Chapter Eight
Pilar
Havana
It was quiet this morning, the rain likely driving their patrons away. On days like this, she wanted nothing more than to curl up and read. She was almost done with A Time for Forgetting and the book kept calling to her, the novel begging to be finished.
Sleep had eluded her last night, the knowledge that one of Fidel’s men now resided a wall away obliterating the sanctuary of her apartment.
She’d sat in bed, the covers pulled over her, listening to every creak of the floorboards, the shuffling of—furniture?
Boxes? Had he simply moved into Zenaida’s life, scavenging through her possessions, and discarding what wasn’t of value to him and stealing what was?
Would the same thing happen to her one day?
Eventually, would the apartment where she and Enrique had dreamed so many dreams become someone else’s to do with as they wished? Would their memories be erased by another? It seemed as likely as it was unbearable.
If not for the comfort of A Time for Forgetting , she wasn’t sure how she would have gotten through the night.
The more Pilar read, the more she wondered how much of the novel was inspired by Eva’s experiences at the summer school and whether the mysterious letter was tied to a real-life love Eva had—and lost. The main character, Ana, was a Cuban teacher who had traveled from Havana to Boston to attend the summer school.
Pilar must have read the letter a dozen times.
It was strange—invasive, even—to read someone’s intimate correspondence, but she kept searching for clues in the letter—and in the novel—that might shed some light on Eva’s life and how to find her so she could honor the responsibility Zenaida had given her.
And the letter seemed like an extension of the novel, Eva’s manner of writing and the emotions she conveyed so similar that they appeared connected.
The heroine Ana reminded Pilar so much of herself that sometimes when she was reading, she had to set the book down because the truth the words contained rocked her with a wave of sadness.
For Ana—or Eva herself—the long specter of Cuba’s fight for independence from Spain loomed large over her life, the uncertainty of Cuba’s tenuous future making it hard for her to envision a future for herself.
It was impossible not to draw parallels between the struggles Cuba faced then and the difficulties she faced now.
It was as though history kept repeating itself, and the calls for a free Cuba— Viva Cuba Libre —that echoed on the pages of A Time for Forgetting were the same ones that beat in Pilar’s heart.
They had traded Spain’s tyranny for Fidel’s dictatorship.
Was that why Eva Fuentes had chosen to write the book in English—because she’d wanted to appeal to an American audience, considering they’d had administrative control over Cuba at the time?
Pilar wasn’t sure.
The book was political in parts, unflinching in its portrayal of the cost that the war had taken on Cuba and its people.
But at its heart, it was a love story between Ana and the young man she’d met at Harvard.
In that, Eva Fuentes had been unflinching, too.
She wrote about falling in love from the perspective of someone who seemed to understand the twin sides of love and loss, and it was that truth, that honesty, that had ensnared Pilar the most. Even though sixty-five years separated them, she wondered if Eva would have understood what she was going through now as Eva’s bravery inspired her.
Pilar slipped through the stacks toward the back of the library where they kept the books that were too damaged or frail for lending.
She’d tried for as long as she could to keep this away from the library, to not involve Ignacio in her subterfuge. But with the enemy living next door to her, her apartment no longer seemed like a safe hiding place.
She pulled the books out of the large tote she’d brought with her, the one she used when she’d shop for food each week.
There were a dozen titles in all—thirteen if you counted A Time for Forgetting , which she wasn’t ready to relinquish just yet.
The books ranged in value from the sentimental to those that were monetarily significant—namely, an edition of Don Quixote from 1605, a Medieval Bible that had belonged to one of Cuba’s most influential families tracing back to their time in Spain, a rare Hemingway edition that the author had signed and personally given to a friend during his time in Havana.
Considering how much property Fidel’s government had seized, it was hardly enough, but in the moments when despair crept in, she tried to remember that it was something .
Pilar moved quickly, trying to be as careful as possible removing the books from her bag and setting them on the shelves.
The older titles were delicate, and she hated the haphazard way she was forced to transport and store them.
