absorbed the details. In every conversation he longed to hear his father, his voice rising above another, arguing. He wondered if these same streets had been the genesis of Filomeno’s volatile temper. His father had been a man of few words, but when anyone mentioned Cuba, he came alive.
Like that afternoon when they’d visited one of Rosa’s friends in Pearland. Frank, Pepe, and their friend Jorge were watching television. In the background they could hear the voices of the grown-ups rising in argument. They heard, “Cuba,” and someone yelled, “Fidel,” and then, “Cuba,” again. The next thing Filomeno was shouting, “Cuba, where the hell is it now?”
They watched him storm out of the house like an angry teenager. And Jorge, who was younger than Frank, said, “Oye, what’s wrong with your papá?”
It was as if Filomeno did not want to be reminded that somewhere southeast of Houston, just past Miami, there was a place he once called home. He seemed angry at Cuba just because it existed.
Rosa could be relentless. She wielded that country like a knife. It always led to the kind of violence that prompted Frank and Pepe to escape the house or shut themselves in their bedroom. But deep down, with his head buried in a pillow, Frank found the arguments a relief from the silence and indifference that otherwise permeated their lives. Now, as he walked the streets of Centro Habana, he could not imagine his father here. He could not see him on the street corner or leaning over a balcony or waving at a relative or fixing his old Chevy or smoking a cigar or being Cuban—not like this. Filomeno had lived as far away from Cuba as the moon.
At the crossing of Calle Lealtad and Concordia, the street was closed off to traffic by rusted yellow barricades where Pioneros—elementary students—in their burgundy and white uniforms skipped rope and sang rhymes.
The sun began to find its way out of the clouds. The haziness subsided and the day became progressively warmer. The blue of the Caribbean sky was finally showing in the distance towards the ocean.
At the intersection with Calle Espada, Marisol stopped. “Which one is it?”
“Number forty-five. It’s a gray building.” But there were no numbers. And all four buildings on the corner were gray.
Marisol looked up and down the street. “Who are we looking for?”
“Eusebio. And Esperanza.”
Marisol stepped forward. “Eusebio! Esperanza!” The people on the street went about their business without raising an eyebrow. She called again, “Eusebiooo! Esperanzaaa!”
“No está.” A little boy poked his head out from the balcony of a building across the street.
“Eusebio?” Frank called.
“Eusebio doesn’t live here anymore.”
“What about Esperanza?”
“She went out. To the choppin.”
Frank glanced at Marisol. “And you, niño?” he asked. “Who are you?”
“I’m Pedrito. The son of Capitán, the one who is married to Esperanza.”
“Do you know where Eusebio lives?”
“Yes.”
Frank waited, but when Pedrito said nothing, he asked, “Where does he live now?”
“In Vedado.”
Frank shook his head. “Do you know where in Vedado?”
“No. I’m only a little boy.”
“¡Compañera!” A pair of skinny teenagers in baggy shorts and T-shirts with opulent Nike logos approached them from the other side of the street.
The one with the bleached, spiked hair moved his shoulders as he spoke, his hands gesturing below his waist. His eyes skipped from Marisol to Frank and back. “You’re looking for Eusebio? We used to be neighbors.”
“Do you know where he lives?” she asked.
“Claro, en Vedado. We can take you there. We were just now talking about Eusebio and—”
“How far is it?” she interrupted.
“Coño, not far. We can take Orlando’s Moskvitch, but we’ll need a little money to help with the gasoline.”
“Ah.” Marisol shifted her weight and her eyes narrowed. “Y dime, what were you going to do if we hadn’t shown up?”
“Well.” He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, glanced at it and gestured with it as he spoke. “I was just telling Orlando here how we hadn’t caught sight of Eusebio in so many weeks and that it would be nice to pay him a little visit. ¿Sabes? And Orlando was saying how we needed to figure out something to procure some gasoline. And then we hear your pretty voice calling for him.”
“Divina providencia.” Orlando, the one with the dark skin and a trim afro, leaned forward and lit his friend’s cigarette.
“How much?” Marisol asked.
“I don’t know.” The other glanced at Orlando. “¿Cinco, seis dólares?”
“Okay,” Frank interrupted, “vamos, let’s go.”
“Coño.” The one with the bleached hair offered Frank his hand.“¿Español?”
“No, Americano. Let’s go. Where’s the car?”
“¡Coño!” He glanced at Orlando whose eyes had also lit up at the word Americano. Then he raised his hand and bought it down for Frank to take again. “Miami?”
“New York.”
“¡Coño! New Yor’, I’m Michi and this is Orlando. Whatever you require during your stay in La Habana we can get it for you: rum, cigars, girls—”
“Let’s go.”
“Coño, el Yuma’s in a hurry.” Michi put the cigarette between his lips and led them around the corner where a square blue automobile covered in gray patches of primer was parked. But when Orlando turned the key nothing happened.
Michi jumped out and got to work under the hood. “¡Dale!”
Orlando tried again and the car exploded with a loud backfire. Michi hopped back in, and they were off, leaving behind a thick cloud of black smoke.
“Inferior gasoline,” Michi complained. “Entonces, Frank, you think Clinton will lift the bloqueo before he leaves office?”
“The embargo? How would I know?”
“Never mind, it’s of no consequence. We can get what we want now.” Michi counted the items with his skinny fingers. “Nike, Levi’s, CNN, Marlboros, Heineken.”
“Don’t tell me—you have family in Miami.”
“No.” Michi patted Orlando on the back. “We work.
