“Nonsense. You look beautiful,” he insisted. I sensed that if I had worn a sack, he would have said the same thing.
He stepped out of the truck, came around to open the door for me, and held out his hand. Reluctantly now, I took it and joined him. We entered the house, but the fiesta was set up in the backyard with the tables decorated. At the center of the yard, hanging from the branch of a tree, was a large, multicolored piñata shaped like a burro. Before the fiesta ended, all of the children would be blindfolded one at a time, spun around two or three times, and given a stick with which to strike the piñata. When it finally broke, the children would scramble for the toys that fell out.
Before I had even met any of Ignacio’s family, just the sight of these people prepared to enjoy the birthday fiesta and the music coming from five mariachis who played guitars, trumpets, and the accordion immediately made me feel at home. Ignacio told me the lead guitarist was none other than Mata’s father. They were playing and singing “Las Mañanitas,” a folk song traditionally sung on a birthday. No matter how many times I had heard it before, it had never sounded so beautiful.
Ignacio’s father, who was only an inch or so taller than he was but wider in the shoulders, stood at the entrance to the yard, handing out small clay pots to the men and women to wear around their necks. Into them was poured tequila. I could see Ignacio got his strong, manly good looks from his father, who had a full, coal-black mustache and striking black eyes, with firm lips and high cheekbones. His eyes narrowed when he saw us. The women who had already gathered looked our way as well. I was sure that I was the one attracting the attention, because I was the only one who didn’t look as if I belonged.
Ignacio introduced me to his father.
“Welcome,” he told me, and asked me the name of my village. He said he knew it and had even been there once when he was a young boy traveling with his father. He said he thought we had one of the prettiest and best-kept squares he had seen. Talking about it brought tears to my eyes.
As we headed toward Ignacio’s mother and the other women, he whispered, “Don’t forget, when I introduce you to my grandmother, if she asks you what is your spiritual double…”
“I remember. A margay.”
“Sí,” he said, smiling.
Like any mother, whether Mexican or not, I’m sure, Ignacio’s mother was very interested in the girl who interested her son. Her gaze on me was intense. She was a pretty woman with brown eyes that had specks of green in them. Ignacio had told her why I had come to America, so she was very sympathetic, but underlying that sympathy was a stream of concern. I was, in her eyes, a young woman without family just when I needed guidance the most. Would I go astray? Had I already?
We talked a little about how I was adjusting to life here, and then she had to tend to the fiesta.
It was then that Ignacio introduced me to his grandmother, who reminded me of Señora Porres, because her eyes, eyes that had surely seen so many sad and tragic things, were filled with trepidation. It was as if she saw ghosts hovering in every corner. Since I was the only real stranger, she looked for signs of trouble in me and finally did ask what animal shared my fate. I glanced at Ignacio and told her the margay. It seemed to relieve her a little, but I could feel her eyes following me constantly.
We went to a table Ignacio said was reserved for us and his friends, who were not there yet. Every table already had traditional garnishes at the center. They included red and green salsas, a mixture of chopped onions and cilantro, and lime wedges. There were juices made from mangos and tangerines. Ignacio gave me a glass of the traditional horchata, a milky rice drink flavored with cinnamon.
Ignacio’s sister Rosalind had ten of her friends at her long table. All of them were dressed in traditional costumes. Ignacio’s mother had prepared a kids’ sangria for them consisting of cranberry juice, oranges and lemons mixed with 7UP. His uncle Thomas, a tall, thin man who could easily be a circus clown, organized their games and had them play Benito Juarez, which was a form of Simon Says, and then had them pin the tail on the burro. He did a great job of entertaining them.
Toward evening, the adults did most of the dancing. I offered to help with the food, but Ignacio’s mother told me they were fine, and I should just enjoy the party with him and his other friends, who had finally arrived. Three of them were boys his age who spoke English well enough to be mainstreamed in classes at our school: Luis, Manuel, and the shortest but hardest-looking one, Vicente. Despite Ignacio’s warning them that his father would be displeased, they managed to get some tequila and mix it into the sodas.
As with our fiestas back in Mexico, all of the women who attended brought something wonderful to eat. There were foods I had never had, such as a grilled jalapeño-flavored masa cake filled with queso añejo, an aged, salty, cow’s milk cheese, and sierra fish marinated with avocados, onions, cilantro, and lime juice. Abuela Anabela often made the shredded chicken stewed with onions, garlic, chiles, and fermented maguey cactus juice, as well as the tequila carnitas, a meaty stew made with pork confit cooked with chiles, onions, tequila, and beer. There were, of course, fresh tortillas in the clay gourds.
The food, the music, the games, and the dancing went on and on. Despite how I was dressed and how I felt, I was enjoying the company, the conversations all in Spanish, the sight of the excited children around the piñata, and the wonderful air of family love and comradery that filled the fiesta. I was truly, if only for a few hours, back home.
My only concern was how much tequila Ignacio’s friends from school were consuming. They were all showing off, I thought, and Ignacio was getting more and more annoyed. His father was shooting chastizing glances our way, too.
And then, right before the children were to start beating the piñata, I was shocked to see my cousin Sophia and three of her girlfriends come strutting into the fiesta. She went directly to Ignacio and introduced herself and her friends, Trudy, Delores, and Alisha. They all looked as if they were dressed for a rock concert, with dark makeup and lipstick, leather pants, and armfuls of silver bracelets. Trudy had a ring in her nose.
“We just dropped by to check on my cousin,” she said loudly enough for anyone to hear. “My mother is very worried that she is all right.”
“Of course,” Ignacio said, not knowing what else to say or do. “You are all welcome.”
“Looks like a great party,” Sophia said. Her girlfriends smiled at Ignacio’s friends.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“Anything to drink?” Sophia asked. She sauntered over to our table and seized one of the boy’s glasses. He laughed when she sipped from it and widened her eyes.
I could feel Ignacio’s father’s eyes on us.
“Why did you come here?” I asked her.
“We’re really worried about you, Delia,” she said, swinging her eyes toward Ignacio. “You know, she’s been through hell. I heard how you protected her, but we can’t help but worry.”
“She’s safe here,” he said firmly.
“We’re so grateful for that,” Sophia told him. She stepped very close to him. His friends were all smiling licentiously. This and the tequila they had drunk made them laugh at everything Sophia said and did. Soon they were all around her and her friends. She directed herself more toward Ignacio’s friends, who spoke and understood English better.
“You know what happened to my cousin, right?” she asked them.