Roberto Alvarez sat in the Hub Pub, hands wrapped around a glass of Canadian draft, bummed at the prospect of falling leaves and too many science labs. Back home October meant spring, and the coming prospect of long summer afternoons on Lima’s beaches. Loon Lake was wet, windy, and already colder than midwinter back home. He missed watching hang gliders catching thermals off the cliffs in Miraflores. He missed daily blue skies and driving past surfers along the beach-hugging Costa Verde highway. He missed dancing with girls who knew how to salsa. Most of all he missed Barranco bars like Ayahuasca which, unlike this moose’s armpit, had atmosphere and fresh tropical cocktails. He hadn’t found a Pisco Sour since he’d left Peru, let alone his favorite mixed drink, Maracuya (passion fruit). Plus, the Canadians kept carding him everywhere he went. The drinking age was nineteen here, and he knew he looked older. It was starting to feel like harassment.
A dark-haired couple came in, the guy, unusually tall. People’s heads turned, and the hubbub dipped. Who were they? Back home Roberto belonged among the well-connected, the private-schooled, the kids whose families ran things. In this shabby little Canadian town, a couple who turned heads was the closest thing to his people. He waved at a waitress, intending to buy them a round but, of course, she ignored him. Everything was self-serve here. Leaving his beer at the booth to save his seat, he pressed his way through the crowd. Up ahead, the chalkboard behind the bar advertised “Cuba Libres.” Well “Viva la revolucion!” He smiled to himself. At last, something worth drinking in this place. He swam against the tide of students until he washed up beside the intriguing couple at the bar.
“I’m Roberto.” He smiled at the girl. “I’m new.” Usually, this was all it took. Canadian girls loved his accent. Jocks gravitated toward a fellow athlete.
“I’m Shin.” The guy waved, Canadian style, rather than shaking hands. “This is Marta.”
The girl stared. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet, but you two seem cool. Can I buy you a round?”
“Are you some kind of diving groupie?” Marta asked.
“I surf.” Roberto wasn’t sure what she meant by “groupie.”
Marta crossed her arms in front of her chest.
“Have you ever been to Lima?”
She shook her head, setting dark, shiny hair in motion. She was beautiful. Perfect skin, naturally ruddy lips . . . too bad she was frowning.
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She looked him up and down like he was a beggar. “So nice to meet you but we’re heading up to the dining room.” She towed Shin away through the liquid crowd. Neither spared him a backward glance.
Feeling lonelier, and stupid as well, Roberto cast off against the current. Back at the booth, his lonely glass had been cleared away and four lumberjacks had taken his place. Tossed on this sea of blondes and pale, northern faces, the crashing waves of English chatter were starting to wear on his ears. Time to go back to his dorm and Skype his friends in Lima, that is, the ones who weren’t already out partying on a Thursday night.
It wasn’t fair. When Madre heard rumors that an obscure Canadian city exuded a powerful magical aura, Roberto’s wishes stopped counting. She had to discover why there was so much power in Loon Lake, and how much she could get for the family.
There was no intel available overseas, so his parents registered him for university and told Roberto to integrate with the locals. His goal was to secretly locate the source of magical energy.
“Make us proud,” said Papí. “Take some of that power for yourself.”
“You’ll triumph like a Conquistador in El Dorado,” said Madre.
“Or suffer like a convict in Australia!” He tried to object, but they refused to listen. Madre would do anything to gather more power and Papí, well, he always agreed with “the Flower of his Soul.” Roberto suspected he was scared of her.
Roberto found an empty stool at a tiny table and ordered a draft. At least Canadian beer was good.
The seven-hour flight to Toronto had given Roberto time to reflect. It was one year out of his life. Worth the sacrifice, if this place held the kind of power Madre suspected. As the plane touched down in Toronto, he had resolved to make the best of banishment. So, he found a cute blonde to distract him from his loneliness. What else could he do?
Too bad Lynette wasn’t here to keep him company tonight. His stomach growled. Roberto had a sudden craving for empanadas, even though he’d eaten a big dinner at the cafeteria. Chicken and olive empanadas, broken open and spritzed inside with lime juice. Mmm. He closed his eyes and remembered the pastry from his favorite bakery in Miraflores. Peruvian food . . . What he wouldn’t give for a plate of ceviche right now, or potatoes in yellow sauce the way the cook did them. Yeah, Papas a la Huancaína—that was what he craved most of all. Hunger stabbed his stomach. He took a gulp of beer, but it didn’t help.
Could this aching hunger be a curse? His abuela, Madre’s madre, would know, and her sisters, his tías, would know how to counteract it. Without his powerful family, Roberto felt more alone than ever, and hungrier. Homesickness was steering his imagination toward strange conclusions, but the hunger gnawing at his insides felt too intense to be natural. Desperate to eat anything, Roberto exited the bar and inhaled crisp fall air. He had to find a restaurant, a bakery, a street vendor. He was so desperate, right now he’d even settle for crappy North American drive-through.