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  MOFONGO

  A Novel

  CECILIA SAMARTIN

  For my parents, Jose and Tania Samartin.

  Cuba y Puerto Rico son

  De un pájaro las dos alas,

  Reciben flores y balas

  Sobre el mismo corazón…

  Cuba and Puerto Rico are two wings of the same bird

  They receive flowers and bullets

  Over one heart

  Lola Rodriquez de Tio (1843 - 1924)

  Peregrino Publishing, Glendale, CA

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Cecilia Samartin

  Originally published in Norway in 2010 by Juritzen Forlag.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Peregrino Publishing or Cecilia Samartin at www.ceciliasamartin.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-4675-0879-7

  Basic Metadata

  Title: Mofongo

  A Novel

  Peregrino Publishing: PO Box 9453, Glendale, CA 91226-9453

  Cover Design: Andrea Barth/Guter Punkt

  Cover photo: AJP/Shuttershock en Marius de Graf/Shuttershock

  Author Blurb: Bio attached.

  Digital book(s) (epub and mobi) produced by: Kimberly A. Hitchens, [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  The Fire

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Abuela Lola’s Recipes

  Traditional Sofrito

  Black Bean Soup/ Frijoles Negros

  Braised Lamb Shank/ Carnero Guisado

  Picadillo/ Savory Ground Beef

  Arroz con Pollo/ Chicken with Rice

  Tostones

  Oven Roasted Suckling Pig/ Cochinillo Asado

  Rice and Pigeon Peas/ Arroz y Gandulas

  Creole Shrimp

  Carne Guisada con Papas/ Beef Stew with potatoes

  Funche (Puerto Rican Polenta)

  Mofongo

  Basic Arroz Sasonado/ Seasoned Rice

  Empanada/ Meat pie

  Bizcocho de Ron

  Cabrito

  Coconut Flan/ Coconut Custard

  Samartin Bio

  The Fire

  A thin wisp of cool air stole through the oak trees that shaded the little houses of Bungalow Haven. It circled the tidy gardens that had all been planted with the same flowering shrubs. It wound its way along the porches, the pretty decorated eaves, the little mailboxes and cute picket fences no more than two feet high, and through the meandering lane that ran between them. The day had been oppressively hot as it could sometimes be during early Fall in Southern California, and when evening descended the elderly residents left their windows open to welcome in the breeze. Outside everything glowed with the electric blue light of many televisions, and canned laughter could be heard interspersed with occasional music, and over eager announcers directing their viewers to buy some new product that would make them happy, young and beautiful again. Phones rang, toilettes flushed, microwaves beeped, and beneath it all was the strange inert silence of people waiting to die, some more patiently than others.

  The cool breeze swirled and blew about for awhile longer, lingering near the window of a little yellow house where the television hadn’t been turned on in weeks. Inside could be seen an old woman sitting in her rocker. She bowed her head, and began to weep softly into her hands. After wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she stood up and took the matchbook that was on her coffee table. She stared at it for a few moments, realizing it was from a restaurant she and her husband had frequented until quite recently, but for some reason it inspired a memory of long ago. They were walking hand in hand, stepping over stones on a moonlit path through the countryside. She couldn’t recall what they talked about only that they’d laughed so much she was breathless by the time he took her home. Sometimes she heard his laughter when she turned on the kitchen faucet, or in the rumble of a plane flying by overhead, and it always made her smile.

  The old lady tore a matchstick out of the book and struck it once. Mesmerized by the small and fragile flame, she gazed at it with child-like wonder. What was this mysterious substance that danced and bobbed about so gracefully? How could it both destroy life and enhance it? But already the flame was creeping toward her fingers so she quickly lit the candles on the table, and blew it out. Then she closed her eyes and began to sway on her feet.

  Her husband had died several weeks ago, yet every morning when she opened her eyes, she was overwhelmed by fresh grief that settled like a rock in the pit of her stomach. It took all her energy to get out of bed, dress herself, eat breakfast, and continue with the empty routine of day to day life. She knew many people who’d lost their spouses and went on with their lives, sometimes even better than before. Her children reminded her of this daily which only deepened her loneliness. The birth of her newest grandchild made matters worse. Thankfully, her husband didn’t live long enough to see little Sebastian lying in his hospital crib attached to countless wires. He never had to hear the discouraging news about his grandson’s prognosis, and this had been some comfort, but it wasn’t enough.

  “I am alone,” the woman muttered. “I don’t know myself or the world anymore.” She felt the aching in her bones grow stronger, taking her breath away little by little. Then she passed her hands over the candle light again and again in slow circles. As she did so her thoughts turned to the rest of her family, and she raised her head to look at the collection of photographs hanging on her wall. With the exception of the newest member, they were all there. She loved each and every one of them dearly which only made her feel ashamed because her love for them wasn’t enough either.

