by Lulu Delacre
Title Page
Dedication
New Year’s Day
A Carpet for Holy Week
FLOR’S STORY
At the Beach
ABUELITO’S STORY
The Night of San Juan
ABUELITA’S STORY
Teatime
ABITA’S STORY
Birthday Piñata
UNCLE ROBERT’S STORY
The Lord of Miracles
DOÑA JOSEFA’S STORY
Aguinaldo
TÍA MARILIA’S STORY
Carmen Teresa’s Gift
Recipes
Glossary
Acknowledgments
Copyright
“Esteban! Turn down the stereo,” Mamá calls to Papá from the kitchen. She swirls the chicken in its marinade with one hand, then answers the telephone with the other.
Our house stirs with laughter and chatter as guests arrive, one by one. The cousins run noisily about our basement to the beat of salsa music that blares from speakers on two floors. In the dining room, Abuelito, Abuelo Jaime, Uncle Robert, and Papá click dominoes together, concentrating on each move of their game. They play with Abuelito’s lucky dominoes, the ones he brought with him from Cuba forty years ago.
In the kitchen, my grandma Abita, our housekeeper Flor, and I rhythmically chop and slice. The rich, pungent scent of garlic cracking in olive oil rises from the stove. We are helping Mamá prepare the sofrito sauce for her arroz con pollo. This is the rice dish for which Mamá is famous among all our friends and family.
Flor and Abita chatter away in Spanish, as they struggle to hold back tears from the chopped onion. Flor tells Abita about the trip she will soon make to Guatemala for Holy Week.
“I’ve been saving for over a year to visit my family,” she says. Flor has saved not only for her ticket, but also for the gifts she will bring to everyone from America: new jeans, walkie-talkies, a small TV, and the latest toys.
Abita nods her approval.
Above the din of music, children’s shouts, and clattering pots and pans, we miraculously hear the doorbell.
“Carmen Teresa, get the door!” my little sister Laura calls from the basement stairs.
“You get it — please!” I shout back. “I’m busy.” I’m afraid that if I abandon my spot in the kitchen, I will lose it to someone else who is anxious to help. I love to cook, and when company comes, a good spot in Mamá’s kitchen is hard to come by.
I watch Laura dash to open the door.
“Doña Josefa!” she calls out, then flies into the old woman’s open arms.
“Feliz año nuevo, Laurita,” Doña Josefa says, as she gives Laura a warm hug and a present. Doña Josefa is from Peru. She is one of the doctors from the free clinic where Mama volunteers. Mama always says Doña Josefa loves to dote on us since she has no children of her own. Laura thanks her for the gift, then steals into the dining room to open it.
Doña Josefa finds me in the kitchen. She is holding a package wrapped in brown paper. Her leathery hands are a shade darker than the wrapping. She’s about to place the package into my open hands, but stops herself when she notices they are covered in cilantro. She takes the package back to the entrance and puts it on a small table instead.
“For after you clean your hands, Carmen Teresa,” she says.
The last to arrive are Tía Marilia and Tío Rodolfo. They’ve brought bottles of coquito and the latest hits from Rubén Blades and Willie Colón.
“Would you believe this?” Tía Marilia jokes, glancing at the guests. “All the men are enjoying themselves while the women slave in the kitchen. There are some old customs that not even life in the States can change!”
Tía Marilia is my favorite aunt. She has such a quick wit, and when she is around, there is laughter everywhere.
Suddenly, my sister tugs at my sleeve.
“Look, Carmen, look what I got!” Laura shows me a beautiful cloth doll that Doña Josefa gave her. “Let me see yours, what did you get?”
Curious to find out, I wash my hands and look for my gift. But it is not on the table where Doña Josefa left it. And no one is near the table except our little cousin Alex. When Laura sees him, she eagerly takes his hand and tries to play with him. But Alex has just learned to walk and he prefers to gleefully charge around the house.
“Laura!” calls Abuelita. “The cinnamon!”
