CHAPTER 25

When Serguey arrived at his in-laws’, it took him the span of a single moment to detect that they’d been waiting for him. The entire family was in the living room, carefully arranged so that he could sit across from them. Julia’s cheeks were flushed (was it from simmering excitement, or was she as sickly as Anabel had made her sound?), a smile contained by her compressed lips. Antonio was composed, but the muscles in his face betrayed his ebullience. Alida wasn’t hiding her smile, though hers was evanescent, purely out of solidarity. A bit of anguish lingered in the halo of her expression.

“The Catholic Church can be criticized for many things,” Antonio said, as if reciting lines from a script, “but when everyone’s looking the other way, pretending that the people in charge are doing a commendable job, they’re in the trenches aiding the victims.”

Anabel flumped her head. “Thank you for the cryptic message, Dad.” She turned to Serguey, who eased himself onto the chair left for him. “Father Linares said he’s sure Felipe will be released. Cardinal Morales served as mediator. It’s just a matter of days now.”

If the cardinal—the only person with his status on the island—had been involved, Serguey could trust the information. The man’s reputation in Cuba was spotless.

“How did your father look?” Julia asked, a veil of concern passing over her face.

Serguey raised his eyebrows. “Better than I expected.”

“They know he’s on his way out,” Antonio said. “It’s all about perception for these people.”

Anabel stepped around the table and gave Serguey a kiss. The family performance had concluded. “How’s he holding up?” she asked.

“I think he’s accepted his fate.”

“Still, it must be hard,” Julia said.

Anabel said, “Hopefully this means you and Victor won’t be harassed.”

“Yes, everything will be peachy now,” Alida said, folding her arms.

“You’re not the sun, Alida,” Anabel said, her furious voice above Serguey’s head like a loudspeaker. “Not everything revolves around you.”

Julia displayed an embarrassed grin to Serguey. “It’s been like this since you left.”

“They’re my babies,” Antonio said dotingly. “My pedantic, oil and vinegar babies.”

“I doubt they’ll leave us alone that easily,” Serguey said. “But we’ll deal with things as they come.” He skated his palms over the tablecloth, trying to suggest that he wished for a reprieve. More specifically, he was asking to be briefly excluded from their family drama.

Antonio said, “You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you and Anabel need.”

“It’s like everyone wants to live in a fantasy,” Alida said, her frustration growing. She looked at Serguey. “Half the block won’t talk to my parents now. They found out what happened with Felipe and that you moved here, and they’re treating them like lepers.”

She wasn’t blaming him, but he could tell that she didn’t want to be walking on eggshells. She wanted the truth to be treated without a gullible, cheery lens.

“You’re exaggerating,” Antonio said. “The more recalcitrant neighbors don’t speak to us because we go to church.”

Alida climbed off her chair and began to walk out of the room. “It’s gotten worse and you know it.”

“She’s still blathering about leaving,” Anabel said to Serguey when her sister was gone.

He didn’t reply. He needed to cool off, reboot his mind. “Could I take a shower?” he asked Julia.

The family dispersed, giving Serguey the space he hoped for. He cleaned up, shaved using one of Antonio’s razors, and put on fresh clothes.

Closer to dinnertime, he and Anabel sat in the yard, watching the sunset as they had done before. It hadn’t rained in Mantilla. The air was moist, but the ground and trees were dry, the leaves nimble in their zany flapping, like a blundering attempt at a glitzy dance. Alida was taking a nap. According to Anabel, she’d been taking pills and sleeping a lot.

“I’m starting to worry,” she confessed.

“Once my old man’s out,” Serguey said half in jest, “I might start taking pills too.” He then told her about his exchange with Felipe. He regretted chiding him, given the circumstances. He’d seen that Victor wanted them to behave like a functional family again.

“It’s easier for Victor and your dad,” Anabel replied. “Whatever differences there might be, they live together. They know how to be near each other. You’re the last to the party.”

“But that’s on me.”

She stared at him, piqued. “If you’re going to blame yourself, then there’s no point. You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“It’s just difficult to process all this stuff with everything that’s going on.”