  She’d promised to make them a big pot of her famous black beans. It was simmering away on the stove at that very moment, but she doubted they were all that eager for her beans. The truth is they were worried about her and hoped that cooking something might bring her back to normality. Maybe they were right. Maybe she wasn’t making enough of an effort. The woman wasn’t quite sure what to do next, but already she felt something different, a healing fragrant breeze encircling her. Might this be the threshold to another life, a new beginning? She closed her eyes again as she tried to invoke the healing force more intensely.

  Then all at once she heard a whooshing sound and opened her eyes. Had she been in her right mind, she might have gone to the kitchen for a pitcher, and filled it with water to douse out the flames. But she stayed where she was and stared in amazement as they licked the surface of her table like hungry little demons. They were dancing with delight, swirling with frenzied abandon. They skipped across the table and fell to the
carpet. They smoldered there for a moment or two, but more joined them and soon there was a new and even brighter party waltzing and making merry all the way across the room toward the window drapes. In seconds the drapes went up in a glorious column of light. The scene was reminiscent of some of the best fireworks the woman had ever seen. She and her husband adored fireworks, and for a split second she felt him standing next to her, drawing her to him while they both admired the dazzling sight. The fire reflected in her gaping eyes made them like two blazing pools.

  A swift gust of hot wind caused her to totter and fall back in her chair. A part of her was beginning to panic, but it was so quiet and peaceful beyond the whispering wind of the flames that she felt mostly calm. But in a matter of seconds the whispering turned into a roar, and smoke was filling up the spaces of the little house very quickly.

  Sudden terror shook her to her senses. What was she thinking? What was she doing? She tried to get up, but she couldn’t move or see very well. She was surrounded by a dark cloud that was greedily swallowed up the light, and every breath she took made her cough and choke. Her last thoughts were of Sebastian lying in his tiny hospital crib, struggling to breathe, and shuddering with every beat of his heart.

  “Take him dear Lord,” she cried out. “Take us both.”

  Great clouds of billowing smoke surged out the windows of the little yellow house and soon all of Bungalow Haven with its charming cottages, tidy gardens and cute picket fences was enveloped by a heavy shroud even blacker than the night.

  Ten Years Later

  Chapter One

  Sebastian preferred to sit beneath the shade of the willow tree on the bench nearest the tether ball court. From there he was able to stay cool as he watched his classmates running the length of the field from end to end. Sometimes he ventured out from his shady spot to play tether ball, but he didn’t play with his fists the way other children did. Instead, he’d lie on the ground just beneath the weathered ball that hung from its chain, and place his hands under his hips, raising his legs way up over his head. In this way, he was able to reach the ball with his feet and give it a good solid kick which launched it on a commanding orbit around the pole. He’d watch it whirl round and round above him, approaching and receding, never taking his eyes off of the ball as it slowed to lazy loops. Then he’d close his eyes and listen to the sound of the chain as it clanked and groaned its way around the pole. He was most captivated by the vibration deep within the pole itself. When it rattled and hummed in a certain way, he heard a lonesome kind of sound, like a train rumbling along the tracks in the distance, or rainwater gurgling through the gutter outside his bedroom window. He enjoyed this sad lingering rhythm so much, that he’d kick the ball again and again.

  If he had the energy to spend the entire twenty minutes of recess playing tether ball, his mind would wander in more cheerful circles and he’d imagine that he was the most famous soccer player in the world, and that all of his classmates had gathered round to watch him clinch the championship. It didn’t matter that he was lying on the ground with his feet sticking up in the air. This minor detail didn’t detract from the immense satisfaction of his glory. And when he made the winning goal, and heard his adoring fans cheering, his chest would swell with pride and his eyes would get misty.

  But when he felt too tired for all of this, he was satisfied to remain on the bench beneath the shade of the tree while watching his classmates play soccer. He marveled at how they ran across the field and pumped their arms and legs with complete abandon, chasing after the ball as if their very lives depended on it. They tumbled over each other and jumped up in the air and landed on their knees, their backs and sometimes even their heads. But no matter how hard they fell, they always managed to get up and keep running.

  Although he was too far away to be noticed or heard, whenever a player made an especially impressive goal, he’d stand up, wave his arms about and cheer. And if all this excitement made his pulse race a bit more than it should, he’d place his hand over his heart and take several deep breaths until it slowed down to its proper pace.

  Sebastian never forgot that a racing heart could kill him, but this confused him because whenever his heart pounded against his rib cage, and the blood rushed through his veins, this is when he felt most alive. Of course, at these moments he also remembered the grave expression that darkened his mother’s face when she registered him for school that year, and every year since kindergarten. She always met with her son’s new teachers at the beginning of the term because she wanted them to know that he was not like the other children. Yes, he was small for his age as they could very well see for themselves, but it was much more than that.

