A mere block marks the difference between Pablo’s house and the one my grandmother grew up in. He must drive past the old Perez estate every single day; does he think of her often?
The house is ahead of me, the well-manicured lawn, immense palm trees swaying gently in the breeze, and elegant exterior a surprise. My grandfather’s stature in life seems to have changed quite a bit from that of the staunchly middle-class lawyer described in his letters, and his home is in far better condition than its compatriots.
Some are more equal than others.
I press on the gate, the iron creaking as it swings open. The sound of the ocean mixes with the noise of children laughing and yelling somewhere on the property’s immense grounds; there’s an entire family out there I never knew.
I continue forward, my sandals slipping against the rock driveway, my legs wet noodles. I reach the front steps and hesitate. I close my eyes, offering a silent prayer to the heavens and the one person I know absolutely has my back up there as I knock on the heavy wood door and wait until it opens, revealing an elderly Cuban woman in a flowered dress.
“May I help you?” she asks.
Is this his wife?
I swallow. “I’m Marisol Ferrera. I’m here to see Mr. Garcia.”
She’s silent for a moment, her gaze assessing.
“He’s sitting out on the back porch. I’ll show you the way.”
I follow her through the house, my gaze on the paintings on the wall, the furnishings. Nothing is in luxurious condition by American standards, and yet, the pieces have clearly fared far better than at the Rodriguez home. Does my grandfather have someone else’s family legacy hanging on his walls?
The woman leads me to a covered outdoor area with a breathtaking view of the sea and sky, a storm out over the water. She asks me if I would like a drink, and I decline.
My grandfather sits in an oversize chair under the covered space smoking a cigar, a glass of amber liquid in front of him. He wears a sharp panama hat, another guayabera, the hem of his shirt blowing in the breeze, and black pants.
Pablo sets his glass down.
He rises from his chair, his hand gripping the arm, his eyes on me as he exchanges affectionate words with his wife before she’s gone, closing the doors and leaving us alone on the patio overlooking the sea.
The rain slaps the tile patio beyond the covering.
“What’s happening with Luis?” I ask.
“They’re attempting to charge him under social dangerousness,” my grandfather replies.
“What does that mean?”
“The people who have been tried under the charge have been imprisoned for several years. Occasionally, the government will go for something a bit lighter, like house arrest, but in this instance that’s best case. The law allows the government to detain someone if they think they may commit a crime in the future. They have applied it against dissidents in the past, and that’s what they’re aiming for in this case.
“Because he works at the university, their concern is his influence over his students, his opportunity to organize them, to create a movement against the government.” My grandfather sighs. “At the moment he’s being held in a cell alone, but when he’s in prison, things can happen. He’s not safe there. I had hoped he would be released by now, but I fear things are worse than I imagined.”
“What can happen to him?”
“People get into fights, people are killed. Even before he’s in prison, things will be dangerous.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “People disappear. Have the misfortune to be involved in a car accident on their way home. This is not America. Once you are in the regime’s sights, you are not safe. If they think he’s dangerous enough, they will do whatever they have to in order to silence him.”
“What do I do? Get him a lawyer? Get the Americans involved? Human rights groups? Who can help him?”
Will they even care, or is he just one Cuban in a long line of human rights abuses?
“I’m waiting to hear back from a few friends well-placed in the judicial system. I’m trying to get him out, but it’s complicated, and we must be very careful in how we handle this. I know you’re scared, but, Marisol, you also need to be careful. If they think you’re involved, if they can create a connection that makes it appear as though you’re involved, they can try you as a spy; you can get caught up in this, too. These are dangerous times, and your nationality will only afford you so much protection.”
My great-aunts’ earlier warnings return to me now.
“I know you want to help, but you have to understand that there are limits here,” Pablo adds. “You must be smart about this. Wait at Ana’s house, and when I know something, I’ll come to you. There’s nothing you can do to get him out until then and your intervention will only make things worse. Promise me you’ll wait.”
It’s a hard pill to swallow, but the logical, rational part of me knows he’s right. And if Ana, Caridad, and Cristina can be stoic about this, I must be as well.
“I promise.”
“This man—he’s important to you, yes?”
“He is.” I swallow. “Will he be okay?”
My grandfather’s expression is grim.
“I hope so.”
* * *
? ? ?
The next few hours creep by with agonizing slowness. Life doesn’t stop because Luis is in jail; the Rodriguez women still prepare meals, taking in guests, the kitchen quiet as a tomb save for the occasional piece of silverware scraping against a plate, a pot banging against the stovetop, the hiss and boil of water.
The urge to cry is a battering ram weakening my defenses, and yet, there is an unspoken agreement here. Luis’s grandmother, his mother, Cristina—none of them break. There’s a tremor in their hands, the occasional hitch in their throat, but they don’t cry.
No one objects when I join them in the kitchen, helping to make the picadillo for the evening meal. The paladar is full tonight, the tables packed with tourists—Canadians, two Australian couples, and a French family. Cristina and Caridad serve the guests with somber expressions and trays laden with food.
I worry most about Ana.
When the other two women are out serving guests, she allows the facade to slip a bit, murmuring prayers and rubbing the bracelet on her wrist as though it’s a rosary.
“Would you like to lie down?” I ask.
My cooking skills aren’t on par with Ana’s, but picadillo is a staple in the Cuban diet. I’ve helped my grandmother make it hundreds of times, and it’s one of my few culinary achievements.
“Thank you, but no. It helps me to stay busy—to keep my mind from wandering.”
“Me, too.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “He’ll be okay,” she proclaims, her hand drifting to her chest, a beat above her heart. “I feel it here.”
We cook in silence, working in tandem to create the picadillo. When I press Ana to eat some herself, she waves me off and says I should eat instead. My stomach is too full of nerves and worry for me to bother with food, and we continue on in the tiny space.
Cristina and Caridad drift in and out of the kitchen, returning to serve the guests.
Someone pounds at the front door.
We both still. Ana’s gaze darts toward the kitchen entrance and back to me.
Her hands drift to the bracelet again, her fingers flying over the beads. “Will you come with me?”
I nod, the words stuck in my throat.
I take her hand, and we walk toward the door together. When we reach the front door, I pause. “Do you think we should—”
Wait? Get help? A litany of objections runs through my mind before I remember this is Cuba, and the rules here work differently. There is no media to highlight these abuses, no government to complain to, no friend or neighbor to call upon to aid us. We are really and truly alone with only ourselves to rely on.
Ana straightens, pushing her shoulders back, her fingers fumbling with the lock on the door. She swings it open.
Luis and my grandfather stand on the other side.