The Spy Hiding in the Bougainvillea
written by: Jennifer Kelly
When the rainy season ended, relenting to light and birdsong, and the school bell rang its release, Havana’s children rejoiced, the watery past visible only in puddles and droplets left on leaves. Some, centavos jangling in pockets, raced to beat the line for ice cream at Copellia, but Evangelina, seven, took the opposite road. Mama expected her for un dia importante at the country club where she washed dishes.
El Comandante would be there, and Evangelina had a mission.
“What mother puts her child in such danger?” Abuelita crossed herself.
“You must remember everything they say,” Mama instructed.
Sometimes, after such a day, she saw Mama speak with strangers. In dreams, the police pursued her, and Mama went missing. Still, no matter what forbidden information Evangelina delivered, Mama’s rare smile was worth the danger.
Now, in maroon uniform and red scarf, Evangelina slipped past the gate. She was small for her age, with dark eyes and a smile big enough to distract from Mama’s seething. For the police on guard, Evangelina always pretended to be a butterfly fluttering over the pink bougainvillea until Mama took her hand and headed home. She felt them watching her skip down the drive canopied by pear trees, white petals landing in her hair.
“Wait for them as close to the bench without being seen,” Mama instructed.
“What if Señor Sosa sees me?”
“Then find another bougainvillea.”
Today, Señor Sosa, chief gardener, was nowhere to be seen.
Settling in her usual spot, Evangelina dug a worm out of the bed, wet, wiggling, red-brown. Though it tickled her palm, she soon focused on two men approaching, so different from one another that she couldn’t make sense of them. A fancy man and an aging soldier.
Ultrasecreto, Mama whispered.
“Mr. President, I envy you.” The fancy man had a big forehead and shiny black shoes. He spoke with a soft inflection that Evangelina interpreted as something misplaced. She knew by his eyes not to fear him but trembled at the sight of the bearded Comandante in gray-green fatigues.
“Why?” El Comandante asked.
“Because,” said Big Forehead, “he prays for you daily.”
The visitor must understand they go to prison for prayer.
“Truly?”
“He prays that a man of your education may find the way of the Lord again.”
That summer, El Comandante’s police paraded Padre Felix past Evangelina’s house. The priest’s bare feet appeared from under black robes with each solemn step, his hands bound, his spectacles crooked on his nose.
Had Papa been barefoot?
She didn’t ask Mama, dreading her long silences, or Abuelita, wary of her weeping.
No one spoke of the priest, just as no one mentioned Papa. “Enemigo del Estado” appeared in yellow across the church door, but no one dared wash the graffiti.
Wary of a lull on the other side of the bougainvillea, she flattened herself against the dirt.
“Such a surprise,” El Comandante said. “He’s not always complimentary of me.”
“His Holiness isn’t always complimentary of me either,” Big Forehead chuckled. “Yet we are good friends.”
Was this what Mama sought? El Comandante wouldn’t want the people to know His Holiness prayed for him, since no one was allowed to pray for the people.
“If they catch you,” Mama began.
“I tell them I’m digging for worms.”
“You’re little enough for them to believe it.”
“For Abuelita’s garden,” which was a scraggle of weeds compared to this one.
The sound of running water alerted Evangelina to Senor Sosa rounding the clubhouse with his hose. She crawled quickly to another spot better hidden from the gardener.
“Then what does my good friend ask of me?” El Comandante’s face was unreadable.
Big Forehead extended a piece of paper. “His Holiness humbly requests that you release these men and women of faith from prison.”
Papa? Padre Felix? The seriousness of it made Evangelina more frightened of her proximity to the negotiation.
She scanned the lawn for Senor Sosa, but he evaded her.
“It’s critical to His Holiness that his flock be free.”
“I won’t release two hundred enemies of the state! Even for him.”
The stranger wiped sweat beading on his forehead. “He’ll be sorry to hear. He had great hopes for your resurgence.”
Neither man moved.
Bzzzzzzz. A bee hovered over the flowers concealing Evangelina. She’d been stung before, and it hurt. She’d cry out, and they’d see her.
Bzzzzzzz.
She would disappear like Papa and Padre Felix.
Evangelina’s eyes darted between bee and men.
Big Forehead added, “He prays you’ll release them as a sign to the international community.”
That dangerous word again. Pray.
Bzzzzzzz.
Evangelina didn’t dare shoo the bee.
“And His Holiness asks another favor before agreeing to his historic visit.”
“His Holiness is getting presumptuous.”
She heard the garden hose, smelled Senor Sosa’s sweat too close, but needed to hear this.
“He suggests,” Big Forehead said, “that you give Christmas back to Cuba.”
“Owwwwww!” A callused hand gripped her arm as the bee stung her waving hand.
“Evangelina!” Señor Sosa’s hose spewed water on her shoes.
El Comandante glowered at his gardener, “What’s this?”
“The little girl,” the gardener stammered, “is always digging in the beds.”
“He is a father. A few tears might save you,” Mama said.
So, Evangelina cried, caught in a terrifying triangle of three angry men until El Comandante waved Senor Sosa away.
“Don’t trust her, Comandante,” Sosa said.
But El Comandante spoke kindly, “What did you hear, Evangelina?”
“Don’t answer,” Mama warned. “Don’t trust.”
“I found a worm. He said Christmas, and I got stung.”
“You’ve heard of Christmas?” Big Forehead interrupted.
Yes, but she shouldn’t say. Christmas had been banned for almost thirty years. Abuelita’s eyes watered when she remembered. Fireworks. Presents. Bonfires. Dancing. The baby born in a manger.
“But it doesn’t snow in Cuba,” she said.
El Comandante plucked a white petal from her hair. “So, what do you think I should do?”
“You could make snow from flowers?”
“A beautiful dream,” he laughed, “like His Holiness visiting our island.”
Big Forehead beamed.
“But for now,” El Comandante whispered, “it’s our secret. Not even your Mama can know.”
- The Spy Hiding in the Bougainvillea - December 16, 2025
