“You’re messing with me, Vic.”
“I am not!”
“I thought he lived in the States now.”
“He does, but he’s back as a tourist. It had to happen eventually.”
Elsa stiffened but kept quiet.
“He came by yesterday and went to the mariconga with me.”
“What? Don’t tell me he’s gay now or something.”
“I don’t think so.” Victoria laughed. “He was just curious to see it, I guess. Anyway, the first thing he did was ask about you. Elsa this and Elsa that. Your ears must have been ringing!”
Elsa took a deep breath. “What did you tell him?”
“Not much.”
There was a pause.
“But he wants to see you,” Victoria went on. “He knows you’re a businesswoman now.”
“Did you tell him . . . ?”
“No, no! But I wanted to warn you that he might stop by your office.”
“How the hell does he know where my office is?”
“Oh, someone must’ve told him. You two have other friends in common.”
Elsa felt her fingers grip the phone with more force than necessary. She tried to remember which other “friends in common” she and Juan still had, but no one popped up besides Victoria Sunrise.
“I don’t want him showing up there,” she said through clenched teeth. “I have to go now, Vic. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Wait, mi santa. I just had an idea!” Victoria squealed. “Why don’t you come by so we can chat about all this? I know you’re busy, but I’m waiting for a bisnero who promised to bring me a whole pork leg to roast. I can make arroz congrí and a flan. A banquet! Better than any paladar. You know I’m a great cook.”
“You are. And did you say arroz congrí?”
“Yes. Some white rice and black beans cooked with nice salty bacon, fresh onions and peppers. What do you think?”
It took Elsa a while to answer, but when she finally did, she felt more relaxed. “I’ll be there then. I haven’t had arroz congrí in months. It’ll be nice to remember the good old bad old days when we were young and silly!”
“And beautiful!”
“Now, where can I park my car? Last time I left it in front of the building, someone scratched it. I don’t know if that was on purpose.”
“Come on. It’s still El Vedado, even if we’re not a chic neighborhood like yours! There’s a private parking lot a block from here. For twenty-five pesos or one CUC, the parqueadero owner will take care of your precious Lexus like it’s gold plated.”
“Sounds good.”
“Be here at noon.”
When they hung up, Elsa walked over to the entertainment center and picked up the most recent picture of her son, which had been taken on the MIT campus. A young man with curly brown hair like hers and tear-shaped eyes.
“Damn it, Juan,” she whispered. “You’re a ghost from the past all right.”
8
Roasted Pork for a Rainy Day
Victoria Sunrise gave the bisnero forty CUCs. The man put the money in his pocket without counting it. The clandestine food seller wore seven gold chains around his neck, perfectly ironed blue jeans and a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt.
“Thank you, Señora,” he said. “Let me know when you need another.”
“I can’t afford to throw this sort of party very often.” She smiled. “But I will let you know.”
When the man had left, Victoria looked for the card Juan had given her the day before. juan chiong. contractor, builder, handyman. She fetched the Spanish-English dictionary from the bedroom and looked up the words.
“Handyman,” she repeated, snickering. “I thought it meant a man who was ‘handy’ all the time.”
She dialed the number, and Juan answered immediately.
“I’ve invited Elsa to lunch,” Victoria said quickly, afraid she would lose the call.
“You have?” Juan sounded happy but a bit incredulous.
“I knew it was what you wanted, cabroncito.”
“And she agreed?”
“Yep. She’s as curious to see you as you are to see her.”
“Thanks, chico!”
“Chica.”
“Sorry, I mean—thanks. You are a great friend. Eh . . . do you think she still cares about me?”
“You’ll have to ask her. Be here at one o’clock. I’m going to fix you guys the best roasted pork leg you’ve ever had. Perfect for a rainy day like this one.”
“Should I bring something? A bottle of wine? Some dessert?”
“Whatever you want, just not your wife.”
She heard Juan chuckle.
“You bet,” he said. “Not that she’s in the mood for visits. I think Havana’s getting on her nerves. Or maybe it’s just the rain. But I warned her that—”
The line went dead. Victoria was still holding her cell phone when a knock-knock startled her. Outsiders would ring the building doorbell first, so she figured it was a member of the tribe next door. No one could tell for sure how many people lived in her neighboring apartment. There were five on the ration card: an old couple, Magdala and Alberto, and their three grown children, two daughters and a son. But the children had gotten married, had kids and brought a number of live-in partners and their families into the place over the years. And relatives from the Holguín province, where the family was originally from, would come to stay for weeks or even months. It wasn’t unusual to find between ten and fifteen people sleeping there on any given night.
One of the people who lived there was Pepito. Victoria didn’t know exactly what his relationship was with the original owners. A nephew? A godson? The best-informed neighbors maintained that he had come from the small town of Punta Blanca for a weekend three years before and never returned home.
The building residents were used to the arrangement and, as a rule, didn’t get involved. But Pepito was an enthusiastic fledgling drummer, prone to practicing his instrument at any hour of the day or night and having impromptu jam sessions with his friends till dawn. When the noise became too disruptive, neighbors would yell from their balconies at them to shut up, cojones. The woman who lived directly above them would hit her floor with a broom handle. The police had even been called on a few occasions, only to become part of the party, dancing to the wild rhythm of the guaguancós.
