Salsa Stories (2 page)

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 Merced 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.

Thank you, Lord.

Amen.

I
remember those evenings well when I was a young boy in Cuba, those balmy island nights before a trip to Guanabo Beach. The spicy aroma of
tortilla española
that Mami had left to cool would waft through the house as I lay in my bed. But I was always too excited to sleep. All I could think about was the soft white sand, the warm foamy water, and Mami's delicious
tortilla
. Ahhh. A day at the beach. It was full of possibilities.

 

One Saturday in May, I was awakened at the crack of dawn by sounds of laughter. My aunts, Rosa and Olga, had arrived with hammocks, blankets, and an iron kettle filled with Aunt Rosa's steaming
congrí
. And best of all, they had arrived with my cousins: Luisa, Mari, and little Javi. Uncle Toni had come, too.

When we were ready to leave, Papi, the only one in the family who owned a car, packed his Ford woody wagon with the nine of us. No one cared that we children had to squeeze into the back along with the
clutter of pots and plates, food and bags, towels and blankets and hammocks. Soon the engine turned, and the car rumbled down the road into the rising sun.

Along the way, we drove past sugarcane fields and roadside markets. My cousins and I shouted warnings to the barking dogs and laughed at the frightened hens that scurried in every direction at the sight of our car. It seemed like a long time until the cool morning breeze that blew into the windows turned warm. And the growing heat made the aroma of Mami's
tortilla
all the more tempting.

“Lick your skin, Fernando,” my older cousin Luisa told me. “If it tastes salty, that means we'll be there any time now.”

She was right. My skin tasted salty. And soon — almost magically — the turquoise ocean appeared as we rounded a bend in the road. Papi pulled into the familiar dirt lot and parked under the pine trees. While the grown-ups unloaded the car, we eagerly jumped out and ran toward the sea, peeling off our clothes along the way.

“Remember, don't go too far!” Mami and Aunt Olga warned us sternly from the distance. I turned to see them picking up our scattered clothing.

When we reached the edge of the ocean, the water
felt cold. I waded farther in and went under to warm up quickly. When I emerged I saw Luisa, Mari, and little Javi, all standing still in the clear water. They were watching the schools of tiny gold-and-black striped fish rush between their legs. Then they swam over to join me and together we rode the big waves.

Later, Uncle Toni came in to play shark with us. We splashed, and swallowed the stinging sea water as he chased us above and under the waves. But after a while, we tired him out, and he went back to sit with the grown-ups.

I was getting very hungry, and for a moment I thought of returning with him to sneak a bite of Mami's
tortilla
. But then I had a better idea.

“Let's explore the reef!” I said.

“¡Sí!”
everyone agreed. “Let's go!”

We all splashed out of the water and ran, dripping wet, across the sand. High above, the sun beat down on us.

When we got to the marbled rocks, Luisa looked concerned. “Our moms told us not to come this far,” she said.

“I know the way well,” I replied. “Besides, nobody will notice. They're too busy talking.”

I looked in the distance and saw Mami and my two aunts in the shady spot they had picked. They had set
up a nice camp. The hammocks were tied to the pine trees, the blankets were spread over the fine sand. Papi and Uncle Toni played dominoes, while they sipped coffee and shared the
cucurucho de maní
they had purchased from the peanut vendor. They were having fun. No one would miss us for a long time.

“Watch out for sea urchins!” I warned as I led the group on our climb. The spiny black sea urchins hid inside the crevices and crannies of the rough boulders. It was very painful if you stepped on one. Luisa and Mari followed behind me. They were careful to only step on the rocks I stepped on. Little Javi came last. He stopped constantly to look at the
cobitos
, the tiny hermit crabs that scurried around on the rocks, and at the iridescent tropical fish that were concealed in the deepest tide pools. I had to keep checking behind me to make sure he didn't stray from our path.

Just then, I turned around to watch helplessly as Javi slipped on an algae-covered rock.
“¡Cuidado!”
I warned. But it was too late.

“¡Ay!”
he shrieked, and then began to cry uncontrollably.

Cautiously, we all hurried back to help Javi. Luisa and Mari crouched down to examine his foot.

“He stepped on a sea urchin!” Mari cried. “Now what are we going to do?”

“We should have never followed you,” Luisa lamented. “We'll all be punished.”

At that moment I did not want to think of what the punishment would be. What if we couldn't have any of Mami's
tortilla
? All I knew was that we had to help Javi right away. I looked around and found a piece of driftwood.

