Death Comes in Through the Kitchen

by Teresa Dovalpage

  Yarmi said. . .

  Come, then! Funny, I know that by “tortilla” you mean a flat disk made of flour, but for us, a tortilla is an omelet.

  Lucy Adel said. . .

  I read online that eating lobster was illegal in Cuba. Is that right?

  Yarmi said. . .

  Alabao! The things that people say . . . No, Lucy, eating lobster is very much within the law. You may gain a few pounds if you eat too much enchilada but there is nothing illicit about it.

  Anita said. . .

  I think that their sale is illegal. That’s what my boyfriend, who sells them, would tell me.

  Yarmi said. . .

  Poor lobsters, they are being slandered! What is illegal is buying and selling food outside the official channels, be it government-owned restaurants or paladares. But I guess that’s the case in most places. There are rigid regulations about handling seafood because it spoils fast. I wish I could invite you all over for a good lobster enchilada!

  Anita said. . .

  Gotcha. I went to Varadero a couple years ago but didn’t go to the Hotel Internacional because it was too expensive. I stayed at a casa particular. Cheaper, and the owners pampered me.

  Cubanita in Claremont said. . .

  I’ve also been there, many years ago, when my family lived in Cuba. I have a vague memory of catching starfish underwater. Can Cubans stay in hotels now? I thought they were reserved for tourists.

  Yarmi said. . .

  No, Cubanita, that’s another misconception. Cubans can stay in hotels. Sometimes tourists are given preference because, you know, we are a poor country and our government needs hard currency. But we aren’t turned away if we want to reserve a room.

  Part IV

  Chapter One

  “My Mojito in La Bodeguita”

  There was no hot water that morning at Villa Tomasa. The gas had been cut off, something that happened once or twice a month. Román managed to make coffee on an electric stove and served ham and cheese sandwiches instead of his signature scrambled eggs. Though Anne and Matt assured him they were fine with the arrangement, their host wouldn’t stop apologizing.

  “I ordered a hot plate from a bisnero, but he hasn’t been able to find one,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Anne said. “I loved the Cuban mayonnaise that you used this time.”

  “Well, it isn’t the same.”

  Matt wasn’t used to being fussed over like that. He enjoyed the attention and wondered if he should add a big tip for Román before leaving Cuba, or maybe feature Villa Tomasa’s breakfasts in Foodalicious. His editor might go for it, considering that there would be no wedding story after all.

  Matt hadn’t heard from Padrino after visiting him on Saturday. That made him nervous. What if the guy was a con artist and Isabel his sidekick? On the other hand, he hadn’t heard from Lieutenant Martínez, or—much to his relief—Agent Pedro.

  Anne was talkative and sounded more airy-fairy than usual. After a while, she confided that Yony had apologized and they had patched things up.

  “I’ll take it for what it is,” she said. “A boy toy. It’s not taboo anymore. After all, Cher and Madonna paved the way.”

  Matt nodded, but he found the idea distasteful.

  “You can’t ask the elm tree for pears, as they say here,” Anne added.

  “That pretty much sums it up.”

  “People say that, to become acculturated, you need to be in a relationship with a national. You learn more that way than going to places by yourself or reading travel books.”

  “It didn’t work for me,” Matt said slowly. “But hey, to each his own.”

  “Oh, Matt, I’m sorry!” Anne covered her mouth with her hands. “I wasn’t thinking—I didn’t mean to—”

  He smiled with just a hint of sadness. “That’s okay,” he said.

  But what he really wanted to say was, “Why in the world would you want to become ‘acculturated’ here?”

  At noon, Anne invited Matt to have lunch with her and Yony at La Bodeguita del Medio.

  “I’m still full,” he said.

  “Come on! You don’t have to eat a lot, it’s all about the experience. La Bodeguita is a historic landmark. It was one of Hemingway’s favorite restaurants, along with El Floridita. He would say, ‘My mojito in La Bodeguita, my daiquiri in El Floridita.’”

  “I am not impressed with Cuban mojitos.”

