Our Infinite Fates

THE DINING TABLE WAS set for a feast, but all the carving knives had been hidden. The last thing we needed was the stabbing of an oligarch over carne asada.

Twelve of us sat around the banquet, Familia Sola on one side, Quinónez on the other. Servants bustled around us, laying down blue plates piled high with pupusas and yuca frita. Firelight flickered in silver candelabras, and footsteps echoed below the vaulted ceiling. The air smelled of charred meat and cilantro.

‘How is the Pacamara production?’ Papá asked, trying to disguise the tension in his voice. Our guests owned a large coffee plantation in Chalatenango. ‘A poor year for growth, no? Almost no wet season at all.’

Senor Quinónez shifted in the wooden chair. ‘Rafael has been experimenting with new processing techniques, and the quality is exceptional.’ He fixed my father with a defiant stare. ‘We are meeting with a major European buyer next week.’