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“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell him, licking my lips, and wrapping a curl around my fingers. He leans in, brushing his lips to mine softly.
“You say you’re not comfortable riding the scooter, you want me to help you learn more?” The tip of his nose grazes mine as he moves it in a back and forth motion.
My heart is racing. “I’d like that, yes.”
“Perfecto. I’ll call youmañana,” he says, leaning into me.
I shift to avoid him, unlocking the driver’s side door and climbing in. “Good night.” I buckle my seatbelt and back out. Amaury stands and watches me drive off. When I’m at the red light, I stick my hand into my pockabook and grab my phone. Three missed calls. I punch in the unlock code and the missed calls are from an unknown number, causing a chill to snake its way up my spine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amaury
When driving I usually have the music loud, let the guitar riffs course through me as they fill the air around me. But not tonight. Tonight it’s the sounds of the road and my thoughts.
It’s been years since I’ve talked about my journey from Cuba and Sol asking so many questions flooded me with old memories and opened up old wounds. It’s not that I don’t like sharing my story, but it’s also something I don’t talk about too often. Some days I feel better about it than others. It’s heavy and Sol’s reaction was the reaction I’m used to, shock and awe. Unless the person on the receiving end of my story is Cuban or familiar with Cuban history and politics, they’re always stunned to learn I risked my life on the ocean to live free. What shocks them more is I left my family, friends, and entire life, and never said a word of the journey we were about to take.
Don’t get me wrong, Sol asking questions means she’s interested in getting to know me better, which is what I want. Anything to get her talking more. I knew we’d have this conversation eventually, I just didn’t expect it to be on our first date. It shouldn’t surprise me, though. I’m a Cuban rafter and it’s an integral part of the man I am.
When Sol asked about my leaving, I was transported back twelve years, sitting at my mother’s table eating a plate of white rice, black beans, andtostones. I can still see the dull white plate, with several chips along the outer edges, the worn silver fork that was too small to eat with but the only ones my mother had. The faded floral print on the plastic tablecloth that’s adorned the table since I was a child. It had started like every other day, but when my mother mentioned where Roberto was, I knew his plans. I knew the day would end like no other.
Roberto lived next door to me my entire life and we were like brothers, did everything together—walked to school, chased girls, went to rock concerts, did military duty, and even got locked up together for being “anti-social.” My brothers and sisters in Cuba are all younger so having someone my age to cause mischief with was everything to me.
We both listened to all the rock music we could get our hands on from the tourists we’d meet at the beach. We’d often befriend the tourists at the beaches, and when the tourists learned we didn’t have access to a lot of music in Cuba, they’d offer us their cassette tapes—probably because they felt pity for us. The beaches were the only place we’d run into tourists and have an opportunity to talk with them at length, and even that was scarce, as there were few places native Cubans and tourists could be found mingling. This was the only way for us to get the music from the American rock bands we wanted to listen to.
During our military tour, Roberto and I would often talk about coming to the United States to start a new life. Roberto was discharged from the military service months before I was and as soon as he was out, he started building rafts and trying to escape with a few mutual friends. The first few times they tried they were caught, because either they told too many people their plans or they left at the wrong times and were caught by the Cuban Coast Guard. Each time they’d get sent to jail until someone in the family could obtain their release—usually Roberto’s father who was well connected with the Cuban government.
With each raft Roberto built, he improved, each one built sturdier and more reliable. By the time he built the raft we left on, it was solid. It was made with inner tubes from bikes and tires, tarps stolen from local shipping yards, empty rice sacks, and lots of rope. The raft never got damaged over the four-day journey and for that we were all thankful.
When I arrived at Roberto’s, him and the other guys were putting the finishing touches on the raft—tightening knots, fortifying the inner tubes, filling jugs with sugar water, and securing the oars. When we were ready, we drove to another friend’s house who lived by the point of departure. We remained hidden inside the house until darkness fell, seeking the cover of night to protect us from being caught. For a few weeks before leaving, Roberto had surveilled the Cuban Coast Guard and the times they’d patrol in that specific area. We knew we had a window of fifty-seven minutes to put the raft in the water, row away from the shoreline, and out of sight from their next patrol round. It would be tight, but we had no choice but to try.