  “You are becoming a hermit, Matt. And that’s not good. Get ready! Then we can hit the eastern beaches in the almendrón. You aren’t under house arrest!”

  “Hope not.”

  “You need to lighten up. Horrible as all this has been, you might have dodged a bullet with Yarmila.”

  He considered her last argument and capitulated. “Fine. Let’s go see Papa’s watering hole.”

  Yony showed up around two o’clock. He and Matt waited in the living room for Anne, who was still putting on makeup.

  “I thought that only Cuban mamitas were late all the time,” Yony complained.

  “It must be a girl thing,” Matt replied. “Universal.”

  Yony didn’t make any reference to Yarmila’s death. They kept their topics light—baseball, the weather, the latest American films . . . Yony’s behavior was a mix of swagger and immaturity. He spoke loudly and mispronounced many words. Then he peppered Matt with questions about BMWs, Porsches, motorcycles, and race cars.

  “I wish I could drive one, man, if only for ten minutes,” he said. “That must feel like heaven.”

  When Anne was finally ready, the three left Villa Tomasa together. Yony had double-parked the Studebaker three blocks away and was getting nervous about it.

  “Everybody does it, but with my luck, I’ll be the one who gets a fine today,” he said.

  “Could you offer the cop a mordida as drivers do in Tijuana?” Matt asked.

  “A bite?”

  “I mean a bribe. That’s Mexican Spanish.”

  “It depends. Probably not, unless he asks for it. It could land me in more trouble.”

  He hurried ahead, leaving Matt and Anne behind.

  “Say, Anne, does your—boy toy know what happened to Yarmila?” he asked.

  “Yes, I told him. Why? Shouldn’t I have?”

  “Oh, it’s okay. I was just wondering because he didn’t say anything about it.”

  “Cuban guys are not good at expressing their feelings. But he was very sad.”

  “Did they actually know each other?”

  “Yes, don’t you remember? We all met at Ricardito’s once. He also sold her food and stuff. I think that they were kinda close.”

  Anne pursed her lips as if she didn’t like the idea. Matt had a sick feeling in his stomach. They had reached the almendrón and stopped talking. Yony was behind the Studebaker’s wheel, his hands tight around it.

  La Bodeguita del Medio was packed, mostly with tourists, though a few locals stood out. Matt, Anne and Yony were instructed to wait in the cobblestone street. They stayed there for forty minutes, sweating profusely under the restaurant’s yellow and blue sign. Across from them, an elderly black woman dressed in white sat on a wooden stool on the sidewalk. She was posing for pictures, Yony explained.

  “If you pay her,” he added. “She isn’t a real santera. But nothing in Old Havana is real, except for the Cathedral. Fake, fake, fake! The City Historian has rebuilt it for foreigners’ tastes.”

  “This doesn’t quite suit my taste,” Anne replied, fanning herself with a copy of Juventud Rebelde that she had bought for fifty cents.

  “I mean cheap foreigners, mamita, not refined ones like you.”

  They were finally seated at the back of the restaurant, so close to the next table that Matt could smell the coconut-scented tanning lotion that a Belgian couple had spread over their arms
and faces. There was writing on every wall: signatures and messages left by the famous, infamous, and commoners alike. Conversations flowed in English, Spanish, German, and French. The building had a second floor, but it happened to be closed that day. That accounted for the long wait, the busboy told them.

  Following the first round of the unavoidable mojitos, Matt dropped Yarmila’s name several times and watched Yony’s reactions.

  “She would have loved this place,” he said. “She was fond of nice restaurants, wasn’t she?”

  Yony shrugged. “I don’t think this is such a nice restaurant,” he replied. “They have better stuff at La Caldosa. Cheaper too. La Bodeguita is a tourist trap.”

  Matt agreed with him. The five-CUC-a-piece mojitos were even worse than those at Café Arabia. The lunch as such wasn’t bad, but nothing spectacular either. They all ordered what the waiter assured them was the best item on the menu: a combo plate of pulled pork, rice and black beans.