“Give it time. You and Victor are getting along. That’s a start.”

It was more than a start, and this he could cling to—the small victories and achievements. Modest progress. This was what most Cubans clung to, anyway: tiny glimmers of improvement as fuel for hope.

“How are your parents?” he asked her.

She shrugged, her shoulders remaining elevated. “They were happy today.”

He looked at her, aware that she could feel his probing gaze.

Her shoulders sank, her eyes turning toward his. “They’re also stressed. What Alida said about the neighbors is true. There’s tension there.”

Another “I’m sorry” would have been too selfish. So would have been telling her about the house’s defacement, about his conversations with Carmina.

“We’ll help them,” he said with a nod, accentuating his solidarity. “Your parents won’t have to be alone.”

She smiled, the subdued melancholy that’d been fixed to her face since their argument slowly subsiding. She had grasped what he meant: regardless of what might happen, they would be together. In their years as a couple, they had never discussed deserting Cuba. In a country where thousands risked their lives on homemade rafts, where people married foreigners or Cubans who had become American citizens just to escape their poverty and bleak futures, not discussing the possibility of migrating was a clear sign of their intentions. Whatever her reasons—family, fear of change, faith that they could get by in Cuba—Serguey knew that she didn’t want to leave. He wasn’t going to pressure her, to persuade her to change her mind. His own decision to leave depended on one single thing—his wife. He was staying because he loved her. Of this, he was surer than anything.

As the afternoon transitioned into evening, hefty clouds began to line the horizon, glazed in a red tint akin to nebulae. Serguey heard chickens clucking in the adjacent yard. Perhaps the neighbor had bought a new batch. Antonio’s cinder blocks were there, clogging the holes beneath the fence. One rarely saw live chickens in the city, though it was possible. Serguey associated them with rural life, with his grandparents. His grandmother was an expert at breaking their necks. Two quick twists were all it took. He wouldn’t be able to do such a thing. Victor was the one who’d picked up the birds’ limp, spastic bodies and tethered them to his waist. Serguey could hurt someone with the knitting of words: irony, insinuations, accusations. Felipe had passed these skills on to him like DNA. But wringing necks was Victor’s business. Same with Montalvo and Gimenez. People like them persevered. People like Serguey starved, faded. And to think that, at one point, he had pictured himself dining with Anabel in Stockholm, showered by velvety snow.

Antonio spent dinner singing Father Linares’s and the Church’s praises. He beamed as he explained how letters and phone calls were made on Felipe’s behalf. Alida ate dinner alone in the yard, under the lambent light of a bulb Antonio had wired up above the door. Serguey asked Anabel whether they should talk to her, keep her company. Anabel told him that she’d just shut them out. It was best to let her come to them. Anabel was using the same logic he had used with Victor at the house, so when he found himself privately disagreeing with her, he didn’t bring it up. He told her that she was probably right.

At exactly 10:00 p.m., Kiko called. He sounded edgy, though he had good news. A source had informed Claudia that Felipe was indeed being flown to Madrid as early as Tuesday. Kiko said he didn’t want to discuss any details over the phone but that Serguey could meet him and Claudia at his place the next morning.

“The back and forth must be killing you,” he said, “but you’d do me a solid if you came.”

Serguey exhaled away from the receiver. “I’ll be there. Victor too?”

“He already knows. Scoop him up on your way here.”

Anabel wasn’t happy with the plan. If his friend were really worried, it made more sense for him to speak with Serguey over the phone.

“I can’t turn my back on the people who’ve helped me. Kiko won’t set me up.” He said this without looking at her, a physical exclusion that dissuaded her from pressing the issue.

Close to midnight, the Industriales vs. Villa Clara baseball game Antonio had been watching was in the thirteenth inning, tied at five runs apiece. Serguey and Anabel decided to turn in. Antonio had fallen asleep in his rocking chair, unperturbed by the television’s glare. Julia told them that she would take care of waking and dragging him to their bedroom.

“It’s a routine for us,” she said.

Anabel wouldn’t have it. She helped her mother carry Antonio like an injured, incoherent soldier to the room.

