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husband’s arms and trying to hold fast to the dreams that moved him. Though she didn’t understand them all, she thought that if she believed in his dreams, the sooner they would come true, and the sooner that happened, the sooner they could return to Cuba. She trusted it wouldn’t be too long before she could hug her own dreams again.

CHAPTER 8
    They arrived in Madrid at dusk on a cold day in February. They took the metro downtown, and Billie clung to Orlando’s arm the entire way. She was terrified as she observed the scowling faces out of the corner of her eye, the obstinate silence of the passengers, each isolated in his or her own world. Their lack of communication left her perplexed. The mute aggression in their expression when they discovered a foreign gaze—doubtlessly interpreted as a provocation—made it seem like an intrusion on their privacy. They kept their eyes low, avoiding other people’s faces, appearing to focus on some fixed point as if abiding by some secret code among the passengers not to meddle. In Cuba, people struck up conversations everywhere, even if they didn’t know each other. They interrupted each other all the time, and no one ever took it amiss. Of course, they didn’t travel squashed in tin cans like this one, underground with barely any air to breathe, rushing around, their faces taut with worry. Billie had thought that everyone in Europe would look happy because they had everything they wanted—food, clothes, appliances, cash . But seeing them now, she thought that Cubans were a good deal happier than this bunch, even though they lacked everything.
    They emerged onto the street at a station in the city center called Sol. Despite its name—which meant “sun”—it was freezing. Night was already falling over the city. At first glance, it struck her as horribly ugly and gray, compared with Havana or Miami. The sky seemed to loom over the tall buildings like a slab of lead, or maybe it was the buildings that pierced the skyline with their aggressive shapes, tall and pointed like arrows.
    Orlando fished a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his paltry jacket with the information for the hostel a friend had set up. Paper in hand, he approached a pedestrian.
    “Excuse me, sir, San Bernardo Street?”
    The man shook his head without stopping. Everyone walked quickly, bundled up in their coats, faces half-hidden under hats and scarves, grim faced and hunched. Billie, frozen stiff, felt a deep wave of sadness. She felt so far from the heat and happiness of her homeland!
    Orlando went over to a couple next, a man and a woman who walked arm in arm, chatting and laughing.
    “Excuse me,” he said.
    The couple stopped, and Orlando repeated his question.
    “San Bernardo Street, please?”
    The man took the paper in his gloved hand to examine it under the streetlight.
    “Yes,” he said, stretching out his arm and pointing. “Go straight down that street, and you’ll arrive at Callao Plaza. Keep going down Gran Via, and take the fourth street on the right. That’s San Bernardo. This number must be at the beginning of the street.”
    “Thank you so much, sir,” Orlando said, smiling and bowing slightly toward the woman, which made her smile, flattered. “Ma’am . . .”
    Orlando grabbed the suitcase with their meager belongings in one hand, took Billie’s hand in the other, and started walking briskly down the street. She tried to keep up with him, though her teeth were chattering and she was shivering inside her thin coat. Their clothes were useless against the raw winter temperatures of Madrid. They had been warned it was cold in Spain this time of year, but they didn’t know the real meaning of the word.
    They soon found the hostel. As they stepped inside, they felt instantly revived by the warmth and coziness of the place. Though the room and bed were tiny, they ended up having plenty of space, since the air eventually grew so cold that they had to sleep with all