  Halfway through the meal, Anne elbowed Yony when she caught him staring at a tall blonde with bouncy implants.

  “What’s up, mamita?”

  “Don’t do that!”

  “Don’t do what?”

  Next, he started picking his teeth.

  “Can’t you behave, for God’s sake?”

  “Huh?”

  Matt looked the other way.

  What a freaking circus. But I’d still like to know how close this guy and Yarmi were.

  A local trio began to play. Two old men with guitars and a young one with a pair of maracas sang “Guajira Guantanamera.” Matt turned his attention to the pictures that adorned La Bodeguita’s walls—Hemingway smoking a cigar, Hemingway shaking Castro’s hand, Hemingway and a wrinkled guy. There was also a sign that read Cargue con su pesao. Neither Matt nor Anne could translate it.

  “Pesao is heavy, like in an overweight person,” she said. “But does it mean that one should find a fat guy and pick him up?”

  Yony clarified it. A pesao was also someone without social graces whose presence was a burden for everybody around. “If you bring in a guy like that, or if you become one after drinking too much, then you must go, or take him with you,” he said.

  “None of us are pesaos, if I must say so myself,” Anne laughed, finishing off her third mojito. “We are allowed to stay!”

  She was the only one having a decent time. Yony looked worried and Matt wasn’t in the best of moods either.

  I don’t trust this boy toy.

  Before they left, the waiter encouraged them to leave their marks on the wall. Matt declined, but Anne grabbed Yony’s arm and led him to a free spot.

  Viva La Bodeguita, she wrote.

  Yony drew a heart and scribbled both their names inside. Then he wrote “Amo a Anita” (I love Anita) under it.

  “Do you really mean it?” she slurred.

  “Yes, I do! You are the woman of my life.”

  They snuck away under the stairs. Matt looked vacantly at Hemingway’s pictures. He felt the pulled pork, beans and rice come up to his throat.

  From La Bodeguita, the lovebirds continued to El Mégano beach. Matt excused himself and took a cocotaxi home. Once in his room, he left his wallet on the roll-top desk. There was a sheet of paper in the Smith-Corona, as if waiting for someone to use it. He began to write in a trance, without looking at the keyboard. The shift key for upper case characters didn’t work, but he didn’t care. What came out was a short, chopped description of his arrival at the José Martí International Airport. He wrote in the third person about the customs officer who hadn’t stamped their passports and the flower vendor who had offered them marigolds for the orishas.

  Who knows? I may turn it into a novel: Trials and Tribulations of a Gringo in Havana.

  As he typed away, Matt imagined he was back at El Grito. The office was decorated with Mexican cut paper, sombreros, sarapes, and Estrada’s dusty collection of posters. They included everything from images of Cinco de Mayo and La Raza celebrations to Vicente Fernández and La India. Matt liked his job, but he had always thought the place was hideous. Now, he admitted with a sigh that he missed it.

  Anne came back sunburned and tired, her hair matted with seawater and salt. It was the first time that Matt had seen her with no makeup at all. The bags under her eyes were of a deeper blue than usual. Red blotches covered her cheeks and forearms. But she was happy. It had been a great day, she assured him.

  “Too bad you didn’t come with us. El Mégano isn’t fancy, but we had so much fun.”

  Matt listened quietly. There was no point in telling her that he and Yarmila had spent a whole day at El Mégano the year before.

  “I’m planning a one-day trip to Varadero this weekend,” Anne added. “Would you like to come along? Yony won’t mind it.”

  “I don’t think I should leave the city.”

  “Here you go again. The cops didn’t say you couldn’t.”

  “What if Padrino finds out something? Nah, I’d rather stay.”

  Anne was silent for a while. When she spoke again, her eyes were soft and dreamy. “I know it sounds absurd,” she said, “but I believe that we do have a chance.”

  Matt blinked. For a second, he thought Anne was talking about him and her.

