Eusebio placed a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “That recipe is so well guarded, they say only one person knows the full recipe. And he’s with the State.”
“We can pay.”
Eusebio laughed. “Believe me. There’s not enough money in your Fort Knox. I had to pay almost two thousand dollars just to get a job there. It’s the busiest restaurant in La Habana. I bring home sixty, sometimes eighty dollars a week. Coño, Frank, in Cuba, that is a rich man’s salary. I don’t want to jeopardize my job. And believe me, neither will anyone else at El Ajillo. Besides, they would also risk going to prison and ending up like your uncle.”
“There has to be a way.”
“No, no. Absolutely not.”
Deep down he had known it would be like this. And in a strange way he felt relieved. His desperation dissipated into the pale sky. Maduros would close and he would be condemned to live a life like his father’s.
“There’s Huracán baking now. Las mujeres must be back with the beer and perhaps a nice ham steak.” Eusebio slapped him on the back and rubbed the palms of his hands together.
But Frank was compelled to push it one last time. “Just tell me you’ll look into it.”
They could hear the women in the kitchen, opening the beer and talking of summers in Pinar Del Río.
“I’m sorry, Frank,” Eusebio said with finality. Then he turned to meet Guajira and Marisol who were coming out on the patio with a beer in each hand. “Por fín, something to cool us off.”
They raised their beers in a toast.
“¡A la familia!”
6
“Yes, Pepe loved rice and beans. I am not sure I know of anyone who doesn’t like them with a little diced onion and a dash of vinegar.”
—Carmen Z. de Martí
widow of José Martí during an interview with the Mexican newspaper, El Imparcial, 1903
The taxi sped along the Malecón. After they passed the Hotel Nacional, Marisol leaned forward and pointed out her building for the driver. “It’s the blue one at the curve, before the Deauville.”
Frank glanced out the window. “Your apartment overlooks the ocean?”
“Please. It’s not as glamorous as you think.”
“You can’t imagine what that would cost in the States.”
“Yes, Frank, but this is Cuba.”
They had taken a taxi from Eusebio’s and driven along the Malecón to Marisol’s apartment. At the front step of the building, an old lady holding three packs of Popular cigarettes raised an eyebrow at Marisol. “Niña.”
Marisol nodded. “Señora Peña.”
“Y él, does he want any cigarettes?”
“No, Mami. Gracias.”
She led Frank up the broken marble stairs. The building was textured by years of neglect. Exposed, tangled wires hung from rusted nails and ran along the length of the crumbling walls. In another life it had been something exclusive.
They reached the third floor. Marisol banged on the large wooden door. “Eulina. Yoselin. ¡Coño!”
“Marisol.” The neighbor poked her head around the hallway. “Mira, El Chino came by. He says he has shampoo for two dollars for a big bottle like this. I told him to come back. He might want to trade. And who is this—Italiano?”
“Yuma,” Marisol said proudly.
“Yuma, really?” the neighbor smiled at Frank.
“Have you seen Eulina?” Marisol asked.
“She’s in there, but she’s scared. That hijoeputa Chuck Norris came by last night and scared her half to death.”
“Eulina. Open the door, it’s Marisol!”
Finally the bolt turned and the door opened. Eulina’s eyes were bloodshot.
Marisol caressed her cheek. “Dios mío, niña, what happened?”
“When I came home last night, Chuck Norris was waiting for one of us. He grabbed me by the neck and told me he knew what we were up to and that we were going to be arrested for peligrosidad and that we were a bunch of dirty putas.”
“¡Hijoeputa! He has no right to do this to you. Are you okay?”
“Uh huh.”
“Did he do anything else?”
“No. He just pushed me against the wall. I hit the side of my head. Then he left.”
Frank touched Marisol’s shoulder. “Who’s Chuck Norris?”
“He’s the plainclothes policeman in charge of the neighborhood. He’s a short guy with a bad attitude who’s always beating up on everyone. Last month he beat up my neighbor’s twelve-year-old son for selling avocados in the street.”
Eulina glanced at Frank. “¿Italiano?”
“Americano.”
“Really? Miami?”
“New York.”
“Americano.” She smiled. “I have two brothers in Miami.”
Frank laughed. “I’m not surprised.”
“They took a raft in ’94.” Eulina turned to Marisol. “By the way, El Chino came by. He says he has shampoo.”
“Serenita told me.”
“And la vieja from next door has garlic and onions.”
“How much does she want for the garlic?”
“Tres pesos. She didn’t say about the onions.”
“¿Y nada de Yoselin?”
“Not since I saw her dance away with an Italiano.”
“Mira.” Marisol handed Eulina five dollars. “If the Chino comes back, get some shampoo, okay?”
Frank followed Marisol into her bedroom. It was small and cramped with a single bed, a plain wooden night table, and a tall antique mahogany dresser that had no doors. The walls were flaking with old paint and the ceiling was covered in brown spots. A large frameless mirror with a long crack rested against the wall by the door. On the dresser there were a couple of perfume bottles, a small stuffed animal and a dozen tattered books. A poster of Che Guevara from the famous Korda photograph looked over the room.
“I’m not much of a communist,” she said, “but you can’t
