And even more, for Cubans it is an ongoing source of frustration and pain. Empires in one fashion or another have decided our history: first the Spanish, then the Americans, now Cuba lies in the balance of a proxy war between two powers.
“Do you think this plan will actually come to fruition? That they’ll really have some use for me?”
“The CIA?”
I nod.
“I do. It will likely come down to timing. If they can arrange for you to meet Fidel, how they can get you into the country and extract you. I know the Americans aren’t the best allies, but they won’t risk your safety needlessly, won’t risk the injury to their own reputation. With the current tensions between the two countries, they must be cautious.”
With my history with Fidel, my brother’s death, it will be easier for them to pretend I acted of my own volition, that I was motivated by anger and revenge rather than political machinations.
“Are you nervous?” Eduardo asks me.
“A bit. That I’ll get a chance, that I won’t.”
“Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse: feeling like you did nothing or failing in the attempt,” he acknowledges.
My gaze sweeps over the beachgoers sprinkled across the horizon. I seize on a mother and her two children playing in the sand. She barely looks older than me.
How differently would my life have turned out if I’d been born in this country, if I hadn’t come into a fractured and divided island caught in never-ending turmoil? Would I wear the same contented expression on my face as she does? Or is there more there under the beach tan and flash of white teeth, the matching pair of children? Do we all have secrets lingering beneath our skin, private battles we fight? Does she look at Eduardo and me walking together and see a young couple in love, envy me the handsome man, the freedom my childless status affords me?
“We have a few things we’re working on,” Eduardo says, tearing my attention away from the woman and her children.
“Things you won’t talk about.”
Like the dynamite we picked up.
“It’s complicated, Beatriz. There are some things it’s best if you aren’t involved in.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“No. Because the less people who know about our plans, the better. Fidel’s spies are everywhere.”
“I would never—”
“I know you wouldn’t. But we need to be careful. I’m trying to keep you away from this as much as I can, trying to keep you safe. Alejandro always sought to shield you from as much of it as he could.”
“And yet you’ve encouraged it. Took me with you to pick up those crates. Engineered my meeting with the CIA.”
“Because I know how much this means to you. How much you loved your brother, how hard you fought against Batista. You believe in Cuba and the dreams you have for her future. Besides, you’re Beatriz Perez. When have you ever wanted something and not gotten your way?”
“I can’t tell if you’re the only one who really knows me, who really believes in me, or if it’s just that you’ve never wanted something and not achieved it, and I’m the easiest route from one point to another.”
Eduardo laughs. “Maybe you’re the only one who really knows me then.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his muscular frame, leaning into me, and this time it isn’t my imagination. The young mother casts an envious glance my way.
“Perhaps it’s a bit of both,” he concedes as his lips brush the top of my head, the affection in his voice belying the unvarnished truth in his words.
That’s the thing about Eduardo—we are the same in so many ways, sometimes it’s like looking at a mirror, and I’m not always prepared to face the reflection staring back at me.
chapter eight
Now that the season has ended, our days are stagnant, our boredom magnified by the heat and humidity. We practically live at the beach, the summer passing by with picnics and building sandcastles with my nephew. There are no more balls, no more elegant parties, and despite Eduardo’s propensity for dropping by with bits of news between mysterious trips to undisclosed locations, our days are insufferably dull.
“We’re thinking about moving to Miami,” my sister Elisa announces one day in July when we’re sitting on a big checkered blanket watching Miguel play in the sand, his nanny herding him around. In the past few months, my nephew’s personality has transformed, and he’s gone from a sleepy baby to an active little boy with a mischievous expression and an obstinacy that clearly reflects his Perez heritage. He’s charmed the entire family, providing a rare spot of solace and hope in these tough times.
“Why would you move?”
Miami isn’t far, but I’ve grown used to living near one another. I always envisioned us living close together, our homes within walking distance so we could stop by for afternoon chats with ease.
“It’s less expensive, and Juan heard about a good property from a friend of his. It would mean a bigger house, more space for Miguel. And it would be closer to Juan’s work.”
My little sister is a wife now, a mother, with considerations other than the family she was born into. It’s the natural order of things, of course, and still—
I try to smile. “We’ll miss you.”
She squeezes my hand. “I’ll miss you, too. It’s not far, though. Really.”
“It feels far.” It’s not merely the distance; she’s building a life here, putting down roots that will tie her to America forever. I’m happy for her, but at the same time, she’s moving on, and despite the age difference between us, I feel like she’s surpassed me in life somehow.
“How are you?” Elisa asks, a knowing look in her eyes.
“I’m fine.”
“Mm-hmm. The truth now. Not what you tell everyone else. How are you? Really?”
I sigh. “Miserable, mostly.”
The wind kicks up sand near Miguel, and he wails, his nanny scooping him up in her arms. Elisa frowns before turning her attention back to me, even as I can tell a part of her is focused on her son.
I’m always a little amazed at how much she dotes on the baby, how naturally she seems to have adjusted to this change in circumstances, especially considering how quickly she went from wife to mother. It’s even more impressive when you consider our own maternal example. Our nanny, Magda, was the one who soothed our cut knees, who wiped our tears away. Our mother was somewhere in the background of our childhood, swooping into the room in a beautiful gown, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air after she’d moved on to her evening entertainment.