I turned to Andrew. “He wants to know if I speak Spanish?”
Andrew nodded. “Un poco,” he said to the man, which was a gross overstatement of my lingual abilities.
“Welcome, Señorita,” he said in a thick accent. “My name es Ed-ward.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said slowly.
He turned to Andrew and raised his eyebrows. “Ella es muy bonita.”
Andrew nodded. “Sí, ella es muy bonita.”
I understood that.
“Maggie,” Andrew said, “there’s a paper bag behind your seat, would you grab it?”
“Sí, Señor,” I said, trying to be funny.
“¡Mira! Habla español!” the man said.
I grabbed the sack. It was heavy with a bottle inside. I followed the men into the house.
The inside of the home was slightly larger, though more narrow, than the first home we’d visited. The walls had also once been plastered and painted but the plaster had mostly chipped off, revealing the concrete walls underneath. Electrical wires hung along two of the walls, which they used to hang pictures, mostly older, photographic portraits of relatives and one large, colored poster of the pope. There was a rusted metal floor fan on the far side of the room next to one of the home’s two clouded windows.
The main room’s furniture consisted of a pair of couches set side by side and covered with bright blankets. I could see the two boxes of food we’d left earlier in the kitchen area, which was higher ceilinged than the rest of the house and had an exposed pitched roof of corrugated tin. It looked to be an addition to the house, as the plaster walls gave way to bare cinderblock.
Noticeably, they had an oven and a refrigerator. Both were smaller than anything I’d seen in the US, but a rare luxury among the houses we had visited. The smell of a baking turkey and ham filled the small room.
“Mag, I’ll take that,” Andrew said, reaching for the sack I held. I handed it to him.
“¿Dondé está la Señora Villalta?”Andrew asked.
“Se fue a la tienda para comprarles un refresco.”
“Ustedes son muy amables. Muchas gracias, amigo.”
Andrew turned to me. “I asked him where his wife was. He said she went to the store to get us sodas.”
“She didn’t need to do that,” I said.
“It’s important to them that they be good hosts.” Andrew turned back to the man. “Then I can give this to you.” Andrew slowly pulled an oval-shaped bottle of clear liquor from the sack.
The man looked at it in awe. “¡Señor es un milagro! Muchísimas gracias!”
“De nada,” Andrew said.
I smiled to see how happy the gift made our host. “What is that?”
“It’s called sotol. It’s a special liquor made from a desert plant like tequila, but it’s especially potent. They say the first glass sharpens the senses, the second the conscience.” Andrew handed the bottle to the man, who took it reverently. “It takes more than twelve years to mature, so it’s expensive.”
“How did you know he liked it?”
“When I first met him, he asked me if I had ever tried it. I had never even heard of it. He told me that it was the néctar de los dioses. Nectar of the Gods. He said that as a young man he had tried it once. He spoke of it like it was a lost love. I thought I’d make his dream come true.”
Andrew turned back to the man. “¿Y como está la familia?”
I didn’t know what Andrew had said, but the man’s disposition abruptly changed. “Estos son tiempos difíciles, amigo.”
“He said their family is going through a difficult time,” Andrew said. “¿Que pasó?”
The man’s face showed still more pain. “Ángel se unió con una pandilla. Le dieron una coche y dinero. Le mataron por una pistola después de nueve días.” He pointed toward the door. “Hace dos semanas que su hermana lo encontró tres calles por allá.”
Andrew embraced the man and said, “Mis condolencias.”
I didn’t know what was said, but tears fell down the man’s cheeks. Andrew turned to me. To my surprise, his eyes were also wet. “A month ago their son joined a drug gang. He was killed nine days later. His sister found his body.”
I looked at the man. “I am so sorry.” I walked over and hugged him.
“Gracias, Señora.”
He wiped his eyes with his sleeves, then said, “No quitaré más de su visita. Estoy agradecido.”
A few minutes later Mrs. Villalta returned escorted by two teenage girls. She was carrying bottles of Jarritos soda. She was about the same build as her husband, short and broad, though lighter of complexion. The girls looked to be in their early teens.
“Señor Colina,” she said, “nos dió tanto este año.”
“¿Todavía está bien a cenar con usted?” Andrew asked.
“¡Sí! ¡Sí! Estamos listos!”
“She said, ‘Let’s eat.’ ”
Their table was set with the food we’d brought, as well as fresh tortillas and tamales. Their utensils were mismatched and the plates were small, battered aluminum pizza tins.
“Edward found these tins in a Dumpster behind a pizzeria where he was weeding,” Andrew said to me. “Before that we used pieces of cardboard.”
As we were sitting down, I asked, “Why does everyone call you Mr. Colina?”
“Colina means hill,” Andrew said. “My last name.”
“Nuestro hogar es humilde,” the man said to us.
“No, no. Es un honor para nosotros,” Andrew said. “He just told us his house is humble.”
“Oraremos,” Mrs. Villalta said. She turned to me and said in English, “We pray.”
I didn’t understand anything she said, but she offered a lengthy and impassioned prayer and began crying just a few minutes in. After saying “Amen,” everyone in the family crossed themselves and began to eat.
