“Mira, chico, so did you know los hermanos Castillo?” she asked him at a certain point.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “I knew Nestor when I was very little, but Cesar much more.”

“Y Cesar, ¿está vivo?”

“No, señora, he passed away about ten years ago. In a hotel room in Harlem.”

Yes, of course, thought Teresita, just like in his book.

“A pity,” María said. “They were both very handsome men-and wonderful musicians.” Then: “And Nestor’s family? What can you tell me about them? He had children, yes?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “A boy and a girl-they’re now grown. His daughter’s name is Leticia-she’s married now with three daughters of her own.”

“And the son? What do you know of him?”

“Eugenio Castillo? I still see him. He was my best friend, growing up. We were at his papi’s funeral together, way back when. He’s a public high school teacher now.”

“And does he have a family?”

“No, he never married. Es soltero.”

“And you? ¿Estás casado?”

“No, I’m not,” he told her, looking down.

And that made María glance over at Teresa; then she whispered into her daughter’s ear, Teresita smiling. (Later, as they left, when he asked her what that was about, Teresita told him: “She said it was too bad you’re so bald.”)

As María kept staring at this Hijuelos, he could read in her eyes what he read in many Cuban eyes: “a strange fellow.” His New York manner was so pronounced, and his body language so unfluid and earthbound, that, no matter how much Spanish he used, the waiters continued to address him in English. Teresita, somewhat of an outsider herself, reading his weariness, started feeling an empathy for him. And, at one point, she made a toast: “ Para nosotros cubanos!”

Then a lull came over the conversation, the three munching away.

“Bueno,” María began, finally breaking the silence. “You-Señor Hijuelos-are probably wondering what I think about your book”-“librito” she called it-“verdad?” He nodded, and she sipped from a glass of champagne. “If you must know, I found it muy, muy interesante.” She laughed. “And muy sucio sometimes! Very filthy! But, I will tell you this, my real story was very different from what you wrote. I came from el campo del Pinar del Río, really from nothing. I was the daughter of guajiros, una analfabeta, in fact, and whatever I have now, I came by through the grace of God and the sweat of my brow. But my greatest blessing is this one here, mi chiquita, a doctor,” she said, and she kissed her daughter’s hand. “Even if her abuelo couldn’t read a word of anything, she became a doctor, and in a country where she didn’t know at first ni un pío de inglés! Not even one bit of English. Can you imagine that? Forget all the sex, which is only air, that’s what you should put in a book someday, sabes?”

He nodded again.

“As for that buenmoso Nestor Castillo, I will tell you this: I don’t regret that I knew him, and if I regret anything-”

“Mami,” she heard her daughter interjecting.

“-it’s that we didn’t stay together. But it was my fault, understand. I was too worried about comforts. And if you are alert and a real thinker, which you seem to be, you will also know that certain Cubans of my generation were destined to be muy jodido-fucked-anyway because of the revolution… Even if Nestor had stayed with me in Cuba and we had made a home for ourselves and had a family, we would have ended up in the States, leaving everything behind.” She paused to sip some champagne. “And sometimes I wonder if he would still be alive if I’d married him those years ago and come with him to Miami or New York. Either way, it would have been our destiny to live away from our patria- Cuba. Does that, Señor Hijuelos, mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does,” he said.

“Then you know that it brings a sadness of its own.”

She became subdued, staring off into a corner of the room, where a chandelier glowed and music emanated from an electric piano. By then Don Francisco had long since left, and few patrons remained. That’s when beautiful María caught herself speaking, as she would put it, miércoles.

“Can you tell me something, chico?” she asked. “Do you remember Nestor as a happy or a sad man?”

“He seemed nice enough, a quiet fellow, used to sit outside the stoop of my building with his brother, handing out quarters to us kids.”

“But did he ever say anything to you about Cuba?”

“No, señora, he kept that to himself.”

“I see. And nothing about me?”

“No, I was just a kid-why would he?” he said, shrugging, and though María was about to say “But you know that I never wanted to hurt him in any way,” she thought better of that and kept it to herself.

The end of the dinner proceeded, with scorched flan desserts served and tacitas of espresso. For his part, the author, so wary of legal matters, was happy that they, as a trio, seemed to have become rather friendly. He’d almost forgotten about his conversation with Teresita the year before when, as a waiter cleared the table, she steered him toward the fulfillment of a certain promise, saying, while María was away using the bathroom, “Isn’t there something you’d like to say to my mother?”

“About?”

“An apology.”

“Of course.”

And then, when she had returned, without looking María directly in the eye, he said, “There’s something I have to tell you, señora.”

“Tell me.”

“If there’s anything in my book that offended you in any way, for whatever reason, for all of that I sincerely apologize, señora. Con todo mi corazón.”

María was a little surprised by this; it was nothing she had required or expected. “Ay, but why say that? All such things, after all, even books, are soon forgotten. La vida es sueño, after all, okay? But if it will make you feel better, I will accept your apologies. I promise you.”

With that, María reached across the table and took hold of his wrists. “But you must promise not to forget me. You are as good as family now, and as family”-she made the sign of the cross over him-“you must be loyal, understand?” And with that she surprised Teresita, slapping the author’s right cheek. “Don’t forget it, okay?”

“I won’t,” he said, feeling rather startled himself.

Then they parted: Mr. Hijuelos, who had paid the bill, heading back to his hotel by taxi, and beautiful María driving home with her daughter in their Toyota.

Chapter FIFTY

María’s opinion of the author was that, though too “Americanized,” he was a decent enough fellow: he helped that notion by sending her a gift basket of chocolates and dried fruits the next Christmas, but beyond that he had become but a recent memory and his book some odd artifact that they’d nearly forgotten. That is, until the waning months of 1991, when they heard that a film called The Mambo Kings had been shot in Hollywood and was slated to open the Miami International Film Festival that coming February. This, of course, sent up red flags with Teresita, who, having read about it in the newspapers, called him in New York to request, at the very least, that he provide three tickets for the premiere-for her mother, herself, and Luis. Though most of her calls were swallowed up by the netherworld of his answering machine, someone from the film’s promotion company eventually forwarded, by overnight mail, an envelope with their tickets for the opening (though without any for the after-party, it should be noted).

And so it was that beautiful María, Teresita, and Luis, he in a nice dark suit and looking very dapper indeed, arrived at the premiere that February evening, the seventh, navigating through the crowds of press and onlookers onto a red-carpeted walkway unnoticed, not a single camera flashing at their approach. The flashbulbs were reserved for the stars, among them the queen of Cuban song, Celia Cruz, who drew the greatest applause from her devoted fans behind the barricades as she got out of her white stretch limousine, a blinding flood of lights exploding around her. They had paused in the lobby as the other stars came in, but then, discouraged from lingering by some charmless security officers, were rushed inside to take their seats, the audience around them quite nicely turned out, and, as the papers would later put it, an air of anticipation buzzing through the hall.