great place. But next time you must stay here in our house,” Eusebio declared. “La Habana has a housing shortage, but we’re lucky we have plenty of room for guests.”
“Gracias, that’s very hospitable, Eusebio.”
“Coño, you’re family.” He spread his arms. “I would not expect any less from you if I was to visit New York. Us Cubans, we prefer the warmth of a home and family to the coldness of a hotel, no matter how luxurious.” Eusebio leaned forward and frowned, “But Dominican? Coño, are there no good Cuban women in New York? I mean, Dominican?”
“If you met Amarylis you’d understand.”
They shared a brief silence. Then Eusebio clapped his hands. “Coño, you’re right, Frank. And besides, the Dominican Republic is like a sister country, no? Máximo Gómez helped us fight for independence. He’s buried right over there in the cementerio Colón.” Then he paused and glanced at his empty cup. “And you, are you married?”
“No.” Frank laughed. “I was close, but we broke up right at Christmas.”
“Was she Cuban?”
“No, American.”
Eusebio waved his index finger. “That’s good, Frank. But you know, a Cuban man needs a Cuban woman. With American women it’s just not the same, eh?”
Frank smiled and glanced at Marisol. It was what his mother always said. But he had never met a Cuban woman until now.
He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Eusebio, I need to speak with you. In private.”
Eusebio’s lazy grin faded, and his brow dropped over his round dark eyes. He dug into his shorts pocket and handed Guajira a handful of dollar bills. “Guajira, go down to the choppin and get some beer.” Then he turned to Frank. “Or do you prefer rum?”
“Beer’s fine. Thanks. Con este calor.”
“You’re right. It will be good with this heat.” He turned back to Guajira. “Get some beer, de la Cristal, and whatever you need for lunch.” And to Frank, “You’re staying for lunch right?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“Okay, get whatever you need for lunch,” he said. “If you want ham, Montecristi stopped by yesterday and said Lázaro’s brother butchered a pig. You can stop by his house and see what he has.”
“Sí, mi amor.”
“Marisol,” Eusebio added, “why don’t you go with Guajira so Frank and I can have a little man to man, no?”
Frank followed Eusebio to the parrot’s cage. On the roof, the dog barked after Guajira and Marisol walking down the street.
“Listen, Eusebio,” Frank stepped away from the cage. “Justo, Pepe and I…we have a restaurant in New York.”
“Of course. Maduros, no?”
“That’s right.” He sighed and stared at the ground. “We’re in trouble. We’re being pressured by the bank. We might have to close the restaurant.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Eusebio, the reason I’m here is to ask for your help.”
“Coño, my help? But I am only a poor waiter. I don’t have any money.” He tore a leaf off a bamboo plant and held it between the bars of the cage.
Frank watched the bird. He thought of the restaurant, of Justo’s blood flowing down his arm, of his mother looking around the empty dining room, too embarrassed to say anything, of the mountain of unpaid bills on his desk, his constant arguing with suppliers and vendors, begging them for time and credit. Maduros was all they had. It kept them together.
“It’s not money,” he said, and his eyes took a dance around the yard, skipping from the cage to a green lizard crawling on a wall to the empty little blue cups on the table.
“Coño, Frank, what is it then?”
Frank focused on Eusebio’s eyes, but he couldn’t hold the stare. “The recipe for the chicken.”
Eusebio stared at him for a moment. Then he laughed. “What, of El Ajillo?”
Frank lowered his head and glanced at his shoes. A torrent of shame came over him like a child caught in a terrible lie.
“Coño, you’re crazy. Why don’t you just ask me to murder El Caballo.” Eusebio waved his hands in the air. “Frank, my friend, you’re asking for something that is absolutely impossible.”
“What about Quesada?”
“Quesada who?”
“The owner.”
“The State owns the restaurant.”
“But Nestor Quesada was the original owner. He knows the recipe. Maybe—”
“I don’t know any Nestor Quesada.”
“He’s my father’s uncle.”
“Frank—”
“It’s his recipe.”
“There is no Quesada at El Ajillo, Frank. No. This is impossible.”
“But Justo said you could get it for us.”
“Justo doesn’t know shit. It’s stealing. It’s illegal. And you’re not talking of just any recipe.”
“But it belongs to my family—”
“No.” Eusebio waved violently. “You sound like the capitalists with the Foundation in Miami, living the good life while they wait for things to change here, like fucking vultures. What the exiles left behind, they abandoned. I’m not going there with you, Frank.”
“But Eusebio—”
“If this man Quesada left, he gave it up.”
“He didn’t leave,” Frank said. “He stayed. He trusted Fidel. But he was tortured.”
Eusebio stared at Frank, his dark eyes wide, angry. “You know that for a fact?”
“No.” Frank said quickly. “No, but my mother implied it. How else would the State get his recipe and reopen the restaurant?”
“Exile propaganda.” Eusebio waved.
“But what about Maduros?”
“What about it?”
“We need the recipe—”
“No, Frank. It’s impossible.”
“Por favor.” Frank pressed the palms of his hands together as if he were praying. “We’re going to lose it. We’ll be left with nothing.”
“We
