2:48 a.m.
Camila had prepared two place settings. “Just in case, sir.” Mateo nodded. He was chopping onions. His tears weren't because of the onions.
Ever since Ana came, every hour leading up to three felt like waiting. Waiting to see who would need healing tonight.
Creeeak. The door opened at 2:59.
Wind blew in, carrying the smell of baby powder.
3:00 a.m. A woman came in. Thirty-five years old. A housedress. Her hair tied back. Her eyes swollen. In her arms, she carried... a pillow. Cradled like a baby. Covered with a small blanket.
She sat down carefully, as if afraid of waking it. “Good evening.” Her voice was soft.
Mateo: “Good evening, ma'am.” The woman smiled. A forced smile. “I... I want to order two. One for me. One for my son.”
Camila immediately grabbed Mateo's arm under the table.
Mateo: “What's your son's name, ma'am?” “Andres. He's three years old. He loves chicken soup.”
She stroked the pillow. “Andres, be quiet, okay? Mommy's ordering your food.”
Mateo went into the kitchen. His knees felt weak. Camila whispered, “Sir... her child isn't here.” Mateo: “I know.”
His hands trembled as he chopped the carrots. He cooked Chicken Caldo. Chicken soup. The kind you make for a sick child. He added star-shaped carrots, like the ones Ana used to love.
Twenty minutes. He brought out two bowls. One small. One large. A small spoon. A large spoon.
He set them in front of the woman. “Please, ma'am.”
The woman fed the “pillow” first, slowly. “Andres, blow on it first, okay? It's hot.” She blew into the empty air. Then she pretended to spoon-feed it.
Only then did she eat her own. Slurp. She ate quickly. Ravenously. Like she hadn't eaten in a week.
“It's delicious, sir. Andres likes it too. Look, he finished his whole bowl.” She pointed to the small bowl, which was still full.
Mateo's tears fell onto the cutting board.
“Ma'am...” Mateo said softly. “Hm?” “Andres... he already ate at home, right?”
The woman stopped. Her spoon froze halfway to her mouth. She looked at Mateo. For a long time. Then she laughed. A broken laugh.
“He hasn't eaten in six months, sir.” “He had a fever. I took him to the clinic. To a doctor. To a shaman. But it was too late. He left while I was washing clothes.”
She hugged the pillow tighter. “I can't cook at home anymore. The kitchen smells like him. His imprint is still on the chair. So I came here. Because I heard... someone here was willing to listen to me feed him.”
She finished her bowl. Clean. Then she stood and kissed the pillow's “head.” “That's enough, Andres. Let's go home. We'll come back here tomorrow, okay?”
She walked to the door. At the threshold, she stopped. “Sir, if you ever meet a three-year-old boy... Tell him, okay? Tell him his mama is waiting for him to eat.”
Creeeak. The door closed.
3:35 a.m. Silence.
Fwoosh. Dust fell. The dust swirled, forming a little boy running with a spoon in his hand. Then he fell.
The twelfth clean circle. Its shape: a baby spoon.
Mateo sat on the floor, his head on the table. Camila sat beside him. She didn't say anything. She only held Mateo's hand.
4:00 a.m. Mateo finally opened the book. His writing was smeared.
Chef's Notes, Day 10: Andres's mother = Chicken Caldo = Feeding someone who's already gone. 12 circles. 16 left. I understand what it feels like to cook for someone who doesn't eat.
Camila: “Sir, we're strong enough for this, right?” Mateo nodded. “We have to be. If we aren't strong... who else will be?”
He stood and walked to the corner table. There were three things there now: Ana's spoon. Daniel's photograph. Diego's guitar. And now... one small hair clip. Pink. It had fallen from the pillow's “head” earlier.
Mateo picked it up. Kissed it. “It smells like baby powder.”
Bzzzz... The fan spun. From the kitchen, the smell of chicken soup lingered. Mixed with the smell of tears.
Tonight, El Polvo fed two people. Even though only one had come.