Page 16 of Mr Best Friend's Brother Grump

“Ah yes,” says Alfie, nodding sagely. “I know a few people he’s almost killed with overwork. They foolishly misinterpret the word ‘assistant’, which they think means helping out, but really, it’s a euphemism for minion.” Alfie thinks this is hilarious and laughs heartily. “Kendra should have warned you.”

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” I ask, a little defensive.

“Yes, it was!” Rosa says, suppressing laughter, as we follow her down the corridor to her office at the end. “And Kendra did warn me. But only afterward when it was too late.”

She shows us into the office, which is a small room that she shares with two others, who are both out. She pulls over the vacant chairs for us to sit on. Then she asks if we would like some water. We both say no thanks, but she darts out closing the door behind her. It’s a few minutes before she comes in again. She seems out of breath.

“Are you alright?” Alfie asks, concerned.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” says Rosa as she sits down and gathers some papers into a pile. “If you’re ready, I have a list of people here who are delighted to talk with you. Some of them will prefer speaking in Spanish so I’ll come and be on hand to translate as best as I can.” She takes a deep breath and sweat beads appear on her forehead. She blows out and coughs, then jumps up and runs out of the room. Her deep caramel skin has turned almost pale.

Alfie looks at me. “She doesn’t look well,” he says. “Maybe we should come back another time?” Rosa hears the end of his sentence as she re-enters, waving her hand in front of her face.

“No, no, no. We’re good to go. I’ve written some background notes for each interviewee,” she says, handing Alfie the pile of paper. “Right, so, if you have any questions, please feel free to ask. We’ll begin in the kitchen. It’s the heart of Cuban family life and the heart of the community center. We’ll meet Alejandro and Valeria. They are a couple who met here at the center. They volunteered in the kitchen when they were still at school.” We stop outside a set of doors with a window in each. Rosa continues. “They’re in their forties now… It’s a true love story.” She looks down at her shoes. Then we go in.

The kitchen is gleaming spotless stainless steel. Two people wearing white aprons are peeling onions, carrots, and potatoes and chopping them on large wooden boards. They both look up and smile when we approach. I take some shots of Alejandro and Valeria working. Together and individually. They are relaxed in front of my lens and don’t seem to mind the camera even when I’m up close.

Next, we are ushered through a door off the corridor where we meet Paula, a sturdy-looking woman who runs the playgroup. Alfie tries to ask questions but is continually bombarded by three-year-olds and their toys. He abandons his interview and ends up on the floor playing with the children and the Lego set. I stand to the side and take some shots of Paula and her staff prepping the art activity. We thank the playgroup adults and children and wave goodbye around the closing door.

In another room, a Spanish language class is winding up.

“The center is not only for Cuban people,” Rosa says when we are in the corridor again. “We have classes and activities where people can come and learn about Cuban culture. And it’s social. The doors are open to anyone who needs help. Or maybe just some company. Everyone is so friendly here. We make it our mission to be inclusive. Everybody is welcome.”

Alfie asks his questions and I try and be as inconspicuous as possible with the camera. I feel as if the piece is not so much about the center, but about Rosa and how her passion and commitment are the new driving force behind the fifty-year-old legacy of Cuban culture in New York.

“And upstairs?” asks Alfie.

“Upstairs is the dance studio,” says Rosa who seems to have recovered from earlier ailments. “It’s not really part of the community center on an administrative level, but dance is an integral part of Cuban life. The saying goes that in Cuba, everyone can dance before they can walk.”

Alfie asks to go up and take a look. There’s music playing as we follow Rosa up the narrow stairs and wait as she pokes her head in around the door. She waves us in. There isn’t a class in progress, only a teacher who is practicing some steps in front of the mirror that extends the full length across the wall. He stops when we come in and walks to the stereo to adjust the volume. Rosa introduces us and he smiles hello. Alfie asks him a few questions and I wander around the space.

“You must dance!” says Raul. “Dancing keeps you young. And it’s impossible not to be happy when you’re dancing.” He laughs. “All Cubans live to be old because of music and dancing. Cuban music is so full of different flavors and elements from all over the place, most of the time we call it salsa because, like sauce, it’s a blend of everything: rumba, African rhythms, jazz, and a whole lot more. I can show you…” Raul goes over to the stereo and selects a track. Then he stands in the middle of the dance floor. “Rosa. Ven.”

“Ooh, no, Raul,” Rosa says, suddenly flummoxed. “I can’t... Not now... I’m working… We have a schedule… Don’t we?”

Alfie shrugs, shakes his head, and walks to the side of the studio to perch on a stool by the window.

Raul takes Rosa by the hand, and they begin. They move as if they have been dancing together for years. Raul leads Rosa and they glide and spin with fluidity to the music. It appears as if it’s no effort at all. I am hypnotized for a moment until I remember I have my camera. They carve out a series of lyrical curves and ‘s’ shapes through the space as if they are weightless sea creatures. They are so natural and elegant in their movements. I stop taking photos, lower my camera, and simply watch, spellbound. It’s beautiful. Rosa is beautiful.

Chapter 13

Rosa

Ouch, my head hurts. I should have escaped when I had the chance instead of being dragged around. After that first Manhattan in that club, everything was a blur. I can’t even remember getting home. I woke up in my clothes. Someone has replaced my tongue with a piece of old doormat, which is stuck to the roof of my mouth and causing me to gag. Thank goodness the alarm was already set, and I hadn’t lost my phone. How could I get so wrecked when I knew what was riding on today? The New York Times Magazine interview, forcryingoutloud! What is wrong with me? There are no excuses. I hate myself.

I have time for a quick shower, but my hair will have to stay tied up today. No time to shampoo or style. I turn off the hot water and shiver under the flow of frigid cold to wake me up, but also as a kind of punishment. Remember this, you idiot! And don’t do it again!

I pick up a double espresso on my scamper to work. My heart rate is way up as it is, but I need a short sharp caffeine fix and a mallet to the head to properly kick things off. I zoom past Inez at reception. She smiles and asks me how I am, obviously wanting a casual morning chat, which is our norm, but I say, ‘Buenos dias amiga’, and hurry on to the office.

I only have time to slug back what’s left of my coffee and dump my coat and bag, when the desk phone rings to say my guests have arrived and are waiting for me at reception. I feel as if I’m going to faint. Fortunately for me Liza and Harry are out, and I have the office to myself. I fight back a wave of nausea and blow out a lungful of breath as slowly as I can manage. My head spins. Both hands, sweaty palms down, take my weight on the desk, which I haven’t had time to tidy. I scrabble around in my bag for a packet of mints, pop one in my mouth, which tastes revolting in the aftermath of the espresso. I’m wretched. I want to cry. I feel disgusting. This is probably the most important day of my life and it’s ruined before it’s even begun.

Maybe I’m still drunk? I don’t know, but I totter down to reception trying not to veer into the walls. I’m fine. I’m fine. But then I look up at the two people waiting for me. One is unfamiliar but the other one is Nathan!

My heart jumps into my throat and I physically have to wrestle it back down where it belongs. Even when I feel it hammering in my chest cavity, it threatens to jump up again. I consciously relax my shoulders and try to act normal and pretend I’m not slowly dying from alcohol poisoning. This is horrible.

I put on the best confident smile I can and greet the highly acclaimed talented professionals.

“Rosa! Hi,” Nathan says and moves in to kiss me on my cheek. I duck away conscious of my less than fresh… anything.

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