The Lost Story of Eva Fuentes - 11

Havana

1966

For a week, Pilar stayed home in her apartment and grieved. She slept. She stared at the wall, the sounds echoing throughout the building and on the street outside her only companions, serving as reminders that she wasn’t alone. She ate what little food she had in her apartment, the taste of it like dust, more than a few bites sending her stomach roiling.

She read A Time for Forgetting.

When she finished the novel, when her gaze ran over Eva Fuentes’s final words, she sat in bed, an ache building inside her. A tear trickled down her face, and then another, the tears turning into sobs wracking her body.

She did the only thing she could think of—she reread the novel, and then when she’d finished, she read it again.

She couldn’t read the letter, even as its words haunted her.

It was the book’s ending that had stuck with her the most. Ana had returned to Cuba once her time at the summer school in Harvard had ended, an ocean between her and Michael, the man she had met and loved in Boston. It was Ana’s strength in the novel, the way that she endured, that inspired her most. Eva wrote about Ana’s lost love with a pain that leapt off the page, with a hurt that was all too familiar and real to Pilar.

Surely, there was some connection between the letter she’d found and the book’s ending.

She wasn’t ready to return to the library just yet, to continue with any pretense of normalcy. After Julio’s announcement, Ignacio had told her to take as much time as she needed to grieve, but neither one of them had quantified that in days.

She needed to figure out what to do with the books she’d hidden in the library. They couldn’t remain there forever, of course, not to mention there was the added complication of A Time for Forgetting .

The more she read A Time for Forgetting , the more its presence weighed on her, the responsibility Zenaida had placed in her hands to return the book to Eva Fuentes one of the only things that distracted her from her grief.

She could hear Enrique’s voice so clearly in her mind, urging her on, encouraging her to continue the search for Eva. That’s what he would have done if he were still alive. In life, he had dedicated himself to helping people, so after his death the best way she could honor him was to do as he would have done.

Decision made, Pilar dressed quickly, more than a little taken aback when she checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She wasn’t prepared for the reflection staring back at her. Her cheeks looked sunken, her face pale, dark circles under her eyes. When was the last time she’d eaten? She couldn’t remember anymore. The days since she had found out that Enrique was dead had run together in a blur.

A banana rested on the countertop in the kitchen, a day or so past its prime, but she scarfed it down quickly for the sustenance before she set out on her way to research at the National Library, A Time for Forgetting tucked away in her purse.

She closed the door to her apartment and turned the lock, feeling years older than the last time she’d gone through the same routine.

“You’re the librarian.”

Pilar jumped at the sound of a man’s voice.

She whirled around.

A man stood in the hallway facing her, his back to Zenaida’s—it would always be Zenaida’s in her mind—apartment door. He wasn’t dressed in the green fatigues she’d come to dread the sight of, but his reputation preceded him.

Her new neighbor.

A flurry of emotions went through her, a myriad of disparate reactions tugging at her. She wanted to lunge forward and attack him, beating her fists against his chest. She longed to retreat to the safety of her apartment, putting the door and several locks between them. The banana threatened to make another appearance, and she had a vision of herself getting sick all over his black boots.

He watched her, his dark eyes narrowing, his gaze skewering her as he likely observed the range of emotions play out across her face.

No wonder the women of the building had been so concerned.

There was nothing neighborly in his manner, no ease about him, no smiles. Just a coldness that encompassed the entirety of the space around him.

The urge to cower was there; the desire to make herself small and invisible so that he would leave her alone came to her with a breath and then disappeared as quickly. After all, the regime had taken her heart away from her. What did she care for her life now?

She met his gaze. Held it. “Yes. I am a librarian.”

She didn’t offer her name or any pleasantries, had no welcome to the building for him, couldn’t even find it in her to pretend. As far as defiance went, it was small, but right now it was everything.

“I’ve been curious about you. I haven’t seen you around recently. I was beginning to think you were a ghost.”

His words had teeth, biting into her, but she held his stare.

