The Guest

Estevan leaned back into the seat of his Uber, feeling mostly confident that the driver had understood the Airbnb address he had given. Already a month into his study abroad program in Mendoza, Argentina, he had expected to be much more conversational in Spanish than he currently was. As he watched the unfamiliar streets of Buenos Aires flash by his window he suspected that his driver was in fact fluent in English, but let him stumble along in Spanish anyway as punishment for using his very Latin name. Estevan had only recently started using his given name again. Growing up in Walnut Creek, CA, a little brown boy surrounded by white classmates, his kindergarten teacher had called him “Stevan” on the first day of school. He knew he should have corrected her, but the slip felt like a gift. He hesitated only a moment before calling out, “Here! I’m Stevan!” Declaring in that moment that yes, he did belong. Estevan’s mother, Natalie, born and raised in Walnut Creek, was as white as all the other mother’s of Estevan’s classmates. Most of the other mother’s assumed she had adopted Estevan, and being much too polite to ask, that became the story as time aged theory to fact. 

The Uber driver turned down a narrow street that didn’t look right at all. He pulled up to the only residence on the lane and waited patiently for Estevan to pay and gather his belongings. Giving up on Spanish altogether Estevan asked, “So, uh… this is 1127 Azcué…Azcuén…Az… ugh in Bella Vista…”

“Sí! 1127 Bella vista y Añasco.” Interrupted the driver. It had been a few months since Estevan had made the Airbnb reservation, but he was pretty sure the pictures had painted a much cozier scene than what lay before him. Well, if this wasn’t the right place, he’d find out soon enough. He walked up to the door, knocked and silently practiced his introduction in Spanish while he waited.

A small grandmotherly woman opened the door and looked at him expectantly. Estevan took a deep breath and told her that he was her Airbnb guest and was really looking forward to staying with her. As soon as he started speaking the woman’s face shifted to reveal first shock, then confusion, which she quickly turned into a warm smile. Estevan knew that she was probably appalled to see someone that looked like him speaking such stilted, broken Spanish, and instantly felt the warm wash of shame color his dark complexion. He avoided making eye contact with her as she stepped aside to grant him passage into her home. 

Once inside, Estevan felt some relief as he studied the plain but very clean and tidy apartment. The small entryway opened into the living room which had an old box TV set that looked like it was more for displaying flowers in vases than it was for watching shows. Like most Argentinian homes he had been in, the walls were covered in religious artwork, interspersed with framed family photos. He wasn’t exactly sure how to ask which room was his, so he just sort of gestured to his suitcase and pointed questioningly down the hall. She said something in rapid Spanish, to which he just stared at her hopelessly. She laughed merrily and Estevan found himself smiling along with her, like he was in on the joke too. She pointed at herself and said, “Carmen.” “Oh! Right! Nice to meet you Carmen!” Realizing he had responded in English, he sighed and said it again, but this time in Spanish. She patted his arm kindly, then waved at him to follow her down the hall. Carmen was obviously giving him a tour of her house, and he could tell that she was speaking much slower for his benefit. She pointed out the kitchen, the bathroom — he distinctly remembered that he had picked a reservation with a private bath, but this looked like the only one in the house — then her room and then at the very end of the hall, the guest room. The art in her living room was tame compared to the statues, carvings, and gigantic framed paintings, most of which he realized were of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers (ugh could you get any more kitsch?) that filled the guest room. His eyes widened as he took in the scene and thought to himself, “I definitely won’t be calling my girlfriend from this room, hell (shit - sorry Father) I probably won’t even be able to sleep in here!” Carmen gestured again to the room and then backed out, to give him some space as he settled in. 

After unpacking his small suitcase, Estevan tried to pull up his Airbnb app to see if the house would look more familiar once he saw the pictures again. He opened the Wifi settings to connect to the internet, and to his horror, did not see anything. He knew for a fact that he would never knowingly choose a rental without internet, but he found himself doubting if he had even checked the list of amenities. Carmen was sweet, but he could already feel the 2-star review forming in his head. But that would have to wait, well at least until he could find a Wifi connection. At least the room he was in seemed to have its own door, allowing him to come and go without having to trek through the rest of the house, a feature he did seem to remember from the reservation. But when he opened the door, it wasn’t to the street, but to a lush backyard garden. He stepped out and was immediately immersed into beautiful flowers, some he had never seen anything like before. The greenery provided a perfect sound proof wall that absorbed all the noises from the streets, yet the overhead trellis remained open enough to allow plenty of sunlight to bathe the two large raised vegetable gardens. There were rows of tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, fresh herbs, peppers, several varieties of chilies and what he guessed were rows of garlic and onions. The garden was definitely the best feature of the house, and he didn’t understand why Carmen hadn’t included pictures of it for Airbnb. He did remember that the pictures seemed to have been taken in winter, but there’s no reason not to also provide summer shots, if it meant including this garden that was a living work of art. He decided to maybe hold off on writing his review until he could make some suggestions to Carmen about how to better market the space she was offering. 

