Lisa Wixon - Dirty Blonde and Half-Cuban

Mario grabs my arm. “ Cõno,Alysia, you’re just as pretty. Now get your bolloout on the dance floor and make eye contact.”

“I can’t dance.”

“You can’t dance?”

“Right.”

“ Pero, coño,you’re Cuban!”

“Half, technically,” I offer weakly.

He grabs my waist with both hands. “You’re Cuban from this part down, as of right now.”

Knowing I’m about to make a buffoon of myself, I take a deep breath and attempt to visualize my reward—a sacred address on a piece of paper, the house where my family once lived. But I can’t get Rafael’s face out of my line of vision. I think about my mother, and the way she described first meeting José Antonio, the way her bones turned to water. My knees, too, are liquefying as I cross the darkened dance floor. But I avert the humiliation of dance because I bash directly into a waiter. The two of us come crashing down.

“Marc Jacobs dress! Marc Jacobs dress!” I shout as I roll away from a tray of collapsing Cuba libres. Several hands reach down to help me, and I choose the nearest one. I’m yanked to my feet and find myself staring into his face.

El chulo.

He’s breathtaking. I can’t help but stare at his full lips and take in the subtle scent of mint and aftershave. Rafael’s massive hands nearly cover my whole back, and he pulls me away from the puddle of liquid forming at our feet, and into a corner of the dance floor. His grip is firm.

“Think you can pull off una estafa?” A scam. “Trying to rob me of my income?” He is seething.

I’m baffled. “How’d you know?”

“Camila. She’s watching my back,” he says.

“Camila?”

“She knows Las Vegas is mine on Tuesdays.” Confused, I stare while he continues. “She told me to help you get your photo, that it’s important. Something about your father.”

“What about your yuma?” I whisper.

“Putadoesn’t deserve me. Besides, she was mala hoja.” Bad in bed.

I look away as the realization hits me: “Camila doesn’t think I’m sexy enough to seduce you!”

“You’re a bit clumsy,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, when I’m off duty, I prefer cubanas.” I look over at his table and see the hatred in Modesta’s glare.

I turn back to Rafael. “I amCuban,” I say indignantly.

“Right.”

“Am so,” I protest. “Half.”

“Not the half I like.”

My face burns. “Like you’re a great catch. How much does your yumapay?”

He rolls his eyes. “ Ay,now who’s the puta?”

Neither of us say anything for a long while. The dance floor around us is thick with fancy footwork. I fold my arms.

“Mira…”he says, fumbling.

“I’m not used to…” My voice trails off. “Everyone I meet thinks this is no big deal, but I’m having a hard time…”

“You think too much.”

Mario’s flash goes off nearby. “Forget this,” I say, turning away.

But Rafael pulls me back toward him. “ Vamos.Let’s get your photo. I promised Camila.”

Our bodies move closer and he gently traces my lips with his fingers. His face softens, and it’s so lovely I can barely stand.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” I whisper. “About the photo?”

“If you’re going to be a Cuban,” he says, whispering in my ear now, “you have to know we think nothing’s more important than la familia.”

Rafael’s hands lock in mine, and I close my eyes, accepting his mouth, his warm kiss, a perfect kiss, one generous and demure in equal measure. I’m wondering how something so magnetic could be an act, an improvisation for the camera that will flash any moment, and as I fall into the frisson, my own bulb goes off, a new illumination, and I back away, pushing against Rafael’s tremendous chest, and turning on my heel.

My sympathies, I realize, are no longer confused.

My father is Cuban and my mother loved him, and here—in this treacherous place, this innocent place, this Babylon—I stand proudly on mi patria,with my Cuba.

With my Cubans.

Ignoring Mario’s bewildered expression, and knowing I’ve lost, for now, the chance to find the Havana home where my mother lived long ago, I walk out with my head held high. Finally fitting into the spirit of this dress, I leave Las Vegas.

M y landlady isasleep on the couch, wearing polyester underwear in functional beige. A Cuban novelablares on the radio. A woman is sobbing because her husband won’t stop singandoher best friend.

But my landlady doesn’t stir. She’s a biomedical engineer so depressed by the lack of employment that she’s sleeping her mid-thirties away. I tiptoe past into the high-ceilinged, Spanish-tiled rooms I rent illicitly. The web of neighborhood-watch types she has to bribe to keep quiet is too complex for me to unearth.

I bathe away the sex on my legs and stomach. I convince myself that my accidental jineterismoearlier this afternoon, in the Habana Libre hotel, with the handsome American who approached me in the café, was an isolated mishap. A sordid miscommunication I can wash away under the flaccid shower. I’ve only been in Cuba two months, though it feels like dozens, and I’ve a niggling feeling I’m becoming someone I don’t know. In my confusion, I try to think of a pleasant face, and it is Rafael’s that springs to mind, despite the fact that I haven’t seen him in the week since we met.

But it’s the norteamericanohovering over my naked body who remains in my head. I dress, and stuff his bills back in my bra.

Camila’s wrong, I vow, massaging my temples. This won’t happen again.

In the living room, I read my messages and dial. “Victor?” I ask into the receiver.

“ Oye.I’ll swing by tonight.”

I rush to the Internet café, needing a lifeline to reality. I answer Susie’s e-mails. Because I tell her nothing about my money being stolen, or about my first sexual experience in Cuba, I feel like I’m lying to my best friend. Instead, I fill my briefing with the hopes that today may yield the address of the home where my family lived in Havana.

Later, at our appointed time, I wait by the side door for my Cuban spy. As a government worker, Victor has access to classified records. He looks at me carefully.

“You look different tonight,” he says. “Anything wrong?”

I shake my head, and we crouch on the creaky wooden staircase. Victor pulls out his notes and modulates his vocal cords down to a whisper.

“Your family lived here in Havana under President Carter, and your father—”

“Stepfather,” I interrupt.

“Your stepfather was employed at the U.S. Interests Section.” Victor adjusts his glasses. I stare at a slick chunk of hair that has slid rebelliously over his forehead. Victor’s hesitation tells me he doesn’t want to say what he’s found.

“Your father—”

“Stepfather—”

“Right. He was born in Connecticut, worked in the diplomatic corps. Your mother, she was also American.”

“From Mississippi,” I say impatiently.

“Like all Americans, they were under routine surveillance while living here. The notes I found indicate your mother had repeat encounters with one Cuban male in particular. They appear to have been romantic.”

I nod impatiently.

“I have dates, and a description of the man you believe to be your father. It’s all in there. Including the address of your family’s home here in Havana.” Victor hands me the papers. I take them gleefully.

“Did they follow him?” I ask. “Was there an address, a place where they were secretive?” I was hoping for José Antonio’s home address.

Victor swats away the errant hair. “I can find out,” he says. I interrupt him with an enthusiastic nod. “That, of course, will take some time.”