“I’ve been ill,” she lied, the idea of sharing her loss, of saying Enrique’s name in this man’s presence, distasteful.

And then she couldn’t keep it together anymore, bile rising to the surface. “Excuse me,” she said, rushing past him, her hands covering her mouth.

She was suffocating, and more than anything now, she wanted fresh air, needed to breathe .

When she pushed her way outside, the sun hit her first, the full force of it nearly overwhelming her eyes after so much time spent inside. It took her a moment to adjust to the light, to the sounds of the street, the people passing her by.

She promptly threw up in the little patch of dirt where flowers had once grown outside their building.

Who was Eva Fuentes?

Pilar sat at her table at the National Library, the material she’d gathered about the Cuban Summer School at Harvard spread out before her. She’d found Eva Fuentes’s name on a list of participants as well as mention of the school where she’d taught, had gone through newspaper articles trying to learn as much as she could.

She felt better now that she was at the library, safely ensconced in a little corner. There was something so welcome and familiar about poring over books and newspaper articles. As soon as she’d walked through the front doors, a sense of calm and purpose filled her.

The library had copies of old phone books. Pilar perused the pages of the Havana Telephone Directory, scanning the names there, wondering how many of them had already left Cuba. It was years out of date, from before the revolution. It was a time capsule of sorts, a memory of life before everything had changed.

It was possible that Eva had married, that she had passed away, that she had left Cuba like so many others, possible that she had moved, and even if she had been in the directory, she wouldn’t be there anymore.

There were quite a few entries for Fuentes.

But only one Eva.

Fuentes, Eva.

There she was.

The address was in Central Havana, not far from where Pilar lived, from Zenaida’s old apartment.

Could it be that easy? Could she still be there?

“Pilar.”

She turned at the sound of her name, the whisper sounding like a shriek in the quiet library space.

Esteban leaned against the stacks.

An assortment of bruises covered his face, their coloration ranging from some that were older to ones that looked newer.

He wouldn’t quite meet her gaze.

Horror filled her as she rose from her seat at the table, the mystery of Eva Fuentes swiftly forgotten, and walked toward him, taking in his appearance—the way his body fairly sagged against the books, his left arm dangling to the side as though some harm had been done to it.

“I’m so sorry,” Esteban whispered, staring not at her face but at her feet when he said it. “He was the best man I’ve ever known.”

“He was.”

What else was there to say? What words were sufficient to describe this grief?

“He loved you very much.”

Pilar nodded.

“I’m sorry to sneak up on you like this—I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t dare approach you at home or work, but when I lost the man they had shadowing me, I watched you leave home and followed you here.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, you can get a message to me through Julio—they seem less suspicious of him.” He hesitated. “I’m going to go away for a bit, but when I’m back—”

It would be good for him to disappear for a bit. Once you drew the regime’s attention, it was safest to lie low, to avoid drawing it again. Pilar opened her mouth to ask him how he was released, but there was no way she could think to phrase it without adding to the guilt she already saw him wearing around his shoulders like a mantle. After all, who could say why some lived and others died, why the regime chose to keep some in prison while they released others? They lived in a state of chaos, any hope of the rule of law thrown out by the whims of tyrants.

“I understand if you hate me. I’m sorry I came home and he didn’t. It should have been him. I wish it had been him.”

Pilar shook her head. There was no point in thinking those things, no point in Esteban punishing himself for something that was out of his control. The real villains here were Fidel and his men.

“There was nothing you could have done.”

Sometimes she feared there was nothing any of them could do.

“Did you stop by the library asking about me the other day?” Pilar asked, remembering Ignacio’s warning. It didn’t entirely make sense, given the questions Ignacio said the man had asked about her allegiance to the revolution, but at least it would be an explanation that didn’t involve the state coming after her.

“No. Was someone looking for you?”

“My boss mentioned that a man came to the library about a week ago asking questions about me.”

“You need to be careful. We were betrayed. Someone sold us out to Fidel’s men, and I still don’t know who it was.”