Black Dove. Ana Castillo

to wait until she’d send one of the kids for him to come have his supper.

      My tía dashed on her plum-colored lipstick, the only makeup she ever wore (or needed, I would add, having the gift of a flawless complexion and bright dark eyes), and tucked her change purse into her apron pocket. She hurried off to the main intersection. In apron and chanclas, Flora caught a cab right quick that zoomed her across town to the Celia Cruz concert. “Come back for me in an hour,” she instructed the cab driver, jumped out, went directly in, and made her way through the crowd until she reached the front of the stage. “Hija, I danced by myself and made eye contact with Celia, and the young men standing around just looked at me, maybe thinking, ‘And this loca old woman?’ I didn’t care, I got to hear my Celia and I was happy.”

      An hour later she jumped back in the cab and went home. “What happened to the groceries you had gone for?” I asked. “What happened to the special meal you said you would prepare?”

      “Egh!” my tía Flora responded with a toss of a hand as if she couldn’t have cared less. “I simply said that the market was closed when I got there. I was in a very good mood when he came home that night, if you get my meaning, and in the end, Hija, a man can be satisfied by other ways than food.”

      My aunt never spoke of herself as beautiful, but she couldn’t deny the sexual allure she evoked in men everywhere she went. Allure that came with sly smiles, meaningful side-glances, and other subtle gestures of unabashed flirtation. I still remember as a small child witnessing her in action with the butchers making sure she got the best cut of meat.

      I hardly ever recall my mother flirting with anyone, not even with my father, who was a ladies’ man. But when he was dying of cancer in his midfifties, Mamá became affectionate with him in front of others. He had never been so with her and, although he was weak and spiritually vulnerable, it was apparent he still did not feel comfortable with displays of affection between them.

      The time I remember Mamá’s flirtations, they were so unabashed, unlike the intrigue I felt when I’d see my aunt in action, who seemed to possess a kind of Golden Era Mexican-film-star treasure trove of nonverbal sexual innuendo. My mother’s flirtation appalled me. Later, when my father’s philandering became known and I had a better sense of sexuality as a possible outlet for repressed frustrations at life in general, I wished to hell my mother would go out and get laid. She didn’t, even after my father’s passing. Even as she aged, though, Tía Flora’s allure never diminished.

      When my aunt was in her seventies, I saw her effortless ability to attract men. She and I were waiting in line for tickets at the House of Blues on one of those iced-over nights that have given Chicago winters their renown. We were not waiting to see Celia Cruz but, now, Albita, a new generation salsera. My tía dressed, as always, in a modest but smart ensemble, both of us in wool overcoats that reached midcalf. We were in the long line when an attractive white man, the cashmere-coat-downtown-type, came directly toward us. Handing us a pair of tickets, he said, “I just got an emergency call. Enjoy, ladies.” As always, my tía was unassuming about the incident and we happily went right into the large hall.

      It was early and the crowd was just starting to arrive. Salsa music was playing over the speakers. We were looking around to see where we might situate ourselves, when yet another handsome man approached us—or rather her—again. This gentleman, in suit and tie, was most definitely age appropriate for my aunt. “Would you like to dance?” he asked. ¿Bailamos? With her usual graceful manner, her thick gold hoop earrings catching a glimmer of the light in the dim hall, not looking him directly in the eye (that would have been crass) but with an ever-so-discreet side-glance, she said, “In a while.” Después. The caballero gave a slight nod and returned to the bar to wait.

      Getting back to the end of the old century when the world was still good and all that Americans had to concern themselves with was the sexual morality of their president, Flora decided to make the journey back to Mexico City. Apparently, she had unfinished business.

      Tía Flora’s youngest brother who stayed in Mexico City left no fewer than ten children as his only legacy. They were all waiting at the airport, grown, many married with children, to greet the from-far-away aunt. (Or at least nine of them—the oldest had made his way to the United States.) The nephews and nieces had a week’s itinerary all arranged: a visit to the neighborhood of her childhood; a stop at Santa Inés Church where she was baptized, one of the few places of her childhood that remained relatively unchanged except that it was somewhat tilting a little like everything else. (Mexico City was built on swampland by the wandering Aztecs/Mexicas.) Flora and family meandered through charming Xochimilco, a pre-Columbian mini-Venice of canals, and went on a day excursion to the picturesque town of Tepotzotlán. They ate tongue tacos on the street as she did as a girl and dined at an upscale restaurant with “típico” decor along with the tourists.

      Above all, what my life-loving aunt wanted to do, however, was go to the Salón Los Angeles. The old ballroom, which opened its doors in the thirties, still featured cabaret shows and a dance floor where you could danzón the night away. In its prime, it was a premier joint for the best bands of danzón music around. “If you don’t know El Los Angeles, you don’t know México,” remained its slogan.

      As my mother and her siblings were orphaned and otherwise on their own, necessity forced the young girls to work at a very early age; by fifteen, my mother was full-time at a factory that made cardboard boxes. It was 1942, and, as my aunt remembered it, my mother, along with two other girl cousins, all of whom worked at the same factory, would dress up after work, put on their red lipstick, slip into their best dresses and high-heel dancing shoes, and make their way to the Los Angeles cabaret. Little Flora waited up nights to hear the tales from the older girls about their adventures at the famed ballroom. It wasn’t the kind of place where you’d ever meet a serious boyfriend, but a girl could sure dance and forget for a moment that at 7:00 a.m. she’d be back making boxes at the factory.

      My aunt recalled the older girls recounting in the shadows of their room while they undressed and readied for sleep how the band leader always dedicated a number to my mother and her cousins: “This one’s going out to the carton girls!” ¡Para las cartoneras!

      It made the teens feel a little like celebrities.

      Still a child then, my aunt didn’t get to be one of “las cartoneras” at the Los Angeles. Here was the rub for Flora, who not only missed Havana’s heyday before la revolución but, because she married so young, missed everything everywhere. That’s what my tía Flora wanted most of all out of her trip to Mexico City: to dance just once at the Los Angeles. So her nieces, anxious to please their beloved aunt who never came to visit and might never come again and, as it turned out, never did, got dressed up and took her to the shady district of la colonia Guerrero where the Los Angeles still put on shows.

      The septuagenarian was thrilled watching the cabaret, she said. It was La Aventurera, about a cabaret worker. The legendary composer Agustín Lara’s famous song may have been the inspiration. Flora’s heart palpitated just as if she had been a teenage cartonera seeing the show for the first time. She even got an autograph from one of the stars (I might add, from the picture on the CD cover, a star who was probably performing there back in the days of las cartoneras). After the show, when the ballroom music began and the old-timers went out to dance, a gentleman (not surprisingly) invited her onto the dance floor. Where did that chronic arthritic pain go? she asked herself. It actually seemed to have disappeared since she had stepped off the plane. “Crafty old knees,” she decided. “They only hurt when they’re not where they want to be!”

      It was nearly closing time and as she was leaving, content to have realized a lifelong desire, she saw a woman about her own age dancing alone. “Well, I just put my bag down, went over to her, grabbed her up, and we started dancing together,” Tía Flora told me. “She didn’t say a word to me, just smiled and let me lead!” My tía laughed. When she laughed, she got a little self-conscious about her dentures and tried to jiggle them to make sure they were on tight. “I guess that old woman was nostalgic about old times too,” my aunt ended her account. “Even the old times we never had!” she added, and then laughed again. She shared with me her souvenirs, the signed posters, music,