Alida was already deep in slumber in her bed. Serguey and Anabel removed their clothes except for their underwear and slipped under the covers. A tall, rust-spotted fan stood by the bedroom door, rattling and warbling as it spun. Serguey couldn’t see well in the darkness, but he felt Anabel’s hand crawling down his arm, then his pelvis, and finally grabbing his penis. He kissed her slowly, digging his fingers into the curving slope of her ass. They locked their bodies, and he murmured into her ear, asking if it was prudent with Alida in the same room.

“The pills,” Anabel said. “A train horn won’t wake her.”

That disarmed him. Serguey began pleasuring his wife, her moans not as quiet as he expected. After a while, she pulled him on top. The bed creaked, but the sounds they made merged with the fan’s. Serguey timed his deeper thrusts to match the fan’s movement at its loudest, when it turned away from them. He concentrated on his wife—her tightening thighs, her breasts rubbing against his ribs. As he sensed the end was near, he slouched forward. Anabel bit his earlobe, and he couldn’t restrain himself. She ran her palms over his sweat-lacquered back as he lay on her, knee-buckled and out of breath. He kissed her neck and nibbled on it until she shrieked.

They took turns going to the bathroom, flicking the light on only after they’d closed the door. No one in the house noticed, especially Alida, who proved she was asleep by mumbling something incoherent about ballet. He hadn’t thought of her. He hadn’t imagined her face or body. Toward the end, he forgot that she was a few steps away, shrouded in a mound of shadows. None of this absolved him from his previous dream, but it undeniably lightened his shame.

The next morning, Antonio worked out a ride for Serguey to Calzada 10 de Octubre and Santa Catalina. Serguey began to walk the rest of the way, nearly two kilometers, under a clear sky. Students had already nestled into their classrooms, listening to their first period teachers. Adults were headed to work with coffee-fueled steps. Serguey passed his middle school, which, unlike others, had been repaired and painted. He resolved taking the same route he had as a teenager. He strode by the bus stop where he and Kiko had bought cucuruchos de mani from the toothless man with the camouflage fanny pack. A few people were cloistered under the roof, their faces made grim by the inflexible slitting of their eyes.

A quarter of an hour later, as he neared the house, he noticed a man standing in the corner. An open newspaper concealed his profile. He was leaning against the column of an abandoned, boarded up bodega. He appeared to have a black cell phone case attached to his belt, which for an instant Serguey confused with a holster.

As he planted his feet on the front steps of the house, Serguey glanced back at the man and saw him fold the paper while staring in his direction. He knocked with deliberate vigor. Victor opened the door, already dressed. Serguey kept him from exiting.

“Check out the guy to my left,” he said, “by the bodega.”

Nonchalantly, Victor crossed the width of the porch to the veranda and scanned the block. “If there was a guy, he’s gone. You’re not getting paranoid on me like Kiko, are you?”

“Maybe I’m seeing things.”

He wasn’t. The brothers began to walk away from the house, and three men in civilian clothing emerged from behind the columns. Soon they had changed sidewalks, trailing Serguey and Victor some thirty meters behind.

“We’re going to have to lose them,” Victor said, barely moving his lips.

“What do you mean?” Serguey whispered, his heart racing.

At the end of the block, Victor shoved Serguey to the left instead of going straight. He waited with his back against the wall of the corner building and gestured for Serguey to do the same. They could hear the men hastening their steps. Victor intercepted them the minute he saw their bodies.

“What the fuck do you want?”

One of the men reached for his lower back and retrieved a club. Victor latched on to it, their tussling becoming a tug-of-war. Another man grabbed Victor from behind. The three-headed mass scuffled toward the middle of the street, as if dragged by an invisible force. The third man ordered Serguey to remain close to the wall, a hand at his hip over what turned out to be a small pistol. Serguey watched the man’s fingers begin to grip the gun. A vision of the other two holding Victor while this one aimed the pistol at him played somewhere in Serguey’s mind.

