Next Year in Havana

by Chanel Cleeton

In his absence, my attention turns back to the view ahead of me—the ocean and beyond. The sound of the saxophone returns—low, haunting, each note aching and melancholy. The music fills me with a soaring emotion, and it doesn’t surprise me in the least when the saxophone player steps into the little courtyard, his eyes finding mine as his lips press against the instrument, his fingers flying over the keys, playing for the guests. That explains the calluses. History professor. Musician. Waiter. The legacy of the Cuban revolution—donning many hats to stay afloat. Luis doesn’t look away from me as he plays, his stare unblinking, sending another tremor through me, his fingers caressing the keys with practiced ease. The first strands of “Guantanamera” drift over the courtyard, goose bumps rising over my skin as the tourists gasp and clap somewhere in the background. It’s a beautiful song, one every Cuban knows, the ballad taken from one of our greatest national treasures—José Martí’s poem “Versos Sencillos”—and performed by a queen, Celia Cruz. He plays it beautifully.