Some of the books that they were in the process of rehabilitating had makeshift covers on them, and she switched some of the covers onto the secret books, sliding them onto the shelves so they were hidden in plain sight.
It wasn’t a permanent solution—or even a long-term one—but it was the best option until she could come up with another hiding place for them.
After Enrique was arrested, the secret police had come to the library looking for her.
She’d spent over a day in custody while they interrogated her about her husband’s activities.
The truth was, even if she had been willing to turn on Enrique, which was inconceivable, she didn’t have any information to share.
He’d been careful to protect her, and so while she knew broad strokes—that he was helping those who had been targeted by Fidel’s regime—she didn’t know who he had been working with, or what safe house locations they’d used, or any of the questions they asked her repeatedly, trying to break her will.
And so finally they’d released her, likely convinced that the bookish librarian who had appeared absolutely terrified the entire time she’d been in their custody was the last person who would engage in anything subversive.
Pilar stowed her bag in the room and hurried toward the front of the library.
Three new patrons had entered since she went to the back, and Pilar spent the next hour helping them find books, recommending a few of her favorites to a young woman who was looking for a good adventure story.
Ignacio walked over to her.
“There’s someone waiting in the back to speak with you,” he murmured. “I’ll watch the desk.”
For a moment, she considered asking him who was there, but there was something about the way in which he avoided meeting her gaze that sent a sinking feeling through her.
“Is it the same man who came by the library looking for me the other day?”
Would today be the day they arrested her, too?
Ignacio shook his head.
Heart pounding, Pilar turned away. Her legs wobbled as she walked through the library, past the rows of books she cared for.
When she reached the back of the building, she turned to the right, to the little room where they often did their recordkeeping and took breaks.
Enrique’s cousin Julio sat at the small table in the corner, his hat in his hand. He glanced up at the sound of her footsteps, her worn heels clacking against the floor.
She stopped in her tracks.
Julio rose from the table. “Pilar.”
She knew. She knew from the first moment she saw him, knew from the look in his eyes, from the sound of her name, the way his voice broke over the syllables.
Enrique isn’t coming home.
Her legs gave way beneath her, a roar in her head crashing through her.
Pilar grabbed one of the bookshelves in the staff room, catching herself as she fell, her fingers ghosting across a leather spine. She lowered herself to the floor slowly, faintly registering Julio crouching in front of her, mimicking her stance.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Logically, she’d known when they took Enrique that there wasn’t going to be a happy ending, that the sight of him being led away might be the last glimpse she would ever have of her husband.
Logically, she’d known, and still she’d allowed herself to hope against all odds that she might see him again, because the alternative had been simply unbearable.
And perhaps that hope had been a kindness of sorts, because without it, she never would have been able to survive the days that had followed.
He isn’t coming home.
Pilar stared down at the thin gold wedding band on her finger, the one Enrique placed there that magical day they married. In that moment, she had felt invincible, as though the future was theirs for the taking, certain that they could defeat any struggles that came their way.
She hadn’t been ready for Fidel’s revolution.
In truth, no one had.
“What happened?” she asked, glancing up at him.
No matter how horrible the truth was, she needed to know. It was the end to their story, as much a part of their love as the day they met and the day they wed.
“He died in prison,” Julio answered. “At least that’s what Esteban told me.”
Pilar knew Esteban well—before their lives had fallen apart, before the revolution, he’d had dreams of being a comedian and an entertainer. He was the sort of person who lit up a room with his easygoing personality. He and Enrique had grown up together and were more like brothers than friends.
“Esteban was there in the cell with him when he died. They just released Esteban and he came to tell me.” Julio hesitated. “He asked me to apologize to you that he didn’t come himself. He’s not—he’s not who you remember him to be.”
What had he been through? What had Enrique been through?
“They were together—Enrique and Esteban?”
Julio nodded. “They were held in a communal cell with other men. From what I could gather from Esteban, conditions were rough. Enrique became ill, he was malnourished, and his body couldn’t handle everything that happened—”