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Inside the small dwelling, the air is thick with the scent of tierra and wood. A simple wooden table stands in the corner, surrounded by mismatched chairs, a worn stove, and a tiny sink. In this modest kitchen, Dona Rosa’s daily chores unfold.
The window, adorned with a tattered curtain, offers a glimpse of the outside world. A gentle gust flutters the leaves of a small, perfectly rounded lemon tree in the middle of the small garden, while Cuban Fan Palms offer shade and protection to those who stay low.
“Listen,” Dona Rosa, an old lady to few, a matriarch to many, says as she pushes herself up from the chair, using the table to sustain her weight.
She opens the window and points to the Yiguirro bird sitting in the lemon tree. She closes her eyes, and we both listen to the mix of whistles, trills, and warbles. The melody changes throughout como free jazz.
“Sabes que m’ hijo, a mi me gusta este gabeto1. Me da cuenta of the house in Santiago, Cuba. Even the lemon tree”.
She walks back to the table and slowly lowers herself to her seat.
“Carlos calls it 'una casa de mierda' Can you imagine? I don’t like the way he talks at all.”
“Mom,” he says, ‘I will buy you a beautiful house. A new house.’” She changes her tone as she says this, but like most mothers, she cannot mock her son even when she disapproves.
“'No necesito una casa nueva, esta casa tiene un sentido de calidez y tranquilidad,’ le digo, but he doesn’t listen.”
Rosa can tell I’m struggling to keep up with her pace of Spanish. She puts down her glasses. She is younger without them. After massaging the bone between her eyes, she puts her glasses back on.
“You know Luca, my life in Cuba was not easy, mijo. Under Batista’s rule, it was tan duro. And then came la revolucion. My mother sat next to the radio, listening to every word that Castro said. You understand me?
“Si, Dona Rosa.”
“We had some big hopes when Castro took charge. But then that US embargo arrived ¡Maldito sea! Life in Cuba became harder. Oppressive.”
She smacks her lips together, moving every wrinkle and memory etched into her face.
“But the real heartbreak was mi esposo. He was a great musician, dancer, and amante. Then one day he takes off with the singer of the band, una chica preciosa. Que podia hacer yo?”
What could she do?
“So here I am, con dos hijos, picking up the pieces”.
I nod but don’t know what to say.
“My heart was filled with hope but also with pain. I lost my son, you know, mi hijo mayor. He wanted to reach the coast of Florida, buscando una vida mejor, but he drowned in the sea.”
“I am so sorry to hear that,” I whisper.
“Si, it was a difficult time, but eventually, I left Cuba with my youngest son Carlos and made it to Florida. There was so much green around that it made Carlos's head spin, como loco.”
“Green around?”
“Si, dolares. And with all that wealth comes temptation. Carlos became a street hustler, dealing this, doing that, and getting more and more involved in the coca business.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Then—
"I hope he is not a killer, pero no estoy segura.”
I look outside through the little window where the yiquirro bird still sings.
“Si mijo, life can be very complicated, but I am grateful for your company. It’s a comfort to talk to someone who listens con mucho paciencia.”
“I am here to listen.”
"Gracias, Luca, you have a kind heart, just like my Carlos when he was young.”
Suddenly, a car’s growl kills the bird’s song; its tires grinding on the rugged sandy path. I glance outside and see the swirling cloud of dust trailing in its wake.
Out steps Carlos and a distinguished older gentleman. With a swift kick, the older man sends a can soaring into the air, showing off his football skills with an air of confidence.
Suddenly, Dona Rosa looks me straight in the face and orders with a firm voice: “Luca, go to the bedroom, go under the bed, and don’t make any noise. Don’t move until I say so. Go. Now.”
“What is—”
“Ahora!”
Without a clue what is happening, I am under the bed faster than a cucaracha.
—Hola, Mami, Don Pedro quiere saludarte. ¿Te acuerdas de Don Pedro?
—Me acuerdo. Don Pedro acaba de regresar de Cuba, ¿verdad?
—Dona Rosa, te traje un regalito. Atrapé una pelota de jonrón de tu jugador favorito, El Che.
—Entonces, recordaste que soy un gran fanático del béisbol.
—Dona Rosa, si hablas, nosotros recordamos.
—Don Pedro, ¿qué hace un ministro en un barrio olvidado por Dios?
Minister…
—Ah, Doña Rosa, unos negocios, buenos para Carlos, buenos para mí y sobre todo, buenos para tu patria, Cuba.
