14

what would abuelo do?

MY MOM AND I walked into the restaurant and waited for the rest of the family to arrive. We were between the lunch and dinner shifts, so the place was empty except for a few cooks preparing for dinner service. My mom checked her phone a few times and then called my dad.

“Apparently he met with Commissioner García, who approved a festival. . . . I know, Robert. I know. . . . Well, what can I tell you? Just come so we can talk about it.”

Brian was the last to arrive. By the time he got there, La Cocina was filled with loud and angry Zamoras.

“I told you he was up to no good!” Aunt Tuti yelled, pacing around. “But you are so trusting, Cari.”

“He must have been planning this festival all along. It isn’t easy to get paperwork approved to do something in the neighborhood,” my uncle Carlos complained.

“He probably kissed García’s hand like he did mine. Engreído!” Aunt Tuti waved her hand around so wildly, I thought she was going to knock somebody out.

“How come we didn’t think about throwing a party for the town?” Mari asked.

“It’s too late now. What do we do?” asked Yolanda.

Vanessa jumped up. “Let’s hand out informational literature with all the cons of this development clearly outlined!”

Everyone stopped and turned to her.

“Huh?” Martín asked, scratching his chin.

“We can make flyers and pamphlets,” she repeated. “And hand them out to everyone at the festival.”

“What is the point of that, Vanessa? Residents don’t get to vote—only the city council.” Martín still looked dumbfounded.

“Don’t you know anything?” Vanessa said. “Indivi-dual people don’t get to vote, but they do get to voice their concerns at the public forum before the vote.”

“Let’s make sure they disapprove loudly,” Aunt Tuti said, cupping her hands over her mouth like a megaphone.

“Wilfrido Pipo won’t let us distribute flyers at his festival,” Brian said, throwing himself onto one of the lounge chairs in the greeting area.

“As members of this community,” Vanessa argued, “we are entitled to distribute promotional materials about our place of business within three hundred feet of our property. And the festival is taking place on the lot outside, so . . .”

“We are allowed to do it!” Aunt Tuti jumped up and squeezed Vanessa. “Ay, my daughter is a genius. Aren’t you, mi amorcita bella?”

“Mom,” Vanessa said, peeling away from Aunt Tuti. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“This is your family, Vanessa,” Aunt Tuti said, squeezing tighter. “There is no such thing as embarrassment.”

The rest of the family nodded at both Aunt Tuti’s statement and Vanessa’s plan. It was a good idea.

“Okay,” my mom said, “we can distribute flyers tomorrow at the festival. We must make the people of Canal Grove understand what’s going on. But for now let’s get ready for the dinner shift.”

Tuti looked at the reservation book and made a face like she’d just witnessed a flan de coco slip off her plate and splatter onto the floor.

“Well, we don’t have to rush,” she said. “It’s Friday and we barely have any reservations. Where is everyone tonight?”

Nobody knew why we had so few reservations. I thought about Abuela. Would she call some of her loyal guests? Would she worry like everyone else?

“Maybe I should go check on Abuela,” I said suddenly, wanting to be with her.

“Good idea,” my mom said. “But please, don’t—”

“I know, Mom,” I said. “I won’t talk to her about the restaurant.”

“Thank you,” she said, and retreated to the kitchen.

I left the restaurant, kind of bummed. Why didn’t we have a normal number of reservations tonight? Would we be able to make a difference with a few flyers and signs? Or would Wilfrido’s festival drown out our voices?

I found Abuela rocking quietly in her recliner. Her face broke out into a smile when she saw me.

“Arturito,” she said, waving me over.

She had a book on her lap. I must have caught her in the middle of reading.

“Poesía,” she said.

Not poetry again. I wish I could have told her about Wilfrido’s festival. And about the plans we had to hand out flyers and protest. But I didn’t. Abuela exhaled slowly and deeply, wrinkling her face like she knew my mind was full of crazy thoughts. Abuela knew everything.

“Leé un poco, Arturito,” she said, handing me the book. The name on the worn-out cover was familiar—José Martí, the poet Carmen liked and the man Abuelo kept talking about in his letters. Were we related to this guy or something? Why was everyone so obsessed with his work? At that, I remembered I hadn’t returned Carmen’s copy yet. It was still on my desk. I made another mental note to give it back to her soon.

The book made a crackling sound when I opened it. The verses were in Spanish, and I had a feeling I was going to end this reading session with a headache. But if it made Abuela happy, it was worth it. The poem began:

Yo soy un hombre sincero

De donde crece la palma,

Y antes de morirme quiero

Echar mis versos del alma.

The lines had something to do with being sincere . . . and growing in a palm tree? And dying. And wanting to sing a verse from the alma, which I thought meant “soul.” I read over the next part:

Yo vengo de todas partes,

Y hacia todas partes voy:

Arte soy entre las artes,

En los montes, monte soy.

I had absolutely no idea what that part meant. I flipped to the cover again to give myself a little break.

Versos sencillos was the title. The literal translation was something like “Easy Poems,” but trust me, this was not easy. Abuela slid her finger between the pages to open the book and then pointed to the first poem again. She tapped the page until I started reading.

Yo soy un hombre sincero

De donde crece la palma,

Y antes de morirme quiero

Echar mis versos del alma.

I read the opening again and tried harder to translate it.

I am a sincere man

From where the palm trees grow,

And before I die, I want

To

. . . um

sing my verses of the soul?

