Taranta

A gentle breeze lightened the heat of noon. The tiny hairs on the back of her arms tingled with delight at being outdoors. All morning she had cooked, creating American classics such as brisket, baked potatoes, egg salad rolls, tuna casserole and iced tea. Bland, dull, boring food; she hated it. As the fairy cakes had come out of the hot oven and were cooling on the rack she had allowed herself at last to step outside, to feel the sun, to hear the tree tops sing and smell the warmth from the baking dirt. It wasn’t the dirt of her parents. No, it was her dirt and she earned the right to call it so every day. Yes, her Doctor had money. He was a good man, a man who loved her beyond her oiled dark curls, her cocoa eyes and her slender limbs. He had an image of goodness he imagined to be her heart, her soul, her being. She appreciated his romanticism. It was not an image she had of herself, she was born of peasant stock and had to work to justify her existence to Maria. She was una abombao since the Fall from Paradise and she could never fully atone for betraying her brother. Nevertheless, she loved the material wealth her Doctor provided and revelled in her new status. But his hips had no rhythm and his friends eyed her with lust and suspicion, like she was a glob of salsa about to fall on newly cleaned tiles and they didn’t know whether to wash her off or lick her up. But, if their food were measure at all, Taranta would be too spicy for the lot of them.

She remembered a night in March three years before when Felipe asked her to dance in the plaza. His shy smile was sweet, his rough hands were strong and his feet picked up the rhythm and danced a way into her body with every swirl, every beat, every flourish. It was just one dance he had offered but she knew he meant ‘forever’ as soon as he clamped his hips to the hollow between hers and pulled her back up straight to begin. As the memory came flooding back, she closed her eyes, put her arms just so and began responding to the steps he had shown her that night.

‘Lucie!?’ The voice within brought Taranta back with a jolt and she was back on the patio in the Florida sun, time and distance between her memories and him. ‘Lucie?’ Abochornarse she went to explain to the maid why the party food was made already. They had done a deal that servants were for housework and Taranta should be out visiting and planning and the like. She could not see why the maid, the cook and the cleaning girl weren’t glad to be paid for doing so little. But, then again were they not like her, she supposed? Born to fill their days with labor that rich white men might smoke and shoot and catch serving girls in empty guestrooms.