Laura quickly forgets about Alex and my gift and runs to do her only and favorite job in the kitchen. She must sprinkle cinnamon over the cool natilla. Abuelita prepared the velvety cream for dessert and filled twenty-five small bowls with it. This dessert is Laura’s favorite, and after carefully studying each bowl, she mischievously covers the fullest one with a blanket of the spice. That’s her way of claiming it.
Mamá calls everyone to eat. We’ve set the platters on the kitchen counter and people stream in to serve themselves. Then they sit wherever they please at the dining room table, at the kitchen table, or in the living room.
Abuelito stands up to say grace. He can sometimes go on for quite a long time, for he loves to be the center of attention. And he always ends his prayer with the same old Spanish saying: “¡Salud, dinero, amor, y tiempo para disfrutarlos! Health, money, love, and time to enjoy it all!” he says. Everyone is very hungry by the time he finally gets to this part.
I take a huge mouthful of steaming yuca when Doña Josefa sits next to me.
“Did you like your gift?” she asks.
I quickly swallow and excuse myself to avoid the embarrassing situation of having to tell her I’ve misplaced it.
I look again on the entrance table and under it, but the package is gone. In whispers, I ask my parents and some relatives if they have seen it, but no one has. To avoid Doña Josefa, I duck into the kitchen where I find Tía Marilia and Tío Rodolfo. They’ve been lured to the center of the kitchen floor by the dance music that’s become irresistible to them. Gracefully they twirl into each other’s arms and show off their fiery moves. Inspired by her sister-in-law, Mamá pulls me to “the dance floor” to teach me some basic salsa steps. Reluctantly, I follow.
“Don’t look at your feet,” warns Mamá. “Just feel the rhythm of the music.”
Across the room, I spot Laura next to Alex. I abandon the dance lesson to find out if she has seen my missing gift. Before I can ask, Alex topples the little rooster that was perched on the hand-carved nativity scene. And while Laura carefully rearranges the pieces, Alex has moved on to playing with something else. I peer over his shoulder to find he’s trying to unwrap a brown package. It’s my gift!
“Oh, Alex,” I say. “Let me help you with that.”
I let him unwrap the small parcel, then give him the wrapping paper to play with. He seems quite happy to noisily rustle and crinkle the paper.
My gift from Doña Josefa is a book filled with blank pages and covered with a red fabric sprinkled with daisies. Inside I find an inscription:
Dear Carmen Teresa,
When I was your age, I kept a journal in a book just like this one. I hope you’ll find a treasured use for yours, as I did for mine.
Doña Josefa
“Show me!” demands Laura. A smug look comes over her face when she sees the book. She is pleased that it is not something she likes better than her doll.
Relieved to have found the gift, I run to Doña Josefa to thank her.
“What should I write in this book?” I ask her.
Doña Josefa’s creased face lights up with her smile. “There are many things you can write,” she says. “Perhaps you will want to keep a journal, like I did.”
“Or,” offers Abuelita, “you could write about things that have happened to you when you were younger.”
“Yes. Or maybe, you could coll
ect stories from our family and friends,” suggests Mamá, “since everyone is here today.”
“Stories — ahh, ¡cuentos!” calls Abuelito from his seat at the dining room table where he has been eavesdropping. “I have a great story for your book, Carmen Teresa. But first,” he says in his deep voice, “Abuelita, bring me more of that wonderful arroz con pollo, please.”
Abuelita nods to Flor, who quickly refills his plate.
Abuelito glows as everyone gathers around him to hear his tale.
“When you are finished, Señor,” Flor adds, “I have a story for Carmen Teresa, too.”
“¡Ah! No, no, damas primero,” says Abeulito. “Ladies first.”
“Always a gentleman,” replies Doña Josefa. “And who knows, maybe we’ll all take a turn. Why don’t you start, Flor?” As soon as we are comfortably settled around the dining room table, Flor begins her story.
Ever since I was a little girl in Guatemala City, my family has made an alfombra for Holy Week. Alfombras are beautiful carpets handmade from colored sawdust and fresh flowers. Every Palm Sunday morning, we make an alfombra on the street right in front of our house. That week, dozens of processions walk by. Porters, who carry splendid statues of Jesus and Mary, follow the pathways of beautiful carpets that are spread throughout the neighborhood. We wait for one that will cross our carpet. At last it comes! And for us, it is like the Lord Himself has walked upon our carpet.
