The Visit

Claudia Del Balso

A high-pitched voice resonates in the background. “Lolita, are you ready?” Doesn’t she know that nobody calls me that anymore? Lolita whispers to herself. She hates her real name. She has always wondered why her mother named her Dolores. In the US they butcher her name: doh-LOR-iss, da-LOR-ess, dah-lo-res instead of Do-lo-res. Why would her mother name her “Sorrows”? Her mother was a stranger to her. The only relationship they ever had was that of acquaintances.

Lolita is visiting her cousin Marina, her only remaining relative in Managua. When she is getting ready to go out with Marina, Lolita finds some black-and-white photos strewn in one of her drawers: a picture of herself sitting on her Aunt Rosario’s lap in a rocking chair, then a picture of Marina and her both dressed for their first communion, but, really, looking like miniature nuns. What a miserable day that was.

Lolita’s smile fades as she remembers her strict Roman Catholic upbringing with Rosario. Still, anything was better than living with her mother.

She puts the photos back in the drawer and sits on the bed. Marina’s room hasn’t changed. The ropero, a sort of armoire that Marina inherited from Lolita before she left for the Unites States, is still there. When they were children, it was limited to five dresses, all one size too small. For toys, she played with her neighbour Tania’s. As an adolescent, books became her best friends. She finished high school and put herself through a vocational school with the money she earned doing odd jobs: receptionist at a funeral home, secretary at a printing shop, salesclerk in a fabric store. That’s where she learned to sew and make her own dresses.

Marina’s voice wakes her from her reverie. “Lolita, wear something comfortable!”
Lolita then realizes that her one-week vacation will be over the following day. She gives Marina a big smile.

The sky is clear. By one in the afternoon the temperature reaches 39° Celsius.

“I forgot how hot it gets here,” Lolita says, fanning herself with a newspaper.

“Ay Lolita!” Marina says. “This is normal for April. You should have come in December.”

Not saying a word, Lolita takes off her jeans and puts on a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts.

“Today, I’m taking you to the market so you can reminisce a little,” Marina says.

God, it’s been thirty years since I’ve been there, Lolita thinks. “It’s a zoo, and it’s dirty,” she says, frowing. Before Marina can say anything, she realizes the severity of her comment, and tries to soften it. “I meant the streets. People throw everything on the ground, unless that’s changed.”

“Ah, come on, Lolita. Don’t be such a princess. It’ll be like old times.”

Lolita suggests taking a taxi. She says the buses are like cans of sardines packed in sweat.

Finally, they arrive at the farmer’s market. Hundreds of vendors are yelling out their products and prices. Cars honk. People are shoving and pushing their way through. Emaciated stray dogs are rummaging through the waste.

“Hold on to my arm, Lolita. I wouldn’t want to lose you in this madhouse,” Marina says.

“It seems bigger.”

“It is bigger. The municipal government approved a five-block extension to the north and another to the south,” she says, pointing in both directions. “It’s a good thing you brought your fanny pack because there’s a mob of pickpockets. They don’t respect women anymore. You see hands diving in women’s bras to get their money…,” Marina says. She scowls at the sight of Lolita’s snickers.

Marina points down and says, “Don’t you have another pair?”

“What do you mean?”

“That flashy brand, it’s obvious you’re a ‘gringa’.”

“That’s so ridiculous! I have seen quite a few people wearing brand-name shoes.”

“Where? At the airport?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Me? You haven’t even noticed how snooty you’re acting since you are ‘jai clas’ now.”

“But I brought you a pair just like mine!”

Marina storms off leaving Lolita at the vegetable stand. Lolita fights through the crowd and tries to keep up with her cousin. She thinks the heat is affecting her head. All the vendors look alike. They are all round, like the women in Botero’s paintings, their hair pulled back in a bun with thousands of bobby pins holding the strands of jet black hair. White aprons hug their circular waists. Miniature gold hula hoops decorate their earlobes. They all join in a dissonant choir chanting bargains with adjectives tagged to their produce, “Tamariiiiiiindo, coco friiiiio, sandìa fresca!” There are dark-skinned women balancing enormous baskets on their heads. Lolita wonders how these acrobatics haven’t deformed their necks. Those giant baskets have become part of their heads.

