Salsa Stories

by Lulu Delacre

“Why do you bake turrón in October?” I asked. “Why is this the only time they sell it all over the city?”

  “¿Por qué, por qué?” she sighed as she sprinkled the freshly-baked nougat with tiny colorful candies. “Always asking questions, Josefa. Why? It is because this is the month of the Lord of Miracles.”

  Not satisfied with her answer, I continued to ask more questions. Who was Doña Pepa? And why do so many people dress in purple around this time? Finally, I wore Mamá out and she said, “I really should tell you the beautiful story that goes with the nougat. After all, you are named after its creator, Josefina Marmanillo.” Then, handing me a piece of the honey-glazed sweet, she led me to the balcony where we sat next to each other. And as we watched the breathtaking procession down below, this is the story she told.

  It all began in colonial times, when Lima was home to the Quechua Indians. It was also home to the Spanish colonists and to the morenos, who were brought from Africa as slaves. It was then that an old building with a thatched roof stood inside the city’s stone walls. Some say it was a leprosarium. Others say it was a brotherhood of Indians and morenos. Yet there are those who believe that it was a barracks for African slaves. What is true, however, is that on a big adobe wall of this building, an Angolan slave had painted an unusually beautiful black image of Christ.

  A few years later, in 1655, a powerful earthquake shook Lima. It demolished everything — from government palaces, mansions, and monasteries to the humblest of homes. Thousands of lives were lost to the mighty tremors. But in the wake of its destruction, survivors gathered on top of the rubble of the old building to witness a phenomenal sight. The fragile adobe wall where the moreno Christ had been painted stood perfectly intact!

  Word of the event spread among the slaves, and the haunting image of the black Christ became a source of miracles for many. Some of the faithful are said to have been healed of incurable diseases. Others vowed to have been granted long-awaited favors. So in time, the painting became known as el Señor de los Milagros. By the 1700s, a church was built to house the image, and the purple-clad nuns from the convent next door became the caretakers of the shrine.

  It was around this time that Josefina Marmanillo lived. Josefina was a slave woman who worked on a cotton farm in a coastal valley south of Lima. Known to all as Doña Pepa the morena, she spent long days in the farmhouse kitchen kneading, pounding, peeling, and slicing with her big wrinkled hands. And even in the strongest desert heat, she never failed to sing while she worked. She would stop only to laugh when one of the children of the house sneaked in to steal her scrumptious sweets.

  One day, while working in the kitchen, a weakness overcame her. Later, she noticed her chores took longer to do. And soon, even the simplest task became impossible. Her cheerful laugh was silenced. And as her arms became paralyzed, her master freed her. For so many years Doña Pepa had thrived on caring for all the people that delighted in her wonderful cooking and baking. Now she was crippled.

  That October, when Doña Pepa heard about el Señor de los Milagros and the procession that was to be held in His honor, her hopes soared, and she boarded a ship bound for the capital city. The morena believed that if she joined the religious caravan and followed the Christ’s bier on her knees as a sacrifice to the Lord of Miracles, she might be cured.

  It was a chilly day that October when the freed slave arrived in Lima. Above the city hovered the garúa, a damp, cold mist that blocked the sun. The city looked as mournful as the procession itself. Doña Pepa looked at the moreno Christ from the distance, then fell to her knees and joined the followers. She found herself surrounded by others who, like her, had placed their hopes in the Lord of Miracles. Enveloped by the soothing rhythm of continuous prayer, she accompanied the painting of Christ through long, cobblestone streets and hard dirt roads, until her long skirt was torn and her knees bled. She endured the pain for many long hours, and just as she felt she could not take any more, a tingling sensation suddenly returned to her fingertips. It crept up past her elbows, then went to her shoulders. Had her prayers been answered? Slowly, she clasped her hands together, then she pinched her forearms. She could move her arms and hands again! She fell to the ground and wept, for the moreno Christ had heard her.

  “Ay, Señor de los Milagros,” she whispered. “Whatever you ask of me, I shall do.”