  “Yony is really a good kid.” She smiled. “He grew up poor, without a male role model. His father left the family when he was two years old and his mother raised him and five more kids by herself. A hard life. On top of that, he’s from Oriente.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A God-forgotten place in the most eastern region of the country, like a tropical Appalachia. He got out of there on his own and is now doing quite well. A self-made man, you know?”

  Though Matt didn’t share her enthusiasm, he smiled back and nodded in agreement. Anne wasn’t only his compatriot, but the one friend he had in Cuba. He couldn’t afford to alienate her by badmouthing her boy toy.

  “He does illegal things, but so many normal activities are illegal in this country that everybody ends up being a crook,” she went on. “As they say, everything that isn’t forbidden is compulsory.”

  “Yep. I wouldn’t like to live here.”

  “No wonder Yony wants to leave. He finally admitted it. So I am thinking about sending for him someday. Not anytime soon, of course. I still need to get to know him better. But my feeling is that, if we work hard together, he will blossom. He has potential.”

  Once again Anne reminded Matt of his ex-wife, who had been convinced that if he worked harder (or if she nagged him long enough) he would “blossom,” becoming a reporter for the San Diego Journal or another reputable newspaper. She had loathed both El Grito and Estrada. Despite his growing distrust of Yony, Matt felt a rush of solidarity with the bisnero.

  “I wish you guys the best,” was all he said.

  It rained that evening. They ended up eating at home. Román improvised dinner: a salad of avocado and onions sprinkled with olive oil and garlic chicken with mashed potatoes. Dessert was natilla, creamy custard. And beer, all they could drink, for which their host didn’t charge a cent.

  “Everything’s on the house,” he said.

  Later, the three of them sat on the sofa and watched Return of the Jedi on Román’s VCR.

  “These are the most awesome movies in the entire galaxy,” their host declared, a childlike smile spreading across his ruddy face. “When the next one comes out, will you guys send me a copy? And I’ll give you two nights free.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  That night Matt dreamed of Yarmila again. He saw a tall building in the distance as he flew through a window and hovered over a crowd that busied itself buying and selling things.

  Yarmila was there, flanked by Fefita and Isabel. The three of them were drinking mojitos. When Matt touched ground in front of the women, Yarmila smiled and said,“Gi
rls, I’ve been wanting to introduce you to my fiancé, Mateo the Yuma. And here he is, at last.”

  “Welcome, Mateo,” Fefita shook his hand.

  Isabel offered him her drink. “Here, take this. You are part of our family now.”

  Strangely enough, Yarmila had lost her accent. Isabel and Fefita spoke perfect English too. That alerted Matt. He realized, with a jolt, that he was dreaming.

  “Why did you cheat on me?” he asked Yarmila. “Why did you die on me when I came ready to propose?”

  “I didn’t die on you,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was killed, remember?”

  “And who killed you?”

  She shrugged.

  “What about the cheating?” he insisted. “Why did you do that, Yarmi? Why did you string me along if you were really in love with Pato Macho?”

  He was almost in tears. Then he remembered that it was all a dream. He was supposed to be in control.

  “Ah, stop whining,” Yarmila answered in Spanish. “Don’t you know by now that Pato is the man of my life?”

  Isabel and Fefita cackled. A second before he woke up, Matt understood the dirty little secret of lucid dreams—the fact that you knew you were dreaming didn’t actually put you in charge of the dream.

  Chapter Two

  The Magic of One Thousand

  and One Nights

  When Matt got up, at seven o’clock, Román and Anne were still in their rooms. The house was silent; time itself was asleep. He crossed the dining room, tiptoed past doña Tomasa’s portrait, and inspected the refrigerator. There were eggs, milk, butter, and a plastic tray with two uncooked pork chops. Matt wasn’t the kind who would wake up a host to demand breakfast. He went out for a walk instead.

  The city hadn’t yet awakened. San Lázaro Avenue was so empty of vehicles that the scarce pedestrians didn’t bother to wait for the red light to cross the street. Around the Malecón esplanade, the air was crisp and salty. A lone fisherman sat on the edge of the wall with a makeshift pole. On the horizon, the early rays of the sun broke against the water, creating pale flashes of light.