Page 163 of Something Like Winter
“She’s with a friend. She could have flown with us, but they would have put her in cargo.” Normally Tim preferred to drive down, but Ben didn’t have a lot of time off. So he had entrusted Marcello with Chinchilla’s well-being. He just hoped Chinchilla didn’t demand truffle purée and chilled champagne from now on.
“Ah!” Nana took Ben by the elbow. “Instead, you bring another beautiful creature. Come inside. I make enough food to kill an army.”
Tim laughed as he followed them in. The best thing about any grandmother’s house is the smell—like baby powder and fresh flowers, or maybe freshly washed sheets hanging in the sun, or sugar cookies cooling on a wire rack. If scientists could reproduce that scent and pump it into the open air, wars would cease, and whole armies would trade their guns for toys.
Nana’s house was a series of small rooms, the walls decorated with the same frames and knick-knacks that had been there since his childhood. Only the photos changed as children in the family grew older. And of course the painting he had brought her last time. That was in a place of honor in the dining room. Aside from it, all the furniture and baubles were comfortingly familiar.
“I have work in the kitchen.” Nana said in the small living room. “Then we eat.”
“I can help,” Ben offered.
“No, no. You a guest here. Relax. You can do the dishes later.”
“She’s kidding,” Tim said as she left the room.
“I ain’t scared of no dishes,” Ben said in a gruff voice.
“You will be when you see the feast she’s cooking up. Last time there wasn’t a clean plate left in the house.”
Ben pointed to a black and white photo of a little girl in a summer dress. “Is that you,Gordita?”
“It’sGordito, and no, that’s my mom. Smart ass. Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”
They walked through the rooms on the first floor, avoiding the kitchen. Tim tried to express the memories he had made here, but most weren’t great stories. They were just him playing with his grandmother or watching her cook his favorite dishes, even if the rest of the family was having something different.
Upstairs were a couple of rooms and a bathroom. In Nana’s sewing room, Ben stood at the window, looking out at the neighborhood below. “It’s so different here,” he murmured.
“I know. Everything in the States is so polished and presentable. Mexico City, parts of it are completely relaxed, like when you put on a ratty old pair of sweatpants and stay inside.”
Ben turned from the window. “I love those days!”
“Yeah, me too. But Mexico City also has its evenings out, places where it puts on its best to impress. Or sometimes it dons stuffy business clothing or the latest fashion trends. Best of all, these places are often jumbled together. Wait until you see the hotel room. Smack dab in the middle of the city, and yet it’s so secluded and romantic that your poor little heart will explode.”
Ben gave him a curious look, as if this wasn’t the best news possible. “You should be a travel agent for Mexico,” he said as he strolled the room, taking in the details. “I had no idea about this part of your life. I mean, you mentioned your parents bringing you on vacation, but this is a whole new side to you. For me at least.”
“For me too, in a way. Since college, I’ve been coming down here more often. Usually I drive. You should come with me next time. There are tons of little tumbleweed villages along the way, some of them just like in the movies. Flying is faster, but you miss out on so much. You’re going to love it!”
Ben turned to him. “Already planning our next trip?”
Tim nodded. “Maybe.”
Ben smiled coyly.
“Is that a yes?”
“Sure. Sign me up.”
Tim grinned. “All right. If you’re lucky, Chinchilla might even let you sit in the front seat. Hey! Come downstairs. I want to show you something.”
Once back in the living room, Tim opened the wooden door to the backyard, which was just a strip of grass bordered by palms and a rickety old fence. Beyond this, water curved its way through the trees.
“There used to be a huge lake here,” Tim said. “Now the lake is gone, but there’s still a system of canals. And—well, check it out.”
Right on cue, a long narrow boat glided by. The boat had an open deck with a canvas roof and was painted with enough colors to give Jackson Pollock a headache. Tourists sat at a bench on board, drinking beer and staring at them as if they were part of the tour. Tim’s grandmother complained about thegringos,as if the loud tourists were there only to irritate her, but then she often sat out here and waved.
“Can we ride one of those?” Ben asked, sounding like a kid.
Tim grinned. “Hell yeah! But I wanted to show you this because it’s typical of Mexico City. Sometimes it might look a little drab and worn compared to what we’re used to, but then you walk around the corner or enter the right building and find something that blows you away. Something you’d never find back home.”
