Marcus Vega Doesn't Speak Spanish

by Pablo Cartaya

  My mom whispers, “I love how friendly people in PR are.”

  She means Puerto Rico. It’s like my mom is someone else. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile so freely. I nod, although I can’t understand why the lady is sharing so much of her personal information with complete strangers.

  The tight-pants dance guy pulls up a chair. He rubs Charlie’s head and says that Charlie is a great dancer. He tells us he just broke up with his girlfriend of two years and is now living with his mother in Arecibo but that he stays with his cousin in Old San Juan on the weekends to work as a barista.

  Like my mom, I can tell Charlie is really enjoying himself, which makes me feel proud. I wonder if my dad would dance in a situation like this. I think he would probably keep his feet firmly on the ground, like me.

  When the night is finally over, we all head back to Tío Ermenio’s.

  “We should travel more,” my mom says. “This one night has been incredible.”

  “Let’s check Dad’s room, Mom,” I tell her. “We might find something.”

  “Hmm?”

  We open the door to the hostel and Tío Ermenio pops his head up from the sofa in the living room.

  “How was your night, muchachos?” he asks, getting up and tightening the belt of his bathrobe.

  Before anyone can answer, I say, “I wonder if we could check in my dad’s old room.”

  “Honey, it’s late,” my mom says. “We can do that tomorrow.”

  “It’s just upstairs, Mom,” I reply. “It’s on the way.”

  Tío Ermenio takes out a key and hands it to me. “The boy will sleep better if his mind is at ease,” he says to my mom.

  She sighs. I head upstairs and am surprised when the rest of the group follows me. I guess they’re curious to see what’s in there too.

  I slowly turn the key to my dad’s old room, and we all pour in. I find a light switch, and the first thing I spot is a whole bunch of books on a desk. There’s one about farm machines. There’s another one about starting your own business and another about fruits and vegetables.

  “He had plans,” Sergio offers. “Big ones. Too big, perhaps.”

  What’s wrong with big plans? I skim through one of the books. It’s mostly in Spanish, but I can tell from the pictures and the title that it has something to do with agricultural tourism in Puerto Rico.

  I put the book down and scan the room. There are a few shirts on a rack. A blue suitcase with wheels is parked next to the bed, and there are a few papers on the night table.

  “I left everything as he did,” Tío Ermenio says, walking around back to the doorway. “I wanted to keep his room ready for when he returned. Even though we had a disagreement, family is family.”

  With that, Tío Ermenio quietly leaves the room.

  “Has anyone tried calling him?” I ask Sergio.

  “He doesn’t have a phone,” he replies.

  “Who tries to start a business without having a phone?” my mom blurts out. “Marcus, honey, can we go now? It’s late.”

  Mom has a point. Why doesn’t my dad have a phone? And what happened with Tío Ermenio that made him storm off? The way Sergio talks about my dad, it doesn’t seem like he likes him very much. I notice that his voice sounds slightly irritated when the subject comes up. My mom’s eye rolls make it clear how she feels. It’s like they’re ganging up on my dad. It doesn’t seem fair.

  “Mira esto,” María says, holding a piece of paper in her hand. Charlie looks at it and starts to read.

  “Orocovis, Marcus. Here. Look.” Charlie hands me the paper.

  “Yeah, I think that has to do with a restaurant your dad wanted to open in Darma’s town. Another one of your father’s plans,” Sergio says. “Listen, we are going back to the farm tomorrow morning. Would you like to see it? You are all welcome!”

  “You don’t need to stay for the farmers’ market?” Mom asks.

  “We typically come into town on the weekends. We stayed an extra day to pick up Angela and Hilda at the airport. They wanted to stay an extra night to see Old San Juan and, well, you know how it goes.”

  “How does what go?” I ask him, confused.

  “My daughter and her friends wanted to stay an extra night, so we did.” Sergio looks at me. “We have to go back to Orocovis tomorrow to pick up produce for the market this coming weekend. You can come with us if you like.”