One Friday during Lent, when I was twelve, we had just finished Mamá’s baclao a la vizcaína, her delicious codfish stew, when Abuelo Marco asked me to do something I had only dreamed of doing.
“Flor,” he said, smoothing his mustache that was now the color of his weathered straw hat. “Since you are the oldest grandchild, how would you like to make the design for the carpet this year?”
“Oh, Abuelo!” I shouted joyfully. Ever since I could walk, I had helped him with the carpet. When I was very young, I was only allowed to stamp on the sawdust. Later, I was allowed to help dye it. And for the past few years, I carefully sifted out what was needed for its colorful border. But I had never had the honor of making the design. I couldn’t wait to look through our well-worn collection of wooden stencils and pull out the ones I liked the best.
I could feel the expectant stares of Abuelo, my parents, and my three little brothers as I sat on my chair, thinking. I had seen how Abuelo lovingly created new carpet designs by mixing patterns. I tried to remember sawdust carpets I had seen before and the many border stencils I knew we had stored. Then, I decided just what I wanted to do. I took some paper and a pencil, and started to draw. Abuelo Marco nodded in approval when I was finished.
“I think we’ll have a beautiful carpet, Flor,” he said.
The following day, Papá and all three of my brothers drove to the sawmill to get the sawdust. The owner of the sawmill gave away most of his sawdust just for making carpets for Holy Week. When Papá returned with twenty large sacks, we all helped carry them into the house. For the next several hours my mother and I stirred the sawdust in big vats of dye. We made batches of red, white, green, and black. The last thing I did that afternoon was to trace the new flying dove pattern on plywood. Papá cut out the stencil. I could already imagine the dove in the middle of a golden background surrounded by borders of flowers and geometric shapes.
By Thursday, we had everything ready to make the carpet. And on Palm Sunday at dawn we would assemble it right in front of our house. I couldn’t wait.
But then something terrible happened.
When I woke up Saturday morning, the house was in chaos.
“You stay here!” I heard Papá shout. “I’ll go see what happened!”
He ran out the door, leaving Mamá watching anxiously by the window. Doña Paca, our next-door neighbor, had heard the turmoil, and rushed over to help with my younger brothers. She was in the kitchen feeding them torrejas. They were too young to understand what was going on, but the syrupy warm bread kept them out of the way.
“Mamá, ¿qué pasa?” I asked sleepily. “What’s going on?”
“Ay, Flor,” Mamá wept softly as she put her rosary down. “It’s Abuelo Marco,” she said. “There’s a fire in his apartment. Your father has gone to help.”
While Mamá dragged herself to the sofa to continue her prayer, I ran to the window and threw the shutters open wide. Between the modern signs projecting from storefronts and the cascade of ferns hanging from the balcony next door, I could see a crowd gathering at the entrance of Abuelo Marco’s building. A cloud of black smoke was escaping from his window and rising to the sky. Frozen in place, I bit my fingernails, my eyes fixed on the crowd. What if something bad had happened to Abuelo?
“Is Abuelo inside his apartment?” I asked Mamá. “Did you try to call him?” But Mamá was deep in prayer and did not hear me. Soothed by her repetitive Hail Marys, I continued to look for Abuelo. I even made up prayers of my own.
The sun outside was blinding and I squinted my eyes to see clearly. The firefighters were opening a path through the crowd. It was then that I saw Papá coming out of Abuelo’s building. And a moment later Abuelo appeared by his side.
“Mamá! Mamá! Abuelo is alright!” I cried out.
“Ay, Santo Dios,” Mamá sighed, kissing the cross of her rosary.
Soon Papá returned home with Abuelo. We greeted them with hugs and strong coffee. For the next few hours, the phone didn’t stop ringing. A stream of neighbors, family, and friends came in to see how Abuelo was doing. All the while I helped by entertaining my brothers.
