“Hola, Ysrael,” the man said and gave Ysrael a quick thump on the chest with his forearm.
“Cómo estás, Miguel,” Ysrael said.
Miguel waved his fingers in the air. “Busy, busy. Who you got with you?”
“These are my friends,” Ysrael said. “Mina, Suna, this is Miguel. He manages the restaurant.”
“Hi,” I said and reached out to shake his hand.
Suna stood slightly behind me, peeking out, and waved a quick hello.
“Okay if we sit in the back?” Ysrael said and pointed his chin toward a dark room off to the side.
Miguel smiled and nodded. “No problem. I’ll bring some food back there.”
Ysrael nodded and then raised one eyebrow. “How about a couple of tacos?” He stopped and turned to us. “Do you eat pork?”
I nodded.
Ysrael turned to Miguel. “And some carnitas with rice and beans.”
Miguel didn’t bother to write it down but simply tapped his order pad against his hand.
“Sí, sí. Ysrael, you might have to work with that jukebox. It gave us some problems last night.”
Ysrael gave him a thumbs-up before gently taking my hand and leading me through a narrow path between the tables. I turned around and caught Suna’s hand and pulled her along.
Ysrael turned on the lights and the red tablecloths glared out at us. The room was about the size of our bedroom and painted turquoise. Small round tables lined the perimeter and an old jukebox stood at one end. He walked over to the jukebox and laid his guitar along the top before he bent down to remove the front panel. Suna stood against the wall and stared around the room, her eyes taking in all the posters lining the walls. Beer advertisements with dark-haired, sexy, pouting women hung next to pictures of ancient ruins and photos of beautiful blue-green oceans and white-sand beaches.
I sat down at one of the small tables and waved Suna over. She didn’t see me; her eyes flickered from poster to poster. I stood up and walked over to her.
“Suna,” I said in a loud whisper near her ear.
“Hmm,” she said.
“Come sit down. You look like a dork standing there.”
She pried her eyes away from one particular poster with a beautiful beach sunset. We took seats at a table close to Ysrael.
It was the smell before the voice that made us turn around.
“Here you go,” Miguel said and set the steaming plates on the table.
The tacos sat in a row, overflowing with diced tomatoes and shredded lettuce. On a separate plate was the rice and softly mounded beans covered with a sprinkling of cheese. There was also a platter of shredded meat sitting in thin brown gravy, which I had never seen before. Miguel placed a basket with a lid on the table.
Suna opened the basket. “Tortillas,” she said.
As Miguel left, he placed a hand on Ysrael’s shoulders and turned him to our table. Ysrael stood up and wiped his hands on his jeans.
It did not take us long to sample everything on the platters. Ysrael showed us how to eat the carnitas and we didn’t need any explanation for the tacos. Ysrael propped his elbows on the edge of the table and rested his chin in his hands. He watched me eat. I was just putting the tortilla wrapped up with carnitas and some rice and beans into my mouth.
“You can eat,” he said.
I grinned at him and then kept on chewing. It was all so good. I had eaten Mexican food before, but the carnitas were something else. I licked the juice from the corner of my lips. Ysrael laughed and touched my cheek before standing up. He walked over to the jukebox and punched a few buttons.
Ysrael picked up his guitar and placed the strap over his head. Pulling a chair over, he rested one foot on the seat and began to fiddle with the strings of his guitar. The sound of an old record, scratchy with age, radiated from speakers high above us in the corners of the room. Soon, quick guitar playing and a woman’s voice singing in Spanish filled the air. A few people wandered over to the doorway of the small room. I finished my tortillas and took a sip of the watermelon agua fresca that Miguel had brought over after we had started eating.
Ysrael had his eyes closed, his head nodding in time to the music, his fingers tapping out a beat on the body of his guitar. More people gathered at the doorway and then began to spill into the room. Ysrael opened his eyes and searched for me. He smiled when he caught my eyes. He held me in his gaze and the music began.
This was nothing like the beach. This was fast and furious with an edge of playfulness that wove in and out of the song, sometimes in harmony, sometimes on an entirely different path. But somehow, whatever Ysrael played, it made sense. More people entered the room, sitting down at the tables, lining the walls. Suddenly, the formerly empty room was so crowded, I could hardly see past the bodies to where Ysrael still stood, one leg on the chair, guitar nestled against his body. The first song ended and another began, this one even faster. The same woman was singing on the jukebox, but this time when her voice held a note, Ysrael’s tenor joined her. A few people yelled their encouragement. Ysrael sang loudly, evenly. His eyes closed, his head swaying with a grace that could only come from being inside the music. He sang as though he belonged.
I felt a tapping on my shoulder. Suna’s eyes opened wide, her hands gesturing madly with excitement. She pointed at Ysrael and mouthed something I couldn’t make out. I shook my head to show her that I couldn’t