  “Yes,” I say, without a second thought. If my dad was opening a restaurant near Darma’s farm, maybe he’s there, running his business.

  “No,” my mom says, taking the letter. This isn’t her relaxed voice anymore. She’s serious. “This is not what I wanted to do on my vacation, Marcus. If your father returns my email, we’ll go see him. But I’m not dragging Sergio and María on some wild goose chase to look for someone who doesn’t want to be found. . . .”

  “It would be no problem for us, Mel,” Sergio says. “Honestly. And Tía Darma would love to see you.”

  My mom looks at me, then back at Sergio.

  “There’s plenty of room in our truck,” he continues. “And the boys will love Orocovis. It will be, as you say, an adventure.”

  “Can we stop by the chinchorros?” Hilda chimes in. “They are so much fun!”

  “Hilda,” Angela jumps in. “It’s rude to impose.”

  “What?” Hilda responds. “They will love the chinchorros!”

  Angela shakes her head. “Always thinking of the next good time,” she mutters, then says something that sounds like “father” in German.

  Hilda explains that chinchorros are the best places to soak in island life. They are little roadside shacks that serve snacks and refreshing drinks. It’s where locals catch up with each other. María agrees that it’s something we should experience, since it’s our first trip to Puerto Rico.

  Sergio tells us more about the farm. He makes it sound like it’s the greatest place in the world.

  The excitement builds. Eventually, even Mom can’t turn down the offer.

  “Okay, we’ll see everyone out front after breakfast,” Sergio says. “You’re going to love the countryside,” Sergio says to Charlie.

  Charlie leans on me and puts his arm around my waist. This wasn’t part of the plan, and I can tell that he’s feeling a little nervous.

  “Don’t worry, man. I’ll be there,” I say.

  María smiles at Charlie. Then he turns to me and says, “I’m not nervous!” He pushes past me and starts walking upstairs. What’s that about?

  We say good night to Tío Ermenio and walk up the many flights of stairs to our rooftop shack in the middle of Old San Juan. We cross the bridge, which is now lit by white Christmas lights strung up throughout the courtyard. My mom decides she wants to shower again. I’m telling you, she’s in love with it. Charlie changes into his pajamas, plops down on the netted bed, and falls asleep immediately.

  I change and climb onto the twin bed in the corner. My legs dangle off the end, but it doesn’t bother me. My mom’s humming in the shower mixes with the music still blasting from the streets below.

  I close my eyes and let sleep wash over me. Tomorrow Mom, Charlie, María, Angela, Hilda, Sergio, and I will take a drive into the country to go to a farm and ask about my dad.

  Finally, a lead.

  DAY TWO

  THIRTEEN

  FINCA VEGA

  I wake up to the smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries. When I sit up and stretch in bed, I notice I’m alone in the room. My mom and Charlie must already be at breakfast. After I get ready and leave the shack, I spot Tío Ermenio on the rooftop, setting out more pastries. My mom is already out there, chatting with him and Sergio. She waves when she sees me.

  “Hey, sleepyhead!”

  My mom tells me it’s ten o’clock in the morning. I can’t remember the last time I slept that late. Charlie has a
lready had three guava pastries and wants another, but my mom says no. She offers one to me and I take a bite. It’s not bad.

  “And try Ermenio’s café con leche!”

  I take a sip of the sweet milky coffee and my head gets cloudy. I don’t like sweet things. After breakfast, my mom heads back to the room to pack a small bag for us. Just in case, she says. Then we head downstairs to meet the rest of the crew. Angela and Hilda are dressed like we’re going on a hike. María is wearing a dress that my mom totally loves.

  “What a lovely pattern for a summer dress, María. You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she replies.

  “Okay, everyone!” Sergio calls out. “The truck is running and ready for our road trip adventure!”

  We all walk outside and pause at the edge of the sidewalk.

  “What is that?” Charlie blurts out.

  “That is our ride,” María huffs. She looks at her dad and shakes her head disapprovingly. “My dad refuses to trade in this cacharro trying to pass for a truck.”

