Читать книгу Sofrito - Phillippe Diederich - Страница 8

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“Pork is the food of the masses in Latin America. The pig is a robust animal that is easy to keep. It eats almost anything. Once it is butchered, it can feed a family for a month, or even longer. And it is also very delicious when it is well roasted and served with a good mojo sauce.”

—Fidel Castro

talking to a group of newsmen after a popular rally. Holguín, 1964

Frank woke up feeling dizzy from all the mojitos and the late night, his body languid from lovemaking. The taste of the chicken from El Ajillo had vanished, leaving behind a peculiar sensation similar to the air in Havana after a tropical storm.

Marisol was sleeping at his side, her breathing calm and rhythmic, her face relaxed. When they had come back to the hotel from El Ajillo, she had pressed her body against his. Her nails had accented the path of her hands as they moved under his clothes to the places he wanted her to touch. They remained fondling him, running shivers across his body as she moved forward and he stepped back onto the bed. He lay naked, watching as she ceremoniously removed her accessories: the high heeled sandals, the plastic earrings, the thin bracelet. He picked up the condom she had placed on the side table and examined it with curiosity.

“Communist?”

She laughed. “No, qué va.”

“It’s red.”

“Yes, red,” she said, “and with the flavor of cherries.”

She climbed on top of him, her legs at his sides, and slowly pulled her dress over her head. She placed her hands on his chest and slid down. He could feel the warmth from between her legs burning against his skin. Then she leaned forward so her face was close to his and her breasts pressed against his chest.

“Y ahora,” she whispered. “I'm going to show you why that chicken is nothing like sex.”

He sat on the side of the bed and tried to call Justo’s brother. But once again, all he got was a series of clicks and tones.

He looked at the address on the card: Calle Concordia 45 between San Francisco and Espada in Centro Habana. It was a stark reminder of why he was in Cuba. The muscles in the back of his neck tensed. He ran his hands through his hair and recalled a day in late 1967 when the evening newscast confirmed that Che Guevara had been killed in the mountains of Bolivia. Frank was only two years old. Pepe told him the story over and over. “Remember?” he would say. “Papi stormed out of the house, and Mami went into hysterics?”

“Remember?” Pepe went on and on, reminding him how Rosa had shouted all manner of insults at Fidel, at Che, at the communists, at the devil, her voice echoing across the empty living room and down the hallway. She wielded an accusatory finger at the radio, cursed Cuba, and leapt with joy. Then she grabbed Pepe, held him tight against her bosom and danced. When she noticed Frank staring at them with a blank expression, she knelt by him and caressed his head, whispering, “They are murderers, Frank. Every one of them. Butchers. They thirst for blood. But God is finally making things right. God,” she added proudly, “is on our side.”

His eyes fell on Marisol’s naked body. He didn’t know what to do: wake her, pay her, drop her off at her house. He’d never been in this position. It wasn’t just that they’d had sex. He had enjoyed her company. She softened the sharp edge of his fear. In a strange way, he felt safe with her.

He leaned over and kissed her hip, her shoulder, her lips.

“Frank.”

“Good morning.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Chico, what’s wrong with you, getting up so early like this?” She ran her hand over her hair and propped herself up on one arm, her cheek resting on her shoulder. “Did you have a nice time last night?”

Frank blushed.

She smiled. “I thought so.”

“Marisol.” He leaned closer and laid a hand on her shoulder. “What did you think of when you ate the chicken?”

“Coño, and go on about the chicken.”

“I’m serious.”

“When I was eating?”

“I had these strange memories. I was a little kid. And then there was something about my father. I can’t remember them exactly, but it made me happy.”

Marisol buried her face in the pillow. “You’ll think I’m silly.”

“Please.” He caressed her hair. “I want to know. It means a lot to me.”

She turned. The light from the opening in the curtains cut like a line across the side of her face. “I was thinking of butterflies,” she said. “Many beautiful butterfiles of all colors flying in the air. They could fly anywhere they wanted and were so pretty, Frank. It made me feel very—I don’t know—relaxed.”

