“To apologize.”
“Otra canción, Tio?*!” Marisol shouts, all but drowning out his words. “One for the lovers!”
Tio launches into a slow cumbia, and the rest of the band follows.
“Tara….”
The sound of my name on his tongue, here, surrounded by all this love and noise, breaks something open in me.
“Not here.”
“D’accord?*.”
* Good evening (French)
* Good evening (Spanish)
* Here we take care of our guests (Spanish)
* Tara, the French prince has arrived. (Spanish)
* The man is charming (Spanish)
* So much so that he charmed her panties off. (Spanish)
* How handsome (Spanish)
* Thanks a lot (Spanish)
* Balls (Spanish)
* Another song, Uncle (Spanish)
* All right (French)
CHAPTER 26
Gustave
She takes me to the kitchen at Mi Tierra, and it’s like stepping into a world that hums, sizzles, and sings.
The walls are bright, hand-painted tiles, faded photos, and a Virgin of Guadalupe candle flickering by the spice rack. The counters are crowded with trays of tamales wrapped tight in corn husks, baskets ofpan dulce, and tubs of salsa in shades of red and green.
The scents of masa and cumin drift through the room, blending with the warmth of roasted chiles, caramelizing onions, and a trace of sweetness…cinnamon or piloncillo?
Big copper pots bubble on the stove, their lids rattling from the steam. There’s a massive comal covered in tortillas puffing like little golden clouds, and the rhythmic slap of dough echoes between bursts of laughter.
A woman in an apron is rolling enchiladas with impossible speed. Another stirs a cauldron of something that smells like heaven itself.
“What’s that?” I ask Tara, despite the murderous look she’s giving me. Curiosity tugs at me, a desire to know her world as well as she knows mine.
“Pozole,” she retorts.
I follow her out of the kitchen through the back door, onto a patio. It’s a vast, open-air courtyard strung with lights that glow like fireflies. Even here, there are people, and I can hear something sizzling on a grill somewhere.
I spot a man in an apron tending to a smoking parrilla, turning carne asada with the solemn concentration of a priest performing a sacrament. The orange glow from the coals flickers over his weathered face.
Long wooden tables are set beneath a tangle of vines, their surfaces crowded with plates and bottles of Mexican beer sweating in the heat. Someone has set up a small speaker on a crate, blasting whatever the band is playing inside. A few of the children are running around between the tables, barefoot on the cracked concrete.