  “What are you talking about? You love this truck! It has character!”

  The pickup has a covering on the bed that I guess they use to transport the vegetables and fruits. There is a backseat, but it doesn’t look very comfortable. And the truck is lime green and has a hand-painted circle with FRUTAS Y VEGGIES—FINCA VEGA written in the middle.

  “It has the character of a three-legged donkey,” María says. “Interesting to look at but not advisable to ride on.”

  “Angela, do you remember the bus in Senegal?” Hilda says, laughing.

  Angela nods. “I can’t believe it didn’t tip over.”

  “There were maybe thirty people on that little bus! So much fun!”

  “And dangerous,” Angela says.

  My mom asks what they were doing in Senegal, and they say that their dad works for a humanitarian aid company and they were helping out during the summer.

  “The whole family goes,” Angela says.

  Angela and Hilda talk about their parents a lot. It seems like they do a lot of stuff together.

  Sergio continues to make his case for the lime-green, two-door, small-backseat pickup truck we’re all staring at. Hilda and Angela look at each other and shrug.

  “We’ve done it before.”

  They open the door of the pickup truck and dive into the backseat. My mom and Charlie look at me, and I just shake my head.

  “Come! We fit! We fit!” Hilda says, patting the seat, indicating there is more room. María sighs.

  “Papi, this isn’t going to work,” she says.

  “The backseat fits four people!” Sergio says.

  “¿Y Marcus? Who is taller than all of us?”

  Sergio realizes that there is no way I can fit in the backseat.

  “He’ll go in the front!”

  María sighs and squeezes next to Hilda. Angela sits directly behind the front passenger seat.

  My mom manages a smile. “Adventure?”

  “In a lime-green pickup truck,” I say.

  Charlie doesn’t seem fazed, which surprises me. He goes around to the other side of the car and hops in next to María. He smiles at her lovingly. She smiles back and pats his hand.

  “Tight squeeze, ¿eh, lindo?”

  “Yes,” Charlie says. It’s clear that he likes the way María calls him beautiful.

  My mom squeezes in next to him. They fit like a bunch of circus clowns packed into a Beetle. Sergio goes around to the driver’s side and hops in. I push the passenger seat into place. There isn’t much space for me, but it is way more than anybody has in the back. I try to move the seat forward a little to give them room, but the seat continues to slide without clicking into place.

  “The seat doesn’t lock anymore,” Sergio says. “You have to hang on to the handle up there so it doesn’t slide back and forth too much.”

  He’s got to be kidding, right? Sergio moves a stick jutting out of the middle and revs the engine. The truck lurches forward and back a few times before plowing ahead. My seat slides every time the car moves. I dig my feet into the corner of the floor and grab the armrest in order to keep stable. Tío Ermenio says he’s staying behind in case anybody comes by needing a place to stay. He waves good-bye as we bounce and rock down the cobblestone street. His face looks a bit sad, like maybe he wishes he could be crammed into this car too. I really hope he doesn’t ask. I like Tío Ermenio, but it would be impossible to fit another person into this truck. I’d end up in the back with the empty vegetable crates.

  Sergio offers a smile with each major bump we go over. “She just needs some time to get used to all of us.”

  We chug along the roads, and before long we’re on the highway heading toward the countryside. Sergio says the drive to Tía Darma’s farm is about an hour and thirty-five minutes.

  “Darma’s farm is just outside Orocovis,” María offers.

  “Then we can check out the place in Orocovis your dad wanted to open,” Sergio says.

  My dad’s books on agriculture and opening a business made it seem like he maybe wanted to open a restaurant. Why does Sergio seem so annoyed by that?

  I look at the paper from my dad’s room that I saved in my pocket. It’s a letter that says something about a small restaurant for sale in Orocovis. I think he started off as a farmer and then wanted to open a restaurant. Makes sense to me.

  “Tía Darma will have an idea where he might be. She knows everything about her town.”