Victoria had a soft spot for Pepito, an eighteen-year-old man with a quick smile and a sinewy, naturally sculpted body. The other neighbors joked that she had a crush on him. She would never admit it, but she knew he knew. He flirted with her. Though Pepito had probably heard about her past life—Havana wasn’t a good place to keep secrets—he had never mentioned it. Lázaro was jealous of him, but then, Lázaro was jealous of any man who got close to Victoria Sunrise.
Victoria thought Pepito was a good kid. Perhaps a little thoughtless and too loud, but that was part of his charm. Yet he was already familiar with the local police station, El Vedado’s Unidad 15. The first time for assault and battery—a minor street fight, his aunt Magdala claimed, with someone who wasn’t man enough to keep his mouth shut about it. The second charge—unrelated to the first offense, as she always pointed out—was using and possession. “But nothing awful, just maría.” He had been caught with a few ounces of marijuana, a crime that wasn’t half as bad as it had been twenty years before, though people still went to jail for it.
“Times change,” Magdala would say, and Victoria wholeheartedly agreed. Besides, Pepito was a musician, like her, and Victoria herself was on speaking terms with maría. It was a pity that most of the building’s residents were so uptight about it.
Victoria straightened the blue strapless dress she had chosen that morning. Since she planned to be busy in the kitchen, surrounded by garlic and onion smells, she wasn’t wearing her wig yet. Truth was, she didn’t need i
t. Her own hair was long enough, well past her shoulders, but she liked wigs. And hats and hairclips and fascinators. Anything that covered her head gave her a sense of security, like having a safety blanket.
After another, more urgent knock, she opened the door. A smiling Pepito was at the threshold. He was wearing only a pair of shorts. The faint aura of maría surrounded him, and his chiseled chest and bulging arms attracted Victoria’s eyes.
“Mamita, you look so beautiful today!” he said. “I mean, you are always beautiful, but this morning you are stellar.”
Victoria beamed. “What’s up, sweetheart?”
“I need to borrow a screwdriver. Do you happen to have one? One of our windows is coming apart with all this rain, and I need to adjust a few screws on the frame.”
“I don’t know much about tools, but come in and see if you find something to your liking.”
“After you.”
Victoria led him to the kitchen, swinging her hips seductively as she walked. A full pork leg still wrapped in brown paper sat on the counter. It was huge, with a long bone sticking out of it.
“What a piece!” Pepito exclaimed. “Are you going to cook that today?”
“Yes, I’m planning to roast it for some friends.”
Pepito licked his lips. “Are they foreigners? I saw that well-dressed guy here yesterday.”
“He’s Cuban, but he lives in La Yuma now.”
“You’re so lucky, mamita, with these rich guys always after you.”
Victoria gave him a coy smile.
“He isn’t after me,” she said demurely. “He’s married and came here with his Yuma wife. Anyway, look around, and see if you can find what you need. I still have to put the leg in the oven and grind the garlic and the onion to start the congrí.”
Pepito opened the door to the closet and said with mock irritation, “Mamita, this is a rat’s nest! One day, I’m going to come and tidy it for you.”
“You are welcome to come kill my rats anytime.” She put a hand on Pepito’s shoulder. “Maybe we could have dinner together tonight, if you’re free.”
“Just leftovers for me, eh?”
“Not leftovers. We’re not going to eat even half of that leg.”
Pepito eyed the leg, which weighed a good twenty pounds. “Fine. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Or a gift pork. Let’s plan for seven o’clock.”
“Won’t Lázaro mind?” Pepito asked, suddenly concerned.
“He left for Pinar del Río this morning and won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“Great! Will it be a romantic dinner, mamita? With candlelight, wine, porcelain dishes?”
“Dream on.”
Before leaving with a screwdriver and a few screws, Pepito glanced enviously at Victoria’s cell phone, which was lying on the coffee table.
“You have it made, mamita,” he said. “Pork legs, cool phone, Yuma friends . . . You have an easy life, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I got it like that.” She gave him a little wave. “See you.”
Pepito left, and Victoria closed the door behind him. She turned on the oven and put the pork leg inside. Then she started boiling water for the arroz congrí and thinking of the meeting she had so artfully planned. In the end, Elsa would thank her, even if she pretended to get mad at the sight of Juan. He was Elsa’s real love, her one and only. Well, maybe not her “only” but for sure her true love. She’d cried so much after he’d left! Victoria was sure Elsa had never forgotten him. But if she knew her old amor would be at lunch too, she wouldn’t come. She was too afraid of the past, and with good reason. Because, let’s face it, that kid of yours is Juan’s. The kid was the man’s spitting image. Hadn’t the Spaniard ever suspected anything?
Victoria put two garlic cloves, a chopped onion and a few cilantro and parsley leaves inside the mortar and started to grind. She liked this big, heavy mortar, a gift from a Café Arabia patron. The guy, who was from Mexico, called the set a “molcajete.” She added salt and pepper to the mix and a bit of vinegar.