When the guy finally unholstered the weapon, he pointed it at Serguey, almost absentmindedly, as if aware that the older brother didn’t pose a physical threat. His face stayed turned toward Victor and the men, the sharpness in his eyes reinforcing Serguey’s fear that this wouldn’t end well. A suffusing ache swirled about in his gut, a painfully enlarging contraction he had experienced before, when his body froze and he became a useless spectator. Serguey resisted it with a scream as he kicked the man in the groin, out of sheer terror. A delayed response followed the hit, during which Serguey, holding his breath, could see the man’s eyes rolling up and momentarily disappearing behind the eyelids. He ultimately dropped to the ground, grunting like a dizzy, wounded animal. The pistol fell from his hand, and Serguey punted it down the sidewalk, not wanting to get his prints anywhere near it. Emboldened by the effectiveness of his actions, he rushed to the curb and gripped a large rock, the size of a softball. He got closer to the downed man, who was beginning to stand, and sensing his own body expanding—getting taller and broader—he threw the rock at the man’s head. The man fell forward, yelling “Ay!” as the rock ricocheted back to Serguey’s feet. He writhed on the sidewalk, plugging his head as if trying to keep his brain from spilling out. Serguey picked up the rock again and ran to the street. Victor was on the ground, struggling with his two assailants. Serguey kicked the man on top, his shinbone clobbering the nose. He launched the rock as the man jerked backwards, striking him below the ribs. The man hunched over, heaving in pain.

Victor twisted his body and found himself mounting the last man. He jammed his knee on the man’s right wrist, compelling him to release the club. Victor took it and struck the man repeatedly on the head and ears until his arms went limp.

“That one’s got a gun!” Serguey yelled.

Victor looked around in confusion. “What?”

The previously armed man was crawling, more intent on covering the blood dripping down his forehead than retrieving the pistol. Victor tossed the club and shouted at Serguey to run. They sprinted toward Kiko’s, Serguey a few steps behind. His legs were heavy, his feet impacting and retreating from the pavement as if on wet sand. Neighbors tracked their getaway with alarmed faces, but no one intervened. Serguey had the sensation that someone was right at his heels, that he’d be seized at any second, causing him to tumble on the sidewalk as his brother’s leaping feet melted into a distant, sun-scarred haze.

They stopped at the base of Kiko’s stairs, audibly catching their raspy breaths. No one had pursued them.

“What happened?”

The brothers glanced up and saw their friend leaning over the railing.

“Fucking State Security,” Victor said.

Kiko looked down the street. “Come on, hurry in.”

The pain in Serguey’s gut returned as they went up the stairs.

Inside the apartment, they assessed the damage. Victor was bleeding from his right eyebrow and elbow. He had a bruise splashed across his neck. The second officer, he said, had tried to choke him. Serguey had a thin gash on his right index finger from throwing the jagged rock, but not much else. His shinbone and ankle were starting to hurt from the kick, but he refused to complain about it. Kiko got them bandages, some ice and a rag for Victor’s eyebrow, which was swelling rapidly, and a glass of iced water.

“You did good,” Victor told Serguey, patting him on the back. “You did really good.”

Serguey downplayed the fact that he was on the verge of panic. It was as if his innards wanted to gush out of his skin. His hands and knees were trembling, so he kept pacing around the living room. “I’m not sure we did the right thing.”

“They were coming to hurt us,” Victor said. “You saw how fast that one guy went for his club.” He looked at Kiko and let out an anguished chuckle. “One of them had a gun.”

“A gun?” Kiko said. “Then it’s really serious. I think they’re onto us.”

“What do you mean?” Serguey said.

“Claudia was supposed to meet with us here. She called about a half hour ago and said that the police had detained her. They searched her bag, put her in the back of the cruiser. They threatened to confiscate her computer and phone.”

Serguey gazed worryingly at the window shutters, which were ajar. “This is it.”

“They asked her a lot of questions about where she was going,” Kiko said.

Victor groaned, kneading his elbow. “Did she say anything about us?”

“No. She’s been detained before. She’s not afraid.” Kiko, maybe prompted by Serguey’s implicit insistence, cranked the knob that closed the shutters and turned on the living room lights. “But I think State Security must have some idea that we know each other. Coming after all of you the same morning? That shit has to be coordinated.”