  Doña Pepa spent the next few weeks trying to think of a way she could thank the Lord of Miracles. The answer finally came to her in a dream. She dreamed of orange-blossom honey perfumed with lemons and laced with aniseed. When she woke up the next morning, she ran to her tiny kitchen and invented a luscious nougat candy. As soon as it was ready, she filled the tray with the sweet confection and rushed to the courtyard of the moreno Christ’s shrine where the poor gathered. There, she gave nougat to each man, woman, and child. At first, she told her story to all who asked her why she did this. Then she retold it to all who would listen. It is said that every October until her death, Doña Pepa baked large trays of the golden delicacy to feed to the needy. And as she told her story, she offered them hope for a miracle of their own.

  Mamá said as she finished her story, “You know, my dear Josefa, Lima has witnessed hundreds of processions for the Lord of Miracles since they started in 1687. Year after year, you’ve seen how hundreds of thousands of believers cloaked in purple, like the first caretakers of the moreno Christ, come to profess their faith. And you’ve seen how in the path of the procession, buildings are lavishly adorned with purple garlands of flowers. You’ve heard the chants and the prayers that mingle with the fragrance of incense in the dim candlelight. And you’ve seen the gold-and-silver bier with the painted image of el Señor de los Milagros that is carried through Lima’s streets. But of all the gifts of song, incense, and myrrh offered to the black Christ, none compare to the humble gift of the morena.

  “And that is why to this day, Josefa, her delicious nougat is sold on every street corner of the city. It is to remind us what true faith in the Lord of Miracles can bring.”

  When I was growing up in Puerto Rico, I went to a small, Catholic girls’ school. Every December, Sister Antonia, our religion teacher, insisted that the sixth grade visit the nursing home in Santurce. Bringing Christmas cheer to the old and infirm was an experience she felt all sixth graders should have. But the year I was in fifth grade, Sister Antonia decided our class was mature enough to join the older girls and have that experience, too.

  “I’m not going,” I whispered to my friend Margarita.

  “You have to, Marilia,” she said. “Everyone has to go.”

  All of my classmates looked forward to the trip. Some, because they liked the rackety bus ride to anywhere. Some, because they could skip school for the day and that meant no homework. And others, because they believed that to do a sixth-grade activity in fifth grade was very special. But ever since my only grandma died in a nursing home, the thought of going back to one made me feel sad. I didn’t want to go.

  As I sat at my desk coloring the Christmas card that I was assigned to make for a resident, I tried to figure out how I could skip this field trip. Maybe they would let me help at the library. Maybe I could write a special book report at school while they were out. Or better yet, I could wake up ill and stay home from school. As soon as the recess bell rang, I ran over to the library to try out my first plan.

  “Hola, Marilia,” Señora Collazo greeted me.

  “Hola, Señora Collazo,” I said, smiling sweetly. “I came to ask you if I could stay here tomorrow to help you paint posters for the book fair. I really don’t mind spending the whole day at the library.”

  “Aren’t you going on a field trip tomorrow?” Señora Collazo asked.

  “My class is going. But I could be excused if you need my help.” The librarian thanked me and said that if I wanted to help I could join the other students who had already volunteered to stay after school to do the posters. Biting my lower lip, I left the library in a hurry. It was time to try my second plan.r />
  Outside, seated on the polished tiles of the covered corridor, my friends were having a tournament of jacks. But I didn’t join them. Instead, I marched right to the sixth-grade classroom. Sister Antonia was grading papers at her desk as I went in.

  “Sister Antonia,” I said softly.

  “Yes, Marilia,” Sister Antonia answered.

  I stared for a moment at the buckles of my shoes. Then without looking up, I took a deep breath, swept back my black curls, and asked, “May I stay in school tomorrow to do an extra book report?”

  “I’m afraid not, Marilia,” Sister Antonia said firmly. “Tomorrow is our trip to the nursing home. Both the fifth and sixth grades are going. But if you want to do an extra book report, you can do it over the weekend.”

  I glanced across the room to the trays of besitos de coco, the coconut sweets that the sixth graders had prepared to bring to the nursing-home residents as an aguinaldo. Aguinaldos, surprise Christmas gifts, were fun to receive. But still, I wasn’t going, so it wasn’t my concern. I whispered thank you to the sister, and left.