Estevan had intended to spend the next few days exploring the area, but after spending a month trying to operate in a language that felt like marbles in his mouth, he ended up spending several days in the garden, often reading, catching up on his journal or even just sitting quietly. From his first day, Carmen invited him to join her for every meal. At first he demurred, but she would ignore his protestations and would guide him to the table the way a Border Collie would herd sheep to the next pasture. By the second day, he knew better than to refuse, especially since the food she cooked, using fresh vegetables from her garden, was the best he had tasted since coming to Argentina. They would try to chat a little over meals, but soon would fall into companionable silence. 

On his fourth day in the garden, Carmen came out and sat down quietly next to him. Estevan decided he needed to stop procrastinating and face the real reason he had come to Buenos Aires: to finally visit the grave of his father. He decided to ask Carmen what she knew about La Charcarita Cemetery, that name being the only thing he knew about his father’s final resting place. He carefully slid a photo out of his notebook of a smiling man with his arm wrapped around a young woman who had her arms wrapped protectively around her pregnant belly. With the help of an English/Spanish dictionary, a lot of hand gestures and Carmen’s endless patience, Estevan told her the story of his father.

“My mother and father met here, in Buenos Aires in 1995. My mother, Natalie, is from California in the United States. She came to Argentina as a nursing exchange student. Her application expressed her desire to improve her use of medical Spanish, learn from the talented Argentine medical professionals, and to eventually bring what she learns back to California to better serve the growing immigrant community there… and also to have an adventure, but she wisely left that part out of her application. My father was just starting his residency at the hospital where my mother was assigned. Within weeks of meeting each other, they were inseparable. My mother was only supposed to be there for a year, but as the end of her program neared, she and my father knew they were meant to have a life together, and so on the anniversary of the day they met, they got married. My mother and father were both from modest means, but were educated and very talented at their jobs and could have worked in any hospital they wanted. But, their passion for the most vulnerable and underserved had them working, often volunteering hours of their time, at the free clinics in the very poorest areas. When my mother got pregnant with me in 1998, she and my father decided that the clinics where they worked might be too stressful and possibly even too dangerous for a pregnant white woman, especially as people became more desperate as the economy suffered. My mother said goodbye to the friends she had made, promising to be back after I was born, and settled into a routine (something she had never had at the clinics) at a private hospital in Buenos Aires. They agreed that my father should remain at the clinics, and at the end of the day they would exchange bewildering stories as the working class got poorer and the wealthy refused to notice. By the time I was born, my mother was well established at the hospital and ended up staying due to the unexpected boon of having access to the city’s politicians, whom she would charm, cajole and even guilt into listening to her about the struggles her husband encountered on a daily basis in his clinics. She could shame them with one simple question, “How is it that I, a foreigner and a gringa at that, care more about your constituents than you do?” My mother, the outspoken, young, and pretty nurse, was a thorn in their side, but one they didn’t mind throwing a little money at to ease their discomfort. But all that changed in December of 2001.”

Estevan paused to study Carmen’s face, to see if that date held meaning for her too. Her face tightened with sadness, while anger flashed in her eyes; she remembered that time well. The economy had been weakening for years, but the food shortages, lack of help from the government, and parents desperate to provide for their families as Christmas neared, forced people into the streets in protest. Many people, stoked by hunger, started looting, which led to rioting, and finally violence. Many were injured, and several even died. 

