Puerco Asado y Música
Knees knocking, Canada gets into Cuba's car. This was their first ever time going to a party together, never mind a Cuban party. And Canada was by nature an introvert, so this wasn't good. Cuba gives his friend a reassuring smile, patting his shoulder gruffly with the best of intentions.
America has no idea that his brother and enemy are on his lands. Canada hopes it stays that way forever. And the two men arrive at a South Floridian household, before they know it, and are ushered in by the host family. Cuba greets them with kisses to the cheeks and a bright smile. "I've known them since before they immigrated to the US," Cuba says, wrapping an arm comfortably around his friend's shoulders.
"They know about our kind?" Canada asks, quietly, into his ear. "Of course," he replies breezily, and introduces the hosts and guests alike to their guest of honor: The nation of Canada. He gives them all an uncertain but kind smile in response to their bear hugs and fervent handshakes. Cuba, he knew, wasn't one to keep secrets from his people if he could help it; they really were like his family...
The party started in earnest when the food was spread out on the table outside. "Chicharones, yuca, and arroz congri," Cuba names the food easily with his experienced tongue as they put it on their plates. Canada trips over the unfamiliar words, but Cuba just laughs and pulls him closer as they sit.
The Cubans hardly let him eat, though, as they pull him towards an open flame as soon as he sits down. "Puerco asado," they explain, gesturing proudly towards the entire pig slow-roasting over the fire. His lips form an appreciative "o" and he clumsily asks them in Spanish when it will be ready.
"After dancing," they smile, and the music roars to life, trumpets and addictive beats pouring from the speakers.
Cuba claims him as his dance partner easy as breathing, and whisks the blond to the center of the already forming dance pairs. He guides him with his hands, one griping his side and the other outstretched and intertwined with Canada's. He desperately tries to keep up, to match his friend's steps, but the feeling of being watched creeps up his spine.
I can't do this, he gasps, panicked, breaking away from the other man. Everyone is watching me, he thinks nervously and turns his head to look. But everyone has eyes only for their partners. Cuba gives him a pleading look and promises, "One more dance," as he pulls him back.
They "one more dance" their way through salsas, merengues, bachatas. Canada holds onto Cuba for dear life, the music tempo increasing at a dangerous rate. Faster, faster, faster still! Canada's hips sway side to side as rapidly as he can manage, feet not touching ground for seconds at a time.
For an overweight man, Canada thinks guiltily, MY can Cuba dance! And the blond focuses on how he moves, the rhythm he follows, and the bliss he radiates. Eyes full of his friend, his mind chants, Carlos, Carlos, Carlos!
After dancing briefly with a smitten teenager, it became an unspoken rule that the two countries could not be separated. No matter how hard Canada tried he could not match up his steps with hers; his feet were forever in sync with Cuba's, it seemed.
Everyone dances with anyone, brothers with sisters, friends with friends, children with grandparents, and Cuba with Canada. They hold on to each other for dear life, gasping for breath and laughing all at once. They pray, of course, for the music to never end.
And both of their faces are hopelessly uninhibited. Perspiration pours down their cheeks, and the red tinge will not fade. Canada, pressed flush against Cuba's stomach in a fast-paced salsa, sings along without knowing the words. And it doesn't matter, because Cuba approves of his attempts with a quick bump of their hips.
The dancers arrange themselves in a circle, leaving the two countries in the dead center. Everyone cheers their names, praises the song, encourages the feverish dance they begin. The song that plays is fast, faster than any before, so Canada gives up to exhaustion and leans all his weight on Cuba, who sways with great effort.
They give up the spotlight to a father-daughter combo, smiling indulgently as they take up the room's attention. Then the music slows to a tender whisper, and Cuba and Canada simply hold each other and gasp for breath. "Too much dancing," the tanned country admits, and Canada replies shakily, "Never!"
But the music lowers even more, and despite everyone's pleading, the time for dancing is over. All the dancers disperse and head over to their previously abandoned plates. Canada gets a big piece of the roasted pig; it's finally done after all this time.
He greedily stuffs his mouth with as much as can fit. Cuba laughs, and eats the food on his own plate. When the guests finish and can't possibly eat any more, night begins to dim the outlines of everyone's faces. The men move around plastic white chairs and arrange themselves in a circle.
The stories start. Of their childhoods in Cuba, running amuck in open fields and playing in rivers. Of how the television was a commodity and not necessary- and there wasn't anything to watch until nighttime, anyways.
Canada learns so much. The cool night air wraps around them pleasantly, and the women hold on to their drowsy children, whose eyelids threaten to droop all the way down. The countries are not immune to the feeling of exhaustion, and Canada slumps wearily in his chair.
The voice of the storyteller seems so far away, now. And then Cuba leans over and whispers, "Did you have fun?"
Canada straightens himself up, propping his elbows on his knees, and replies, "When is the next one, eh?"
Cuba's smile is radiant as he pats his friend's shoulder affectionately.