Serguey hurried to the door, verifying that Kiko had locked it. “Maybe Montalvo finally saw the video and knows who sent it out.”

“Why was Claudia coming to meet us?” Victor said.

“She wanted to give you the information about Felipe in person. She’s worked hard on that.”

“You should go to her.”

“She’s fine now. They released her.” Kiko stood halfway between the brothers, unsure as to whom he should address. “I didn’t want you to come to an empty apartment. I mean, look at you guys. Good thing I stayed.”

“I think we’re fucked,” Serguey said. He momentarily considered whether it was possible for Kiko and Claudia to be colluding, whether Felipe’s release was a lie. The wrong information could’ve been fed to the Church. Maybe Montalvo really wanted all the Blancos in prison. But there were so many arguments, so much evidence against this that, even in his panic, Serguey rejected it. He chose instead to have absolute faith in his friend.

“Whatever we decide to do,” Victor said, “we have to act fast.”

It took several breaths for Serguey to say, “What information did Claudia have about Dad?” He didn’t want to leave the apartment without knowing.

Kiko spun completely toward him. “He’s being flown out on Tuesday, like I told you. Apparently, one of Spain’s ministers was already here for a scheduled visit, and the Church met with him. This minister has been dealing with the political prisoners situation for months. Claudia thinks that’s what expedited Felipe’s case.”

The information went along the lines of what Father Linares had told Antonio, though the minister hadn’t been mentioned. In the throes of their current circumstances, this was as much corroboration as Serguey could get.

“So the old man’s getting out,” Victor said. “What the fuck do we do next?”

The question rendered Serguey mute. He was shackled by a multitude of scenarios, which, under normal conditions, would demand lengthy mediation and careful planning. Under their present circumstances, he didn’t have the luxury of time.

“Is the Mario option still available?” Kiko said.

“I’m not going with that guy,” Victor said.

“Actually, we have to,” Serguey said. He walked toward his brother. “We can’t hide forever, not in this goddamn country.”

A pall of terror Serguey had never seen—not even when the peasant wielded the knife—deformed Victor’s features. “I’m not leaving.”

“Do you think Montalvo’s going to let it slide?” Serguey had to magnify his brother’s fear. If attrition was the only way to soften Victor, he had to entrust himself to it. “We have to leave. We’re going to rot in prison if we don’t. We just assaulted three State Security officers.”

Victor said nothing. He stared at Serguey, perplexed.

“When’s Mario leaving?” Kiko asked.

“I think it’s Thursday or Friday.” Serguey stepped back to the door. All the hypotheticals and what ifs had come down to a singular speck of time. Hesitation was as daunting an enemy as the authorities. “We have to hide until then. We need to do what he did, go out to the countryside, away from fucking civilization. I just don’t know where we can go.”

Victor spoke with a resigned inflection, as if he’d had the answer all along. “You remember the shack where we used to play as kids, the one by grandma and grandpa’s house?”

“That’s got to be torn down by now.”

“It’s still there.”

Victor sat with desolate abandon on Kiko’s chair. Quite saddened, Serguey could see that his brother’s resignation, and perhaps the fight, had sapped his usual strength.

“Dad and I visited last year,” Victor said. “Some nostalgic trip he wanted to take. He said he was working on some play and wanted to reconnect with mom’s family’s past or some shit. I think he called you about it, but you were busy with your new job.”

“I don’t remember.”

“It doesn’t matter. I rented a car and drove him, out of curiosity. The shack looks abandoned, but it’s there. We can make it work for a few days. The river’s nearby. Lots of trees around. Everyone in that area takes the main trail, so there’s little chance they’ll pass by the shack.”

“Who do we know that can drive us there?” Serguey said.

Kiko raised his hand. “I’ll borrow a car. Give me fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll need to stop by the house and then Mantilla,” Serguey said. “We’ll have to make sure it’s safe.”

“The house’s too hot,” Kiko said. He looked at Victor. “Do you have anything there you have to pick up?”

“I need some clothes. Serguey’s won’t fit. Yours won’t either.”

