A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,57
guide.
Gordon leans forward. “Best make it black pudding, Ri. Lila needs an initiation.”
“If he does, he’ll be wearing it.” I picture the round sausages. No. Nunca. “Lila does not need anything made with sheep’s blood or weird meats.”
Orion holds up both palms. “My clothes are safe. I already ordered while you were in the loo and I aced it.”
Truth. When our meals arrive, I learn how close shepherd’s pie is to our Cuban papas rellenas. Spiced ground beef sits under a carb lover’s dream of mashed potatoes, baked until the top is golden crisp. I eat heartily while also sneaking fried potato wedges from Orion’s fish and chips plate.
“Hey.” He pretends to swat my hand away but also passes me the curry dipping sauce Remy’s mom makes from scratch.
I will ask for this recipe, I decide, then pause from stuffing my face to take in the scene.
A wily beehive of voices. Clanging glasses and crude jokes. Remy kissing Jules on the temple while arguing with Gordon over the pros and cons of two new gaming systems.
If I could twist people and places, this could be any one of my extended family’s big dinners. At Bridge Street Tavern, I sit inside another kind of family. They welcome me in—all of me: my lost and prodigal parts, too. But I’m not any precious thing here. They tease and give me hell like their own, deeming me the middle child and squishing me into an extra chair.
After another moment, my mind clicks back into now. My beer’s down to a third and Orion’s already ordered himself another. And Gordon’s telling his friends about his upcoming job.
“I’ll likely be on coffee-stirring and menial shit, but at least I can get a feel for how it all works.” Gordon bites off a hunk of sausage and mostly swallows before saying, “They saw photos of my house drawings on Instagram. Got me the spot over another bloke.”
I picture the little Miami house framed in my room. The peachy-pink tones and palm trees. “So all that work skipping between songs at your drafting table paid off. What are you going to draw next?”
He tips his Coke at me. “Maybe a few more structures typical of Winchester housing.”
“But Winchester’s so boring compared to London,” Flora says. “Take Notting Hill, for one—all the colors. Here it’s the same red brick after gray stone. Blah, blah, blah. We need a few wonky joints. Like a bright purple house with triple mismatched stories and black trimming.”
Jules swoops in. “Yeah or one painted in zebra stripes with a rainbow of flowers all messy in front.”
“You want bright and colorful, come visit me in Miami,” I say, snagging Orion’s eye over the words. Gray, dim, shade—those are the colors on his face before he thumbs his chin and half-smiles for me. Blue eyes twinkle. Which face is closer to truth?
Tonight my truth is still this: eighty-five days, and no longer quietly waning. Lately the hours turn like seconds. We lock gazes and Orion raises another curry-dipped potato between us, the twinkle now a burst of playful fireworks. I snatch it before I miss my chance.
“Look, Henry’s here,” he says while I munch. “I know you’ll like this.” Orion gestures to a portly, older white man, hair a disorganized clop of gray and black, with a straggly beard to match. Henry drags a pear-bellied stringed instrument to an appointed stool and mic. This local crowd must know him. They cheer then settle, hushing. Lights dim and everyone across from us turns their chairs to watch.
“He’s a lute master,” Jules tells me. “Traditional British folk music is dying off and it’s a real shame. London’s all about new sound and rave. But Remy’s parents want to keep our history alive.”
The first honeyed strums and lute trills drain the tension from my shoulders. Relaxed and loose, I listen, thinking of Miami youth regularly hitting up Little Havana salsa clubs or teaching younger cousins to play dominoes while snacking on plantain fritters. My culture also has too much wanting to die out in the new. We work to keep it growing strong, as tall as Cuban corn stalks in my great-uncle’s garden.
After a couple of tunes, the crowd chants Jules’s name. Henry spots her and waves her over. I love how they know and recognize her. Jules-never-Juliana is one of Winchester’s gems.
“Go on, love. Show Lila what else you got going on with those vocal cords,” Remy says.