Tropic of Orange by Karen Tei Yamashita

Author:Karen Tei Yamashita
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781566895026
Publisher: Coffee House Press
Published: 2017-06-28T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21:

To EatLa Cantina de Miseria y Hambre

Arcangel sat alone at a table outside the Cantina de Miseria y Hambre. It was a cantina like any other, but he had chosen it for its name, Misery & Hunger—perhaps not an auspicious one for such a business, but perhaps not inappropriate. All day and night long the tables and chairs of the Cantina of Misery & Hunger were filled with people. Of course, some were miserable, some hungry, some miserable and hungry. They saw the sign from a distance as they crossed the street, wending their way through life’s travails to a place of commonalities. As such, it could be construed as a miserable and hungry place, filled with miserable and hungry people, but it was in fact bustling with life. It was as life is: spilling its guts and filling its belly, endlessly.

The waiter came with his plate of nopales. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” the waiter asked.

“Where were you born?”

“Near San Cristobal de las Casas, in Chiapas. My people have worked an ejido there for three generations.”

“You were born in the cornfields?”

“How did you know?”

“How old are you now?”

“Almost twenty.”

Arcangel nodded, “Has it been that long?”

The waiter was baffled and took the liberty of sitting down while Arcangel began to fill his mouth with forkfuls of the steaming and slightly slimy nopales. “So it’s true that I know you then?”

“I think so.” Arcangel scrutinized the puzzled young man. “Yes, but you’ve changed a bit since I last saw you.”

“You have not changed at all,” the waiter said, “but I do not know how to explain how I know that.”

Arcangel shrugged and pointed at his plate. “My compliments to the cook.”

“Perhaps you would like a beer?” the waiter suggested.

“Perhaps.”

“It’s on me. For old time’s sake.” The waiter returned with a can of Bud Light.

“Beer in cans? What’s this?”

“Bud Light.”

“What other sort of beer do you have?”

“We have Budweiser, too. Schlitz. Hamms. Michelob. Coors. Miller. Miller Lite. Samuel Adams.”

“You don’t think it strange?”

“Strange? That I remember you from my birth?”

“No. About the beers. All American beers. But we are in México, are we not? Where are the Mexican beers?”

“Perhaps you would prefer Coca-Cola or Pepsi?”

“Perhaps I would like a hamburger, Fritos, and catsup.”

“It is our special today.”

It was true. Arcangel looked around at all the hungry and miserable people in the cantina—all eating hamburgers, Fritos, catsup, and drinking American beers. Only he, who had asked the cook the favor of cooking his raw cactus leaves, ate nopales. He scratched the rugged stubble in the hollow of his cheek and ran his fingers across his chin. “The cantina is very full today. Is it always so?”

“We do a good business. But today, even better. Most of these people are on their way to the cockfight.”

Arcangel left with the crowd, their prizefighters hidden in sacks, resting in the dark before their perhaps final events. He followed them to a small arena, watched the owners groom their proud birds, sun glancing off the satin sheen of their black and emerald feathers and the terrible glare of the knives at their heels.

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