  That evening at dinnertime, I put my third plan into action. To my parents’ surprise, I had two big helpings of rice and kidney beans, two helpings of Mami’s tembleque for dessert, and three glasses of mango juice. I never ate so much. I figured that with all this food, I was sure to get indigestion. I went to bed and waited. I tossed and turned. I waited for several hours expecting a stomachache any second, but instead, the heavy meal made me tired and I fell sound asleep.

  “Marilia, get dressed!” Mami called early the next morning. “We have to leave soon for school.”

  How unlucky. I woke up feeling quite well. There was only one thing left to do, I ran to the bathroom, let the hot water run, and drank a full glass of it. Then I went back to bed.

  “Marilia.” Mami came in. “Get up! What is going on with you?”

  “I feel warm, Mami,” I mumbled.

  Mami looked at me with concern. She touched my forehead and my neck. Then she left the room and in a few minutes came back with the thermometer in her hands. I opened my mouth and she slipped it under my tongue.

  When the time was up, Mami pulled the thermometer out and read it.

  “One hundred and six degrees?” she exclaimed. “That’s impossible. You look perfectly fine to me.”

  After a little questioning, I confessed what I had done. I told Mami how much I didn’t want to go on the field trip.

  “You know, Marilia,” she advised, “you might enjoy yourself after all. Besides, I’ve already promised Sister Antonia two trays of tembleque to bring as an aguinaldo to the residents of the home.”

  There was no way out. I had to go.

  In the big lobby of the nursing home, paper streamers hung from the tall windows. The residents were scattered everywhere. Some were seated on the couches. Some were in wheelchairs. Some walked clutching on to their walkers. A nurse hovered over a group of men as she dispensed pills. Sister Antonia took out her guitar and at the sound of the first bar we began to sing a medley of carols. Several of the girls accompanied with maracas, güiro, and palitos. Meanwhile, the residents clapped and sang along while a sixth grader passed around our cards for us to give to them later. As I watched how happy our music made the residents, memories of my grandma rushed to me, making me dizzy with sadness. Suddenly, I saw that everybody was visiting with the residents. I was alone. I didn’t feel like joining one of the groups. Maybe I could quietly slip away until the visit was over. I hoped it would be soon. Then I noticed a chair against the yellow wall. I sat there still holding the card I had made.

  Across the room there was a frail old lady in a wheelchair. She was alone, too. I looked at my card again. It was rather pretty. I had painted it with shades of blue and gold. Maybe I could just hand it to her and leave. It might brighten her day. So gingerly, I crossed the lobby and stood next to her.

  “Who is there?” the old lady asked as she coquettishly fixed her silver bun with the light touch of her manicured hand.

  “My name is Marilia,” I said. “I brought you a card.”

  “Dios te bendiga,” the old woman said. “God bless you.”

  She reached for the card but her hand was nowhere near it. Her gaze was lost in the distance, and I knelt down to place the card in her hand. It was then that I saw the big clouds in her eyes. She was blind. What was the use of a card if you couldn’t see it? I felt cheated. I stood up to go back to my chair.

  “My name is Elenita,” she said as I tried to slip away. “Tell me, Marilia, what does your card look like?”

  I knelt down beside her and, in as vivid detail as I could, described the three wise men I had drawn. Then, Elenita’s curious fingers caressed every inch of the card. She couldn’t have enjoyed it more if she had seen it.

  When the coconut sweets were passed around, she mischievously asked for two.

  “I bet you are not supposed to eat one of these,” she giggled.

  “No,” I replied. “Sister Antonia told us that the sweets were just for residents.”

  “Well,” she whispered. “Nobody said I couldn’t give you one of mine.”

  I liked Elenita. I placed the besito de coco in my mouth and relished it even more. Especially since I wasn’t supposed to have it. I enjoyed being her partner in mischief. After that, she asked me if I liked music and if I knew how to dance.

  “Ay,” I said, “I love to listen to music and dance.”

  Then she told me how, when she was young, she had been a great dancer.