Marina and Lolita enter the seafood section. There are rows of tables with a variety of marine life on beds of ice. Thousands of eyes stare back at Lolita. She hates the sight of live crabs on death row, their claws bound. She passes by a stand that sells river clams.
“Yuk! How can people eat those things?”

“Ah, come on! I can have a cocktail de conchas any time,” Marina says.
“They feed on mud.”

“Not just mud. They eat anything floating around them,” Marina laughs.
“I’ve lost my appetite.”

They walk a few blocks and find food vendors with makeshift coal stoves, all lined up like cooks in a refugee camp. Some are deep-frying cheese, plantains, and morcilla, blood sausage. Others are steam-cooking nacatamal. A swarm of houseflies hover over the food while the vendors swat them with the lids.

A short skinny man serves fried goods on a banana leaf and hands it to a customer. Marina orders a portion of sweet plantains and cheese. Lolita’s appetite wanes like the cinders under the stoves.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Marina asks.

They sit on one of the benches of this “food court.” Lolita inhales the rancid oil, the sour smell of sweaty skin, and the fetid waters that run through the curbs. A peddler carrying a tree-like contraption on his shoulder passes by, chanting, “llaveeeeros, goooorras, collaaaares,” sometimes going faster as if singing.

“Let me buy you a souvenir, Lolita,” Marina says, her mouth full of fried cheese. “Hey, you! Come here,” she yells, putting her banana leaf on the bench. The peddler comes and lowers his tree of key chains, hats, necklaces and other souvenirs.

“A ver doñita, what would you like?” he says, displaying a toothless smile.

Lolita fingers the trinkets that are hanging like tamarind pods. She unhooks a necklace with a leather pendant with a painted coat of arms on one side, and “Soy pinolera” inscribed on the other. Marina pays for the necklace and immediately puts it on Lolita.

The peddler goes on his way with another sale to his name. Lolita stares at the pendant and rubs the engraving. She thinks the phrase is tacky and nobody but a Nicaraguan would understand its meaning.

“You’ll think of your favorite cousin every time you wear it,” Marina says.

A brindled dog sits in front of them, its mouth open and dripping with saliva. With a quick movement, Lolita’s hand dives in Marina’s leaf, steals a morcilla, and gives it to the dog.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Marina cries.

“He needs it more than you do. You don’t want to pack more pounds,” Lolita says, smiling. From behind their bench, a grimy ten-year old boy with tattered pants approaches. He is barefooted and is holding a shoeshine box in his hand. “Can I have the rest?”

Lolita’s heart sinks. The cousins look at each other. Speechless, Marina gives the leftovers to the kid.

“Gracias, doñita.” The boy then sits on his shoeshine box, his hand tossing the food into the well of his mouth. His brittle nails are stained with black paste and liquid polish. He smells of sun, vinegar, and wax. Tears are welling up in Lolita’s eyes. She opens her fanny pack. Marina studies her every move and says, “What are you doing?”

Without answering, Lolita gets up and hands the boy a couple of bills.

“You shouldn’t have,” Marina says sternly.

Lolita frowns. “And I suppose you could.”

Marina shakes her head and purses her thin lips. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Lolita uncrosses her arms and waits for a cue.

Marina points her finger in an accusatory manner and says, “I thought I knew you.”

“Funny, I don’t think you ever did.”

Marina rolls her eyes, but before she can utter a word, Lolita turns around and leaves.

“I am not having this conversation,” says Lolita.

“Go ahead, run away! You’re good at it.”

Looking like she is reeling from her cousin’s words, Marina finds herself amidst the vortex of a mob and fades away in the distance. Lolita passes by a fruit stand. A squalid little girl is playing with bottle caps on the floor. She removes her shoddy necklace, crouches and gives it to the girl. Lolita wallows in a sentimentality she hadn’t revisited until then.