Page 12 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
A woman in love with another man is not someone I should want to get to know, but the best thing that could happen is that we become friends. And I can keep it in my pants, I’m sure about that.
“She’s just hot. I’d like to be her friend.”
“Nathan—”
“What?” I prod. The repetition of his threats makes me laugh.
“That’s the most hetero thing you can say.” He complies, finishing up his job before sniffling loudly. One for allergies; he is, after all. “Tell me who this lady that you want to talk to so badly is.”
“You’ll judge me if I do.” I tell him, though I learn forward to interlock my hands together, only to see Benicio shake his head.
“I’m not one to judge, you know this.” It’s different to meet someone like this. I’ve been in the most beautiful of places, accompanied by people of my society that others would beg to be around, but I’ve never felt more at ease than in this small house, smelling of gardenias and freshly brewed coffee.
“You know my boss, right? I mean, you’re one of her clients; of course you know her.” I met Benicio at my job interview, when he helped me communicate with Esperanza and her husband, Pedro, owners of Aseré. “I didn’t know she had two children. Sure, I saw the pictures, but I didn’t pay attention to them. Her daughter? She’s the one I’m talking about.”
Benicio purses his lips, not in distaste, but I can’t quite pinpoint the feeling, either. “Veronica Del Real.” He says, and the name engraves in my brain rather quickly. It fits her. “Oh, you don’t stand a chance. That girl has been in love with one of the Pacheco brothers since forever. I’m surprised they’re not married yet.”
It’s easy to imagine, then, that the exact man that has her choking on her tears is also the man that she’s in love with. I wonder, sometimes, why we choose to suffer. Is it tempting to fail just because of the growth that comes after? Why is it that the heart only calls out for those who are not correct for it?
“I’m not saying I stand a chance, or that I only want to learn Spanish because of her. It’s just an incentive, not the main reason I do it.” Though it wouldn’t be bad to hear her voice. Or say more than the three words I learned on my trips to Madrid or Buenos Aires. “I just want a friend, alright? She seems like she’d be a good friend.”
“Alright, friendly boy, we’re starting classes tomorrow. I just hope you’re ready, because I’m grading you and all.”
I salute him as I stand up, knowing that it’s my cue to leave when my phone rings with its alarm. Riding around on a bicycle in the life-breather that is Cuba is not as easy as one would think, much less when I’m trying to impress my boss with something other than my dishwashing skills. They are horrid, so I can, at least, say that I’m responsible.
When I grab my phone, however, I realize I have a notification. I’ve silenced all my social media, but I keep a few notifications on. To see Jun and his daughter on her birthday, for example, so I can comment on the post and congratulate little Chaeyoung for turning six. Or Renna and her sarcastic comments on Twitter, that make me laugh when I can’t sleep at night. However, I had forgotten that Simon had me keeping Jane Rae’s notifications on, and that means that her Instagram post reaches me.
A picture of Jane Rae and I appear on the screen. She has tagged me, speaking of the memory as if it had happened just yesterday. My head is tilted back, the smooth tequila bottle angled just right to pour its golden nectar into my waiting mouth, a playful grin spreading across my face. Beside me, Jane takes a swig straight from another glistening bottle, her arm casually draped around my shoulder, exuding a sultry confidence as she smolders at the camera. I don’t remember that night, but my mouth waters at the idea of a drink. To ease up a little, make nights easier to go through...
The caption chills me away from the idea.
Cheers to us, babe! My partner in crime, my everything, my muse. Happy one-year anniversary to the man of my dreams.
None of that is real. Not the companionship, the people commenting, the moment itself. She always brings her cameras around, capturing the best moment and then fleeing away from the scene. We’re not together and there it is; I continue to be just another addition to a contract. An addict that people love to look at just to cheer or tear into shambles.
I push my phone inside my pocket, saying my goodbyes to Benicio and walking away from the house. When I reach my bicycle, I let Cuba breathe its scent into me. For me to feel like home in a place that is so unlike what I’m used to is a foreign sentiment, but the blaring sun, the music that always plays in the background, the small houses and chatty people...it is the best form of rejuvenation.
Dancing trees with their freeing leaves, a sky that is shared by the world but so much brighter in Cuba. The graffiti in walls, the hanging flags, the density of the ocean air and something more. Something likefreedom.
I don’t want to let this go yet.
Aseré stands in its four columns because of Esperanza. One could notice, even if I’m not fluent in the language, that she is the backbone of this place, if not its truest representative. The main counter always introduces Pedro, reading the newspapers or playing some Sudoku. He sports thick-rimmed glasses that magnify his keen eyes, and a mane of snowy white hair that radiates wisdom. Towering over his petite wife, he presents a striking contrast, yet their personalities could not be more different. He doesn’t talk much, but Esperanza makes it her job to talk to each one of her customers, wrapping them up in her endless joy to have them there.
However, it’s not a surprise that Esperanza has a stronger personality than most people. I’m working on a new set of plates, gliding the sponge across its edges like Paul—the cook—had shown me when I saw her popping by the door. She’s wearing a bright sunflower skirt that reaches her ankles and a green top, but her eyes darken and slit towards the plate she holds on her hand, nearing me with what could be the devil in her eyes.
This means trouble.
I hear my name going through her lips, and she points at my apron. I know what that means. We communicate through the translator, and she definitely wants to talk about the plate. I follow her motions, taking out my phone from the pocket in my apron before I turn on the voice recorder.
“There’s a stain on the plate. I gave you an entire week to get ready with Paul, and you still don’t know how to wash a plate properly.” She speaks rather quickly, but when the phone translates what she just told me to me, I realize why her voice was so harsh. The stain is minimal to my eye, a bit of squash sauce at the corner, but I lower my head, nonetheless.
Recording myself, I retort. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“¡Como no!” Esperanza exclaims, though I don’t translate that. My back straightens, wondering what it could mean, but it doesn’t sound good. “I’m tired, Nathan. I have given you plenty of chances, but I am not willing to lose my clients just because you want to learn how to work.”
“What...?” I whisper, speaking into the phone once again to talk to her. “I am sorry for causing inconveniences. Paul did what you asked him to. I’d like to keep working here—”
Her hand clasps on my phone, as if tired of hearing me, before she shakes her head. Esperanza locks her gaze with mine, her eyes reflecting a depth of seriousness reserved for someone who has invested countless hours of toil and passion into a restaurant whose reputation I now find myself tarnishing. The intensity of her stare seems to emanate from the very heart of her dedication, echoing the sweat and blood she has sacrificed to breathe life into this place.