“I got some stuff a cousin of mine brought me from el Yuma.” Kiko ran to his bedroom, his voice resonating back to the brothers: “He’s a big guy, so the clothes should fit you fine.”

“Don’t you have anything you absolutely need to take with you?” Serguey asked his brother. “If we leave, it’ll be for good.”

Kiko returned with a bulgy bag.

Committed to the plan, Victor rose from the chair and said, “My valuable stuff’s with Yunior. After what happened with the house, I knew I could trust him. And I didn’t want State Security to barge in again and suck me dry. Kiko has been holding my money.”

Kiko handed him a plastic-swaddled stack of bills. “Way ahead of you.”

Victor shoved the money inside the bag. “Yunior knows to sell the stuff if he doesn’t hear from me for more than a week. He’s supposed to get in touch with you once when he sells it.”

The brothers sat in the living room while Kiko ventured out. Serguey watched the door and window, thinking about what to tell Anabel, praying that he would get a chance to see her.

After a few minutes of silence, Victor said, “Dad should’ve let you play baseball, the way you threw that rock.”

“Victor,” Serguey said, “I’m really scared.”

His brother nodded. “I am too. But you can’t let it get to you. You have to be yourself until the end.”

It seemed so simple yet unachievable, like trying to snatch a full moon out of the sky from your bedroom window as a child. Fear was a familiar emotion to Serguey, almost a default setting in cases like this one. He had to rely on Victor and Kiko, feed off their pragmatism and audaciousness, however feigned they might be.

Kiko was true to his word. He came back with a refurbished Lada. “My friend says we can trust the engine and transmission. He’s under the impression I’m going to the airport to pick up a relative and drop them off in Centro Habana, so we have to move quickly.”

Beyond the building, the State Security men were nowhere in sight. They descended the stairs in a rush and were relieved to pull out of Kiko’s block with no police cruiser in tow.

On their way to Mantilla, Serguey called Mario’s number. The dramaturge answered after the first ring but didn’t speak. Serguey identified himself before Mario, with a drop of excitement, told him how glad he was that they’d contacted him. The boat was scheduled for Thursday at 4:00 a.m. near Marhondo.

“My cousin has all the details worked out,” Mario said. “I’m really happy that you and Victor have decided to join me.”

With Victor’s assistance, Serguey gave Mario directions to the main road closest to the shack. Mario jotted down the information and insisted that they needed to be at that spot at precisely 1:00 a.m., or he and his cousin would drive off.

“I’ll be discarding my phone before then,” Mario said. “I recommend you do the same.”

Serguey assured him that he and Victor would be there, but he said nothing about the phones. He did tell Mario about Felipe’s impending release.

“I’ve heard,” Mario replied. “But it’s great to have it confirmed.”

Then he hung up.

“I won’t say any more about it,” Victor said, “but it sickens me that we have to depend on that guy.”

Serguey and Kiko disregarded the comment. They concentrated on the road, on the vehicles behind them, the people bustling on the sidewalks. The buildings abutting Calzada 10 de Octubre were more derelict than in other areas of Havana. Entire blocks bore the appearance of slums, rubble-speckled and gray. Exposed brick showed like crooked grins on the side of every house, bodega, pharmacy, cafeteria. The lampposts—pared and splintered—doddered up in every direction, connecting a web of abraded power lines that, at certain intersections, looked like old tram cables. A peeling sign rose from a rooftop: patria muerte. Homeland or death. Later, a fading mural with Che Guevara’s famous words: ¡hasta la victoria siempre!

Until victory, always. It was a narrative, everywhere you went, allusions to an epic battle versus a larger evil. These maxims were sheared from the reality of Cuban life, from the beauty and indigence of daily existence. They lacked genuine emotion. The phrases were ostentatious and hyperbolic, saturated with irony of all ironies: if there had been an actual war, the crumbling city proved Cuba had obviously lost.

