Page 31 of Sombra
Seven
Tavo - Vino
“Siéntate,” my mother clucks to Kim, who’s been popping up, attempting to help with dinner.
Kim pauses mid-standing up, not sitting down immediately as my mother’s asked. She’s clearly the kind of person who’s used to helping out, but doesn’tknow what to do here, and she’s not accepting that she doesn’t have to do a thing. She’s changed clothes since she arrived, now wearing white pants and a pink blouse, but she’s got pillow marks on her face from her nap. They’re utterly adorable.
“You are our guest,” Mari Carmen assures her, speaking Spanish slowly to her. “We will show you our cooking later. For now, let us serve you.”
“I’d love to learn.” With a gracious smile, Kim finally settles back down next to me, rubs her eyes, and looks around. Her hands fidget with the silverware.
As usual in the warm nights of early autumn, we sit on long picnic benches covered with a red cloth on the patio outside. Each setting has a crisp white napkin. Strings of white lights crisscross overhead between the house andthe laundry building. I’m really glad Sonia’s not here tonight. Thank God for small favors.
“¿Vino?” I hold up the bottle and a glass, offering Kim red wine. Most days I’d prefer a Coca Cola to be honest, but this is what we have in the cellar.
“Yes, please.” She touches her shoulder to my arm conspiratorially. “It’s legal here. I’m not old enough to drink at home.” Then she coversher mouth, trying to not sound so new.
What she doesn’t understand is that I love her newness.
“You don’t have that problem here. Enjoy.”
Gesturing at the unlabeled jug, she asks, “Where did you get that bottle? How come it doesn’t have a brand?”
“Our neighbors grow the grapes and bottle the wine.” I pour into one of our short tumblers, which are these Moroccan teaglasses my mother likes. They’repaisano, a little too country for me. I wish we had something nicer. “Our families trade. We send them liters of olive oil in exchange for liters of wine.”
She leans in closer to me, and unlike my guest the other night, I don’t scoot. “Seriously? That’s the coolest.”
“It’s true.”
My grandfather speaks up. “Es importante aprender cómo crearlas frutas de la tierra.”
“He says it’s important to learn how things are created?” Kim asks.
“Yes,” I say.
She turns to my grandfather and beams. “Quiero saber mucho más cosas de creación.”
“And do you know what is the beginning of all creation?” My voice is so low no one else can hear, and I don’t know exactly what is happening between us, but I know the energy’scrackling again. I know she can feel it.
Kim shakes her head.
“Desire.”
Her jaw drops slightly, and I can almost hear her heart beat faster. She takes the glass and presses her lips to the rim, taking a small sip.
It’s like watching someone breathe for the first time, the journey of the tart, sweet liquid visible on her face as it makes its way over her tongue, crossingher taste buds. She makes a little scrunched-up face, but her brow smooths out and her shoulders go back down.
“Wow. This is really good. I’ve never had anything like it.” She turns the glass around and around in her fingers, and then takes another sip.
My mother places a cold salad withatúnon it in front of each person. “Primer plato,” she announces.
I pass the cruet ofolive oil to Kim, who pokes at the salad, which has crisp lettuce, bright red tomato, and the pink fish. “Is this tuna?”
“Of a sort, yes.”
“You put tuna on a salad?”
“Almost always.”
