Calle Obispo, Havana, August 16th, 1998
Electric currents surged up her spine, rising from her lower back to her head, bursting behind her eyes. Her husband sat right in front of her, eyes cold and wild, dripping with contemptuous arrogance.
Between them, the glass table held only an ashtray overflowing with cigarettes, burgundy lipstick smears stark against white porcelain. A chessboard would’ve made sense—but there wasn’t one. They were playing a different game.
“This staring contest is childish,” Leon said.
Luz raised an eyebrow as he kept his eyes open for minutes. Wiping sweat from her carefully made-up face, she fished the last cigarette from her bag and moved to the balcony.
The humid air was thick with the scent of weathered houses lining Calle Obispo. She bent over, watching shop owners lounging on benches outside cafes, jewelry stores, and clothing stalls. In the distance, boys strummed guitars, singing Cuban Bachata.
Below, she heard Alejandro and Alonso chatting outside their shop on the ground floor.
“We can’t go home just yet. I saw this coming,” Alonso said.
Goosebumps rose on Luz’s arms. She held her breath and listened closely.
Alejandro nodded his curly head in agreement. “This white guy thinks he’s invincible.”
Luz figured they didn’t think highly of politicians. Especially those from abroad.
The buzz of passersby drowned out the men’s voices. Her fists clenched. Looking over the railing, she marveled at how alike the brothers were—like twins.
Somehow, she knew they’d stay long past closing time, using their magic to soothe the rising tension.
When Alejandro spoke again, she caught him calling her a fireblood.
“He’ll die tonight. For sure,” was Alonso’s response.
They sounded so certain. These boys knew everything. Luz stubbed out her cigarette in the forlorn balcony plant, ready to return to her dangerous game.
One last look down the street—Alonso picked up his guitar and began to play with intense focus. The people outside stopped, listening. His famous lament drifted upward, almost touching her. When Alejandro joined with his timid voice, Luz’s heart nearly broke.
She walked back to her cabriole sofa, steeling herself. Her high heels clicked sharply on the marble floor.
“Let’s end this war once and for all,” she said quietly.
Leon gave her a haunted look; she knew he doubted her sanity. Probably rightly so. Luz heard voices. Maybe she was losing her mind. Or maybe this was what their marriage had come to—madness.
…