What these banners and sayings failed to capture was what Serguey had witnessed in recent weeks, contained within the world to which he had reconnected: the bare splendor of personal survival; the decency and selflessness of those betrayed or forgotten by the system; the contagiously defiant will to spend your day clawing and scratching in exchange for crumbs and scraps. As traffic intensified, the smell of smoke and gasoline flooded the car. Serguey inhaled it with pleasure, with the feeling that his senses were being infused with his brother’s Cuba, his in-laws’ Cuba, Toya’s and Mario’s and Claudia’s. He raised his head as he observed his surroundings. The government had no idea what true victory was: to live in the heart of this rotting, wondrous city and still be able to proudly look anyone in the eye.

Kiko swerved onto Calzada de Managua, and the environment suddenly became rural. Not many tourists jaunted to this part of the city: trash heaped on one street corner, the cloying smell of rotting mangoes or pineapples on another. At Serguey’s request, Kiko drove around his in-laws’ neighborhood, but they saw nothing suspicious. They agreed that it was best to risk only one of them getting arrested, so Kiko parked the car a couple of blocks away from Antonio and Julia’s home. Serguey disembarked cautiously. His ankle, having rested and cooled off, had become inflamed. His shinbone hurt whenever he took a step, forcing him to hobble toward the house.

Julia greeted him. She hollered at Anabel the instant she saw his limp.

The women led him to Antonio’s armchair. Anabel taped his ankle while Julia held a bag of ice against the lower part of his leg. As they tended to him, Serguey described—plainly and succinctly—the altercation with State Security. Antonio and Alida listened attentively from the sofa. In Serguey’s line of sight, the tip of their chins dipped behind a fresh batch of sunflowers Julia had deposited in the center table vase.

“We have to hide out in the country for a couple of days,” Serguey said.

“Why don’t you stay here?” Julia said. “That way, if anything happens, we’ll know.”

Serguey’s mind careened down a mental tunnel of images: the portraits of Anabel and Alida scattered on the floor, the glass cracked, the photographs emblazoned with boot prints; Julia’s sunflowers tramped on, the vase obliterated into shards; Antonio being heaved out to the street while the neighbors watched, snickering at his misfortune, his bad leg succumbing to the officers’ savagery. The family would be talked about for weeks on end, falling prey to ridicule and verbal assaults. His in-laws’ association with the Church could be used against them. Prison time wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

He smiled at Julia, indebted to her generosity. “We need to go off the radar. They’re going to be looking in all the expected places.”

“We’ll give you some things to take with you,” Antonio said resolutely.

Serguey nodded. “I’d appreciate it.” He looked at his in-laws, appealing to them with his eyes. “May I please have a moment with Anabel and Alida? The guys are parked nearby, and I’m kind of in a hurry.”

Julia hesitated, glancing at her husband. “Yes, of course.”

“Come on, Vieja,” Antonio said. “Let’s get some things for them.”

Alida took her mother’s place. “Here, I’ll hold the ice.”

Once his in-laws had left the room, Serguey said, “Mario offered for Victor and me to leave with him on a boat. What went down today, it was bad. It’ll come back to us. I can try to convince Mario to let us all go, but I’m not sure he’ll be able to make it work.”

“I’m not going,” Anabel said flatly, without looking up. She adjusted the tape as best she could.

Alida leaned into her ear. “Are you crazy? This is our chance!”

“I’m not abandoning Mom and Dad.”

Alida reminded her sister that they had both been living away from home, and their parents had managed quite well. “We can send them money and medicine. Eventually we’ll come visit, file an invitation letter so they can go see us. Maybe they’ll want to stay over there too.”

“They won’t,” Anabel said, her father’s stanch tenor pulsating in her own voice. “You should go, Serguey. Be with your brother and your Dad. We can work it out.”

“Alida, you’re going to take my spot,” he said.

Alida’s eyes lit up. The ice bag slipped from her hands.

“Oh, no,” Anabel said, glaring sadly at him. “You can’t do that to me.”

He stared back. “It’s her choice, just like we get to make ours.”

Anabel’s hands stopped pulling at the tape. She said weakly, “I know I’m being selfish. I don’t want you to get hurt. And I don’t want to lose Alida. I just . . . I can’t go. My parents, coming back here, I’ve seen how fragile they are. If something happens and no one’s around, I won’t forgive myself. If the police come . . .” She made as if to cry, seemingly out of frustration, but she choked back her sobs.

