Damian, hidden behind a large vase, searched for Lupita with his eyes. He expected to see her in the center of the room, as the lady of the house. But she wasn’t there. He searched the living room, the second floor, the master bedroom. Nothing.
She went to the kitchen. No luck there either. Only the catering staff.
“Excuse me,” he asked a waiter. “Where is Lupita, the owner of the house?”
The waiter, believing him to be a guest, replied:
—Mrs. Lupita? Ah… I think she’s in the back, in the old kitchen. Mrs. Celia sent her to wash the pots.
Damian froze.
—Did they send her? To wash pots? Her?
He walked quickly to the back of the hacienda. In the old, hot, and poorly lit kitchen, he found a scene that broke his heart.
Lupita sat on a small stool, wearing an old bathrobe, her hands wrinkled from so much soap, her hair disheveled, and her face tired. In front of her, on a broken table, was her “food.”
No barbecue. No carnitas.
Just a plate of scrambled rice with weak coffee and a piece of dried charal fish.
