Salsa Stories

by Lulu Delacre

  The full moon shone against the velvet sky. The tide was high, and the beach swarmed with young revelers who, like us, had waited all year for this night’s irresistible dip in the dark ocean. The moment we reached the water we all turned around, held hands, and jumped backward into the rushing waves. Amalia stumbled forward, Aitza joyfully splashed back, and so did I as I let go of my sister’s hand. But my other hand remained tightly clasped to José Manuel’s. When my friend and I took our third plunge into the sea, I wished good luck would come to him, and that from then on, his grandma would allow him to play with us out on the street. And as a wave lifted us high in the water, I suddenly knew this wish would come true.

  I used to be a sickly child those years long ago in Buenos Aires. Once I had a severe virus that left me unable to eat or drink any dairy foods for eighty-nine days. Eighty-nine long days. I know because I counted each one carefully on my calendar. And I couldn’t have been more pleased the day my doctor assured me that I could have milk again. That meant that at teatime that afternoon I would be able to have alfajores. Those were my favorite sandwich cookies, the kind that were filled with milk caramel. All day at school I thought of nothing else, and couldn’t wait to get home.

  Finally, the dismissal bell rang loudly and snapped me out of my sweet daydream. I leaped up from my seat, and put on my blue wool coat and matching beret and gloves to protect me from the chilly weather. Buenos Aires is always chilly in July. For while half of the world is warmed by the summer sun, Argentina is gliding through winter.

  “See you Monday, Susana!” I heard my schoolmates call from behind me as I crossed the courtyard. I barely had time to turn around and wave good-bye to them before I cut into the wind and hurried home to my mother and Abuela Elena. Our apartment house was only two blocks away from school, but the more I rushed to get there, the further away it seemed. I was trying to get home before my twin brother, Oscar, even though I knew he would run home ahead of me. That way he could sneak into the kitchen and take inventory of the afternoon sweets. At eleven years old, I might have been taller — but he was, without a doubt, faster. Particularly when sweets were involved.

  Today’s afternoon tea, la hora del té, was a special one. Aunt Cecilia and Aunt Morena were coming to join us. Of course, teatime was delicious every day of the week. But it was especially delicious when we had company. Only then would Abuela Elena buy alfajores de dulce de leche. And today, after eight-nine days of deprivation, I would finally satisfy my craving. My mouth watered at the thought.

  “Hola, querida,” Abuela Elena greeted me, then took my coat and hung it next to Oscar’s. He had, as I’d predicted, arrived before me. I washed my hands quickly and went to kiss my parents and aunts who had just sat down at the elegantly set table. After I took my place next to Aunt Morena, Elvira appeared in her starched white cap and apron through the kitchen door, with a steaming silver pot of English tea.

  “Leave it on the tea cart next to me, Elvira,” said Mamá.

  As soon as Elvira went back to the kitchen, Mamá prepared each individual cup with experienced grace. I saw her lace the perfumed tea with thin ribbons of cold milk and spoonfuls of sugar while I craned my neck to peek at the plate of sweets behind the centerpiece. But the large bouquet of roses hid them well.

  Mamá served the tea to Oscar and me last. Then, as always, she passed the plate of tea sandwiches around. After that, she passed around a plate filled with buttered toast. And when everyone had their fill of tea sandwiches and toast, it was finally time for the sweets.

  As Mamá lifted the serving dish with tiny brioches and sweet scones, I saw the unimaginable. I looked again in case I had seen wrong. But I had not. In the middle of the sweets plate there was only one alfajor! Aunt Cecilia took the dish, chose a scone, and ceremoniously passed it on to Abuela who served herself a brioche. Neither of them touched the lone sandwich cookie. I could not take my eyes off of it. Papá took a scone and handed me the rest. As I held the plate in my hands, time seemed to stop. My whole body ached for that alfajor. But one look at Mamá and it was clear I had no choice. Her silent gaze firmly warned me against improper manners at the table. I knew exactly what she was thinking: Guests come first. So reluctantly, I handed the plate to Aunt Morena. I knew she had a sweet tooth as big as mine, and I expected her to take what I had dreamed of eating for so long. But she didn’t. Then, the plate had barely reached Oscar when the worst possible thing happened. With a single quick movement of his hand and a sneaky smile, Oscar raised the cookie to his lips — and gobbled it up!