Alida hooked an arm gently around her sister.

“I understand,” Serguey said. He had put his wife and her family in danger for his father’s sake. He couldn’t condemn Anabel for caring about Antonio and Julia. He emphasized to Alida that she needed to be ready on Wednesday after 11:00 p.m. Kiko would pick her up and take her to the departing point. “All the specifics should be figured out by then,” he told her. He also warned her about the possibility that they’d get caught and arrested, the possibility that the people driving the boat could decline the switch.

“Think of it as a long shot,” he said. “The disappointment won’t be as bad if the plan falls through.”

“Thank you,” Alida mouthed, squeezing his knee.

“What about Victor?” Anabel asked, simulating composure. “How is he going to take it?”

“He’ll think I’m going with him. I have to make sure he gets on that boat. It’s not fair, but—”

“You have to save him from himself,” she said in agreement. Her nose and cheeks were gaining color. She was still on the verge of sobbing.

“I wish it could be different,” Serguey said, “but I can’t afford to second-guess myself. I have to give him a chance. Heck, I’m not even sure Mario will hold his end of the bargain.” After a short pause, he put his hands on Alida’s, complaining that the ice was actually starting to hurt him.

She accurately interpreted that he wished to be alone with his wife. Alida thanked him again and went to the kitchen, disgorging the ice onto the sink.

“Your ankle should be fine,” Anabel said. She hacked the tape off with her teeth.

He cradled her chin in his fingers. She still didn’t want to look up.

“I know I’m failing you by not going,” she said. “I don’t want you to end up in prison. I mean it when I say you should go. We can figure things out.”

He waited a moment. “Leaving without you isn’t an option.”

She raised her eyes. “Serguey, I’m sorry.”

“If they arrest me, you’ll have to make the trips to wherever they send me.”

They were both silently crying. Anabel straightened up and wiped her tears, knowing their time alone would be short. Serguey did the same. They kissed—short, determined kisses—until they heard voices approaching the living room.

“Here,” Julia said, giving Serguey a bag. “There’s food, some aspirin for the pain, newspaper squares to use as toilet paper, knives and forks, matches, and a flashlight.”

Antonio had another bag. “Some bed sheets and a mosquito net. Out there, those suckers will murder you. We’re running low on soap, but there’s a bar there too.”

“It’s too much,” Serguey said.

“Nonsense,” Julia said. “Don’t tell anybody, but we get things through church donations. We’re first on Father Linares’s list.”

“When God tenders you something, you take it,” Antonio said.

Serguey shook his hand as sturdily as he could.

Anabel walked into the bedroom and brought him a backpack filled with clothes.

“You return to us safe and sound, you hear?” Julia said. She embraced Serguey. Alida followed suit.

Anabel went with him to the door. Her eyes were again brimful with tears. “You listen to me,” she said, “you make sure Victor and my sister leave safely, and then you haul your ass over here, you hear me? You promise me that, Serguey.”

“I promise.”

“Everyone’s doing their part, and we’ve all pretended to be strong and that nothing has really changed, but now it’s going to be just you and me. It’s all I have.”

“It’s all I have too.”

Tears trickled down her cheekbones. “Then you come here the moment it’s over.”

“I will.”

He hugged her. Her arms came up behind his back, her hands clamping on to his shoulders. Then she stepped back. Anabel was not one for dawdling. Decisions had been made, and now the outcomes had to be played out.

“They’re waiting,” she said.

Serguey left the home, the bags flanking him weighty as cannonballs, his body tilted to the right. The sun felt hot on his neck. Everyone he saw on his way to the car looked dubious: the old lady sweeping her porch, the young man with a purple Hilfiger T-shirt, smoking and scratching his sideburns. Serguey hastened his pace despite the obstinate pain in his ankle.

Victor and Kiko grumbled about the heat when he arrived, though they were pleased to see the bags.

“We’re going to make a little pit stop on the way,” Victor said. “I got a contact in Managua where we can get food.”

Kiko looked into the rearview mirror and put the car in gear.