The turkey we’d brought them was large and would last them for several meals, which I wanted them to have, so in spite of our hosts’ constant entreaties, I ate only a little.
“Coma, coma,” Mrs. Villalta said. “Está delgada.” She turned to Andrew to translate.
“She’s telling you to eat,” Andrew said. “She says you’re too skinny.”
“Tell her thank you,” I said.
Andrew looked at me. “She didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
For dessert we had sweet cinnamon tamales wrapped in corn husks. It was several hours before we left their home, the Villaltas doing all they could to extend our stay. As we drove away, I asked, “Why did she start crying during the prayer?”
“She was praying for her son’s soul,” Andrew said.
“I was sorry to hear about their son.”
Andrew exhaled heavily. “It’s a tragedy. The poverty is especially hard on them in Cabo. Poverty is hard anywhere, but here they can see the resorts and the wealthy foreigners’ boats and cars, so they know what they’re missing. Then they see the wealthy Mexican drug traffickers, and it seems like selling drugs is the only way out for them. It’s especially sad, as I had just gotten Edward a good gardening job at the condominiums and things were looking up for their family. The young woman who cleans our place, Jazmín, is his niece.”
We returned the truck to the mercado, then took a walk along the beach. I again took off my shoes. It would be my last chance to walk barefoot in the sand before returning to Utah. I felt sad at that thought. After a while Andrew turned to me. “I hope it was okay that we spent our Thanksgiving that way. I should have told you what I was up to.”
“It was a privilege,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
“Hopefully it won’t be your last time,” he said.
I looked at him and smiled. “Hopefully.”
“But it is exhausting.”
“I was just thinking that I could use a nap,” I said. “It’s the tryptophan in the turkey. It’s like a sleeping drug.”
“I don’t think you consumed enough of it to affect you
,” he said. “But I could use a nap.”
We drove back to the condo. As we walked in, Andrew said, “Would you like to take a nap with me?”
“Yes.”
I followed him into his room. It was the first time I’d actually been in it. It was not as large as mine but it was also nicely furnished, decorated with framed Mexican landscapes on the walls.
Andrew noticed me looking at them. “I bought those in Todos Santos.”
“That’s nice of you to buy art for your friend’s condo,” I said.
He smiled. “Least I could do.”
I slipped off to my own room to brush my teeth and use the bathroom. When I came back, Andrew was lying on top of the sheets on the bed. I knelt on the side of the bed and crawled over to him, cuddling up against his chest. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around me, his chin against the crown of my head. I fell asleep to the sound of his heart beating.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Eight
Have I ever been so in love? Has my heart ever been in such peril?
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
We slept until nearly six p.m. At least, I did. Andrew was already up. He woke me, gently shaking me. “We need to go in ten minutes,” he whispered.
I rolled over. “Go?”
“We have dinner reservations.”
I sat up, covering my mouth to yawn. “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to one of my favorite restaurants. It’s called Sunset Mona Lisa.”
“That sounds romantic.”
“It’s the perfect place to end our vacation.”
End. The word sent a twinge of sadness through my heart. I never wanted this to end.
The restaurant, Sunset Mona Lisa, wasn’t far from our condominium. We left our car with the valet and walked inside the building to check in, though the dining area was almost entirely outdoors—a series of terraced patios with wood-planked or tile inlaid floors, built around sapphire-blue pools and white-linen-draped tables and fire pits.
“You don’t just walk into this restaurant,” Andrew said, as we entered. “It’s very popular. I booked it the same night you said you’d go. Luckily there was one last opening for two.”
“So you had this up your sleeve the whole time.”
“I don’t like to leave things to chance.”
The restaurant’s maître d’, a tall, handsome Mexican man, led us to our table near the edge of the lowest terrace. Our view overlooked the shore and the Pacific Ocean, which was now retreating with the sun.
Andrew tipped the man, then sat back in his chair looking very pleased. A pretty, older Mexican woman brought us our menus. “Buenas tardes.”
“Buenas tardes,” Andrew repeated. “¿Qué tal?”
“Muy bien.” She looked at me, then said in clear English, “What may I bring you to drink?”
Andrew said to me, “May I order something for you?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Please bring us each a glass of Dom Pérignon 2004.”
“Muy bien. Are you ready to order?”
“We’re still looking over our menus. In the meantime, would you bring us the calamari appetizer and the carpaccio?”
“Sí.”
“Dom Pérignon?” I said after the woman left. “Champagne?”
“We’re celebrating.”
I smiled at him. “What are we celebrating?”
He pointed toward the west. “The sun. And you being in remission from SAD.”
I gazed out over the horizon. “But our sun is leaving us.”
“She’ll be back tomorrow.”
“And then we’ll be leaving.” I sighed. “I wonder what the weather’s like at home.”
“I’d rather not talk about going home yet.”
“I’m sorry. What should we talk about?”
“How about the moment?” he said.
“We should toast that,” I said. “It’s a much better toast than loneliness.”
