Will my family visit? My parents? My brother? Will my new husband ever take me back to Cuba? His business interests brought him there initially after the revolution in 1933, but he’s said nothing of his long-term plans, whether he intends to return.
Will I ever go home again?
“The ring is fine. Beautiful. I don’t think I thanked you properly,” I add, remembering my mother’s earlier advice that marriage would be easier if we were able to find common ground between us, if he found me agreeable.
Powerful men are busy men, Mirta. They do not wish to be bothered with problems in the home or the trivialities of your day, the vagaries of your moods. Your aim should be to make your new husband happy, to alleviate the pressures of his life, to make him proud.
Her words came to me as she buttoned me into a white lace gown, the pins holding the dress in place pricking my skin. She shoved a bouquet of ivory flowers in my hands, last-minute instructions for a whirlwind wedding. Of the wedding night, I received no advice.
“When I saw it, I knew it was perfect for you,” Anthony says, and I stifle the urge to grimace.
It’s hardly the sort of jewelry I would have chosen for myself. It’s too big, too gaudy, too much. In these times, with the political fortunes such as they are in Cuba, we’ve all learned to survive by not calling attention to ourselves. I can hardly fault him for the mistake, but still, I add it to the pile of small indignations I am accumulating surrounding this marriage.
“I like the restaurant,” I say suddenly, eager to do anything but talk about the ring.
“Really?” He glances around the crowded seating area. “I worried it might be too plain for you. I’m sure you were used to finer establishments in Havana. But I thought it would be easy since it’s so close to the ferry. You hardly ate on the trip.”
“No, it isn’t the sort of place I normally frequented,” I admit, even though the novelty is precisely what makes the restaurant so intriguing.
When my father supported President Machado, our position was secure, and we lived within the insular world of Havana society.
Two years ago, everything changed.
Cubans grew tired of Machado’s dictatorship, and economic worries fueled by the crisis in the United States and a political movement led by many of the university students spurred tensions and violence within the country. The troubles building, the Americans intervened diplomatically, and eventually, Machado was ousted and forced into exile by a group led by some of his army sergeants. His followers—the Machadistas—have been hunted since the military coup, their bodies scattered throughout Cuba, hanging from lampposts, dumped along roadsides, burned to death in town squares.
By the grace of God or some other unseen hand of fortune, my father survived, but he made the mistake of backing the wrong candidate for power, and now Fulgencio Batista—elevated to colonel—pulls the strings in Cuba and is the one to whom we must ingratiate ourselves.
My older brother Emilio has been tasked with overseeing our sugar business, with forging a better relationship with the new regime, cozying up to Batista. Our father’s close relationship with Machado has left him in disfavor, though more fortunate than many of his friends who lost their lives, so now Emilio must set the course for the family.
“Once we might have spent our days out in society,” I reply, choosing my words carefully. “More recently, we spent a fair amount of time at home. There was a circle of families who, like my father, lost their position after the revolution in ’33 that brought Batista to power.”
Anthony and I have spent the last couple of years living on the same island, but we weren’t really living in the same country. The casino and hotel business might have brought him to Cuba thanks to Batista’s new ties with the Americans, but he was little more than a visitor, shielded from the horrors the rest of us feared.
“I wondered how you spent your days and nights,” he says. “I would see you out in Havana, but you were always coming or going. I never saw where you ended up.”
I flush. “No doubt my final destinations were far less interesting than yours.”
“Perhaps.” He smiles. “I didn’t think ladies wished to frequent nightclubs and casinos.”
“It’s hard to know what you’d like when so many doors are closed to you.”
Something that might be understanding flickers in his gaze.
While it is far easier to be a man than a woman, in this we likely share a common albeit tenuous bond—there is a difference between earning money and being born with it, and no doubt my husband with his likely ill-gotten gains knows a thing or two about having doors closed to him.
And still—somehow his path crossed with my father’s enough for them to play cards, for Anthony to suggest a marriage between us. There are so many questions burning inside me, but my mother’s voice is in my ear once more, so instead of demanding the answers I crave, I settle for making polite small talk.
“Do you do much business in the Keys?” I ask him.
“Some, although not as much as I once did. The ferry and railroad have certainly been useful additions to the region. We’ll soon see Key West as a major trade route—after all, with its close proximity to the rest of the United States, Latin America, and Cuba, there are untold opportunities for success.”
Given the rumors about my husband’s business interests, it seems he has a knack for finding chances to make money. They whisper that Anthony was a bootlegger before the United States government ended Prohibition two years ago, smuggling alcohol and contraband between Cuba and the United States.
My new husband is said to be a friend of Batista, as are so many of these Americans now planting their flag in Havana, a fact that must have greatly influenced my father’s decision to marry us off. In these times, having a man in the family who has the ear of the most powerful man in Cuba is a great incentive indeed.
“Do you travel much in your line of work?” I ask in yet another attempt to piece together our future. In my experience, most men are more than eager to talk about themselves as much as possible, but my husband is remarkably close-lipped about his life.
This might be the most we have spoken together in succession.
“Sometimes.”
I wait.
Once it becomes clear he isn’t going to elaborate, I try again.
“Do you enjoy traveling?”
For a moment, he almost looks confused by the question. “My interests have become more spread out as the years have gone by, and it’s important I keep an eye on them. You can hire good people to work for you, but it’s helpful to maintain a personal interest, to remind them what’s at stake.”
“And your interests in Cuba? Do you intend to go back?”