  I gave Mamá a stricken look.

  “Elvira,” Mamá called behind her. “Bring more alfajores, por favor.”

  But when Elvira returned from the kitchen, she was empty-handed. “Señora,” she whispered, “there are none left.”

  I stared, dumbfounded.

  “What?” asked Mamá. “Did you not buy half a dozen?”

  “We bought the last four at the bakery,” said Abuela.

  “That means there are three left!” I blurted out.

  “They’ve disappeared, Niña Susana,” Elvira apologized. “I looked everywhere in the kitchen and couldn’t find them.”

  “I wonder what could have happened to them,” Abuela mused.

  Oscar, who had been quietly savoring the last bit of milk-caramel cookie started to cough. He coughed until Abuela excused him and led him to his room. It looked fake to me. I figured he wanted to get away for some reason. But why? Abuela came in through the hallway and instantly disappeared into the kitchen.

  My aunts kept talking with my father, as though nothing had happened. But I knew something interesting was going on behind the closed kitchen door. I had to find out what it was, so I excused myself and followed Abuela.

  Abuela Elena was in front of the pantry sifting through bottles, cans, and boxes. As she was about to remove a pile of table linen, a small paper package from the bakery appeared in the corner of the shelf. It had a tear in it, and alfajor crumbs lay all around it.

  “¡Qué mala pata!” exclaimed Elvira with a clap of her hands. “What bad luck!” She proceeded to pick up the torn package.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Your brother secretly ate two alfajores and hid the third one for later,” said Abuela Elena, motioning to Elvira to throw away the package and its contents.

  “And a mouse got to it before he did!” Elvira sighed as she wiped the shelf with a soapy rag. “It’s too late to buy any more this evening.”

  I stood there frozen as I watched Elvira clear away all the crumbs from the precious alfajor and throw them into the garbage. The rage bubbling inside me soon gave way to numb disbelief. Abuela Elena tenderly took my hand and led me back into the dining room. With my well-learned good manners, I forced a smile and sat down to tea again.

  The next morning at breakfast, I found Oscar’s seat empty. Abuela told me had had been up all night with indigestion. In the early hours of the day he was quite weak. But as time went by he became hungry once again, and that meant he felt much better. That is, until Mamá told him that for the next eighty-nine days, whenever we had guests for tea, I was to have his share of alfajores — as well as mine.

  One bright clear morning, right before my eighth birthday, Mami took me to my grandma Rosa’s, just as she did every morning on her way to work.

  “Apúrate, m’ijo,” said Mami. “Hurry, or I’ll miss my ride!”

  Leaving a trail of red dust behind us, I ran to keep up with her as she pulled me along the narrow streets of our barrio, in the Mexican town of Juárez. Neighbors who trickled out of their houses to start their daily routines greeted us as we passed. But there was no time to stop and talk. Small pearls of sweat rose on Mami’s brow and rolled down her carefully made-up face as we rushed along.

  Today, as always, Mami had put on a freshly ironed dress, curled her light brown hair, and slipped her old plastic sandals onto her feet. She didn’t want to ruin her high heels. So she would put them on just
before she reached the Texas border.

  When we finally arrived at Mama Rosa’s, Mami quickly bent down and offered me her cheek. “Dame un beso, Roberto, give me a kiss,” she said, smoothing back my hair with her hand. “I get paid today. So when I pick you up we’ll go to the market to buy the piñata I promised you.”

  “¡Viva!” I cheered, hugging her tight. I loved the piñatas my friends had on their birthdays, and I had always dreamed of having one of my own. Now, my wish would come true!

  Mama Rosa, who had come out to greet us, smiled at my excitement. “And we’ll make chiles rellenos for your birthday dinner, too,” she added, squeezing my shoulders with her big warm hands.

  “Sí, chico,” Mami said. “Didn’t I tell you that if you got good grades, you would have a special dinner and a piñata for your birthday? Now, keep up the good work at school, and do what Mama Rosa says.” Then she kissed her mother good-bye and left.