Abuela smiled at me. At least that sounded like actual, understandable English! I even felt a little proud of myself, so I kept reading.

Yo he visto en la noche oscura

Llover sobre mi cabeza

Los rayos de lumbre pura

De la divina belleza.

Okay, this one was much harder. Something about the dark night, but I was pretty sure the poem wasn’t about Batman. I felt the pages of Abuela’s book between my fingers. Not only did they look and feel like onion skin, they kind of smelled like onion too.

Abuela stared at me. She took the book from my hands and put her palm against the back of my neck. Her eyes hid in the folds of her wrinkled lids. She shuffled to the bookshelf and tucked Martí back into his place.

“Lo mas importante, mi Arturito, es el amor y la fe. Nunca lo olvides.”

I reached into my pockets and dug so deep, my fists nearly busted through the lining. Abuela’s hands felt cold and leathery against my neck. Even compared to a few days ago, she looked, I don’t know, older. Her movements were so stiff. Her gray hair was loose and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. Abuela always wore makeup. She closed her eyes slowly and then opened them again.

“¿Has leído las cartas de tu abuelo?” she asked.

I hadn’t read Abuelo’s letters in a few days, I told her. She leaned against the bookcase.

“Estoy un poco cansada,” she said, and I helped her to her room. I tucked her into bed and watched as she drifted off to sleep. I wondered how many times in my life Abuela had tucked me in. Probably a million times.

I kissed her cheek and whispered good-bye. I left her apartment, still wishing I could have told her about everything that was going on. But how could I? It wouldn’t be fair to get her worked up.

Abuela reminded me that I had a stack of letters from Abuelo waiting to be read. I wondered if Abuelo ever had to hold in a secret this big from someone he loved. I went to my room to be alone with Abuelo’s words. I was eager to hear anything he had to say.

1979
EL VALOR—COURAGE

My Dear Arturo,

Sometimes life forces you to make bold decisions. Sometimes those decisions require many sacrifices and choices that will change the course of your journey forever. When Abuela and I left Cuba with our small children, it was no easy thing. We left our homeland, a place we had known all our lives.

I knew this story. Abuelo and Abuela came to the United States from Cuba in 1979. They settled in Miami, where Abuelo found work as a car mechanic and Abuela cleaned houses. That was how Abuela had met a family called the Merritts. She cleaned their home for years. One day the Merritts threw a party. The caterer canceled at the last minute, so Abuela stepped in and cooked dozens of dishes. The party guests were so impressed, the Merritts asked Abuela to cook for all their fancy parties. Word spread of Abuela’s talent, and soon she was cooking for private events all over town. Abuelo and Abuela saved money and bought a small lunchtime restaurant in a part of town where most Cuban immigrants went when they arrived here from the island. The restaurant was called La Ventanita. There was a small window that customers could walk up to and get familiar bites like Cuban sandwiches or a bowl of Abuela’s chicken soup with chunky potatoes. It was comfort food to a whole group of people who longed for a taste of home. Then nineteen years ago, when Mr. Merritt passed away, he left Abuela some money to open a restaurant in his neighborhood. That restaurant became La Cocina de la Isla.

Of course you probably know the history of how we first came to America and how we worked very hard to start our restaurants and build a nice life for our family.

“Abuela has told me a million times, Abuelo,” I said to the letter.

And surely you know about the dangerous journey we took across the ocean in order to make a new life in America?

I wrote a paper about it in class last year.

But do you know that this was not the most courageous thing I have ever done?

Huh?

No, my dear grandson, that distinction belongs to the first time I mustered the courage to tell your abuela I loved her.

How was that more courageous than escaping your country in a rickety boat with small children and risking being eaten by sharks or getting caught and sent to prison?

Your abuela was a very tough woman! And very beautiful and talented. I was just a taxi driver who loved to read. What could I possibly offer such an incredible lady? What if I told her I loved her and she rejected me? My life would be over. I had to find the right moment. The perfect time to show her how much I respected and loved her.

I felt a rumbling in my stomach, but I wasn’t hungry. It was like a deep fryer was sizzling yucca fries in my guts and it felt, um, weird and good at the same time. I knew exactly why my stomach felt this way—it had felt this way ever since a certain girl with colorful braces had walked into La Cocina three weeks ago. I still wasn’t sure if it was okay to like Carmen or if she even liked me back, but I had to find out once and for all. My guts depended on it.

I turned back to the letter.

So you know what I did? I imagined what José Martí must have done when faced with such a challenge. I wrote. I wrote a poem for your abuela, telling her how much I loved her. Admittedly, it was the worst poem written in the Spanish language. But still, it gave me the courage to profess my love to her. Letting poetry speak for me was the most unexpected thing I had ever done. I hope one day you will get to do the unexpected, Arturo. It will surprise you beyond anything you will ever experience. Enjoy courage. It is a wonderful thing to overcome fear.

That last line made me feel totally fired up. I folded the letter back into the box, ready to test my courage in more than one way. It was like Abuelo was giving me his mojo through his words. I suddenly felt brave. Bold. Like a fisherman in a rising storm taking the massive waves rolling all around him. I wasn’t going to get nauseous. No way. I was going to save the restaurant and, I decided, I was going to tell Carmen how I really felt about her. Abuelo and I shared a name. Maybe we shared courage, too.