“Or your car,” Andrew added. He looked around. “This is considered one of the coolest restaurants in the world. I think the New York Times listed it as fifth coolest.”
“I didn’t know they ranked restaurants on the basis of cool.”
“They do. It’s part of the ambience rating.”
“Is the food as good as the ambience?”
“I think so.”
I lifted my menu. “What should I order?”
“I’d recommend the scallops or the lobster linguini, but I haven’t had anything I didn’t like.”
A few moments later the waitress returned with our appetizers and drinks. I dove into the calamari. It was lightly fried and fresh.
“This is divine,” I said.
“After I terrified you with stories of human-eating squid, I thought you might find it empowering to eat some.”
I popped a ring into my mouth. “You’re right. I do feel powerful.”
He ate some himself, then said, “It couldn’t get much fresher. They probably pulled it up just miles from here. I love calamari, but usually by the time it reaches Utah, it’s turned to rubber. You might as well be eating elastic bands.”
“I know,” I said. “But this is amazing. And I love that they serve it with pecorino. It’s one of my favorite cheeses.”
“I keep forgetting that you’re a professional foodie.”
“I think I’ve tried it all.”
“Which will only make you harder to please.”
“I’m not hard to please,” I said. “I’m just . . . discriminating.”
“Hopefully we’re still just talking about food.”
I took a drink, then looked at him and smiled. “Maybe.”
Our waitress returned a few minutes later to take our orders.
“Do you know what you’d like?” Andrew asked.
“I’ll have the scallops,” I said. “With the house salad.”
“And I will have the lobster linguini,” Andrew said.
We handed the woman our menus and she walked away.
“This restaurant was started thirty years ago by an Italian man. His name was Giorgio, so he named it Ristorante da Giorgio. Not especially original, but it was very popular until a hurricane hit in 1991 and wiped it out.
“The next year he sold what was left of it to a group of Italian businessmen, who rebuilt and renamed it. It’s been the hot thing ever since.” He looked at me. “So many schemes, so many people looking for the next thing.” He took a drink of his champagne. “That’s what makes the world go round.”
“Speaking of schemes,” I said, smiling, “have you decided what you’re going to do after the Christmas season?”
“I have a few ideas. Like I said, I’ve always got a plan.”
“In Utah?”
He was quiet a moment, then said, “I don’t know. Some of that depends on my brother. We may go back into business together.”
“Then you might move?”
“It’s a possibility.”
I must have looked sad because he said, “You could always come with me.”
“I’ll have to think on that.”
“Think or drink?”
I laughed. “Both.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “If you don’t want to follow me, I could always just have two families.”
My jaw dropped. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“What? Too soon?” He started laughing. I hit him with my napkin, then started laughing myself. It was healing to laugh about it for a change.
An hour later, as the sun began to sink into the Pacific, a loud gong sounded, followed by the bass tone of blowing conch shells. Before I could ask what was going on, Andrew said, “It’s something they do every night. They say good night to the sun. It’s their gimmick. That’s where the restaurant got its name.”
“That’s cool,” I said.
“Fifth coolest in the world,” he replied.
After our meal we shared their specialty dessert, a ta
rtufo nero—a decadent black truffle.
“Culinarily—” I started to say.
“Wait, is that a word?” Andrew asked.
“I just make up words sometimes,” I said. “Culinarily, this may be the most unique Thanksgiving I’ve ever experienced. Except for the time my father cooked a raccoon for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“You ate a raccoon?”
“My father lives by his own rule book.”
“Clearly,” Andrew said. His brow furrowed. “What does raccoon taste like?”
“Chicken, of course.”
He laughed.
A minute later I said, “May I ask you something a little delicate?”
“I might not answer, but you can ask.”
“Why do you love me?”
My question clearly surprised him. “So you’re onto me.”
“Well, if you were trying to hide it, you’re not doing a very good job.”
He breathed out slowly. “Well, I could tell you that I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, but that would be shallow, wouldn’t it? And it wouldn’t be completely true either.”
“Then I’m not the most beautiful woman in the world?” I asked lightly.
“No, you are,” he said, smiling, “but that’s not the complete reason I’ve fallen for you.” He paused and I sensed he was taking my question seriously. “When I was a young man, I was motivated by approbation. The prize. That’s the message culture showers on us, men and women. It’s in every television show, movie, magazine. Men marry for looks, women marry for situations, both equally exploitative.”
“Like that couple on the boat the other day,” I said.
He nodded. “Tragically, that’s what motivated my first marriage. Jamie was beautiful on the outside. Stunning. The kind of beautiful that made men stop what they were doing and gawk at her, then glare at me in envy.
“I liked it, maybe even thrived on it. It was proof that I was winning. But the trophy was plastic. Beautiful on the outside but empty on the inside makes for a hollow life. It took me a few years and a lot of scars to get there, but I learned that what I really wanted was someone who was real. Someone with her own battle scars from fighting life. I had to lose a lot to get there, but I’m grateful for it. It’s like the scales have fallen off my eyes. Now, there are a lot of beautiful women who look ugly to me.”
The Noel Stranger Page 13