“Butterflies, really?”

She looked away. “Silly, no?”

“No. Of course not.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

“When I was little,” she said, and bit her lower lip, “my mother had a flower garden behind the house. My sister Mayelin—the one who went to Spain—my little brother and my cousin and I used to lay face up on the ground in the garden. We’d stay very still. If we were patient, the butterflies would land on us. We used to make a contest of it to see who could have the most butterflies land on them. We imagined that the more butterflies landed on you, the more people loved you.”

He caressed her cheek. “I bet you won every time.”

She forced a laugh, and her eyes stared at the empty space between them. “Then everything changed. My mother had to take a job and my father built a room over the garden for my grandparents. My aunt who had left for La Habana came back to Cienfuegos to live with us. The garden became a tiny patio where we raised chickens and pigs and grew vegetables. Flowers and butterflies were, sabes, unessential.”

Frank glanced away at the ripples in the sheet along her legs, afraid of the intimacy her words offered him.

“That’s how it is here,” she said. “Anything that is beautiful is destroyed for the sake of what is practical. With Fidel, it’s always sacrifice, sacrifice, and more sacrifice. We’ve become a country without beauty. We have only what is essential. And sometimes not even that.”

“It’s a shame,” he said quietly, but it felt cheap and insincere. He wanted to say more, do more, but he didn’t know how.

Marisol dropped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “In Cuba, the government tells us what is beautiful and what is essential.”

Frank turned away and clenched his jaw.

She closed her eyes. “The thing is, I don’t think I’ve seen colors in my dreams since I was seven years old.”

He had no words. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face and curled it behind her ear the way she’d done at the restaurant.

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For all this. For taking me away for a night and reminding me that there is beauty in the world. It gives me hope.”

He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, his hand moving softly over her breast.

“Ay, Frank.” She turned away and covered herself with the bedsheet. “Qué coqueto. And so early in the morning.”

They took a table at the patio bar and ordered coffee. In the light of the tropical morning, the cracks began to show. The fountain in the patio was out of order. The bartender appeared tired and detached. The hotel security guard carried his permanent frown from one side of the lobby to the other. The noise of trucks, car horns, children crying, men and women arguing filtered through the cracks in the building. In the morning, Havana was not so different from New York.

Frank drank his coffee in a few quick sips. He was invigorated. It was as if he’d finally been cleansed of something that had been polluting him for years. He took a quick inventory of the lobby and excused himself. When he stood, Marisol grabbed his hand. “Are you coming back?”

“Claro, I’m just going to make a phone call.”

“Frank…”

“Oh.” He pulled out his wallet and counted a few bills.

Her eyes, like he had known them, faded away and came back with the venom of the previous night. “That’s not what I meant.”

“¿Entonces?”

“I just didn’t want you to leave me alone. The security will kick me out if they don’t see me sitting with a guest.”

Two security guards were talking by the elevators. He glanced at the telephones on the other side of the lobby. “I’ll be right there. If anyone says anything, tell them to come talk to me.”

He stood by the telephones and looked around. Marisol was talking with a waiter. An official looking man with a thin mustache walked toward him. He turned away hoping to avoid eye contact.

He waited.

When he looked up again, their eyes met for an instant.

Frank turned to face the wall and waited until the man had passed and there was a good distance between them. Then he picked up the receiver and gave the operator Justo’s brother’s number. It was more of the same. Nothing.

He rejoined Marisol at the patio. She was working on her second cup of coffee. “Do you know where Centro Habana is?”

Marisol laughed and waved her arm. “All this is Centro Habana, from here, that way until you get to Vedado.”

“I need to find a place.” He waved to the waiter and ordered another coffee.

“If you like I can come with you. I can be your guide.” Marisol ran the tip of her index finger around the inside wall of the empty coffee cup, then placed it in her mouth. When she looked up, Frank was staring at her.

“Coño.” She shrugged. “So I love coffee.”