“Luisa,” I ordered. “Hold his leg still while I remove the urchin from his foot.”

Luisa held Javi's leg still as Mari held his hand and tried to comfort him. But Javi's desperate cries were now drowning out the sound of the sea.

I pulled and tugged, but the urchin wouldn't budge. It was stuck to Javi's foot by the tips of its spines. Javi was scared and in pain. And we were too far from our parents to ask for help. What if we couldn't get Javi back? I struggled relentlessly until I was finally able to remove the spiny creature from his foot.

Gently, Luisa poured some sea water over Javi's foot. That was when she noticed there was still a piece of the sea urchin's spine lodged in it. Javi wasn't going to be able to walk back and he was much too heavy for us to carry. We had to remove that piece of spine so that he could walk on his own.

The sun burnt our backs as we all took turns trying to dislodge the sea urchin's spine.

“I have an idea,” said Luisa suddenly. She removed her hair barrettes and held them like tweezers. Then, with the smallest movement, she pulled the broken spine out. With that solved, we started back.

I helped Javi walk on his sore foot. He wept and limped with every step. Our walk back seemed endless. As we got closer I realized that we would have to explain how it was that we went to the reef in the first place. I would surely end up with no
tortilla
if we told the truth.

“What will we do now?” Mari asked.

“We'll have to tell our parents what happened,” said Luisa matter-of-factly.

“No!” I said emphatically. “We'll be punished for sure.”

We walked the rest of the way in silence. The sound of crashing waves, children playing, and seagulls' calls became a background drone to Javi's cries.

When we finally reached our parents, Javi was crying louder than ever. Aunt Olga took one look at him and gasped. “
¡Niños!
Children! What's happened to Javi?”

Mari looked at Luisa. Luisa looked at me. Javi cried even louder.

“Well …,” I hesitated. By now everyone was staring
at me. “We were walking along the beach looking for cockles and urchin shells,” I began, “when I found a live sea urchin attached to a piece of driftwood. So I called the others. Javi came running so fast that he stepped on it by accident.”

Luisa and Mari stared at me in disbelief. I didn't think they liked my story.

“Let me see your foot, Javi,” Aunt Olga said, kneeling next to her son.

Mami and Aunt Rosa looked on as Aunt Olga examined Javi's foot closely. Then she gave him a big hug and a kiss. “He's fine,” she said at last. “It looks like the children were able to pull it out.”

And at this good news, Javi's tears disappeared and were replaced by a big broad smile. “I'm hungry,” he said.

“Then let's have lunch,” Aunt Olga said.

I was dumbfounded. Not only had they believed me, but we were also going to eat Mami's
tortilla
!

The men went back to their domino game. The women went back to their conversation as they busied themselves serving everybody. No one but me seemed to notice how quiet Luisa and Mari had grown.

Mami handed me a plate filled with my favorite foods. The
tortilla
smelled delicious. But I was unable
to eat. I looked up at Luisa and Mari who were quietly picking at their food. I watched Mami as she served herself and sat next to my aunts. I looked at my plate again. How could I enjoy my food when I knew I had done something I wasn't supposed to do? There was only one thing I could do now. I stood up, picked up my plate, and went right over to Mami.

“What's wrong, Fernando?” Mami asked.

I looked back at Luisa and Mari and swallowed hard. Then, I handed Mami my untouched plate.

“You wouldn't have given me this if I had told you the truth,” I said.

Mami looked puzzled. The whole group grew silent and watched me struggle. I was very embarrassed.

“It was my fault,” Luisa said. “I should have stopped them.”

“And I went along,” said Mari.

“No, no, it was my idea to go to the reef,” I said. Then I told everyone about our adventure at the reef. When I was finished, Mami looked at me with tear-filled eyes.

“You are right, Fernando,” she said. “I should punish you for doing something you knew not to do. Somebody could have been seriously hurt.”

“I know,” I whispered, “and I'm sorry.” But then the
glimmer of a smile softened Mami's expression. She slid her arm over my shoulders as she said, “You know, Fernando, anyone can make mistakes. But not everyone has the courage to admit it.
Gracias.
Thank you for telling the truth.”

That afternoon, under the shade of the pine trees, the nine of us sat down on the old blankets for lunch. We had
congrí
, bread, and Mami's famous
tortilla española
. And do you know something? That day it tasted better than it ever had before.