And so occasionally, we do exceedingly foolish things like sneaking out of the house in the dead of night, because it’s impossible to stand near the flame consuming everything around you and not have some of that fire catch the hem of your skirt, too.
We make it to the front door, pausing once for a maid completing her duties for the night, a song under her breath. Once the maid has finished dusting the entryway table, Isabel exits first, leaving me to close the heavy front door behind me with a wince. I slip my mother’s sandals back onto my feet, freezing at the sight of Beatriz lounging against her convertible.
Her dress looks as though it was painted onto her voluptuous body, and I don’t know where she bought it or where she’s been hiding it, but you wear a dress like that when you want to create a scandal. She flaunts it beautifully.
Of all of Emilio Perez’s daughters, Beatriz is the most apt to court scandal, to push at the edges of the cage, occasionally breaking free. She fights with our parents about attending university, wants to study law, quotes philosophers and radicals. And she insisted we sneak out tonight.
“Are you ready?” Beatriz asks. Her gaze runs over me, and when she doesn’t say anything, I relax slightly. Beatriz’s sartorial elegance is undisputed in Havana.
“I thought we talked about discretion,” Isabel grouses beside me. “Parking your car in front of the house where anyone can see is not discreet.”
“No one will say anything,” Beatriz scoffs. “They’re too terrified of our mother to broach the subject.”
Our father runs his businesses, but our mother rules our home with a jewel-covered fist.
“You’re too careless,” Isabel retorts.
I tune them out, their bickering a common refrain in our household. My gaze drifts across the high stone walls to my best friend Ana’s house. I count the windows as I’ve done for years until I reach the second floor, settling on the third one down. The light is on in her bedroom—
“Elisa!”
Isabel gets into the car’s back seat, waving me on while Beatriz somehow slides into the driver seat despite her constricting dress.
I follow my sisters out into the night.
* * *
• • •
The party is at a house in Vedado, a few blocks away from the University of Havana. The host is a friend of a friend of a friend of Isabel’s boyfriend, Alberto. Beatriz navigates a parking spot, and once she’s parked we exit the car, and I trail behind her and Isabel. Guests spill out of the entrance, the house brimming with noise and music, vibrating with laughter.
It’s a pretty enough structure—two stories tall and painted in a clean white color. A balcony juts off the second floor, more guests filling the space. At first glance, it’s obvious we’re overdressed. Significantly so. We might as well announce to the entire room that we aren’t from here, that we belong to a different part of the city. Our aim tonight is anonymity; our names and faces are relatively well-known, but I doubt this crowd spends much time poring over the society pages of Diario de la Marina.
Beatriz charges through the crowd, her hips swaying, a woman on a mission. She was so intent on coming here tonight that I can’t help but wonder if Isabel isn’t the only one dating a man our parents don’t wholly approve of. At the same time, if Beatriz were dating someone inappropriate, she would be the last to hide it. No, she’d proudly parade him in front of all, seating him at the grand dining room table our mother had shipped from Paris to compete with her rival and best friend whose own dining room table sailed from England.
Benny Moré is on the record player, couples dancing anywhere and everywhere, their bodies a little closer than you typically see at my mother’s formal parties, hands drifting a little lower, fingers clutching fabric, their cheeks pressed against each other. The women dance with a freedom I covet, their hips sinuous, their movements leaving no doubt that they embrace every ounce of femininity God gave them. There’s passion of varying degrees and inspirations throbbing in the air, occupying the cracks and crevices of the party, tucked away behind clasped hands, soaring above bent heads. A sort of frenzy that seeps into your bones.
The crowd swallows Isabel and Beatriz up until I’m left alone, standing on the fringes of the party in my too-formal dress, searching for a familiar face, someone else who’s somewhere they shouldn’t be, torn between discomfort at the raw emotions lingering under the surface and a faint prick of envy.
I accept one of the drinks they’re generously passing around, the rum sweeter than any I’m used to—stronger, too—finding a comfortable place against the wall where I can observe everyone. In a family like mine, you grow accustomed to watching from the shadows. I’ve never been like Beatriz, happiest taking risks. Nor am I Isabel—truculently in love, or Maria, prone to outbursts. This—watching couples dance, listening to music, taking the occasional sip of rum—is more than enough for me. At least, it was.
And then I see him.
Strangely, I notice the suit before I notice the man. Cuban society is not quiet society; we flaunt our wealth and status like peacocks. He is no peacock. His suit isn’t impeccably tailored to fit his frame, and it isn’t designed to impress. It’s functional—a no-nonsense black that drapes a tall, lean body. I like him better for the simplicity; I’m more than a little tired of peacocks.
He’s speaking with two other men, his hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze cast downward. He has a strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a surprisingly full, lush mouth on a hard face. His skin is a shade or two darker than mine, his dark hair an unruly mess curling at the ends.
He doesn’t smile.
I sip the rum, watching him, attempting to guess his age. Most of the party appears to be a little older than me—in their early twenties, perhaps—and while there’s a severity about him, he doesn’t look that much older.
His lips move rapidly when he talks, his hands in constant motion.
My foot taps in time with the music, mimicking the beat of my heart as I watch him, willing him to look at me, to notice me.
And miraculously, he does. Maybe the dress is a little magic.
He turns, mid-conversation, his hands lingering in the air like a conductor instructing a symphony, surveying the crowd, the same hardness in his eyes that’s stamped all over his face. There’s a hunger there, though, beneath that hardness—a hunger I’ve seen before—the kind that looks at the world and isn’t afraid to say it isn’t good enough, that there must be more, to demand change. He looks like a man who believes in things, which is truly terrifying these days.
My breath hitches.
His eyes widen slightly, as though he can hear my breath over the sound of Benny Moré, the laughter and sin spilling all over the party.