  This trip to the farm might give me some answers. I take pictures as we drive because I want to document every step. Snap. The twisting roads along the highway. Snap. The old homes. Snap. The far-off mountain ranges. Snap. Snap. Snap. The jam-packed car. Snap. Snap. My brother staring out the window. Snap. My mother’s gaze, lost in the clouds. Snap.

  Angela bounces and accidentally pushes my seat forward. “Oh, sorry, Marcus.”

  “That’s okay,” I say.

  Sergio drives and moves the little stick in between us every time he wants to go faster. I keep locking my legs so the seat doesn’t shift, but I’m afraid I’m going to break through the bottom of the truck.

  “And we’ll get back to Tío Ermenio’s today?” my mom asks. I’m wondering the same.

  “We should be fine, unless it rains. This truck doesn’t do well in the rain. But I didn’t see rain in the forecast.”

  I’m glad my mom brought a day bag after all, “just in case.” We drive through the highway for a while and then off-road toward Orocovis.

  “The heart of Puerto Rico,” Sergio says. “Literally. It’s right in the middle.”

  After about an hour, we’re completely surrounded by green mountains. A thick mist wraps us up. We’ve swapped bright and sunny Old San Juan, where you can hear and smell the ocean from the streets, for these winding mountain roads. It feels like a completely different planet out here.

  “There are many places to visit,” Sergio continues as our unofficial tour guide. “Many famous musicians were born here, which is why they call this region the center of music in Puerto Rico. But really, it’s the history of the Taíno and their work on the agriculture of the region that’s really impressive.”

  Sergio tells us that the Taíno were the indigenous population on the island.

  “Taíno heritage runs deep in Puerto Rico,” Sergio says. “Even to this day.”

  I look in the rearview mirror and see that Charlie is peacefully sleeping on María. The truck hums and bumps along as we all quietly take in the scenery. We turn down another road and head into an area dense with trees. Past the trees, the road gets bumpier. The truck slows as we approach a wooden gate. There’s a sign on it that looks like it’s a hundred years old.

  FINCA VEGA

  PIEDRA SIN AGUA NO AGUZA EN LA FRAGUA

  “What does it mean?” I ask.r />
  “It translates to ‘Vega Farm.’”

  “What about the quote on the bottom?”

  “It literally means,” María says, answering for her dad, “‘Stone without water doesn’t sharpen in the forge.’”

  “I don’t get it,” I say.

  “Nobody does,” María says.

  Sergio tries to explain. “That is the literal meaning, yes, but what’s really being said is, ‘From nothing, nothing can come.’”

  I still don’t get it, but I don’t say anything. María shakes her head and tells me not to worry about it. Some things can’t be translated, I guess.

  Sergio gets out and starts to open the gate. He’s struggling, so I go help. The air is thick, and the rustle of the trees makes me feel like I’m way smaller than I really am. I walk over to Sergio and my shoes squish into the ground.

  “Careful,” he says. “The horses come through here also.”

  Great. I stepped in horse poop. After a closer look, I realize it’s just a muddy hole. I help Sergio pull open the gate and he rushes back to the car.

  “I’ve got to get a moving start,” he says. “I can’t stop or the truck will stall. Can you shut the gate after I drive across?”

  I nod.

  “I just have to get up that little hill over there and then we’ll wait for you at the top. It’s not that far to walk, but this truck isn’t the most reliable thing in the world, you know?”

  Sergio, the understater of the century.

  He revs up the lime-green truck and zips through. One wheel catches in a mud hole and starts spinning. The spinning almost takes me out. Sergio regains control and zips up the incline that starts just inside the gate. The truck chugs to the top, and all I can see is the taillight glowing on the hill. I close the gate and put the little rope back around the post and make my way up the hill slowly, careful to avoid more mud holes or worse, horse poop. When I get to the top, Hilda is posing for Angela, who is taking pictures with the miles and miles of rolling green hills as the backdrop.

  “Papa wants so many pictures,” Hilda says.