  “Be careful at the border!” Mama Rosa called to Mami as she disappeared down the road.

  Monday through Friday, Mami worked in Juárez’s twin city, El Paso. She would catch a ride in a van with other women who, like her, worked as maids and nannies there. At the American border, she would tell the guard the same story: She was crossing the border to go shopping. She thought that being all dressed up made her story more believable. As soon as she was in El Paso, she would get on a bus for the long ride to the city’s east side. Then she would get off the bus and walk the rest of the way to her final destination. Many other women lived all week in the houses where they worked. They would only return to their families on weekends. My mother was not one of them. She came home every evening to make dinner for us, to mend our clothing, and to check if I had done my homework. And I was glad to have her with me every night.

  When it was time, Mama Rosa took me to school. And lucky me — to get there, we had to go by the market. In the distance I could see the vendors opening their stands and arranging their wares.

  “Can we stop and look at the piñatas — PLEASE — Mama Rosa?” I begged.

  “How many times have you seen them?” Mama Rosa laughed. But of course, she let me go.

  Inside the dark market building we walked past the many stalls filled with fruits and vegetables, purses and handbags, and clothes. And then we came to the one I liked best — the big one that sold piñatas. Dozens of them in all shapes and sizes hung from the ceiling. There were donkeys and horses, cats and dogs, rabbits and fish, and even a silver star. Dazzled by the brilliant colors of the tissue paper that covered them, I stared at each one, hypnotized. Then I looked in the corner to make sure my favorite one was still there — the huge red bull with multicolored ribbons tied to its horns. Standing next to him I could look right into his deep black paper eyes. He was as tall as I was. I was sure he could hold more treats than any other piñata there!

  “Look!” I whispered to Mama Rosa. “The bull I want is still here.”

  “We’ll see which one your Mami can buy,” Mama Rosa said with a wink. “But now we must get you to school. Mami doesn’t want you to be late.”

  “Don’t worry,” the vendor joked with me. “The piñatas will be waiting for you when you come back.”

  In the classroom I told my best friend Pablo about my piñata. He was as excited as I was. And all day long, I raised my hand to answer the teacher’s questions, hoping to make the day go faster. But it went as slowly as ever.

  That afternoon at Mama Rosa’s I did my homework right away while I waited for Mami to return from her job. I kept thinking about my piñata and what we could fill it with. In the barrio, when someone had a piñata, it was hung out on the street, and all the children were invited to share in the fun. I prayed the vendor would not sell my bull before we got there.

  When evening came, I sat on Mama Rosa’s wooden front steps lost in my daydreams. The shadow of the saguaro cactus on the side of her house grew longer and longer until it faded into the darkness. Where was Mami? I never stayed at my grandma’s this long. Would the market still be open after sunset? Behind me I heard Mama Rosa pacing in the kitchen. I was getting very hungry.

  Suddenly, Papá appeared.

  When he did not find us at home, he got worried and decided to come see if I was still at Mama Rosa’s. Inside the house I saw them whisper to each other. Mama Rosa looked anxious as she set the table. The three of us sat down and had some frijoles. We ate the beans in silence.

  It was late at night when Mami finally arrived. We all rose to greet her as she walked in the door. She looked frazzled.

  “You won’t believe the day I had!” she exclaimed. She was out of breath. “This morning they stopped me at the border. They held me for hours, asking all kinds of questions. They asked what was I going to buy … how much I was going to spend … what stores was I going to … I was so nervous, I couldn’t even answer. By the time they let me go, it was very late, and I thought I might lose my job. I was lucky Señora Smith didn’t get made. Then I worked late to make up for the time I lost.” Mami collapsed next to me on the small couch where I sat, and her head sank into her hands. “I was careful to return after the change of border patrols,” she said.

  “I don’t like it,” Mama Rosa complained. “What if the guards filed a report? You could end up in jail. Can’t you quit?”

  “No,” said Mami, weeping. “We need the money I bring home.”

  “It is true that with the money you bring we can buy many things we need,” Papá said. “But it is not worth it if you get into trouble. We can do without some things.”