He laughs a hollow laugh, an indication that the small talk is over.
—Tengo una reunión con el presidente, pero me gustaría disfrutar de tu famosa Ropa Vieja2.
—Si sigues el camino correcto, la luz es tuya, Don Pedro. Cuídate.
Don Pedro leaves, but Dona Rosa doesn’t permit me to move out from underneath the bed, so I stay put. I don’t understand what the big deal is, but I trust Dona Rosa's judgment.
—Te voy a decir algo importante, Carlos. Mantín tu laton con tapa!3 Lo que hagas con tu vida es tu malatín4. Pero dejales a esos tipos sospechosos en trajes elegantes, con sus relojes de lujo y fragancias, bien lejos de mi casa. Sé de su plan, hijo. Vas a llevar esa sustancia peligrosa a los Estados Unidos o a donde sea que encuentres víctimas, Carlos.
—Mami, por favor, tu hablas como una bembelequera5. Solo estamos haciendo algunas movidas con sus héroes en Cuba, mami. Eso es todo. Estoy tratando de conseguir balas6 para ayudarte, mami.
I start to get the picture and feel the adrenaline coursing through me. I try to breathe as quietly and slowly as possible.
—Deja de usar ese supuesto cariño maternal para llevar a cabo las tonterías en las que estás metido, Carlos, por favor. Y no me vengas con que los Castro están metidos en ese negocio de la coca tuya.
—No mama, los Castros no, pero el hombre que to admiras en Cuba, si. El gran general Arnaldo Ochoa. Entonces, tumba eso mami. Me resbala que tu piensa mal de mi. Pero es mi pincha7.
He said, “chao pescao” see you later, alligator, and slammed the door behind him.
If I would have been an investigative journalist, I would have enjoyed a hard-on. But no, I only felt a sweaty little dick in my pants.
“Rosa…”
“Come out, Luca.”
I behold Dona Rosa, resolute by the table, her hands steadying her stance as she seeks solace from its surface. A trickle of tears falls down her cheek. With a gentle sweep of her dress, she clears her glasses and directs an unwavering gaze upon me.
“Esas personas sienten aversión por los testigos, a pesar de su proclamada inocencia. You were never here, and you never talk. Comprendes? Go back to your wife and reclaim your life.”
A tender touch, as delicate as a whispered secret, graces the back of my hand, a gesture laden with unspoken reassurance and empathy.
“I will, Dona Rosa,” I say, knowing full well that leaving isn’t up to me.
I’ve pleaded with my father to pen his tales throughout my life. The scrawled notes, remnants of rides to school, tipsy nights, and phone calls from youth to this moment weren’t enough.
He told his stories in various languages, adding layers as he code-switched and retold stories from the perspective of different idiomas. I’d beg him to write the stories in Flemish, English, Spanish, or a mix of the three.
He never listened
… until now.
Cancer has a silver lining.
Every story stands alone but holds more weight for those who read from the beginning.
In Cuban slang, “gao” means “home.” You may also hear it as gabeto.
The name "Ropa Vieja" translates to "Old Clothes" in English. This dish typically consists of shredded or pulled beef (often flank steak or brisket) cooked in a tomato-based sauce with onions, bell peppers, garlic, and various spices. The slow-cooked beef becomes tender and takes on the appearance of shredded or torn pieces, which is why it's called "Old Clothes."
Ropa Vieja is usually served with rice and black beans and is a flavorful and hearty dish enjoyed by many in Cuba and in Cuban communities around the world. It's considered a classic Cuban comfort food and is often served at family gatherings and special occasions.
The expression "Mantén tu latón con tapa" is a colloquial saying in Spanish, particularly used in some Latin American countries, to convey a message or advise someone to keep something private or to mind their own business. "Latón" literally translates to "tin" or "tinplate." However, in this context, it's often used metaphorically to refer to personal matters, secrets, or affairs.
"Malatín" is a colloquial term, and its meaning isn't standard Spanish. It's derived from the word "mal" (which means "bad" or "evil") and possibly influenced by the suffix "-ín," which is often added to words to make them smaller or more affectionate. In this context, “malatín" means “dirty business.”
“Bembelequera” means “somebody who likes to gossip”
“Balas” is a colloquial term for “money.”
“Pero es mi pincha” is a colloquial term for “This is what I do” or “This is my problem.”
My Spanish is rusty but I get the gist of the story. I hope it ends well for Mama Rosa.