1 minute read
Paula Dunning Traducción: Anna Adams Fiesta
FIESTA
The person sitting beside me is eating the head of a lamb. I am trying not to watch, but my eyes keep returning to the spectacle. The eye sockets stare vacantly toward my plate, where a small piece of meat from the animal’s lower body is wrapped in a tortilla and sprinkled with salsa. No pica mucho, they said— it’s not very hot—as I reached for the salsa with eyebrows raised, an implicit query from a chili-averse Anglo. My mouth burns. I nibble at my beans and take a sip of wine. My tablemate has peeled off the outer meat and uses his fingers to scoop the brain from between the bones of the skull while a mariachi band belts out music and fellow partiers leave their seats to dance. They return with plates re-heaped with tortillas, meat, beans. A cake waits on the sidelines. I’m in a bit of a stupor. I’ve been in Mexico for less than twenty-four hours and am still recovering from a day of airport delays and confusion. My never-adequate Spanish is even less adequate than usual as conversation floats around me in voices raised to be heard above the blaring music. Some people are singing along. A bottle of tequila makes its way around the table. The man beside me licks his fingers and pours a shot. I know this man. He is a family physician, friends with my Mexican family, the man who first suspected Jack was seriously ill. I try to strike up a conversation, but it’s too loud. Thankfully, someone whisks the now-bare skull
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away.
Across the table, a huge, pink, blow-up number 40 is attached to the wall. Cristina, the eldest daughter in my Mexican family, is celebrating a milestone birthday, and a multi-generational group of 20 has gathered. I am no doubt the oldest, although the doctor with the lamb’s head is close.
Children tear through the carport where the festivities are taking place, occasionally accompanied by a dog that is supposed to be chained. Parents and children dance in threesomes or foursomes, babies in arms. There is no break between songs. Someone shouts for a polka.