  The year Sebastian started the fifth grade was somewhat different because both of his parents attended the requisite meeting with the new teacher, Ms. Ashworth. She was as sympathetic and understanding as all of Sebastian’s previous teachers had been, but he liked her better than the others. For one thing, she had long wheat colored hair and she wore short skirts and shiny stockings that made a cheerful zip zippy noise when she walked.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure that Sebastian has a good year. We’re going to learn a lot aren’t we?” she said, crossing her shapely legs as she graced him with a smile that made his heart beat a little faster than it should.

  It occurred to him that first day and every day thereafter, that teachers probably shouldn’t be as pretty as Ms. Ashworth. Such teachers would only distract their students who might spend the entire day gazing at her frosty pink lips rather than listening to the words that came out of them.

  But Ms. Ashworth had a flair for distracting more than just her students. Several minutes into the exchange with his parents, Sebastian noticed that while his mother discussed the details of his illness, his father’s eyes continually traveled the length of Ms. Ashworth’s body, lingering on her pale knees and exposed thighs. Ms. Ashworth must’ve noticed too because midway through the meeting she tugged on her skirt, and when this didn’t help, she shifted in her chair so that her legs were back under her desk.

  With her golden cape of hair flowing behind her, Ms. Ashworth briskly made her way across the playground toward the bench beneath the willow tree where Sebastian was watching the soccer game. As she walked toward him, he was transfixed by the way her hips swayed from side to side and the gentle bounce of her breasts. She ducked her head beneath the lower branches of the tree, and within the soft interplay of shadow and light, he thought she’d never looked lovelier.

  “Sebastian, aren’t you bored sitting out here all by yourself?” she asked.

  “Not really,” he replied.

  “I thought you might like to come inside with me and clean the white board,” she said, knowing very well that this was one of Sebastian’s favorite duties. Actually, it was everyone’s favorite, but Ms. Ashworth almost always assigned this special task to him. Although he was enjoying the soccer game, he immediately stood up to go with her, and when they passed the tether ball court he hit the ball soundly with his fist so that he could listen to the plaintive whine of the chain one more time.

  Back in the classroom, Ms. Ashworth graded papers at her desk while Sebastian stood on a step stool and began to clean the board from left to right. He always worked from left to right because from this angle he could still see Ms. Ashworth’s face. He’d learned that it was best to allow the cleaning solution five to ten seconds to dissolve the ink before wiping, and this way he could keep an eye on her while he waited, and be absolutely certain not to miss a single smile or wink if she should happen to look up at him, which she often did.

  Because Sebastian was so thorough and had to use the step stool to reach the upper edges of the board, it took him longer than the other students to clean it, but when he was done, Ms. Ashworth always stood up with hands on hips to admire his work. “Sebastian,” she’d say, her expression soft with wonder. “You are undoubtedly the best whiteboard cleaner I’ve ever had in my class.”

  “Thank
you,” he replied, blushing. He was grateful to have discovered a talent for something that could make someone happy. And if that someone should happen to be Ms. Ashworth, then all the better.

  When the recess bell rang a few minutes later, the students entered the classroom like a rush of turbulent wind, and when they noticed that Sebastian had been selected to clean the white board yet again, several complained. Ms. Ashworth didn’t usually pay attention to these complaints, but on this day she said, “Okay, next time one of you wants to give up your recess to clean the white board let me know.” This comment was only met with more groans and complaints.

  “I’ll give up my recess,” Keith replied while turning around to smirk deviously at Sebastian.

  Ms. Ashworth laughed and tossed her long hair over her shoulder. “Keith, I don’t believe for one minute that you’d give up your recess to clean the whiteboard.”

  Keith was a new student that year, and didn’t fully appreciate that Sebastian’s delicate condition required a more sympathetic attitude. The other students had long ago learned that, although it was tempting, they were not to tease him for being small and looking rather like a munchkin, but Keith’s brash manner toward Sebastian was starting to erode their previous understanding of things. In fact, Keith’s presence seemed to unleash certain resentments toward Sebastian that had been accumulating for years.

  “He’s all boy,” Sebastian overheard Ms. Ashworth say to Keith’s mother one afternoon when she came to collect her son after he’d been in trouble for saying four letter words out on the playground. She had the same fair coloring as her son, but Sebastian was surprised by how scrawny she was when Keith, who’d been held back a year, was a full head taller than Sebastian and unusually muscular for his age. Sebastian guessed that Keith’s father was probably tall and muscular too, and that he had rough strong hands just like Keith’s. Most impressive were the myriad of scabs that could be seen around Keith’s knuckles which Sebastian imagined he’d acquired by pummeling people mercilessly with his fists.