ right pocket, and he vanished into the kitchen.

They filed out of the restaurant, peeking at the adjoining tables. The lighting was too dim to discern anything specific. Anabel almost tripped on someone’s seat. Serguey prevented it just in time, clamping his wife’s shoulders and whispering to her neck, “You’ll start an international incident.”

They decided to amble down El Malecon, let the wine wear off. Alida again leaned on her sister, more for stability than sisterly warmth. The wind was still blowing in from the sea. Pockets of people had situated themselves along the promenade wall. Far past El Morro lighthouse, two glowing ships appeared like eyes leering over the horizon.

Victor listed toward Serguey and said, “How do you think the old man’s holding up?”

“It’s bullshit they won’t let us see him.” Serguey was emboldened by the alcohol in his blood. “If I had any balls, I’d be standing with a sign in front of the State Security building every day. Sending letters to Fidel and Raul, telling them to go fuck themselves.”

Victor clicked his tongue. “You’d get arrested, and then what? Who’d be out here trying to get him out? Me? I’d probably do something stupid and get locked up with you. We’re doing the smart thing, Serguey. The right thing. What have protests accomplished in this country?”

“No way!” the brothers heard Anabel shout. They were startled, thinking it’d been directed at them. She was glaring at Alida. “We already discussed this. You’re not going anywhere.”

Alida scowled back at her sister.

“So she can’t make her own decision?” Serguey chimed in, no longer confused.

“Thank you!” Alida said. She distanced herself from Anabel with a slight stagger and crossed her arms.

“You can’t keep doing things on a whim,” Anabel said, ignoring Serguey.

“I’m not a child,” Alida said. “I didn’t do ballet or theater on a whim. I have talent and I’m dedicated. I can’t do anything with it here.”

Victor flapped his arms as if trying to put out a fire. “Ladies, we should maybe wait until we’re at the apartment to have this conversation.”

“Stay out of it, Victor,” Anabel said. She turned to Alida. “Mom and Dad won’t allow it.”

“They don’t have to. I’m a grown woman.”

“She’s right,” Serguey said. The alcohol, it seemed, had completely unshackled him.

Anabel spoke through clenched teeth: “You want to leave with her?”

“I’m sure this is what I want to do,” Alida said. She thrust her chest out and boldly revealed: “I already have some contacts in Miami.”

Victor swiveled his head up and down the promenade. “You won’t if you keep announcing it to the world.”

Serguey pushed him softly, advising him not to get involved. There was a selfish, enjoyable indulgence in being the only one wedged in between the women’s argument.

“Contacts?” Anabel said. “Is that what you’ve actually been doing with your theater friends? Planning and scheming?”

“I’ll just stop a taxi,” Victor said to himself. He stood on the fringe of the sidewalk, arm out at any and all approaching headlights.

Serguey said, “Anabel, there’s nothing you can do. Let her.”

She stuck her index finger into his chest. “You’re a piece of crap, you know that? A fucking weasel of a man.”

Alida said, “I knew you’d do this.”

“I’m talking to my husband,” Anabel said slowly.

Serguey said, “You’ll wake up tomorrow and see that she’s right.”

Anabel angled her face toward him, the residue of perfume and flavored alcohol whirling into his nostrils. “Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and see your bags packed.”

“And maybe you’ll move in with Victor,” he replied, “the love of your life.”

She frowned with such vigor that her features nearly mutated her into another person. “Oh, fuck you.”

“It’s not fun when it’s thrown back at you, is it?” His enjoyment was beginning to wither. He’d become spiteful, admitting to himself that Anabel’s mocking of Alida’s crush had bothered him a phase or two beyond embarrassment. “I can make threats too, you know,” he said as a form of defense, though not a good one by his standards.

She stared at him, the warping of her lips showing her to be more hurt than malicious.

“You people have been watching too many damn soap operas,” Victor said, successfully hailing a car.

Upset with himself and looking for some kind of punishment, Serguey was disappointed that Victor had ignored the last exchange. Was he maturing or merely loath to grabbing his brother’s neck in front of both women?

As they reluctantly got into the taxi, Victor murmured, “I can’t believe I’m the voice of reason in this family.”