out through the comrades in Madrid that it had arrived, but I never saw it. I never knew what color it was, or if it came with a letter, or what that letter said. And do you know how much that dress eats at me, Mateo? For years that memory has been seared in me, and it still hurts to think about it.”
T HE INCIDENT WITH the pork loin with pineapple had been a replay of a much earlier one, with mango. The same story repeating itself. Mateo must have been eight or nine years old and Lorenza wanted him to eat a mango, whether he wanted to or not. There were things that his mother did not understand: for one that his problem wasn’t with fruitsand vegetables but with Lorenza herself, especially when she tried to force him to eat fruits and vegetables. He considered himself a tolerant person. If she wanted to eat mangoes, many mangoes, a dozen mangoes, then so be it, he wasn’t going to stop her. She could eat a carrot if she felt like it, or a tomato, or spinach, or bite into a raw onion for all he cared. He was a tolerant person. As opposed to Lorenza, who was obsessed with putting whatever atrocious thing that came out of the earth, or the sea, in his mouth. She tried to stuff him with mollusks and squids and other things with claws and spines, animals that God created to live secretly in the depths of the sea, where whatever they might do, they were out of sight. In the great darkness of the ocean is where they belonged, not in his stomach. But she insisted that they would nourish him and make him stronger, and for the life of her, swore they were delicious. Just taste them, she pronounced in a false and honeyed tone. She was a sadist with food. She knew that Mateo would not want to taste anything that came from her plate, or even her fork, but she never relented. You don’t know what you’re missing, she said, lustily putting a bite into her mouth. When he heard her saying have a taste, Mateo, or worse, have a taste, my child, his tolerance plunged to nearly zero. First of all, he wasn’t a child, damn it, so when was she going to stop calling him that? And he felt like retching and spitting as if he were possessed. But she persisted, her tolerance reserved only for her political views. She always pronounced that word in an affected tone, like, “The government should be tolerant of the opposition.” Couldn’t she understandthat tolerance also meant not becoming hysterical because Mateo was repulsed by some green tuber or some rotten cheese? It’s a French cheese, she would say, as if that would win him over. And it’s delicious, a word that soon became hateful to him because she so often repeated it while brandishing a fork. Was he exaggerating? No, it wasn’t an exaggeration, the scenes were grotesque, but Lorenza was wholly unaware, she could not look at herself objectively, making those endless speeches and creating such a circus around their meals. From the time he was very young, Mateo closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and chewed. Sometimes he cried and regurgitated a bit, but without opening his mouth so she would not get mad, and then he swallowed that sour filth. Three more little bites, she then said sweetly. But he was older now and he could not stand her “it’s delicious” looks anymore; he wanted to slug her in the face. Of course he wouldn’t do that. He would never hit Lorenza, but it would be good for her to know that sometimes he wanted to.
Many times before, he had given in and accepted anything just so that she’d remain calm and happy. And she had taken full advantage of this, like the time with the mango. She proclaimed that a mango was joy itself, the passion of the tropics, the fruit of paradise, or something in that vein. But Mateo did not open his mouth, not even when she speared his lips with the end of the fork. It’s true, she had tried to spear his mouth open, but not even then did he open his mouth, he was not going to have a second bite, not on his life, or hers. He had spit
T HE INCIDENT WITH the pork loin with pineapple had been a replay of a much earlier one, with mango. The same story repeating itself. Mateo must have been eight or nine years old and Lorenza wanted him to eat a mango, whether he wanted to or not. There were things that his mother did not understand: for one that his problem wasn’t with fruitsand vegetables but with Lorenza herself, especially when she tried to force him to eat fruits and vegetables. He considered himself a tolerant person. If she wanted to eat mangoes, many mangoes, a dozen mangoes, then so be it, he wasn’t going to stop her. She could eat a carrot if she felt like it, or a tomato, or spinach, or bite into a raw onion for all he cared. He was a tolerant person. As opposed to Lorenza, who was obsessed with putting whatever atrocious thing that came out of the earth, or the sea, in his mouth. She tried to stuff him with mollusks and squids and other things with claws and spines, animals that God created to live secretly in the depths of the sea, where whatever they might do, they were out of sight. In the great darkness of the ocean is where they belonged, not in his stomach. But she insisted that they would nourish him and make him stronger, and for the life of her, swore they were delicious. Just taste them, she pronounced in a false and honeyed tone. She was a sadist with food. She knew that Mateo would not want to taste anything that came from her plate, or even her fork, but she never relented. You don’t know what you’re missing, she said, lustily putting a bite into her mouth. When he heard her saying have a taste, Mateo, or worse, have a taste, my child, his tolerance plunged to nearly zero. First of all, he wasn’t a child, damn it, so when was she going to stop calling him that? And he felt like retching and spitting as if he were possessed. But she persisted, her tolerance reserved only for her political views. She always pronounced that word in an affected tone, like, “The government should be tolerant of the opposition.” Couldn’t she understandthat tolerance also meant not becoming hysterical because Mateo was repulsed by some green tuber or some rotten cheese? It’s a French cheese, she would say, as if that would win him over. And it’s delicious, a word that soon became hateful to him because she so often repeated it while brandishing a fork. Was he exaggerating? No, it wasn’t an exaggeration, the scenes were grotesque, but Lorenza was wholly unaware, she could not look at herself objectively, making those endless speeches and creating such a circus around their meals. From the time he was very young, Mateo closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and chewed. Sometimes he cried and regurgitated a bit, but without opening his mouth so she would not get mad, and then he swallowed that sour filth. Three more little bites, she then said sweetly. But he was older now and he could not stand her “it’s delicious” looks anymore; he wanted to slug her in the face. Of course he wouldn’t do that. He would never hit Lorenza, but it would be good for her to know that sometimes he wanted to.
Many times before, he had given in and accepted anything just so that she’d remain calm and happy. And she had taken full advantage of this, like the time with the mango. She proclaimed that a mango was joy itself, the passion of the tropics, the fruit of paradise, or something in that vein. But Mateo did not open his mouth, not even when she speared his lips with the end of the fork. It’s true, she had tried to spear his mouth open, but not even then did he open his mouth, he was not going to have a second bite, not on his life, or hers. He had spit
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