As we waited for the time to pass, I was nervous, anxious, excited, and jumpy. Every noise around me enhanced by the tight knots in my stomach. That night I didn’t know all the other guys felt the same. We all kept those feelings to ourselves, too afraid to voice how scared we truly were for fear if one backed out, others would follow. It wasn’t until months later while living at the refugee camp inGuantánamothat we all confessed our true feelings. Turns out each one of us was more scared than the next—afraid we would die in the ocean but willing to risk it for freedom, for the chance at living a life free from oppression and hunger.
A honk from the car behind mine startles me back to the here and now. I realize as I’m driving down Alton Road, I’m going twenty miles per hour, the whirring of the engine purring reminding me of where I am. I’ve been lost in a daze and don’t recall driving from where I was parked to my current location. I missed my turn on Forty-seventh Street and need to make a U-turn to head back toward my house.
Once I get home, I kick my shoes off by the door and pull off my socks, dropping them onto the floor. I place my keys and wallet onto the counter and head straight to my backyard to lie by the pool under the moonlight, which illuminates the entire sky. This is my favorite spot at the house, my oasis. It’s where I spend most of my time while home. A backyard surrounded in tall, lush greenery, the privacy from my neighbors something I craved after growing up in a place where everyone was up in your business.
I search for a playlist on my phone, music from the sixties reminiscent of the music I’d listen to with my father in Cuba on the nightlyNocturnoshow—the Beatles, Rita Pavone, Formula V, and Boney M, among others. Growing up we didn’t have a television, so the radio was always on in our house. At night my father would turn on theNocturnoshow, where the music would play for two hours. I would lie in bed listening to my father’s music and dream about a life better than the one I was living. My father’s love for music turned me on to rock music. Similar genre but different eras, different sounds.
My first few years in Miami I rented apartments, but I moved into this house a few years back when Eduardo’s now ex-girlfriend encouraged me to buy a home instead of rent and pay someone else’s mortgage. I was reluctant at first, unsure I’d be able to pay the mortgage and still afford the expenses that accompany homeownership, but the scooter business was doing well, and I wanted a place I could call home.
I miss Cuba terribly, not because I miss living under government oppression or the awful conditions, but because I miss my family. I was close to my parents and siblings but since the day I fled, the distance between us isn’t only physical, but emotional too. The ability to communicate regularly with them is difficult because the calls are exorbitant in costs and my family didn’t, and doesn’t, have a phone at their house. We have to coordinate to speak by calling a neighbor’s house. Although we have mobile phones here, in Cuba they’re scarce and there is very little mobile phone service.
My mother was angry at me for years after leaving.
Angry because I left so suddenly.
Angry because she never knew of my plans.
Angry because I didn’t bring her with me.
My siblings were less upset and understood my desire for a better life. But it was my father who surprised me the most. He was a military man his whole life. He fought alongside Fidel Castro during the Revolution all those years ago. My father truly believed the Revolution was for a better Cuba. But it wasn’t until my early teen years when my father finally accepted he’d been deceived—him and an entire country.
When I first spoke to my father a year after leaving Cuba, I heard relief in his voice. He told me while the entire family was worried something had happened to me because no one knew of my whereabouts, he knew I had fled on a raft. He said he’d always known I wouldn’t last long in Cuba because I was too wild to live under the watchful eye of the Cuban government. With the departure of tens of thousands of Cubans by way of raft, my father was certain I’d risked my life on the open ocean.
During our call we cried—for all the division that was forced between us because of ideological beliefs. I hadn’t spoken to my father, or any family, for over a year, but they knew I was safe. At some point during my stay atGuantánamo, the Miami Herald had released a comprehensive list of names of all the refugees housed atGuantánamo. That list somehow made its way back to Cuba and my father learned I was safe. His biggest fear had not come to fruition.
My phone dings, signaling an incoming text message and it brings me back to the calm night before me. It’s not as windy now as it was earlier when we were sitting on the beach. I extend my hand to grab the phone next to my feet and slide the unlock feature. A smile spreads across my face when I see Sol’s name on my screen.