  “I used to dance so well that men would line up for a chance to dance with me. I had many, many suitors at one time,” she said. “I had suitors that serenaded me in the evening and others that brought me flowers. But I didn’t go out with all of them. You have to be selective, you know.”

  Too soon we were interrupted by Sister Antonia. It was time to get on the bus and return to school. I didn’t want to leave.

  “Thank you for the card, Marilia,” Elenita said. She opened her hand and gestured for me to give her mine. “I’ll keep this card to remember you by.”

  “I’m sorry you can’t see it,” I said as I squeezed her hand. For a moment it felt as warm and giving as my own grandma’s. “I wished I had brought you a better aguinaldo.”

  “The best aguinaldo,” Elenita said, “was your visit, Marilia.”

  As I left, I felt light and warm and peaceful. On the bus ride back, I told my friend Margarita all about our visit. I couldn’t wait to come back next year when I was in the sixth grade. I already knew what I would bring Elenita. I would make her a collage. That way she would be able to feel the many textures of my picture, even if she couldn’t see it. And maybe I could make the picture of her dancing. I knew she had been very pretty when she was young.

  “Are you going to wait until next Christmas to give her your collage?” Margarita asked.

  I thought for a moment. “Maybe Mami could bring me back sooner,” I said.

  As I looked out the window, I remembered how good Elenita’s hand felt to touch. It’s funny how sometimes things change unexpectedly. Just that morning I didn’t want to go at all. But then, I couldn’t wait to visit my new friend again. We had gone to the nursing home to give aguinaldos. And what a very special aguinaldo I had been given — Elenita’s friendship.

  “¡Bueno!” cheers Abuelito from the head of the table after the last story had been told. “Wonderful stories, all of them!”

  “¡Sí! Oh, yes!” a chorus of voices answer Abuelito from around the room. “Wonderful stories.”

  Abuelito looks pleased. “Now tell us, Carmen Teresa, which of the stories will you write down first?”

  I am about to answer, but everyone answers for me.

  “She will record the stories in the order she heard them,” Mamá says. “It’s the only fair way.”

  “No, no,” says Abuelita. “There are too many. She should write only the ones she likes best.”

  “I saw Carmen Teresa laughi
ng while I told my story,” Abita confides in Abuelita. “I’ll bet she will choose mine.” Abuelita nods in agreement.

  Uncle Robert thinks I should write down everything I can remember. Tía Marilia generously offers to write hers. “It will make it easier for you,” she assures me.

  Suddenly, Flor appears from the kitchen with another tray of natilla and flan de coco. After everyone has taken seconds, she whispers to me that her story doesn’t have to be included if there isn’t room. But I can tell that she hopes there is.

  “Carmen Teresa!” my sister Laura calls from across the table. She has already finished Alex’s and her natilla and licks her spoon clean before she reaches for a third helping. But Mamá stops her.

  “After you write those stories down in your book,” Laura says sweetly, “I’ll draw pictures to go along with them.”

  “Now, there is a fine idea!” says Abuelo Jaime. “You two can work on the book together.”

  By now, everyone has told me what they think I should do with my gift. Most of the children are no longer interested in the discussion and flee to the basement to play. Just as I am about to join the kids downstairs, Abuelito’s deep voice stops me.

  “Carmen Teresa!” he commands. “Let’s get started right away. Sit next to me and we’ll write my story together. Laura, you can start drawing the pictures.”

  “No.” My voice comes out louder than I intend it to.

  Instantly, the room becomes silent.

  “Carmen Teresa!” Mamá scolds.

  “Why don’t we let Carmen Teresa decide for herself what she wants to do with her gift,” Doña Josefa suggests. “After all, the present was meant for her.”

  Everyone eagerly waits for me to speak. I know exactly what I want to do. I hug the blank book, and look at each one of the relatives and friends around me. Then I begin.

  “In all of your stories, you all mentioned some kind of special food. I want to collect the recipes for all the foods you told about in my book. And I will add the recipes for the foods Mamá served here today.”

  “That is a delightful idea, Carmen Teresa,” says Doña Josefa.