Cartagena
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The smell of powdery flour and frying oil – seductive now, stale later; even the fan overhead struggled to slice through it – would greet visitors long after La Nochebuena was over. Outside, there was the rising-falling chorus of carolers trekking to and fro under the grated windows. Inside, the television buzzed on – tiny, tinny – despite Nacio's efforts to ignore it. The little hut was thick with steam and smoke and afternoon sunshine, burning so he had to squint just to catch the lines of her body as she moved, strong and smooth.
The King and Queen will arrive in Bogota for the holiday, announced the anchor.
His grandmother rapped Nacio on the shoulder with the crook of her cane.
"Not talking, not working," she scolded. "Burro. Eyes off your prize."
Guilty as charged, he dropped his eyes. But still, he thought he could feel Makoto's blush heat the room by a few extra degrees – were that even possible.
Nacio smiled, knowing, and began to deftly work at the pliers and gold prongs in his right hand. In his left hand was an emerald the size of his thumb.
"I don't blame you," Grandmother continued slyly. "She is the best you've brought home in years. Although that's not saying much. At least she can cook."
"I can hear you, 'buela," came her rumble from the kitchen. Her laugh was thunder over the hills. The lines at his lips deepened at the sound. "I'm right here."
"God bless you for that," Grandmother said with feeling, and Nacio was inclined to agree. God bless her for walking into his bar, not more than a month past. God bless him for having the balls to do something about it, even if wit absconded in the vaguest vicinity of her long brown hair and long brown legs. Hell, she hadn't even had to say hello. He must've wished blessings on her head a hundred times in the weeks since. When she played soccer with his little girl cousins, those unstoppable thighs eating up the asphalt. When she read letters for Grandmother, that sweetest face reflected in a pair of ancient and useless eyes. When she angled her soft mouth around him and sucked hard, the prolonged shadows of her limbs playing on the wall – yes, especially then, he thanked the Father, the Son, and any other holy spirit who came to mind that Mako had somehow found him. Nacio. Him.
Nacio did not question luck. He did not know where she had come from or why. All he knew was that in his hands, he had a circle of a ring, set with a true Colombiana stone, an emerald that did not quite rival her eyes. Tonight's novena he would pray for one blessing more. In the new year, he hoped, she would be his wife.
It is unclear if the Queen's guardians will join them. Of course, certain of the Senshi are known to have left Crystal Tokyo, for reasons that the Palace has not seen fit to make public.
Her figure suddenly loomed large before the dining table, and then Nacio felt something unceremoniously shoved between his lips. Hot garlicky lime juice, dripping from her fingers faster than she could feed him. Mako licked off the side of her hand, nursing it like a wound, and looked at him briefly as her tongue slipped back inside her mouth.
At times, he did not feel as sorry as he should that Grandmother was blind as a bat.
"God bless you, truly," the old woman chose that moment to fervently repeat.
Mako stood up. "Later," she mouthed, eyes sparkling. "I promise."
Nacio watched her swagger back into the kitchen, spellbound until he felt the cane jabbing into his side, as it had been for some time. "Am I such bad company?"
He sucked at the last bits of tart pulp clinging to his teeth. "The best, abuela."
"Second best," Grandmother corrected acerbically. "Tell me what's on tele."
"Something about the King and Queen," Nacio said absently, watching Mako pull the pork out of the oven, superior backside displayed to his advantage. He knew she must hate that they were all cooped up in this little hut, he and his grandmother and her, but she never complained. They made love as quietly as they could – which was to say, not very – avoiding his squeaky bed in favor of less protesting surfaces. She stayed home with Grandmother while he haggled with gem sellers; he brought back baskets of the Cartagena bougainvilleas she loved. They sat on the terrace and took turns swigging rum from the handle, listening to Grandmother's reverent stories from before the Great Freeze.
For the old woman's sake, Nacio would not change a thing.
Medellín has gone fully crystal, the anchor informed them. Barranquilla will be next.
"If they ever come here, then I have lived too long," proclaimed Grandmother. She leaned in, cloud of her hair tickling his ear. "I was born in this house. I won't – "
Nacio nudged her temple with his forehead, hearing the fear in her voice. "Never, 'buela," he said lightly, lifting the ring up to the fading, dusty sun. Perfect. "Not even if the King and Queen break down our door with those big fancy Crystals of theirs."
"Psh," Grandmother dismissed. "You're just the kind of man they want, with your God-given gift. The stars will warn you if they come to Cartagena. But I tell my friends when we play cards. You could have been someone. Not some side-alley jeweler, some odd-night barkeep. Some stargazer. You could have gone all the way to the Palace, could have – "
"I'm someone here, abuela," he said quietly, and put down the finished ring. "I'll take care of you like I always have. We'll be happy forever. The three of us," he added, and caught Mako's wrist as she set down a plate of bunuelos, hair in her face. He reached up to tuck it behind her ear, reached up for the pleasure of touching her, but she pulled back.
"I have to go to the store," she mumbled. "I, uh, ran out of – "
Nacio's thick eyebrows came together. "What's wrong?"
"Haven't you ever cut onions?" she sniffled, trying to free her wrist.
He ran his thumb over her pulse. She wouldn't look at him. Probably her nose was red and running. Didn't she know he didn't care? He stood and handed her his kerchief.
"I guess I'm not taking that one to church tomorrow," he said as she blew.
Mako laughed at that – precariously, he saw. "I'm sorry. Forgive me."
Lightning was more predictable. He pulled her into his chest, and felt her shudder.
She was not noisy enough for Grandmother to hear her, but the old woman stayed quiet and turned her head, like it made a difference. She always did during Mako's moods.
Sometimes, Nacio thought she might be running from something. He could imagine her following the lines mapped in her strong palms, imagine her powerful legs devouring the endless earth. He was not blind to Mako's strangeness – a woman who said she could not bear to set foot on a plane, but who hailed from a land ten thousand miles away.
It did not surprise him that she had stopped here, had lingered here, in this city where even the clock had stopped, had lingered. Perhaps it was the future she was running from. Perhaps it was here that they would turn, and make their last stand against it.
"Next time I'll cut the onions," he informed the top of her head, at length.
"Forgive me," she said again, muffled by his shirt.
"Querida. What are you talking about? There's nothing to forgive."
For those who wish to see the royals, the parade will pass through Cartagena this upcoming Saturday, in the main square. We recommend getting there early –
Makoto reached for the remote control. The anchor vanished.
"Not yet," she said, and her smile wavered. She bent to kiss Grandmother's gray crown. "Feliz la Nochebuena, abuela. Let's pray the novena. Let's make it last. Forever."
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A/N: Written a few years ago as a Secret Santa for the lovely and talented verisimilitude9.
Nacio, a pet form of Ignacio, is often thought to mean "unknowing".
La Nochebuena – Christmas Eve
Burro – donkey
Abuela/'buela – Grandmother
Tele – television
Bunuelos – a type of fried dough pastry
Novena – a nine-day period of prayer, with Christmas novenas ending on the 24th