Estevan took a deep breath, and after looking up several words, continued his story. “My father refused to leave the clinic, determined to tend to those injured during the protests. Late in the evening of December 20th he joined an ambulance crew to tend to the injured where they lay. No one knows where the bullet came from, but it found my father’s chest. He lay in the street bleeding and ended up dying as people trampled over his broken body. The day after my father’s funeral, my mother took us back to the United States, back to her family home in Walnut Creek, California. I was three years old. All I remember from this time was riding in the airplane and patting my mother’s arm as she sobbed in the seat next to mine. A few years later, she ended up getting remarried to a nice middle class white guy named Stan. She had two more children with him, and I grew up exactly the same as my brother and sister, just with a better tan. She never talked about her first husband or the years she lived in Argentina, it was just too painful. The horror and violence she experienced in a city she had loved and considered her own was just too incongruous with the soccer mom lifestyle of the Northern California valley, where swim team tryouts and bake sale drama dominated most conversations. My mom kept one framed picture, the same one I have here, displayed in her home office. On many occasions I would see her holding that picture, studying every detail, trying to remember only the good of that time. I asked her about my dad over the years, but she would only answer that he was a very good man who had loved me more than anything. I eventually stopped asking and respected that she wanted to keep her memories of him private. Except last Christmas, after I told her that I was planning to follow in her footsteps and study abroad in Argentina, she took me into her office, handed me this photo and told me the story I am telling to you. She ended by asking me to visit his grave and to tell him that she has never forgotten him.”

Estevan stopped talking and stared at his hands while waiting for Carmen’s reaction. He was worried that his tale sounded nonsensical in his limited Spanish, but a look into Carmen’s eyes shining with tears, assured him, nothing had been lost in translation. In careful English she said, “Tomorrow, after church, we go to your father.” Then she squeezed his clasped hands and went back into the house, leaving Estevan in silent contemplation, protected by the sanctuary of her garden. 

The next morning, after lighting candles and offering prayers to both his mother and father, Carmen served Estevan a light lunch, but this time did not join him. She called up from the front hall indicating that it was time to go. Carmen turned at the sound of his footsteps and revealed the large bouquet of flowers that she had gathered from her garden. Gratitude buckled his knees and Carmen giggled at the delighted gasp that escaped his lips. She handed him half of the flowers to carry and he was surprised by the weight of them, but tucked them carefully under one arm so he could offer the other to Carmen. She shyly accepted and led him out the door. 

Estevan was surprised when they crossed the main street without hailing a taxi. When he had looked up the cemetery in relation to his rental several months ago, he remembered that it had seemed too far to walk. But he trusted Carmen and followed her lead silently. In less than ten minutes they were turning into La Charcarita Cemetery. It must have been closer than it seemed. Natalie had drawn a map for Estevan showing where his father’s grave could be found. It still took the better part of thirty minutes to locate, but Carmen finally found it in the middle of a row, as indicated by the map. She waved Estevan over, then walked a few rows away to give him privacy. 

Now that he was here, Estevan had no idea what to say. He felt bad that he still couldn’t talk to his dad in his native Spanish. He knew nothing could bridge the twenty years he had spent without his father and he didn’t want to spend this precious time apologizing for everything he felt he had done wrong. So instead he thanked him. He thanked him for caring so deeply for his community. He thanked him for sacrificing everything to fight for what he believed in. But most importantly, he thanked him for loving his mother, for seeing the light in her that, although dimmer, still burned behind her eyes. He then made a promise to help his mother rekindle that light again, now that he knew their story. Estevan carefully laid the flowers on his father’s grave while reciting the prayer of St. Christopher he had memorized in Spanish. He then walked over to where Carmen waited. Carmen then took her turn to lay some flowers and pay her respects.

Estevan offered Carmen his arm again for the walk home. She took it, but before they started walking she looked into his eyes and said slowly in Spanish, “I told him you are a good man and that, like him, you will do great things.” Estevan grinned and said in English, “Carmen, I think I owe you a 5-star review”

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“Dear Estevan, thank you so much for the glowing review! I don’t know who you stayed with, but it definitely wasn’t us. We kept your room ready and waiting for the entire six days you had booked, seeing that you had already paid in full, but to our surprise, you never arrived! That garden you described as being the highlight of our home, sounds enchanting, unfortunately we don’t have anything like that. We do have a large patio complete with gas grill and cozy fire pit, but alas, no tropical flowers. If you ever come back to Buenos Aires, please book with us again, and maybe even try staying, I swear, you’ll love it! Ps-I’ve put a note in your file to give you 10% off your next stay for being such a quiet guest, lol. 

Yours truly, 

Carl 

1127 Av. Azcuénaga 

Bella Vista, Buenos Aires 

Argentina