But there was something else. She had asked Elsa to come earlier than Juan because she wanted to have a heart-to-heart talk with her. Seeing Juan again had stirred up old dreams Victoria had thought she had forgotten, ambitions she had pushed aside. He had said she was talented. And she was. She had graduated with honors and acted in several plays when she was younger. Critics had praised her as the ISA instructors used to do. She had simply become resigned, after so many years, to being an underpaid performer in a third-class nightclub in Havana. Because that was what Café Arabia really was, no matter what she had told Juan.
She was destined for better things! And Elsa knew Pedro Almodóvar personally. He was a friend who had visited her El Vedado home. Victoria’s eyes brightened. If Elsa could just get her an audition . . . It was a long shot, yes, but how did that saying go about shooting for the moon and landing among the stars? Elsa should help her. It wouldn’t cost her anything, would it?
9
Abuela
Juan sat on the bed, eyes fixed on the TV even though it was turned off. It was ten to nine. Sharon was staring out the window, watching the rain with her back to him. She had been acting strangely since the day before. After returning from the mariconga, he had invited her to go to Coppelia, but she’d flatly refused. She didn’t say a word for the rest of the evening. They had a quiet dinner at another of the hotel’s restaurants, Med. Juan ate an ample serving of excellent paella and drank two glasses of red wine while Sharon picked at her serrano ham and manchego cheese tapas. She looked angry, but he couldn’t figure out why. Hadn’t he told her Cuba wouldn’t be all that fun? Was he supposed to stick around and entertain her every minute?
He had looked up the address of Abuela’s nursing home. Victoria had advised him to call beforehand, but he preferred to surprise her caregivers. He wanted to see how they treated her every day, not a staged performance of that. If things were awful there—he couldn’t help but picture a nightmarish old folks’ home, run by malevolent nuns—he would take her back with him to Albuquerque. And if Sharon didn’t like the idea, too bad. Abuela was his only living relative. He had to do everything in his power to make sure she was safe and comfortable.
He felt guilty for not having taken better care of her over the years. Yes, he had called El Asilo de los Ancianos Desamparados several times, but had been able to talk to her only a few times. The last one had been two years earlier, and she hadn’t said much. He wasn’t sure she still recognized his voice. After that, she had become bedridden, and the woman who answered his calls had told him that there was no way his grandmother could walk from her room to the phone. The woman, either a nun or nursing home employee, didn’t seem to know about cell phones.
“I don’t think she’ll be able to talk, anyway,” she had said.
Was Abuela’s health that bad? She had been taken into the nursing home on the condition that she leave her house to the congregation. What if the nuns were just waiting for her death so they could sell the property or give it to someone else?
He would have to find out on his own. That would take his mind off Elsa and what they would say to each other after all this time and the very different directions their lives had taken. It would distract him from Camilo, whose ghost had continued to follow him since the day before. “I love you,” he had said before turning ashen and somehow flattened on the raft floor, where his body would spend the next four days stewing in its juices. So it had been that kind of love. And his last request. “Forgive me, Juan.” For being in love with him?
“I’m going to visit my grandmother,” Juan announced to Sharon’s back. “I don’t know how long I’ll be there. It depends—”
She turned to him.
“When we first talked about coming here, you told me you had made a reservation at the Hilton,” she said out of the blue. “What happene
d to it?”
Juan had hoped to stay with Víctor if there was any chance of it.
“I was going to take a look at it first,” he answered levelly. “I didn’t want to spend a lot and thought I might be able to find a cheaper place.”
Her face twisted at the mention of money—a not-too-subtle reminder of the fact that she was the one paying for this fancy hotel and all their meals.
“It was your idea to stay at the Meliá,” he added defensively.
“And you were the one who said we shouldn’t go to a casa particular, weren’t you?” she snapped. “Where the hell were we supposed to sleep? Under a bridge?”
Yep, she was pissed. But Juan didn’t have the strength for an argument right then.
“Did you even hear what I said?” he asked instead.
She didn’t answer. Juan knew he should ask her what was going on, but he didn’t. After all, this was his trip. She had come along for the ride, and he wasn’t going to cater to her needs when he had only a few days to catch up on twenty years of lost time. Besides, if he tried to smooth things over, she might want to accompany him to see Abuela, and he intended to go directly from the nursing home to Victoria’s apartment.
The taxi dropped him off in front of El Asilo de los Ancianos Desamparados. The thought of his grandmother as a “destitute elder” pained Juan. It was still raining, and he ran toward the main entrance. From the porch, the place looked like a gated community: green lawn, palm trees with benches around them, a freshly painted main house and several smaller surrounding structures. Someone was busy in the kitchen; the aromas of fried plantains and milk with cinnamon filled the air, mixing with the smells of earth and wet grass.
He remembered Abuela cooking in a wood stove that, according to her, worked better than anything powered by gas. Juan felt in his mouth the sweet taste of arroz con leche, rice pudding sprinkled with nutmeg and cinnamon.
“Arroz con leche se quiere casar,” Abuela would sing softly. “Con una viudita de la capital, que sepa tejer, que sepa bordar . . .”
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