Nobody mentioned the carpet at all that afternoon, and I began to worry that we weren’t going to assemble it tomorrow. It was difficult to hide my disappointment. It was difficult to hide how eager I was for Abuelo to see how my first alfombra would turn out.
When the commotion finally died down, my grandfather took a long nap. Afterward he came into the living room, followed by Mamá and Papá. Holding on to his cane, he sank onto the checkered couch and gathered his grandchildren near him.
“Well, it looks like I’ll be staying here with you for a while,” Abuelo said, with a weary look on his face. “Everything inside my apartment is charred or burnt to ashes. But it doesn’t matter. Who wants all those ancient things anyway?”
For a long moment nobody said anything. I thought it was unfair that he had lost everything — his old books and photographs, his furniture-making tools, and even his favorite rocking chair — all was gone. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose all my favorite things.
“The only thing that matters is that you are alive.” Mamá finally broke the silence. “We’ll love to have you here with us.”
We all hugged him together.
“Abuelo,” I asked, “is there something I can do?”
“Nada, Florcita,” Abuelo smiled. “Not a thing.” But after a pause he asked, “Do we have everything ready for tomorrow’s carpet?”
“This is not a time to think about making an alfombra,” complained Mamá. “There are other more important things to take care of.”
Fortunately, Abuelo Marco would not hear of any excuses. He was not about to break a tradition that he had loved since he was a little boy. Not for a fire — not for anything. So we all agreed we would make the carpet tomorrow as we had planned.
The following morning, my family was outside at the crack of dawn. My uncles opened sacks of sawdust and poured their contents inside a wooden frame. Amidst shrieks of delight, my three little brothers spread, stomped, and leveled the thick, golden foundation on which the design would be placed. Then, my mother and I brought out big bowls of the dyed, moist sawdust we had prepared a few days before. Layer by layer, hour after hour, we sifted each color into the wooden stencils, taking pains not to step in what had already been made. Abuelo Marco sat on a chair nearby, watching as we worked. On the next street, several families worked on a two-block-long carpet they had been making since the night before.
Just as we finished, the bells of La M
erced Church chimed loudly. Abuelo had gone inside to rest. It was then that I lovingly sifted something new into the carpet. Mamá came out and handed me a glass of cold horchata. Its bittersweet taste reflected my feelings. I drank it while we admired our work on the pavement.
“I like what you added to the design, Flor,” said Mamá. “And I know Abuelo will like it, too.”
After the fire, I had wanted to do something for Abuelo. So during the night I had cut two new stencils out of cardboard. One was the silhouette of an old man, the other was that of a flame.
A crowd of people gathered around us as we put the finishing touches on our alfombra. Papá sprayed the sawdust carpet with water once again, to protect it from the wind. Then he removed the wooden frame. The carpet’s brilliant colors glowed in the morning sun.
Abuelo came out. As the sound of the tuba grew louder, we knew the procession was coming near. Two long lines of men dressed in purple tunics carried an immense wooden platform on their shoulders. On it stood a statue of Jesus. Behind them, two lines of shawled women carried a platform with a statue of Mary. Burdened by the weight, the porters swayed from side to side as they solemnly walked forward.
Mamá, Papá, Abuelo, my brothers, and I gathered around our carpet and joined hands. I stood next to Abuelo, and I wondered if he liked what I had done.
“Los cucuruchos, the porters, they’re coming!” said Abuelo, his voice filled with excitement. “They will finally step on the most beautiful alfombra our family has ever made.”
A warm sensation deep inside me began to spread through my body like the sweet oozing syrup that soaked the torrejas. I felt the heat rise through my ears and color my cheeks. I watched as the porters first admired my design, and then slowly advanced across the carpet. They stepped on the green-and-white geometrical border. They stepped on the red-and-white flowered border. They stepped on the golden background where the white dove carried the black silhouette of an old man away from the red-and-yellow flames below it. Finally, they stepped on the two words I had written in black letters.
When the fragile carpet had vanished under the feet of the worshippers, I felt Abuelo squeeze my hand, and I looked up to meet his gaze. He had a broad smile on his face. It was then that I fully understood the importance of the words that I had written with black sawdust. Gracias, Señor.