"Where would you like me to begin?" I reply to Jesús.
"I am curious about your name", he says. "It is a Spanish name. Do you have Spanish or Latin blood?"
"My mother was Mexican."
"Was Mexican."
"She passed away, years ago. I was just a child."
"I am so sorry to here that, Cosme", says Carol, eavesdropping between mouthfuls of arugula.
There are not going to be any private conversations at this table. I see. Unwritten rule.
"Thanks, Carol. It was quite a long time ago."
"Yes, love, but she is your mother. I just recently was nursing my own mother. She passed away just in November."
"Oh, I am sorry, Carol", I say, wanting to match compassion with sympathy.
"She was ninety-five. It was her time."
Jesús is determined to have this chat with me. Fixing his eyes on me again, he says, "Do you speak Spanish?"
"No, I never learned it, really."
"She didn't teach you?"
"I´m afraid not. I was very young when she died. I hardly remember her." I know. Too much information. Everyone seems a bit uncomfortable now, except the two brothers from the community, who still haven't introduced themselves. They continue eating in silence, as though they are the only ones in the dining room, as though each one is sitting here all alone in the Wedgewood--coloured elegance.
"She must have given you your name."
"She didn't, actually. I don't know how to explain this, but...", and now I realize I am addressing everyone seated at the mahogany table, "Cosme... it isn't my real name..."
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