And it is.
Luis sets my bags down near the wardrobe and excuses himself, leaving me alone with Ana.
She hugs me again, her scent engulfing me.
“Rest. We’ll talk later.”
She leaves me, the door shutting behind her, and I browse around the little room, unpacking my things and changing into a pair of pajama pants and a tank top. I set aside the gifts I brought Ana as a thank-you for hosting me—after hours spent scouring the Internet for travel tips, I hope I’ve found items she will use and enjoy.
I climb under the covers, a faint breeze coming in from the open windows. I stare up at the ceiling, the plaster cracking, chunks of white paint missing, my eyelids growing heavier with each moment that passes. The events of the day hit me in waves, the adrenaline crash coming on strong.
I roll over to my side, pulling the worn sheets up to my face, my eyes drifting shut. I smell the gardenias my grandmother described to me, and the jasmine, the scent of roast pork wafting up from the paladar below. The faint sound of a saxophone drifts up to my room, and I recognize the familiar strands of “La Bayamesa.”
This is family, home, the most fundamental part of me. I could be sitting in my grandparents’ elegant residence in Coral Gables, or off in Europe, and all it takes is the scent of mojo, the sound of my people, to ground me.
The breeze blows my hair across the pillow, and the smell of jasmine calls to mind a memory of me as a little girl—my grandmother’s perfume and the feel of her hand stroking my hair when she put me to sleep at night.
Tell me a story.
When I was a girl in Cuba . . .
I fall asleep.
chapter three
Elisa
HAVANA, SEPTEMBER 1958
It’s the perfect dress for a night like tonight—elegant without the obvious sophistication of the gowns our mother orders us from abroad, a neckline a touch more daring than I usually wear, a hem exposing the calves I’ve sunned by the pool at the Havana Biltmore Yacht and Country Club.
I pull the white dress designed by Manet from my closet, my fingers skimming the lace. The bodice is fitted with pale pink flowers, the waist tucked in, the skirt full. I bought it on a shopping trip with Beatriz last month after we saw it in El Encanto, and I’ve been waiting for the perfect occasion to wear it. This seems better than any. I snuck a pair of my mother’s shoes from her closet—the palest pink to match the flowers—after she and our father left for their trip to Varadero.
I dress quickly, struggling a bit with the tiny buttons in the back. Once the dress is on, I choose a pair of earrings from the wooden vanity in the corner of my bedroom, staring at my reflection in the three-way mirror perched on top of it. I select one of the glass bottles sitting atop the surface, spritzing the perfume on my wrists, rubbing it behind my ears, the scent one I save for special occasions.
“Are you ready?” my sister Isabel hisses from the doorway, her gaze drifting toward the hallway. None of the servants are likely to tell on us, but Magda’s the unknown; our nanny is more family than anything else, nearly as concerned with the reputation of the Perez family as our mother is. This isn’t the type of party we normally attend, like all the ones where we stand in full-skirted ball gowns and long white gloves wearing heavy diamond necklaces around our necks.
My brow rises as I take stock of Isabel’s outfit; clearly I’m not the only one who raided our mother’s closet. The dress is one our mother has worn to parties before—black, fitted, and far more daring than anything she’s ever allowed any of us to wear. If this is Isabel’s choice for the evening, I can only imagine what Beatriz has come up with.
“I’m ready.” I pick up my clutch from the dresser, my fingers stroking the beads.
“Where’s Beatriz?” I ask, careful to keep my voice low. Magda has the uncanny ability to sneak up on us at the most inopportune moments, a lesson Maria has learned more than anyone else; being the youngest has its drawbacks.
“Waiting in the car.”
The car was another battle with our mother, one Beatriz ultimately won.
Isabel’s gaze darts toward the hallway and back again.
“And Maria?” I ask.
“Sleeping.”
Keeping our outing a secret from our little sister is as crucial as hiding it from Magda. Maria has bribery down to an art form President Batista would envy, and the price for ensuring her silence for not telling our parents we’re attending a party would likely be steeper than we would want to pay. The last time Maria caught Isabel sneaking back into the house after a date, she made out with Isabel’s favorite pearl earrings and a dress from Paris.
I follow Isabel down the hallway, our heels drumming against the marble floors. Our house was built in the mid-eighteenth century by the first Perez ancestor of note, a French corsair who amassed a fortune through ill-gotten gains and won himself a wife of impeccable lineage. He built her one of the largest and most ostentatious mansions in Havana, one that’s been renovated and updated throughout the years by various Perez heirs. The end result is a cavernous mansion brimming with gold leaf and marble. I’ve always thought the corsair had more money than taste, but considering he won himself a title from a Bourbon king along with his bride, he possessed enough cachet for our mother to proudly claim him as an ancestor.
In the beginning, our legacy came from smuggling and the corsair’s more nefarious activities. Soon his children and grandchildren began diversifying the family’s fortune, and through an advantageous marriage in the late nineteenth century, the Perezes became sugar barons.
For better, worse, and the truly horrific, sugar has molded Cuba’s fortunes.
The corsair stares us down as we tiptoe through the hall, and while the rest of our ancestors seem to disapprove of this act of rebellion from atop their oil-and-canvas perches, I fancy that our pirate ancestor with his dark hair and even darker eyes twinkling with mischief would have wholeheartedly approved.
We slip our shoes off at the top of the staircase in an act of choreographed sisterly precision. The marble is cool against my toes despite the warm air tonight, the moon casting a sliver of light across the steps. We freeze as noises coming from the general direction of the kitchen filter throughout the house.
Is the risk we’re taking really worth the reward of a night of freedom?
The punishment? Temporary removal to the country. Forced attendance at teas and luncheons, parties where we’re jettisoned from one eligible son of one of our father’s business associates to another. Life as usual.
They’re fighting in Cuba’s eastern provinces, in the Oriente, boys not much older than me, boys who should be at university—who would be at university if Batista hadn’t closed the University of Havana out of fear years ago. The revolutionaries are fighting throughout the country, storming the Presidential Palace, seeking to overthrow the government, to end Batista’s corruption, and yet, behind the high walls of our Miramar home, the ancien régime reigns supreme. My mother has no time for revolutions; they wreak havoc with her balls and teas.