“It’s just politics. It doesn’t have to affect us if we don’t let it.”
“That’s the problem. It isn’t just politics to me. It’s my life. It was my brother’s life. He died fighting for a better future for Cuba. How do I turn my back on that?”
“But what if that dream never comes true? What then? Are you to be a widow to a country that has only ever existed in your dreams?”
I’m tired. So tired. And more than anything, in this moment I am tired of attempting to explain something to someone who will not, cannot ever understand. He went to war, but then he left it, and came home to peace. He has no idea what it is like to live your whole life in war.
“This is personal to me. It’s everything to me.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“It is. I imagine even more so for the men who participated in the invasion, whose fate is now in Fidel’s hands. I’ve seen what it is like in those prisons, what Fidel does to men he views as traitors.”
“They aren’t your brother.”
“They might as well be. Where is the president on this?”
“He’s working on a deal.”
“And Fidel?”
“You can’t tell anyone what I’m telling you. This can’t get into the press. It’s serious. Lives are at risk.”
I nod.
“They think Fidel is open to negotiation. Keeping all those men prisoner will cause him more trouble than anything else. Besides, this gives him a bargaining chip, which he desperately needs right now. They’ll come home; we’ll just have to give up something in order to bring them back.”
I take a deep breath, the words rushing out of me.
“Eduardo was part of the invasion. I don’t know what happened to him—if he is alive or if he’s sitting in a jail cell somewhere.”
By the expression on Nick’s face, I have a feeling this isn’t news to him.
“I’m sorry. I know he’s important to you.”
I don’t deny it.
His gaze narrows. “I saw him after you went out on the balcony that night. He wants you, doesn’t he?”
The question lingers between us, unspoken.
Do you want him?
“He’s a friend.”
“He’s a friend now, but that’s not his endgame.”
“You can’t be jealous.”
“Why?”
“We have no future,” I say, carefully, gently, the anger filtering out of me, the words for his benefit, and perhaps, a bit for my own.
“You don’t think I know that?” He laughs bitterly. “Perhaps one day, once he’s out of prison, that friendship will evolve and change, and you’ll look at Eduardo differently, see whatever the hell it is that had everyone else after him all season. And he’s perfect for you, isn’t he? You both share the same political views, the same history. He doesn’t love Cuba the same way you do, anyone can see that, the man’s an opportunist to his core, but in these times, there are worse flaws to be had. And God, given what an idealist you are, perhaps that is the best match for you—if he loves you, then he’ll keep you from getting yourself killed.”
“So we’re back to that, then? Me needing someone to take care of me.”
“Only you would view that as a bad thing.”
“You don’t get it, do you? People don’t immediately dismiss you because of the way you look, don’t flash you a condescending smile and tell you some conversations aren’t meant for you, you’re too young, too female, too pretty, too sheltered to understand the world around you. You aren’t treated like a painting, or a delicate vase, or a broodmare, as though your worth only lies in your beauty and what they can barter for it.”
“And how is using your body to trap Fidel any different?”
“Because it is my choice.”
“Is it your choice? Or is that just what they’ve sold you: the CIA, Eduardo?”
“They murdered my brother. They have to pay for that. My father is doing nothing. He throws what little money he can be bothered to spare toward the exile movement, but he does nothing. He doesn’t care about Cuba; he has his sugar company here to focus on, wealth to rebuild. No one is doing anything.”
“Maybe what you think is inaction is doing something, Beatriz. These things take time. You can’t storm in and expect everything to change overnight because you will it.”
“I am doing something. The men who fought at Playa Girón and died for it are doing something. Eduardo did something. You and your government are the ones who aren’t doing something.”
“Did you kiss him that night at the party?”
I hesitate. We move from politics to intimacy with an ease that disproves his argument that we can separate the two. They are both tangled up in this impossible gnarl we have created.
“Yes.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“No.”
“But you’ve thought about it.”
“No—it wasn’t like that.”
“Did you like it? His kiss?”
Silence fills the room.
“Don’t ask me that.”
“Jesus, Beatriz.” Nick moves over to the edge of the couch, his elbows propped against his knees, his head in his hands. “I’m going to go. I have no right to any of this, and I know that. But I can’t imagine his mouth on yours, his hands on your body.”
“It wasn’t like that. And don’t put this all on me. You screwed us up as much as I did.”
“What ‘us’? Has there ever been an ‘us,’ or are there just stolen afternoons and secrets? Was what we had ever enough?”
“How could it be enough? We decided this was to be temporary from the beginning. An affair. Nothing more.”
“What are you looking for then? Who will make you happy? Eduardo?”
“This isn’t about Eduardo. This isn’t even about you, or us, it’s about me. I’m not looking for anyone.”
“Then why did you kiss Eduardo?”
“I don’t know. He was there, and I thought it might be easier to be with someone who understood me, who wasn’t so complicated. He was going to war, and he wanted me, and that meant something, so I kissed him. And I was angry with you. Angry with you for lying to me, for how hard everything is right now. I just wanted a moment where something could be easy.”