26. Black Dahlia #2
What isn’t marble, granite, or stone is honey-colored wood whether it be the flooring or the cabinetry in the kitchen which we pass on our way to the back patio space.
The house is open concept and judging by the way this evening’s chef makes a show of lighting a pan on fire, their presence here is intentional.
Preparation of this evening’s meal is part of the entertainment.
Large sliding glass doors give way to the yard space: pale gray furniture, simple cushions, and an infinity pool built into the hillside.
The only truly remarkable thing about this house is the view.
Up in the mountain range surrounding the city of Barcelona, the Mediterranean Sea rests at our feet.
La Sagrada Familia is one of very few buildings tall enough to be seen from this distance and the rest of the city glows soft yellow.
On a clear, sunny day one could probably see the Balearic Islands from here.
Alejandro scans the faces of this evening’s guests and after a quick head count comes to the same conclusion I have.
Most of the Dons are here with their wives and the ones who aren’t sent their sons and grandsons instead.
Alejandro says nothing but squeezes the hand resting on my hip before we head in opposite directions.
Him to the Dons and me to the wives. We’ll report back later.
I had my presentation to the Families when we first moved back to Barcelona and right before Karina had hers as Diego’s wife.
Our “presentation” was nothing more than a formal dinner with the Dons and their wives where we were introduced to one another.
From then on, I became a controversial figure among the twelve.
The first woman who was neither a wife nor a fiancée to enter the fold but was nonetheless paid the same respect.
All the formality seemed silly to me in the beginning but time proved me wrong.
As antiquated as their views on gender roles may be, I had to learn to respect them in order to be respected.
I paid my dues and honored the Donas, the wives of Abuelo’s generation, but struggled to find equilibrium among the wives of Alejandro’s father’s generation.
The younger Dons like Don Javier Sevilla and Don Beto Garcia are unmarried and if they were, their wives probably wouldn’t be outsiders like I am.
But I hold my own just fine. In fact, I make my way to Paloma Caceres first.
“Paloma,” I smile and greet her with a kiss on both cheeks. “?Qué tal?”
Language was another barrier I had to overcome.
Most of the Twelve Families are native Catalans, which means they predominantly speak Catalan when engaging with one another.
Whenever Alejandro or I are present, I notice they switch to Spanish or even English, depending on the conversation.
There were times I felt so isolated by my inability to communicate with them the way I wanted to or paranoid that they were talking about me behind my back. Eventually I stopped caring.
My husband is the most powerful man in this room. I can afford to be disliked.
“Dahlia, Dios mío, te ves guapísima en este vestido.” She takes a step back to admire my outfit and I make a self-indulgent turn. “Es que no puedo. No puedo. Estás divina.”
Ah yes, I remember why I like her so much. She does wonders for my self-esteem.
“Gracias, gracias,” I turn to address the group. “Muchachas, ?cómo están todas?”
Juana Lopez gives a tight-lipped smile. “How nice to see you.”
Tonight, they’ve decided their preferred language of communication is English. Fine by me.
We mingle for a little while and I’m content to remain on the outskirts of this conversation as they jump between three languages—occasionally (or perhaps intentionally)—forgetting I can’t understand them. I prefer it. This way, I can listen and observe without worrying about being engaged.
Dinner is announced and the small crowd moves to the dining room. It’s all glass and protrudes from the main building in an almost L-shape allowing guests to view the outdoor space, kitchen, and city at once.
Couples are rarely ever seated together at formal gatherings and Edith Ortiz seems insistent on tradition.
Place cards with gold embossing rest at the edge of every plate and I scan the table in search of mine.
I find myself seated to the right of Simón Ortiz, the place of highest honor.
When I lift my head in search of Alejandro I catch sight of him at the opposite end of the table and pulling out the chair to the right of Edith Ortiz.
We exchange knowing glances but don’t linger.
One of the women whom I routinely clash with, Maria De La Vega, sends daggers in my direction once she realizes she’s stuck in the undesirable middle seat. I send a smug smile back but our stand-off is interrupted by the arrival of the Ortizes.
They’re an odd couple to be sure. Edith is very petite, shorter than Karina, and of a curvy, stocky build with pretty features and brown skin.
