Memory Mambo by Achy Obejas

Author:Achy Obejas
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Memory Mambo
ISBN: 9781573447003
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 1996-08-25T04:00:00+00:00

One night—and this was the night—several of Gina’s friends came over to her place for a little party. It was Gina’s mother’s saint’s day and Gina was making a huge vat of rabbit stew (her mom’s favorite). Because the stew had been on the stove for hours, the house had a warm, comforting smell of garlic and onions, basil and tomatoes.

Curiously, we were all talking in Spanish, as if rehearsing for Gina’s mom, who preferred her island language to the English that came so much easier to her daughter and her friends. Eventually one of these pals said to me, “You must be Cuban, I can tell by your accent.” I nodded. And then she asked, “Are you a good Cuban or a bad Cuban?”

But before I got a chance to say anything, Gina—laughing—said, “Baaaaaaaad Cuban!” And they all laughed.

I shrugged and tried to smile. I was sure there was some joke here I wasn’t getting, or that was at my expense in a big way, but I was determined to let it roll. I figured it was my penance, and maybe the universe’s way of balancing things out. I looked at Gina for some comfort but she wasn’t looking back: She was stirring her stew, her head tossed back and laughing, eyebrows arched, mouth wide open and red, very red. I’d seen that expression—and the sweet red of that mouth—so many times in private, just the two of us, that I’d grown to believe it belonged only there, in the space only we created. Seeing her here, now, loose and laughing before strangers (I didn’t know them) made me shiver down to my boots. Were we still together, connected in any way? Was there anything left between us? Why had she invited me? Why wasn’t she looking at me?

“You mean you’re a gusana?” asked Gina’s friend, her face not hiding too well her loathing. Her name was Hilda. The way she was standing, her face seemed to be next to a picture of Lolita Lebrón, one of the Puerto Rican independentistas who had tried to assassinate Harry Truman.

I smiled and shrugged again. I knew I couldn’t say anything.

“Oh-oh, cat got your tongue?” Hilda teased. She and Gina exchanged a knowing look.

“No,” I finally said, “I just don’t like that word.”

“What word?”

“Gusana.”

“Why’s that?” she asked, leaning her hip on the kitchen counter. Lolita hovered next to her.

I took a deep breath. “I find it offensive,” I said.

Hilda smiled patronizingly. “What would you prefer?”

“Anything but that,” I said, trying to avoid whatever trap she might be setting. There was complete silence in the kitchen now, with everybody tuned in to the exchange between her and me. The only thing I could hear was the wooden spoon turning the stew as Gina stirred and a kind of gurgling from the pot.

“Do you like Cuban-American?” Hilda asked.

“Sometimes.”

Her eyebrow went up. “Really?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“And other times?”

I felt as if I was under a hot light, my face red. My palms itched. I felt my intestines knotting and twisting.

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