Sofrito. Phillippe Diederich

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      He took another bite, oblivious of the waiters crisscrossing the dining room filling plates with rice and beans, of the conjunto at the other end of the dining room. He dropped the bone on his plate and glanced at Marisol.

      “It’s so good,” he said. “It’s better than sex.”

      Marisol eyed him with curiosity.

      He paused to analyze the chicken, but it was useless. It was everything, and it was nothing—a complex blend that confused him. It took him away to another time. He was on a beach in Puerto Rico running with Pepe under the broken shade of palm trees, hunting for fallen coconuts. A breeze brought the smell of garlic and fish and charcoal from cooking fires. The ocean made soft swishing sounds with the tide. His father held his mother’s hand as they walked together along the water.

      Then time skipped forward to when he was seventeen, excited and afraid. The smell of sandalwood incense mixed with the aftertaste of the joint they’d smoked and a soft hint of musk that came from a place he had never been. Lizzy Fernandez. It was the first time he touched her breast, soft and forbidden. Lizzy. He explored her skin and her muscles, her bones and her hair and the back of her neck, her thighs.

      And then there was his father, lying on the bed at MD Anderson, tethered to a machine by thin green tubes and wires. The only sound in the room was the slow suction of the mechanical lung and the sharp rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. He was gaunt, his skin pale like rice paper.

      “Frank.” His voice was weak, but deep. “Is that you?”

      Frank nodded and took his hand. Filomeno said nothing more. They remained like that for a long while until Frank felt a light tug at his hand followed by the soft remorseful sigh of his father’s last breath.

      4

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