  “Like what?” Mami asked. “Roberto’s school shoes? Groceries? Mama Rosa’s medicine?

  I rested my head on Mami’s lap. It was almost midnight. She stroked my hair as she talked for a long time with Papá and Mama Rosa. Slowly their voices became fainter and fainter until they dissolved into my dreams.

  The next morning, I woke up in my own bed. Papá must have carried me home. Seated at the foot of the bed Mami was singing Las Mañanitas. Still half asleep I realized it was my birthday.

  “This evening we’ll have your favorite meal,” Mami said when she finished the birthday song. “Mama Rosa is coming to help me make you chiles rellenos.”

  “Gracias, Mami,” I whispered. I was about to ask if I was still getting my piñata. But when I remembered how upset Mami had been the night before, I thought it was better not to ask.

  “Now get dressed, and after breakfast you’ll go with Papá and help him with his errands. I need to clean the house.”

  I spent the morning of my birthday with Papá at the hardware store. He was buying materials he needed for a construction job. The store was close to the market, so while Papá payed, I ran to the piñata stand. The donkeys and the horses, the cats and the dogs, the rabbits and the fish, and the silver star dazzled more brilliantly than ever. But something was wrong. The corner where my huge bull had once stood was now empty.

  My piñata was gone!

  The burning desert sun was high when we got back home. Inside the kitchen, I found Mami roasting poblano chiles on the flat iron pan. When she finished, Mama Rosa filled them with cheese.

  “Roberto,” said Mami. “Go wash up and get me three, big ripe tomatoes from the garden. I need them for the pico de gallo.”

  Slowly I went out to the garden. While I was excited about my birthday dinner, I knew that without my piñata, my birthday wouldn’t be the same.

  Outside, I found Papá talking with one of our neighbors who was attaching a rope to the roof of his house. Papá leaned over a large bag and slowly removed what was inside. At first I saw a horned head appear. Then I saw a big red body.

  “Papá, Papá!” I ran up to him. “It’s my piñata! The exact one I wanted!”

  “I know,” he said. “Mami and Mama Rosa bought it this morning.”

  I started to run to get Pablo, but stopped when I heard his shout from behind me. He raced toward us, followed by about twenty other children from the barrio. They all li
ned up single file to hit my birthday piñata with a wooden stick. When everyone was there, Papá put a blindfold on the first child in line. All the other children watched and chanted, “Dale, dale, dale …”

  By the time the bull had lost a horn and a leg, it was finally my turn. Papá blindfolded me. “¡Dale, Roberto!” my friends cheered. “Hit it!” I aimed high and hit the piñata. I heard a muffled thud and took off my blindfold to see only a single orange had fallen.

  “My turn!” cried Pablo. He gave two heavy blows, and with the second one, a shower of juicy oranges, hard candy, peanuts, and sugarcane pieces came pouring down from the piñata’s swaying shards. My piñata had more treats in it than any we had ever seen! Amid the laughter and shouting, all the children scrambled on the ground to pick up what they could. When I got up with my hands full, I saw Mami watching me tenderly.

  The afternoon wore away, and one by one, my friends left. All except Pablo. Mama Rosa had invited him and his parents to join us for dinner. My uncles, aunt, and Pablo’s parents chattered as they ate.

  “Feliz cumpleaños, Roberto,” Mami said as she handed me a plate with two freshly fried chiles rellenos, warm flour tortillas, frijoles, and pico de gallo.

  “Victoria,” Mama Rosa said. “Are you going back to work on Monday?”

  “Sí, Mamá,” Mami answered. “I have to.”

  “Don’t you think you might get stopped again?” Mama Rosa asked anxiously.

  As Pablo and I sank our teeth into the warm chiles oozing with melted cheese, Mami came to me and kissed me on the forehead. “How did you like your birthday?” she asked.

  “It was the best birthday I ever had!” I answered.

  Mama Rosa and Mami looked at each other, their eyes smiling with silent understanding.

  “And that,” Mami said, “is your answer.”

  Many years ago on a misty October afternoon in Lima, Peru, I watched Mamá bake turrón de Doña Pepa. Even though she made it every year before the procession for the Lord of Miracles, I had never asked her why.