Her soft black hair is pulled back in an elegant twist and while her makeup is tastefully done, her small neck and tiny ears are overwhelmed by gaudy jewelry.
Diamonds and rubies which neither suit her complexion nor match her black, off the shoulder drape dress.
Simón stands beside her, dressed in a navy-blue suit he doesn’t fit in.
It’s designer but it hasn’t been tailored and to the naked eye seems form fitting on his sturdy build.
After years of living with Miranda Priestly herself, I can tell when people buy clothes for the price tag and not their quality.
Lettie would have a heart attack if she was here.
Simón is of average height with broad shoulders and strong features. Olive-skinned with brown hair, he could just as easily be Mediterranean or Caribbean. It’s impossible to tell but his wife is unmistakenly Central or South American.
“Thank you for joining us this evening. Please,” He extends his hand. “Everyone, take your seats.”
The meal begins and the guests present immediately descend into enlivened, rapid-fire conversation.
Servers fill glasses with wine and water while entrees are passed around family style.
Asian fusion is on the menu this evening and a delicious array of seafood and steamed vegetables decorates the table.
I reach for the bowl of ebi sunomono at the same time Simón does.
“May I?” He asks.
I pull my hand back and Simón picks up the bowl and serving spoon. He leaves a healthy serving on my plate before moving on to his own.
“Thank you,” I say. “Everything looks incredible.”
“Are you a fan of Asian cuisine?”
“It’s my favorite, second only to my own. My husband and I spent our honeymoon in Asia. Some of the best food I’ve ever had was in the Philippines.”
“My wife’s great-grandfather was Japanese. The shrimp salad is also her favorite.”
“My husband and I visited Japan. It was beautiful and the food was incredible.”
“I’d argue the best Japanese food is in Brazil. There’s this wonderful restaurant in S?o Paulo—I’ll be sure to tell your husband the name if you’d like. It’s worth a visit if you’re ever in Brazil.”
I smile in response before picking up a spoon.
As soon as I lower my face and the scent of cooked shrimp assaults my nostrils, an intense wave of nausea overcomes me.
It’s so strong I immediately press a hand against my mouth because I’m afraid I won’t be able to control my own gag reflex.
A second later the sensation fades and I wonder if I imagined the whole thing.
Simón and I keep the small talk cordial and vague. Courses are brought out one by one and he insists on serving me each time. I’d be more grateful if the scent of everything wasn’t so offensive. Am I losing my mind? Am I the only one feeling dizzy?
Another meat platter joins the assortment in front of us and Simón brings the tray over.
“This is another one of my wife’s favorites,” he says. “It’s served with lemon-ginger sauce and plantains.”
“Oh please, I can’t—”
The words get caught in my throat.
Neatly piled and tucked away in a corner behind a large bowl and wine bottle, a tower of plates catches my attention. A server stops by and sweeps them off the edge of the table before quietly slinking away to the kitchen.
Has Simón not eaten a single thing this whole evening or am I seeing things?
“Make room for a little more,” He insists with an amiable smile. “There’s still dessert to be had.”
Keeping the smile plastered on my face, I firmly push my plate away. “If I eat another bite, I’ll burst.”
He concedes easily and waves over a server to clear my plate. As she’s about to put a clean one down, I cover the spot on the table with my hand and she pulls away.
Clanking glass catches everyone’s attention and we turn our heads to Edith who raises a knife to her champagne flute. Simón stands as well and the lively conversation dies down to a whisper.
“We would like to thank the esteemed families at this table for joining us this evening.” Edith begins. “When my husband and I arrived in Barcelona two years ago, we expected a struggle to fight our way to the top. Instead, we encountered allies.”
Another wave of nausea hits me. My stomach twists and curdles at the sight of the food on the table and I look around, wondering why no one else is as sick as I am. Am I paranoid or is there something wrong with me?
I’ve completely tuned out this conversation for too long because by the time I look up again, half the men at the table are stoic-faced and the other half look like Alejandro; simmering fury behind a facade of polite civility.
Regina is the only woman at this table who refuses to feign cordiality and puts her disdain on full display with narrowed, sharpened eyes and a deathly grip on the stem of her wine glass.